Mercy Street is Moving

Well, not really. The street is still exactly where it has always been, right outside my front door. But, the virtual address of our life on Mercy Street as recorded in this blog is about to move. I'm thinking big here, folks. I'm perfectly convinced that the various folders representing my works-in-progress will one day be translated into actual books with hard covers, ISBN numbers, and shelf space at Barnes & Noble.

At that point, I'd like to reach a few people beyond this circle of the faithful few who already know and love me (thank you very much for that. Such friendship is better than a book contract. Really. I'm sure of it...) Anyway, when my books are actually perched upon those lovely bookstore shelves, I want new readers to be able to find their way to Mercy Street without too much trouble. I want them to join our conversations and to glean from the richness of our life experiences - the good, the bad, and the sometimes rather ugly.

In the meantime, I hope you faithful readers won't mind this little detour. Please make yourselves at home at the new address and let me know what you think. My extremely talented and tremendously patient son-in-law is taking time away from his Band to design the site for me, and we'll probably be tweaking for a little while. Just go here: Mercy Street.

Note to my mother: I'll come visit and put a new shortcut on your desktop. No worries.

To Love Mercy

I've been trying to figure out life today. A small task for a September morning. I'm feeling a little moody and a little restless and a little unsure about how to shake myself out of it and get back to my normal Pollyanna self.

In the midst of this momentary crises, I crave the solid and the simple. I look for words that echo with the wisdom and the comfort of the Ancient of Days. Words that tell me all is well, no matter how I feel. And I find this:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.

And what does the LORD require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

and to walk humbly with your God.Micah 6:8

Ah. That is it. The only thing I have to do to find my Center again. It is so simple. Not easy, mind you, but simple. Just do what is right. Shower folks with mercy. And keep a right perspective of who I am and who God is.

A Time to Edit

A Time to Edit isn't listed in the beautiful Biblical passage where the writer tells us there is a time for every season under Heaven. Editing and rewriting are probably the least fun but most rewarding parts of our craft as writers. It takes focus, determination, and a willingness to slash entire paragraphs we once considered brilliant. So, I'm preparing to tackle that project by doing what I always do at deadline time. Clean the garage.

Okay, I'm not actually cleaning the garage. It is a metaphor at our house. A writer once told me when he gets a new book assignment, he goes straight to his garage and starts sorting all the loose bolts into baby food jars. By the time he quits procrastinating, he has the best-organized garage on the block.

I have the same tendency. When I finished the rough draft, I gave myself a couple of days to breathe and then set a deadline for when to start the revision process. As the deadline approached, so did my urge to clean the garage. But, I managed to persevere. Now I'm half-way through the first stage of the process, and it has been relatively painless so far. I'm not fooled, though. I remember the Biblical passage says a time to plant and a time to root up what was planted. Or something like that.

This week comes the rooting up stage. I hope the book and I both survive.

Beauty for Ashes

September 11th is a sad day in our national memory. A day filled with ashes.

It is also a day of great celebration in our family. A day filled with Beauty.

Happy Birthday, Elena Rochelle.

Unofficial Cousins' Camp

We didn't manage to have a complete cousins' camp this summer. Partly because some of the cousins moved an entire time zone away and partly because some of the cousins played on three different baseball teams all summer and partly because of my own lack of planning.

We did get two sets of cousins together last weekend, though. All their parents needed to be out of town at the same time, and we took advantage of the moment. There were only seven cousins, but they ranged in age from two to ten, so that kept things interesting.

By the time they went home, Grandpa and I were pretty much exhausted. But we made some great memories! (That's what people say when the memory of a thing is much nicer than the thing itself. ) That isn't entirely true. It is probably more accurate to say that in the midst of the activity, we had trouble concentrating on anything except the tasks at hand. Afterwards, we could replay events in a more lesuiely fashion and remember how wonderful it was.

They have only been gone a few hours, and I'm already planning for next year. (I have a brilliant idea for bringing in more grandparents!!!) Felicity wisely pointed out it will become harder to pull off a Cousin's Camp the older they all get. So, I'm not letting a summer slip away again. At least not if I can round them all up and hold them still long enough to get one good group hug. And a picture.

Things I Don't Want to Take for Granted

1. The words "all clear" from Serenity's cancer doctor. (again)

2. Public hugs from middle school grandsons.

3. A job I enjoy.

4. A job, at all.

5. Lunch with my parents.

6. The magical internet that lets me know what my children had for breakfast seconds after it pops up in their toaster.

7. Silence.

8. Safety.

9. Salvation. (not in that order)

10. Someone to share it all.

The Things We Don't Know

Today, I went to the funeral of my dearest childhood friend's father. He was ninety years old and lived a good, honest, faithful life. My memories of him go back as far as memories go, and I could have told you much about him. I could have described his humor and some of his little idiosyncrasies. Like the fact that he started running for his health way back when nobody ran unless someone was chasing them.

I could have told you he was kind. And gentle. My mother reminded me he often came into the house from his farm chores just to sit for a little while and watch us play with our dolls. I could have told you lots of details. But today I learned something I'd never known. He was a hero.

Well, I knew he was a hero the way all fathers are heroes to their little girls (and to their little girls' friends). I didn't know that among other things, he earned seven bronze stars during battles in World War II. Seven. That is a lot of stars for one young man from a small farm in Missouri. When that information was read in the obituary today, I felt a swell of pride. I was proud to have known a man with that kind of valor. Proud to have sat at his kitchen table, to have slept under his roof, and to have played in his yard.

So, tonight, when I heard the latest war reports on the national news and considered the state of our troubled nation. I thought about Kermit Bane. And I wished I could see him one more time just to tell him, "I'm proud I knew you."

Resolution of Respect

A couple of weeks ago, our good friend John died. He was in his fifties and left behind a wonderful wife and two young children. He was a pillar in our community who literally built most of our town. And we are all in mourning for him.

When I was growing up, our church had a wonderful tradition for times like this. Someone in the church was appointed to write a Resolution of Respect about the person who had died. It would be read with great solemnity before the congregation and then put into the official records of the church. Eventually it would be published in the church paper, as well.

The resolution was not a eulogy exactly. It started out with words that went something like this, "Insomuch as it has pleased our gracious Heavenly Father to call home to glory His faithful servant, John Emerson..." And it ended with something like this, "be it resolved that we will bow our knee in humble submission to His will."

And so the resolution was mostly about those of us who stayed behind. It was about us resolving in our hearts to treasure the memory and to honor the legacy of the one who had gone on. It was about bowing our will to God's - even when to do so broke our earthly hearts.

Be it so resolved.

