Cookie-induced nostalgia. What? Yes.

So as you may or may not know, we have a new family member.   Another "J" for the J, J, and J family.  J # 4.  I'd call him Tiny J but seriously, he weighed 10 lbs 13 oz.  I'll just call him adorable, sweet, precious.  It's safe to say I'm pretty much saturated in grandbaby bliss at this moment.  It's real.  It's ethereal.  It's indescribable.  

The day after Tiny Baby J was born, I decided to do something special for his mommy.  For crying out loud, she just gave birth at age 38!  To a quite large infant!  So I decided to bake her some cookies and take them to the hospital.  Her favorite cookie growing up was homemade gingersnaps.  I made them a lot.  At a pretty young age she learned to bake cookies & baked them fairly regularly.  She bakes a really good cookie.   How I loved walking in the door to be greeted by the awesome aroma of gingersnaps in the oven.  

Pinterest is my friend and I use it abundantly, but for these cookies I needed the exact same recipe that we used.  It was quite a search, but I uncovered a plethora of interesting items in the process.  

This is an old recipe card that my mom

used to make her heart healthy casserole after she experienced some heart issues in the early 1980's.  The circled items were her favorite combination.  So yummy.  Interestingly, my youngest daughter felt like she needed to autograph the recipe.  Apparently using her "might be a doctor someday" signature.  😉

On the back of the recipe card our oldest daughter wrote us a note.  In handwriting that might be used by someone trying to convince their parents that they have nothing to worry about.  Was she home before 10:00?  I would say she probably was. Had the youngest daughter written this note....hmmm.  Maybe not so punctual with the 10pm bit.  I could tell stories.  I will not.  You're welcome, youngest daughter.  😉

Finally found the long lost recipe.  Does the book look familiar to any of you?  I bet it does.   The copyright date is 1968.  I'm not certain but I think perhaps this was a bridal shower gift to me from my sister Lois.  Maybe? It sustained a lot of maltreatment from the cooks in our home.  Mainly the three of us females.  The Mr. did use the book once.  To bake oatmeal cookies while I was working evening shift.  Abysmal failure.  He cooked the oatmeal before adding it to the dough.  I did actually consume one of the cookies.  And lived to tell.  Barely. 

Check it out and drool: I wish I had one of these cookies right now.  Mmmmmm good.

But this is the most special treasure I uncovered in my search for the recipe:

What is it, you ask?  It's a shopping list written by my mom a few days before she entered the hospital and passed away.  May of 1993.  The last handwritten item I possess of hers.  I love looking at her writing.  I can see her hands as they wrote the words.  I can hear her voice going over the list with me.  Her hands touched this paper.  Then handed the paper to me.  Wow I miss her.  It's just a shopping list, for goodness sake.  Nostalgia can invade so unexpectedly.

Hand-written notes, hand-written anything is such a thing of the past.  But I believe our handwriting has "voice" and is an extension of our heart.   It's why I have such a hard time disposing of the multitudes of greeting cards we've received over the years.  

Perhaps we should all take the time to write more notes to those we love. Hand-written.  You never know the impact it could have one day when notes and photographs are as close as we can get to being in the same room again, close as a hug from the past.  

And of course, it goes without saying, we all must eat more COOKIES!!

Nurturing. And waiting rooms, part 2

So it all started here.  1976.  My first baby, tiny little blue eyed girl.  Stole my heart and introduced me to a new experience:  Nurturing.  Prior to this moment, as the baby of my family, my nurturing experiences were limited to furry kittens.    AKA Smelly Cats.   

 This baby girl taught me a lot about being a mommy and loving someone more intensely than I'd ever loved anyone before.  

And then there were two.  Just now this very minute for the first time I noticed how little baby girl had hold of her big sister's finger. Awwww.  Be still my heart.   My sweet baby girls, and yep, the nurturing just continued on.  

Nurturing is consuming in a beautiful way.  Fulfilling like no other experience.

But the years passed....My girls grew up...  Our nest emptied.   

And then....

 A new dimension of nurturing.  Grandbabies.  

Grandnurturing.  💓💗

Letting the mommies do the hard stuff while grandma just does the fun stuff.  Sending them home after feeding them stuff like sundae cones for breakfast. Or whatever else they might want to eat.  Letting them stay up late.  And bathe together in my big whirlpool tub.  And share grandma's bed for sleepovers.  Lots of babysitting these three.  Best times ever.

But they all, even the littlest one,  are in grade school now.  Busy busy busy.  Not as much time for Grammy B.   And so....now what happens to my nurturing skills?  





Houseplants?  My old puppy?  
Just  not the same.  Not the same at all.




But about the time I had resigned myself to pouring all my nurturing abilities into plant life and my dog, we received quite the surprise.  