To Dance Without Losing Her Balance

Our granddaughter, Claire, was born three months early. Her teeny, tiny, little spirit fought hard from Day One, and she has excelled in life. Yet, she still struggles with spastic muscles in one arm and leg. This summer, she started working with a new therapist, whom I currently adore. Here is one of his stated goals for Claire's therapy : That she will be able to dance without losing her balance.

Isn't that our prayer for all the children in our lives? That they may be able to accomplish all the intricate steps of this life - in every stage - without losing their footing?

It isn't always easy, of course, for our children or for the adults who love them. Granddaughter Elena started kindergarten this year on crutches. She tried to dance off the top of a bunk bed and didn't quite nail the landing. When we visited her in Wyoming last week, her Grandpa and I worked so hard to teach her how to put the weight on her hands instead of her armpits and how to swing her good leg forward past the hot pink cast on her broken leg.

She was doing so well. Then, in the crowd of parents and fellow students suffering from first-day-of-school-excitement-and-rudeness, she was knocked off balance and fell down! It's good I wasn't there.

Elena had a marvelous first day of school despite that incident. By day three, she had even mastered the playground on crutches. And Claire? Her therapist reports excellent progress toward dancing without losing her balance.

May it always be so.

I'm on the Cover of a Magazine!!!!!

Not really. That is just one of our favorite lines from the movie Monsters Incorporated, and we throw it out anytime we become irrationally excited about something the rest of the world would see as a bar code over our one eye. (Okay, you have to see the movie to get it.)

I was excited, though, to discover I had won an award from Serenity's blog. She owes me, of course. I gave birth to her. Then I encouraged, cajoled, challenged, and applauded until she became a writer who surpasses me in every aspect of the craft. A mother's dream.

The award does come with some rules. Here they are:

1. Pass the award on to 5 most-deserving blogging friends.

2. Link to the author and blog name from whom he/she received the award.

3. Display the award and link to its explanation.

4. The receiver must visit the explanation post and add their name to the list of winners.

5. Winners must repost the rules.

Evidently, breaking the chain will not curse one with bad luck, and completing the chain will not guarantee delivery of a new Toyota in the driveway or a lifetime supply of red & green M&M's or any of the other things I've seen promised in email forwards through the years. That said, my fellow bloggers are welcome to pass on the award or simply sit back and revel in the exposure of their friends. (see Monster's Inc., again)

As some incentive, I'm posting a little picture from our weekend visit with Sully and Mike in Casper, Wyoming.

And the Winners Are:

Charity, because I love to hear what's happening in her life and because she loves Sully so much.

Paul, because his Daily Manna challenges and inspires me.

Widney Woman, because she is so honest in her journey.

Felicity, because she blesses me with her wisdom and her worship, and she really did grow up to become one of my best friends.

And, Judy, because we have shared everything since we were five years old and because she is too busy impacting the lives of high school writing students to blog nearly as often as I'd like to hear from her.

Who Needs the Hamptons

Here in the middle of the Missouri cornfields, it is hard for me to imagine a family actually spending the entire summer at their beach house or in their vacation cottage with multiple guest rooms. Yet, some of my blogger friends have experienced such treasure all their lives.

As Felicity mentioned in a recent post, it is tempting to feel a twinge of envy toward lives that seem more glamorous than our own. Yet, the point behind summer in the Hamptons or a weekend in the Ozarks is exactly the same. The goal is to connect. To stop the traffic of our busy daily lives and drink in the wonder of the people we love.

So, we have stopped. We stopped in Casper, Wyoming, after a sixteen hour drive with a brief lay-over in Omaha to pick up Charity & Nola. And we have captured moments like this one to carry us all through the long winters months ahead.

It's What I Do

Writers write.

I try to remind myself it is what we do, not who we are. In my day job, I manage my husband’s medical office, and I wrestle insurance giants much of the time. My day job shares many traits with my writing career.

Instead of crafting an article between nine and five, I compile necessary information, create a claim form, and then send the form off to the Powers That Be in Insurance Land. Then I wait. State law mandates the company respond to me in a certain number of weeks, but it is sufficient for them to say, “We’re still processing this claim and need just a little more information to complete it. No action is required on your part.”

That statement buys them another forty-five days to procrastinate. I wait some more. If I’m feeling strong, I compile a few more claim forms and send them out in the meantime, trying not to count how many days I’ve been waiting to hear back from Medicare or Blue Cross.

Eventually, a decision is reached in an office cubicle somewhere across the country, and the response is sent to me by carrier pigeon or pony express, whichever is slower. I can usually tell by the envelope whether my claim has been accepted or rejected. I only rip it open so I can read the explanation that tells me something terribly helpful such as “Your claim lacks information needed for adjudication.”

It is good that I recognize these are things I do, not things I am. Otherwise, I’d toss that letter in the circular file by my feet and announce to my husband, “That’s it. I’m obviously not an office manager after all. I’m applying for a job at Wal Mart.”

But filing claims is just something I do. This is not who I am. And no matter how many times the insurance company sends my claims back without an attached check, I will not be deterred. I will file and re-file and re-file again until I figure out exactly which data goes in exactly which box. And I will overcome. Eventually, an envelope will arrive with that glorious “Pay to the Order Of” peeking from the window.

I will slash it open with a victorious flare and resist the urge to wave it as I strut up and down the hall shouting, “Look, I’m a writer … I mean, office manager.”

Another Happy Day

I'd like to think I've learned not to take life for granted. But, here it is, only three years after Serenity Beth was diagnosed with rare, aggressive cancer, and already I've dismissed the brass band instead of marching it down the street on her birthday.

Seriously, we should be throwing a magnificent party today because Serenity Bohon is 33!!!!!!. I remember celebrating her 30th birthday - after the surgery, the radiation, the horror, and then the glorious birth of little Jake. The celebration was so rapturous that I even told the waitress at Ruby Tuesday's, "It's her birthday. And she almost died. We're a little emotional."

Yet, here we are on a rainy Monday barely paying any attention at all to the event. Fortunately, Serenity is having a great time on vacation with her little clan. But, I'm going to work as usual...

No, that isn't true. I'm going to work with a deep, delicious, tear-jerking sense of gratitude and joy. It isn't the kind of thing that requires a brass band, because I carry the tune of it in my heart every day. It is Gratitude for life, for love, and for the rare privilege of being the mother of such a person.

Happy Birthday, Serenity Beth.

The Best One Ever

I'm on the last few chapters of my current work-in-progress, and the emotions I'm experiencing are strange. It is a little like the way I felt before one of our children got married or before the next grandchild was born. But there is also a tinge of the exhaustion that comes from remodeling a house or returning from long trip. I find myself avoiding the writing desk somedays, because I'm not quite ready to let these characters go. And every hour of writing brings their story closer to an end.

Some of them will reappear, of course, in other books already semi-plotted in my drawer. But others have fulfilled their destiny and will never return again to any of my printed pages. If you aren't a writer, everything I just said will sound irrational and possibly even demented. But, if you are a writer, or a reader, I'm sure I've made perfect sense.

It is always a little hard for me to make transitions in real life, too. I tend to be nostalgic and to look back on other seasons of life, remembering only the good parts, and longing just a little for them to return. My mother has set a grand example, though, of seizing every season of life and calling it The Best. She started with Christmas trees when we were little. No matter how lopsided or scraggly the fir tree might be, she always stood back once the lights were on and declared, "It is the prettiest one we've ever had."

And so I'm determined to face life that way. Today, Thirty Days to Glory is the best book I've ever written. Tomorrow...

My Other Mother

My eighty-nine year old mother-in-law is visiting us for two weeks, and she is such a joy. She is content to spend the day working her jigsaw puzzle but always ready to jump in the car and go out for lunch. Well, she jumps pretty slowly, but she is always interested in whatever we want to do. Earlier in the week, she taught some of the great-grandchildren the wonder of word search puzzles. Even the kindergartner who can't actually read yet mastered the art of the hidden word. Both she and Grandma-Great were excited.

Today, I drove her back to the town where we all once lived, and we attended services at her familiar methodist church. The congregation smothered her with kisses, and we both enjoyed celebrity status. We even won the loaf of homemade bread reserved for visitors!

I know these days are a treasure, and I'm determined not to take them for granted. I want to enjoy every moment and soak up every hour with this lady who gave birth to one of the greatest gifts in my life. Is is a privilege to count her both my mother-in-law and my friend.

Note to Andrea: I know this post will make you homesick for your mother. I'm sending you a hug as I write.

The Real Hero

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon. It was truly incredible. Families everywhere gathered around their television sets to watch one giant step for mankind. And our dad missed the whole show.

We lived on a farm where television reception was spotty. We could usually watch one of three channels, but to do so meant going outside and twisting the iron pipe connected to the antena anchored on our roof. That night, the antena refused to stay stay put. It kept twisting back just a notch every time our dad let go of the pipe. Then the fuzzy, gray picture evaporated into pure, white snow.

So, while the rest of our family sat in awe watching pictures from the moon, our dad stood outside holding the antena.

When I go back to that evening in my mind, the memory of the moon walk is pretty much as fuzzy as the original picture. But the memory of my dad making it happen? Captured in HD.

Revising Life

I rewrote Chapter 24 of my work-in-progress last night because it was too sad. Actually, the story was probably fine, but life is feeling a little too sad right now. One of our good friends is critically ill. Another is fighting breast cancer. Two others are investigating suspicious spots. (Did I mention I hate cancer?) And a couple of relationship issues feel kind of wobbly, too. I simply could not leave my heroine sick in bed during one of the most important evenings of her year. I could not bear for her to miss it.

So, I got her up out of bed and helped her press through the pain. I'm pretty sure she will be glad when she wakes up tomorrow in Chapter 25.

If you follow my blog, you probably know rewriting the bad parts of life is one of my coping techniques. I agree with Felicity that trials are important and even helpful for our growth in God. But, even so, I sometimes wish I could edit just a little.

Since I can't revise, I'll face and embrace whatever God brings for me or my friends the best I possibly can. But don't expect me to leave my fictional friends in despair!!

Green and Full of Sap

We're having an unusually green July around here. Usually the lawns without sprinkler systems are already turning brown and crunchy this time of year. Instead, they are thick and green. Foliage is lush beside the country roads and everything looks more like spring than mid-summer. It's because of the rain, of course. Lots and lots and lots of rain. Too much rain, actually, for the farmers trying to plant crops. But that is another story.

Today's story is about being green. Not the composting-your-garbage and recycling-your-milk-cartons kind of green. Rather, it is the green of healthy plants, sucking nutrients from the soil and spreading out leaves, branches, and fruit to shelter and feed the world.The kind of green that reminds me of Psalm 92:

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree,

they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;

planted in the house of the LORD,

they will flourish in the courts of our God.

They will still bear fruit in old age,

they will stay fresh and green,

proclaiming, "The LORD is upright;

he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him."

Now that I have passed the age of fifty, I'm greatly reassured by this passage. I've kind of expected life to get brown and wiry from here on out. I've worried a little that my best days are behind me and I'll never have a real writing career or impact another generation for God.

This scripture tells me otherwise. Like the unseasonably green July of 2009, I can stay green and full of sap even into old age. All I need is a little rain.

Reuben Goes to New York

So, I've sent Reuben to New York. It was a rather alarming thing to do. He has spent nearly twenty years dawdling around in my office, so this was one big step. I first started writing his story on a manual typewriter with carbon copies for my file. The second draft was done on a magical Selectra with automatic white-out tape for mistakes.

When we graduated to a huge apple computer and five inch floppy discs, I discovered the keyboard was too sensitive for my fingers. The rough draft I eventually showed a kind editor had a lot of extra "j's" in the text. My index finger automatically tapped the "j" anytime I started a new word. Even so, the kind editor dug through Rueben's story (his name was Jonas at the time) and guided me through two more revisions.

Reuben's story has passed through three or four more text-conversions since then. And multiple author's revisions. Surely he is ready after all that to face the bright lights of the city. Surely he can stand to be scrutinized and categorized and market-analyzed by the best.

And, no matter what comes of this little jaunt, I'll be glad I sent him out. It's been a great journey so far.

Why I Love BlogWorld

Writing is hard work. If we bloggers aren’t careful, we might be fooled into thinking otherwise. I’ve been writing for nearly thirty years, and the stack of rejection slips in my file drawer is much thicker than the stack of deposit slips from my bank.

I waited a long time to start blogging, because it seemed like such a fad. Everybody has one. Some people have three, each representing another aspect of their fascinating lives. These blogs can be informative, inspiring, encouraging, hilarious, or challenging. And sometimes, they reveal things better tucked into the pages of a diary and locked with a little key we keep in our jewelry box drawer.

Blogs, by their nature, require us to write in the immediate. They encourage us to spill our witty thoughts and to explore our emotional depths. All in four paragraphs, five times a week, between the day jobs. Then BlueHairFromSidney or WriterBoyExtraordinaire assures us in the comments section that our writing is brilliant, even in rough draft form.

Ahhhhhhh. BlogWorld is wonderful. Unless I also want to be published by someone who edits my work and doesn’t think my repetitive use of a three item series is particularly cool, gripping, or even well-done.

Even so, I’ll keep blogging. And revising. And waiting for BlueHair and friends to give me the applause my fragile writer-ego rarely receives from people who actually send me checks for my work.