Another grandbaby!  Our youngest girl and her hubby are expecting a baby boy in September,  and if you read my blog post entitled "The Doorkeeper of the Waiting Room" you'll understand why this is quite the surprise. https://grammybe.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-doorkeeper-of-waiting-room.html In fact, just three days after that post we learned the pregnancy news.  😍🙌  I just can't stop smiling.  God is so good!!  

Drumroll....(mommy said I couldn't post this blog till baby was born):

I am so excited, so VERY excited to tell you that it's September and Mr. Joseph Eugene has arrived.   10 pounds 13 ounces of cuddly wonderful cuteness!!  Thank you, God, for unexpected blessings and perfect timing.  

So.... I'm entering Phase 2 of Grandnurturing.  My doggy and my houseplants will suffer a bit.  But my grammy arms are ready.  Ten pounds and 13 ounce baby?? Better join the gym, Grammy B.  😁

Mommy

In April of this year, my friend that I wrote about in this 2016 post lost her younger son** in a tragic motorcycle accident. She has now lost both of her sons, two of her five children. She is clinging to Jesus to carry her through. My heart breaks for her and my prayers are with her and her other children.

Blog post from November of 2016:

Recently I was touched by a story a dear friend shared with me.  She is the mother of 5, three girls and two boys.  One of her sons passed away a few years ago unexpectedly when he was in his early twenties, following a seizure.   **The younger son has really struggled since the death of his brother.  He’s suffered a lot of personal tragedy as a result.  My friend knows deep sadness.  Brokenness that has brought her face down at the feet of her Savior Jesus.  Her faith has grown from brokenness.  

My friend, whose name is Nancy, has moments when scenarios of mothering “failures” invade her thinking to the point she’s almost paralyzed with sadness and regret.  Honestly, I thought that was a problem that I alone dealt with until my conversations with Nancy.  Since the two of us deal with mental anguish of this nature, I’m led to assume that most/all moms do.  Scenes that play over and over in our mind while our internal voice screams:  “Why oh why did I do that?  What was I thinking?  I failed.  I failed at my most important job”   Satan loves to use that tactic because it’s such an easy, effective way of defeating mothers.  (Side note:  don’t let him.  Don’t.  Jesus provides power to conquer that nonsense.  Speaking to myself here. Read on)

Every year when the anniversary of Nancy’s son’s death comes around, she fights deep deep sadness and grief.  Last month that anniversary date was approaching and again Nancy found herself just struggling to avoid tearful meltdowns no matter where she was or what she was doing.  The old regretful scenes were running an around-the-clock marathon of reruns in her mind.  But like we all do when the stuff of life happens, she kept putting one foot in front of the other with the usual daily routines of work and watching her grandchildren.  Just coping as best she could while internally missing her boy so badly.  

During this time, Nancy found herself needing to take her preschool aged granddaughter on a four hour errand trip, just the two of them.   This would be a healthy distraction, she hoped.   As she drove along the roadways her little granddaughter fell asleep in the back seat, leaving her basically alone in a quiet car with her thoughts.  With nothing but a steering wheel to hold onto, and nowhere to go but miles of open highway, she was swept away in sadness.  Missing her boy as an adult son. Missing him as a little boy.  Missing him.  Missing hearing his voice call her “Mommy”.  Wanting with every fiber of her being to just even catch a glimpse of him again and give him a hug.   And then, of course, replaying the scenes of regret over and over and over, wondering if there was something she could have done differently, better.  She found herself just uncontrollably sobbing, her body wracked with deep grieving excruciating sadness.  There in that car she called out in prayer to God, asking for Him to help her.  To just help her stop sobbing.  To just hold her, and give her some sort of assurance that she hadn’t been a horrible mommy.  Unable to stop crying, she realized she had to do something to change her focus or risk having a car wreck.  As she looked in the rear view mirror she noticed her granddaughter had shifted position while sleeping and was needing to have her seatbelt adjusted.  She took an off ramp onto a dirt country road and found a place to safely stop the car.  Her eyes swollen and red from crying, her face a sad mess, she turned around to the back seat to reposition her little granddaughter.  When she looked up a man had driven up, parked his car and walked over to speak to her.  Apparently he mistook her for the woman who delivers mail in that area and thought he’d just pick up his mail from her car.  She explained to him that no, she was just adjusting her granddaughter’s seat belt and then was heading on down the road to her destination.  She finished up and was turning back to drive away when the man looked at her and said “You are a good mommy.”  Then he drove away.  

That little five minute exchange with a random stranger was an answer to the prayer she’d just prayed.  God heard her prayers.  He sent an angel to minister to her needs and that angel said “You are a good mommy”.  Nancy was overcome with the presence of God as she traveled on down the road to her destination.  God was hugging her tight.  Holding her close.  Healing her wounds.  Wiping her tears.  Giving her strength to make it through the storm of sadness.  