Bring it on. (the applause...and the checks)

Musings on Mud

It rained on Saturday. Actually, the rain started Friday night, and it turned our lovely, thirty-acre picnic field into a soppy, soupy mess. We workers arrived early, half expecting the day would be called due to rain. But the cowboys were already saddling their horses beside the rodeo corral. And the air-show pilots were scanning the radar for a break in the storm. And the grill cooks were stoking the fires for another day of free food for our guests.

I was pretty sure I would have stayed home on a such a day if I'd had a choice. I would have celebrated my Fourth of July tucked warmly in my dry home with a good book and a soft blankie. 5000 people had a different plan.

That is the estimate of how many people trudged through the mud together all day to eat and sing, to laugh and cheer, to remember and to worship. I looked around at one point in the fairly miserable afternoon and marveled at the size of the crowd. My mother was sitting beside me and I said to her, "This is a mess. Why don't people just go home?"

She shrugged her shoulder and said, "Oh, it's not so bad. It's better than just sitting home alone."

And there you have it. We are creatures designed for community. We are made in the likeness of a Three-in-One-God, and our hunger for relationship will never be called on account of a little rain.

Still Proud to be an American

I'll be watching fireworks on Saturday night and ooohing and ahhhing with the best of them. And, deep inside I'll be thanking God that the bombs bursting in air are make-believe.

Independence Day reminds me of the people who have made real sacrifices so I can picnic in peace. The celebration also humbles me. It makes me grateful for women like Abigail Adams who endured years of separation so her husband could help frame our nation.

And for women like Crystin Rutherford who married her Prince Charming last year knowing he would soon march off to war to protect that nation.

God bless America and all who serve her so well.

Twenty-thousand of Our Closest Friends

We're throwing a party in our neighborhood this weekend. Local officials estimate 20,000 people could show up over the entire two-day event. That is a pretty big deal since only about 200 of us actually live here.

Our community is famous for being strange. Fifteen years ago, our town was a cornfield. Then a local boy who had made good with his insurance company decided to use his fortune to help people get a fresh start in life. It started as a small project on his northeast Missouri farm and has now grown into a real town with a church, school, and several businesses.

The neighbors have been a little nervous about this town rising from the fields. Especially when we started importing foreigners to work here and opening up recovery centers for men, women, and children. We had the audacity to believe Jesus is the Answer to the world's problems, and we even wrote it on our milk trucks.

They've been warming up to us these past few years, though, and we hope this Fourth of July picnic will help break down a few more walls. We're giving away free food and free fun including a rodeo and a huge air show. And we'll have lots of entertainment and games. And we'll find time to tell a few stories of lives that have been changed and families that have been restored through the mercy of God. And, maybe, when the weekend is over a few of the 20,000 will decide we're really not so bad after all.

Girl Clothes

Last weekend I stepped way out of my comfort zone and into a moss-green bridesmaid's dress for the sake of my sweet friend, Angela. I felt more like the Queen Mum than a princess, and I had some great trepidation about making it down the aisle and up the three steps to the platform without embarrassing myself and everyone related to me.

But, God (and Heather the Wedding-Planner-Extraordinaire) were looking out for me. My escort was a strong young man with a steady stride. He is also a son-of-my-heart from the days when we lived as house parents for our Bible college. Taking his arm put me perfectly at ease. And although I didn't glide elegantly down the aisle like the younger bridesmaids, I did only trip on my skirt once.

I was worn to a frazzle by the time I got home. All that curling and spraying and painting and puffing was exhausting. But it was so worth it. When Angela came glowing down the aisle and dazzled her handsome groom, I wanted to shout "hallelujah" and dance a little jig. Fortunately, the corset prevented such a display.

The Problem with Numbers

I once read that Albert Einstein didn't know his own phone number. He said it was a waste to crowd his brain by memorizing information that could easily be found in a book. I'm pretty sure that is an urban rumor. But I use it a lot to cover my own ineptitude with numbers. For instance, I never remember the exact ages of our grown children. I mean, I know what year they were born (most of the time) and if I have a calculator handy, I can figure it out.

I realize some people do not suffer with this problem. My friend Barb once had the entire church phone directory memorized - home, work, and cell! Nobody bothered looking anything up; we just asked Barb. I, on the other hand, inevitably transpose two random digits in every phone number I jot down from the answering machine.

This is a great occupational hazard for the part of one's job that entails returning phone calls.

So, after I blogged about Charity's birthday, people kept asking me how old she was, and I'd just mutter, "twenty-something." Finally, in the evening, I decided to figure it out. Fortunately my sister was in the room at the time, and two of her children bookend Charity in age. Unfortunately, she never remembers how old her children are either.

And that is the great thing about sisters. They can always make you believe your wackiness is actually normal. So, here's to sisters. Mine just drove across the country for the birth of her fourth grandchild following the engagement party for her youngest son. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember how old anyone is today, and I doubt she even cares.

The One Who Was Missing

Charity and her family at the beach this summer.

It was a crazy time to have a baby. Wendell was in his second year of medical school, and we were living on student loans that had already exceeded ten years of his previous salary. We had also exceeded the highly recommended 2.5 children by a rambunctious point five. These were the days before Jon & Kate. Large families were not considered chic. Just irresponsible.

I knew all those things. Yet the longing would not go away. Finally, I went upstairs to pray one day, determined to clear my head and focus my heart and basically get over it. I don't remember where the other children were or how I secured my fifteen minutes of silence. But I remember exactly what happened next.

A thought as clear as a spoken word shot through my mind. You are not merely longing for another baby. You are homesick for one of your children who isn't here yet.

And that was it. I am pretty certain the thought originated in Heaven, and my soul exploded with the news. Homesick for one of your children. That is exactly how I felt. The same way I would feel if Felicity, Serenity, or Joseph were far away in another country instead of tucked safely in our own home.

One of the really great things about my husband is that he trusts me when I tell him I've heard something from God. Even something that goes against all conventional wisdom (and would later get us denied a lease from at least three different landlords because we were over the limit of children allowed.)

So, on June 18, 1982, Charity Lynn was born. And it was true. Our family was immediately complete. I believe Wendell and I cooperated with God that year. And I believe we gave a great gift to the world.

Thank you cards may be sent to this blog address.

Not Your Normal Church Service

Sunday night was graduation at our church. This happens about once a month. We live in an unusual community, and our congregation includes a couple hundred people who are in discipleship programs for recovery from alcohol, drugs, or some other life-controlling issue.

It struck me again how unusual we are. One of the graduates made a few remarks in which he thanked several people for their support. He included his long-suffering sister. "And I thank the Lord Jesus Christ for my sister... sorry about when I stole your car that one time."

We all chuckled, and he went right on with his great testimony. I realized such a statement might seem shocking in many settings. But it is part of the package where we live. We really are a rag-tab lot, many of whom the world was ready to throw away.

After the men left the stage, our pastor asked everyone who had graduated from one of the programs in the past to please stand. Forty people rose. They are department heads, community leaders, businessmen and women, fathers, mothers, spouses, students and ministers.

It was one of those moments that makes getting up the next day seem worthwhile. And I realized when I looked around how grateful I am to be counted in their number. I could stand on the stage, too, and say, "And I'm sorry about that time I..."

Uighur Mania

At last! We have discovered a useful purpose for the paparazzi. Lots of folks have been fairly worried about the fact we moved four Chinese Muslim detainees from lock-down in Gitmo to vacation in Bermuda. No more armed guards. No razor wire or security barricades. Just a clear ocean view and a sandy beach.

Cue the cameras. These four guys are being covered Hollywood-style. Press conferences, news interviews, and constant surveillance by scores of photographers who each want to get the first shot of them swimming in the ocean or dancing on the beach. 

I don't know whether these guys are terrorists or the innocent bystanders they claim to be. I hope somebody figures that out. In the meantime, the threat of them sneaking off to confer secretly with Mr. Bin Laden are slim. Unless they take a couple of news anchors along.

So, today's round of applause goes to the paparazzi. May they live long and prosper in Bermuda, recording for the world exactly what the possible terrorists eat for breakfast everyday. I'm glad for the national security. Brad and Angelina are probably grateful for the distraction.

Hats Off to the Techies

Sometimes I forget how spoiled I am. We live in a community blessed by tremendously talented techie guys. I lean on them daily and obviously take them for granted. This week Wendell and I went to a little gathering of friends who are leaders of several similar churches here in the Midwest. We've known many of these folks for decades, and we love being together. One of the key leaders among this group couldn't come to Omaha, though, so we had the bright idea to bring him in through a video link on the computer.

Problem was, none of us really knew how to do that. We're pretty good at Google Video Chat or Skype conference call. But stretch us to one more cable connection to get Doug on the big screen, and we were stumped. We took turns leaning over the computer screen and talking into the microphone so Doug could be in on conversations.

I was shocked. I'm so accustomed to hitting the "spark" button on my desktop and connecting with one of our guys just about any time of the day or night. Then I say something like, "Can you get my laptop to fly to the moon, bring back some stardust, and dance on my desktop before lunch time today?" And they do.

So, here's to the techie guys. My hat is off. My hands are clapping. And my ipod is reminding me to NEVER travel without one of you!!!!

Things That Bless a Grandmother's Heart

A school that gives an end-of-the-year award for Best Story Teller to a four year old boy who would much rather be throwing rocks in the lake than sitting still in school. (Way to go, Jude)

A phone call saying, "We landed safely in New Jersey and baby Nola enjoyed her first flight." (Especially when the news is currently full of horrific plane crash details.)

Grandsons who still hug me in public even though they are nearly as tall as me and have become official athletes on competitive teams. (Thanks guys)

A kitchen table that still swells with noise and confusion for Sunday lunch. (Although we miss those who eat lunch in distant states.)

The delicious silence when they all go home and I'm left with happy memories. (And a few dirty dishes.

)

A crowded lap.

At My Letters

Time seems to become more valuable to me as I age. As if I'm finally realizing I have a limited amount of it to accomplish all the earth stuff assigned to me. So, I'm wary of the time-wasters. And, seriously, what could waste more time than a narcissistic blog? Facebook, perhaps. Or maybe Twitter, which I haven't succumbed to yet.

But, when I read about the great men and women of the past, I find a common theme among them. Most devoted a few hours every morning to prayer and Bible reading. Then, they sat down with quill and parchment and spent another few hours "at their letters." These folks achieved some great things in life, such as founding our nation. Yet they found time to write long, thoughtful letters to loads of people. Maybe the writing of letters actually helped formulate their thoughts on weighty matters. Certainly it helped teach them the art of writing.

I'm not sure updating my Facebook status equates. Yet, computer time seems to have become my version of being at my letters. After I've prayed, and read, and walked on the treadmill, I'm always ready to check my email and respond to a few electronic letters. (or maybe write a blog). This little exercise seems to help me, especially on days like this one where the to-do list spills over the edges of the day and into the evening.

So, I've taken a few minutes now to send out these words. It may have been an exercise in self-indulgence. But it reminds me that among my callings as wife, mother, grandmother, office manager, and mentor I am still at heart a writer.

Standing Ovation

When our granddaughter, Claire Felicity White, was born, we stood around her little bed like this. The first night we crowded twenty-some people into the cubicle and willed our less-than-two-pound-baby to be strong. After her twin sister, Ellery Blythe, slipped through a portal to Glory, we stood around Claire and sang songs. We recited scripture and told her all the things she could be when she grew strong.

Last night we stood around Claire like this, after she strutted across the stage to receive her diploma at Kindergarten graduation. She sang songs, recited scripture, and made us cry when she read her essay about the doctor she wants to be when she grows up.

Standing Ovation, Please

Say it Loud

I've always been a strong beleiver in saying things out loud to put them in perspective. This can be dangerous, of course. My husband has been known to take shelter occassionally because he fears losing a limb in the mine-field of my emotions. The thoughts swirling in my head at any given moment can lanch me to giddy heights or plunge me into dark despair. And sometimes the dark despair ones get a foothold if I'm not careful. That hasn't happened much in the last several years, but this weekend, they got me.

Nothing terrible happened. I just let myself get a little too tired and a little too busy and a lot too negative about little details like my writing career or lack thereof. Isn't that awful? I have the greatest life in the world. Even the things I was sad about are a zillion times better than most people's circumstances.

But I'm never rational at a time like this. So, my wise and exceptionally brave husband waited until things got quiet in the house and then said, "Okay. Come over here and tell me what you are thinking."

We sat on the sofa and I tried to put words around the emotions, which is never easy when one is actually in the pit of despair. He listened. And asked questions. And didn't tell me I was being silly. And then he prayed.

This morning I woke up to dark clouds and rain outside the window. But I felt sunshine in my soul again. Somehow, speaking all my fears out loud broke their power. (plus the prayer thing). I don't pretend to understand everything about spiritual warfare. But I know the enemy of my soul is real, and I know he works in darkness. And, I know my Redeemer lives, and He operates in Light. When I say things out loud, His light makes the darkness flee.

Thanks, Hub.

Things I do While My Husband is Out of Town

I eat ice cream. As if it won't really pack on the pounds as long as I eat it when no one is watching. I'm pretty sure this is the first sign of an addiction. 

But, then, I buy exotic vegetables like canned Squash with Vidalia Onions. Or Triple Succotash with tomatoes, corn, and butter beans. Completely weird. I think the old-fashioned mixture reminds me of eating supper at my grandmother's house and what could be more comforting than that?