God has ways of wrapping his loving arms around us, and he will do just that when we call out to him.  He will do whatever it takes to heal our broken hearts and make us whole again when He hears our cries of desperation.   Oh how he loves us.  Oh.  How he loves us so.  He is a good, good Father.  And we are His children.  His dearly loved, precious children.

“For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.
 In their hands they shall bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone.” Psalm 91:11-12

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  Psalm 34:18

Fences and Fear

Let me just preface this post with this unfortunate fact: I failed swimming lessons when I was a grade school child.  Dropped out before the session was even close to being complete.   The configuration of my body parts didn't lend itself to really being much of a swimmer. 😜   But I was able to float (on my back) and potentially avoid drowning. In my mind that was close enough to success. Mission accomplished.  Sort of.  The failure stayed with me and put a dent in my level of confidence around water.  

When our girls were really young we started an annual August tradition of vacationing near South Fork Colorado in a large campground there. A beautiful lazy river ran through the campground, and we rented inner tubes to float down the river every single year.  Often the water level wasn't high enough to keep us afloat and we'd end up walking a bit of the way carrying our tubes until we reached deeper water.  It was just that non-threatening.  Truly a relaxing way to spend time.  So what if I couldn't swim?

The river that ran through the campground.

And then came the year 1993 when we chose to vacation in June instead of August on the very first day they opened up the river for floats.  My husband DeWayne and I, as well as my sister Lois were first in line to rent our tubes and take the lazy float.  

But it wasn't lazy on that particular day.  The river was quite high and the typical float time of 45 minutes was reduced to around 7 minutes.  No fears, it was a fun fast ride and we were all three laughing and having a great time.  The exit area of the river required that you navigate yourself toward the right, in the shallow side and then stand up out of your tube and just walk right out onto the sandy shore area. DeWayne and Lois maneuvered themselves perfectly and waited on shore to watch me exit.  But I was way too far on the other side of the river to make it to the right side.  I was swept away in the swift current on my tube and ended up in some pretty wild whitewater quickly.  Before I knew it I was caught in a wire fence that stretched across the river but was submerged.  My life jacket immediately came off and washed quickly downstream.   I was suddenly pinned between the fence and the inner tube that had slipped out from under me and was now against my back, painfully pressing me into the fence in front of me.  I was able to keep my nose just barely above the rushing, powerful water and my hands were gripping the fence.  But my feet couldn't reach the bottom of the river, and the fence didn't reach the bottom of the river either.  The power of the water was attempting to pull me under the fence with impressive force.  And breathing wasn't all that easy either.  

 For several minutes I struggled there in the water, clinging to the fence, weakly crying out for help, and praying that God would keep me from drowning.  In desperation DeWayne got back in the water to try and rescue me.  Then we were both in the fence struggling to survive.  It wasn't long before I no longer had strength to hold onto the fence and my body was swept down into the rocky river under the fence, with DeWayne following me under.  He was able to grab hold of the fence on the other side, and I was able to grab hold of his foot as we were being whipped about in the whitewater while our bodies were beaten up by large submerged rocks.  By this time my sister was joined on the shore by a group of men who had brought ropes and climbed onto a small bridge which was above the fence area.  They dropped the rope down and I was able to grab hold of it while they dragged me to shore, and they repeated the procedure to get DeWayne out of the water too.  

Truly I did not expect to still be alive.  My mind had been fixed on the thought that I was not going to make it out alive.   I can't even begin to describe the relief I felt as I stood there on the dry shore,  bruised from head to toe. My heart was beating.  I was breathing. So very grateful that God spared our lives that day.  

You know what....I doubt that even superb swimming skills would have prevented this experience.  You don't really swim in whitewater.  Especially with a fence in the way.  (side note, the campground removed the fence from the river and shut down the area to floating until the river level went down some.  My near-drowning probably saved some lives of small children who would have floated the same route.)

That experience destroyed any desire I might ever have again to be in whitewater on a river.  

So this year, some 24 years later, our oldest daughter and her husband invited us to join them on a rafting trip in Colorado on the Arkansas river.  Without even thinking, I accepted the invitation.  They had rafted in that same area a few years before and there was no real whitewater involved, just a lazy float trip on a large raft.  I had watched them from the shore.  Seemed harmless.  Never mind that we were fixing to celebrate my 62nd birthday and I still couldn't really swim. 😅 

We arrived at the starting point for the trip and waited to board a bus.  I was pretty relieved to see several quite muscular strong looking men who would be piloting the rafts.  While we waited to leave, a tiny little young woman who appeared to be maybe 20 years old gave us a loud firm speech on just exactly what could go wrong on this rafting trip, just exactly what we would need to be able to do to keep from drowning, and probably many other frightening facts.  I zoned out pretty quickly and started re-thinking my decision to take this trip.  