I watch chick-flicks. Although in my case the chicks are more like old hens. I prefer leading ladies who are seasoned, and I am currently enthralled with the PBS series Cranford. My poor husband only sat through Pride & Prejudice because it has that one scene with a herd of deer loping across the meadow. 

I walk the dog. Normally, I admire her from afar. She is a hunter and belongs exclusively to the master of the house. But, when the boss is gone I actually take her for walks in our neighborhood and pick up the offerings she leaves behind on the neighbors' lawns. Our bonding is a strange thing, I suppose. But, we both miss him so much when he is away. And I'm pretty sure nobody loves him quite the way we do.

Letting Go

I didn't know I was a control freak. This ugly trait surfaced when I finished making summer schedules for the office. The little columns were all lined up neatly on my Google calendar, indicating where shifts overlapped and where we might have a gap. And there before my eyes was the amazing revelation. I could take my Paid Time Off.

Now, lest you start feeling sorry for me, I do take time off. I go with Wendell to medical conventions three or four times a year. And we usually schedule some vacation time to go see the grandkids. But this PTO is different. It is mine, as an employee. I looked at the weekly schedule and discovered we are going to be over-staffed a few hours every week for the summer. And, we are making enough money to pay everyone!

So, I juggled my own shift just a little. Since I generally stay until 6:00, I can go in at 9:00. And since I always work Saturday mornings, I can take Friday mornings off.

This is beautiful. There is only one problem. I'm not sure I can do it. Wendell is out of town for three days, and I made myself stay home each of these mornings to catch up on household tasks that have been sadly neglected. I actually watch the clock to see how soon I can go to the office.

I'm pretty sure the first morning I'm home while they are seeing patients will be agony. But, I also know my husband will be really happy if this means we consistently have clean towels and groceries. And, he will be even happier if it means I finish my current work-in-progress and quit moaning about never having time to write.

So, I'm vowing to unclench my fingers from the office key. I'm determined to take a deep breath, look away from the clock, and trust God (and Lenna, Jordan, and Jenny) to handle things just fine without me. At least for three hours.

Comfort Zones

We have doubled our office staff this summer. That means four people instead of two sharing my front office space in the clinic. It is wonderful in so many ways. For one thing, we can accomplish a lot more with two more people on the nursing staff - - provided we can climb over one another to reach the patients.

We are operating in temporary quarters, so our traffic flow has never been ideal. Adding two more desks complicated things just a tad. The change has been hard for all four of us. No one has a comfy nest anymore, and none of us really know how to make it all work. And we are all making compromises like not going to the bathroom until we absolutely must so we don't interrupt the person beside us who has to scoot in her chair and squish under her desk a little to let me pass.

So, we decided to innovate. We moved, sorted, compressed, consolidated and came up with a whole new floor plan. And the most amazing thing happened for me. My desk is in a much better position to receive patients when they walk in the door. By moving out of the comfort zone I've occupied for nearly four years, I found myself closer to the people and better able to serve.

I think that is pretty much the way it always goes with comfort zones. Once we leave them, we find a new and better world. (Plus, I'm right beside the bathroom now.)

A Reminder to Stop Grumbling (to me, not my readers)

This morning I was reading about Moses going back to Egypt to tell old Pharaoh, "Let My people go!" I was struck by one sentence I had never seen before:

... when they heard that the Lord was concerned about the sons of Israel and that He had seen their affliction, they bowed low and worshiped. Exodus 4:31

I'm pretty sure that hasn't been my response so far this week. I know God is concerned about me. So concerned He sent His Son to die for me in the really big scheme of things. And so concerned He took care of the nasty cold that was bothering me in the terribly small scheme of things.

Basically, God shows His concern for me in so many ways every, single day that it's a wonder I can even get up off the floor to do my chores. I ought to be lying prostrate saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you" all day and all night long.

Instead, I tend to grumble. About my cough. About the weather. About the crowded conditions in my lovely and profitable office. So, when that little phrase stuck out to me this morning, I was pretty sure it was a gentle reminder from Heaven to do less grumbling and more bowing.

And, thus, I shall.

Dear Claire, Ada, Macy, Elena, Adele, and Nola, and any granddaughters yet to come...

This weekend will be Mother's Day, and I'm celebrating it by telling you about some of the wonderful mothers in your lineage. I can only tell you about the ones on this branch of the tree and only as far back as my memory goes. But that's enough to prove you are made of good stuff. Your Grandmas Cheri, Joyce, and Nita can fill in the the branches that remain.

If you grow up to love flower gardens someday, that will be from your Granny Grubbs, and if you always make it a point to speak to every single person at church on Sunday mornings, that will be from your Great-Grandma Adair. If you love to pray for hours at a time, thank Great-Grandma Nickerson, and if you rear a fine brood of children who influence the world for the Kingdom of God, you'll be following in the footsteps of Great-Grandma Pitts.

If you are extra-nice to everyone you meet, that will be the influence of my mother, Grandma Boo; and if you sing in the church choir more than sixty years, you will take after your grandpa's mother, Grandma-Great. And if you love your own little granddaughters so much you think your heart might burst just thinking about them, well, that's from me.

Love,

Gramma Kathy

Still Climbing Mountains

Thirty-five years ago today, on a Tuesday evening at 6:30pm, Wendell A. Nickerson walked down the aisle in a dashing, white tux and agreed to take me as his -- for better or worse until death do us part. My sister, Martha, was thirteen at the time. She was so shy she could barely speak to a stranger, yet she stood in front of more than 300 people and belted out, "Climb Every Mountain."

If we had known how steep some of those mountains would be, I'm pretty sure we'd have run screaming out the door instead of smiling for the camera and saying, "I do."

And we would have missed some of the most breathtaking moments in life.

The climb has not always been easy. Nor pleasant. But the view from the top has always been worth those moments of terror when we were pretty sure the rope was going to break and we would plumet to our deaths, crushed on the rocks below.

Instead, we tightened our grip on God, one another, and our faithful family and friends, and we kept climbing. We were determined to reach the top of every summit, as the song says, until we found our dream.

We are still dreaming together, and the whole thing has been a grand adventure so far. So, today, I raise a toast of iced tea to my hubby and say, "Thanks for being brave and strong and for never giving up even when it was hard. And thanks for not sending me back to my mother even when I was a pill."

Love,

me

Is it Working?

I bought new make-up last week. It's specifically formulated for old-lady skin. That isn't what it says, of course. The label refers to it as "ageless" and Ellen acts all spunky when she advertises it on t.v. But you can't get past the point: this make-up is designed to work with wrinkles!

Skin, of course, is only one of the things that changes dramatically once we become grandmothers. I think there should be a film strip for that somewhere. The kind they screen in a darkened room after all the boys have been sent to the gym. 

In this particular cycle of life, we get little warning. And the amount of creams, potions, and extracts needed to prevent our bodies from shriveling up like an Egyptian mummy is mind-boggling. So, I bought new make-up. And hand lotion. And an extra bottle of moisturizer. And a lighted, magnified, make-up mirror.

I spent an extra half-hour putting it all on, watching to see if it really did "glide above the wrinkles" instead of sinking in as promised. I can't really tell, because my eyes aren't that good even with the magnified mirror. But, I don't think any of it will make much difference. Nobody is going to be fooled into thinking I'm ageless. I am obviously seasoned. And, fortunately for me, the man I married still likes me that way.

Next Year in Jerusalem

That is the working title of the novel which consumed much of my trip out of town. I actually sent off a query to an agent last week, so I wanted to get the book proposal in shape, just in case. Writing is a business for a patient person. Response time for queries of any sort range from weeks to months. So, one must develop the magical ability to forget the projects dangling out there in cyber space somewhere and move on to other things once the query (or manuscript) has been sent.

That is a little like forgetting you gave birth to a child who now lives 1000 miles away and arrests bad guys for a living. 

Forgetting may not be completely possible, but getting on with other things can be done. For instance, last weekend I outline a calendar for myself of writing projects. I have about a dozen of them crowding my brain at all times like noisy children. So, I ordered them to stand still in a straight line while I assigned each of them a little square box on my writing calendar. Now, they must each wait quietly for their turn while I give attention to the appropriate matter at hand. And, once they leave my in-box, I vow to forget about them for at least six weeks. Unless they happen to call home before then to say they arrived safely. Which would be lovely, and much appreciated.

Feeling His Pleasure

I forgot to eat lunch today. That never happens to me. No matter how busy our day is at work, I'm watching the clock by about ten, calculating how long before we can lock the door and go up to the cafe for what Brother Lawrence once described as "this little holiday in the middle of the work day." 

Today, though, I was alone in our lavish hotel room on a dark and dreary day. I finally opened my notebook to organize my notes from the mentoring conference a couple of weeks ago, and before I knew it, I was lost. In a good way.

I wrote, and I read. I researched, and I edited. And,  before I knew it, I had missed both Second Breakfast, Elevensies, and Luncheon as our Hobbit friends would say. 

And that is what I love about this call to write. Although I agonized about it most of yesterday and procrastinated as much as I possibly could today, it eventually swept me away. In the midst of the task, I experienced what Eric Liddle describes in Chariots of Fire. He is telling his sister why running as an athlete appealed to him as much as preaching as a missionary. It goes something like this: God made me, and He made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.

Life in the Castle

Being married to a doctor has its perks. Tonight we are sleeping in a castle. Well, a chateau, actually. On the lake in Branson, Missouri. But it looks like a castle from the outside, and it feels pretty opulent in our room. We are here so Wendell can attend seminars to catch up on the latest in medical advances and so I can write undisturbed for hours at a time. The great news is this: The extravagant room is a business expense, so the office is paying. The bad news is this: We own the office. So, technically, the whole working vacation is really coming out of our pocket either way. But we sure notice it less when it comes out of the pocket on the business side of our suitcase.

I admit I like this stuff. Fancy hotels, a reasonable excuse for room service, and the whole heady environment of hanging around people the whole of our society considers important. Or at least expensive.

This evening we strolled through the grand hallway to the conference desk. We passed a water fall, exotic birds, ornate tables, and plush chairs. Eventually, we reached the display honoring the out-going president of our state medical society. We actually know the guy. In fact, we hung out together when our children were younger. He even delivered one of our babies. And since I'm pretty easily sucked in by all the glitz, you would think this would have put me over the edge.

Instead, it brought me right back down to earth. Because there was Rex, posing in all his cowboy glory complete with hat, boots, and his favorite Missouri mule. That is when I remembered Wendell and I are just a couple of country kids out on the town. We'll go back in a few days to our two-bedroom house at the edge of the cornfield, and we will be extremely glad to be home. 

But, for now, I'm going to revel in the castle and the man who married me thirty-five years ago next week. That's my kind of fairy tale.

Never Trust the Cup Bearer

I just read one of the saddest lines in the Bible again tonight. "But the cup bearer forgot about Joseph." This is the Joseph who was thrown into a well, sold by his brothers, entrapped by a seductress, and abandoned in an Egyptian prison. Things started looking up a little, though, when he told a fellow prisoner the good news about his dream. (The baker in the other cell didn't get such a great report.) Joseph told the cupbearer, "Your dream means Pharaoh is going to spring you out of jail and promote you back to your old job in three days." Wahoooo! Great things ahead for the cup bearer. While he was dancing a little jig (or whatever) Joseph said, "By the way, when you get the promotion, please drop my name to the CEO." (Wall Street translation.)

Of course, said cup bearer forgot all about Joseph when the time actually came. The point of that story for me right now is this: People are great. We love 'em. We need 'em. We couldn't get along without them. But, only Jesus is our Savior. 

I've been guilty many times of wanting to lean on the cup bearer for my security. Sometimes he was my husband, or my mom, or my boss, or my pastor, or even one of my kids. Sometimes he was an editor or agent I met at a conference. Even though all those people are tremendously valuable to my life, they are just people. And chances are pretty good they won't be able to live up to my lofty expectations.

But Joseph's fate wasn't really in the hands of the forgetful cupbearer. Eventually God nudged Pharaoh, and he remembered Joseph. He promoted the former prisoner to the second highest post in the land.

That is good news for us, too. Despite the lousy economy, the shrinking job market, and the daily threat of annihilation by pandemic and/or terrorist attack, our true fate lies in the hands of God. We don't have to trust in the cup bearer, because the One who bore the cup of suffering will never forget us.

My Posse

We are blessed with a passel of grandchildren. Until recently, they all lived within an hour of our house, which was a miracle we held as lightly as a soap bubble in summertime. Now three of the granddaughters live in different states and we are learning the art of distance relationships. We aren't very good at it yet, but we will get better.

One of our goals as the children grow is to host Cousin's Camp every year. I have been planning it since the summer we added two grandsons in three weeks. I had a glimpse of what our clan might become, and I wanted to make the most of it. Last summer we gave it our first shot. The oldest camper was eight, and the youngest was still in diapers. Day One was all about the boys. They are pictured here in the attire they wore for most of their stay. The hats once belonged to their great-grandfather, and I'm pretty sure he never expected to see them used this way.

The Camp coincided with the olympics that year, and we let the big boys spread their sleeping bags in the living room. They all stayed up late and held their breath with Grandpa until Michael Phelps' fingertips made that amazing brush against the pool and set a world record.

I hope I'll remember forever the sight of those gangly arms and legs in our living room as they leaped and shouted and high-fived one another. And I hope the posse will keep coming to Cousin's Camp at least until they are old enough to break some world records of their own.

Peeps and Posse

Networking is an interesting word. A network ties together a group of computers making this conversation possible in the first place. Insurance companies use networks to decide how they are going to pay various doctors. You get paid better if you are "in network." Today, I was grateful people like Blue Cross and Humana consider Calvary Medical Center among their peeps. We got some checks in the mail.

On the other hand, a network can be something like a spider web. "I'll tie myself to you in some cyber-savvy way and you tie yourself to me so one of us can lure in the innocent fly we want to profit from." I'm sure it is never that bad. But I find myself asking these days whether I want to be a Facebook friend because I really want to know what the other person had for lunch or if it is because I think the other person can do me some kind of favor that will help me buy some lunch.

At our recent conference, we talked about the difference between our peeps, whom we probably only know in the virtual world, and our posse whom we could call up at a moment's notice when we need to go round up some bad guys. Or move some furniture.

The interesting thing is this: If you spend enough virtual time with your peeps, some of them actually become your posse. They may be too far away to help you move the sofa down three flights of stairs. But they are certainly close enough to pray when you lose the job that necessitates that move.

That is the kind of network I want to weave.

Reckoning Myself a Writer

Reckon: to regard or think of as.

That is how Mr .Webster defines the word, and it is a good description of what I went through over the weekend. I attended a writer's conference at a little lake retreat that was actually billed as a Mentoring Conference. That meant I actually had to decide if I was a magazine writer, novelist, non-fiction book writer, children's author, or screen writer and then sign up with the appropriate mentor. 

I picked magazines, since that is the only place I've been published so far. My mentor was an amazing gentleman named Eric Reed of Christianity Today International. One of the most important things he did for our little group was to challenge us to admit we are writers. I think I've been afraid to do that since I was a teenager watching John-Boy hide his Red Chief tablet and stubby pencil under the mattress so his family wouldn't find out he longed to squander his life as a writer instead of taking up a sensible profession like cutting timber on Walton's mountain.

So, I reckoned myself a writer. I sat at breakfast and chatted with the acquisitions editor of Harvest House. I exchanged pleasantries with the children's editor from Tyndale, and I boldly accosted the screenwriter from L.A. and asked if my daughter could interview her for a book.

And, do you know what I discovered? They are real people, with real issues, and real dreams not-yet-fulfilled just like the rest of us. And, I am one of them. I'm a writer.

Just be Nice

 I've had a particularly grumpy Monday, for which I'm totally ashamed. Especially since the most important part of my job involves being nice to people when they arrive in our clinic. My mother taught me long ago that one of the most important things you can do in life is just be nice. (whether you feel like it or not.)

The truth of her lesson struck me one day when I was standing in the bread aisle at the grocery store. I was trying to choose between the soft, white sandwich bread or the brown version my husband preferred for digestive health. That was long before the whole-grain craze of our day, so I reached for the white. That is when I noticed the short lady in her dark coat and raggedy head scarf.

She didn't acknowledge me, or even glance my way. Even so, I recognized her as a rather eccentric neighbor of my parents. So, I said, "hello," just as my mother had always taught me to do.

The neighbor looked up in surprise. Then she looked around to see who I was talking to. Then she narrowed her eyes, and nodded. I thought she didn't recognize me as a grown-up, so I mentioned my maiden name. "Oh, I know who you are," she said. "I'm just surprised you spoke to me."

She studied me for a minute and I couldn't think what to say. "I guess you are just like your mother," the neighbor lady said. I wasn't sure how to take that, so I was glad when she kept talking. "People think I don't know what they say about me. But I'm not dumb. I know I don't look like those ladies on the magazine covers. I know I'm not exactly like other people."

This was true, but I didn't want to admit it, so I just waited for her to go on.

"I know people laugh at me," she said. "and talk about me. But, not your mother. She always spoke to me no matter where she saw me. Always. She always spoke. And I guess you're just like her."

She smiled then, and I melted. 

It was the greatest compliment I've received in my whole life, and I strive every day to live up to it. My mother has an amazing ability to see the best in every person and to expect the best response from them. My children say Grandma probably thinks Osama bin Laden just had a rough childhood. That was her explanation for every bully we ever met in school. Come to think of it, she is probably right. 

That day in the grocery store, I was so grateful for a mother knew how to be nice. And I'm determined to do better tomorrow. 

Our Easter Tradition

One of my favorite traditions involves otherwise sensible grown-ups clawing through the tall grass of my father's sheep pasture looking for little plastic ovals filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chickens. We've followed this particular tradition for at least three decades. Before that, Easter Sunday was marked by a picnic somewhere in my great-grandparent's woods. I think we had a brief lull in the fun back when my siblings and I were too teenage-cool for such things.

We are over that now. In fact, we are so over it that a few years ago both my brothers climbed to the top of a tall tree in search of an egg peeking from the top of a squirrel's nest. It was sleeting at the time. But, the hunt has two rules: If you find someone else's egg, you are sworn to silence and cannot tell where it is. Rule Number Two: No one goes to the house until everyone finds their egg.  

We were all rooting for that second brother.

My parents have pretty much perfected the art of family traditions, in general. We still hunt the eggs pretty much the same way we did when all of today's young parents were toddlers. But this year we will hunt on Saturday instead of Sunday so everyone can be in their own church Easter morning. 

I know my parents would love to have the whole bunch of us crowding into pews and singing "Up from the Grave He Arose" with them on Resurrection morning. Instead, they will send us each back to our congregations where we will teach Sunday school, lead worship, serve as ushers, welcome guests, and be faithful members of the congregation. 

And that is the best part about strong families with great traditions. We multiply.

Bread and Wine

I'm not actually having either of those things tonight. But I have a strange desire to turn on the Sabbath Prayer scene from Fiddler on the Roof, light some candles, drink some grape juice and pretend for just a few minutes that I'm living in that culture. That I'm sitting around a campfire somewhere in ancient Jerusalem listening to the Passover prayers.

When I was a child, my grandfather preached a message one Sunday on the significance of the first Passover. I remember being enthralled by the story of slavery and deliverance. And I remember being a little frightened by the image of the Death Angel that rose up and waved around in my mind. Then, he talked in great detail about the way the Hebrew fathers applied the blood of the lamb to their door posts. In my always vivid imagination, I saw that old Death Angel swoop down over the house with his sword drawn. But, in the last second, he saw the blood and veered away. I could almost hear the swoosh as his long, grey garment swept the roof of the house.

Tonight, I want to remember that scene again. And I want to flash forward to the Passover meal where the Lamb of God sat with his friends for a final meal. I want to hear him talk about the new covenant, the one sealed with His blood and demonstrated by our love. And I want to thank Him again for being the sacrifice that keeps the Death Angel away from my door every day.