But hey, my 9 and 11 year old grandkids would be on the raft too.  And one of those super strong capable men would be our trusty guide.  Surely it wouldn't be unsafe.

Right before we boarded the bus the various groups were divided up and assigned a guide for each raft.  Guess who our guide was?  The tiny little woman/child with the loud scary speech.  She looked like she didn't have the strength to lift a fork, and speaking of lifting forks -- she looked like she certainly didn't lift a forkful of food to her mouth nearly often enough.  Wee little woman I'm telling you.

I had serious second thoughts but got on the bus anyway.  Just a float trip.  Just floating.  I could float.  The little chick with her tough talk was exaggerating. There would be no peril.  Nothing to fear.  

On the way to the launching place on the river our bus was detained by road construction and we found ourselves sitting for several minutes alongside the river.  In plain sight of rafters taking the same trip we were fixing to embark upon.  So I watched as their rafts were being whipped this way and that, water pouring over them.  They were all using oars to keep their rafts upright.  And the water was whitewater rough.  

June 1993.  Inner tube.  Powerful whitewater.  Fence.  Panic. 

I tapped my daughter's shoulder and said "I cannot do this."  And to say I was gripped by fear is an understatement.  I was paralyzed by fear.  My chest was tight and I was terrified.  But the bus was in motion again.  My choices were few.  I could chicken out at the river launching area and ride the bus back or I could get on the raft and probably meet my Mom, Dad, and Jesus in heaven before the trip was over.  

We arrived at the launch and as we stood on the shore I looked back up just in time to see the bus driver shut the door and pull away.  

Then I looked at the raft in the water and listened to tiny little girl guide instruct us on where to sit.  So.  I got in the raft.  With my very young grandchildren who exhibited no fear whatsoever.  And their parents and my husband.  No discernible fear from them.  

Tiny little guide girl gave us specific instructions on what to do with our oars and I tried real hard to make my brain absorb what she was saying.  But all the time I was thinking "You know, it wouldn't be so bad to see my Mom and Dad and Jesus today."

As it turned out, tiny little guide girl was older and stronger than she appeared and quite capable of leading our raft through the whitewater.  Not without terror on my part, not without our raft becoming tangled in a tree while the guide shouted instructions, not without us doing a fast paced 360 degree turn (planned.  I think)  Not without waves washing over us from head to toe and water flooding my nose and ears.  But after we navigated our first of many big areas of whitewater I relaxed a bit.  Not a lot, but enough that I was able to actually come close to enjoying the trip. 

It was a two hour raft trip.  And at the end of the trip I felt like I'd accomplished something pretty significant.   I faced the residual fear of that horrible day 24 years earlier.  And survived.

Honestly,  I never need to take another whitewater rafting trip ever.  It was fun, and it served a purpose for me.  It's a healthy thing to face fears and trust God to help you through terrifying situations.    

Mom, Dad, Jesus?  Looking forward to seeing you all (and many others) one day.  I'll love that day.  And I love the day in the picture below.  Especially when my feet touched dry ground with my body still experiencing a pulse and respirations.   Ahhhhh.  

oddly enough, DeWayne & I are the only ones smiling. 

  

Small things

Starting at about age 30 or perhaps a year or two sooner, I began to dream about retirement.   You may relate.  Just looking forward to the day when the alarm clocks stop loudly interfering with our blissful sleep. Forcing us to put on happy faces and head off to work.  Day after day after day. Cruel behavior, those pesky alarm clocks.  

So here I am, approaching the long awaited birthday number 62.  I have already cut back on my work schedule drastically to babysit my grandson.    Grandson went off to all day kindergarten last fall which left me with millions of unoccupied minutes in my days to fill with....??? Hmmmm.  Whatever I want, right?  Retirement, the dream come true??? 

Let's just be honest and say it's an adjustment.  

My days have been filled.  But not with a particular schedule or routine tasks. Nothing I do is earning monetary wages, and that kind of requires an attitude adjustment.  I was a health care employee, I performed certain important tasks, and I got paid to do so.  And I enjoyed my job.  My identity was largely wrapped up in my title: Radiologic Technologist.  ARRT-M.   ASRT.  Licensed in the state of Kansas.   

So?  What's my new title? 

There seems to be no actual title for sleeping as late as I want to, reading as much as I want to, playing piano as much as I want to, traveling with the hubby some, writing a blog when inspired to, spending time with friends as much as I want to, camping and hiking and gardening and playing with my family (GRANDKIDS!!!).... all without punching a time clock.  Or....uh.... getting paid. 

Why, I've even started cleaning my house on a frequent basis.  Nobody saw that coming.  

This is clean, right?

But honestly it is tempting to be a little uneasy about this period of time that I've been waiting for my whole life.  Just kind of at loose ends.  I mean, what are the initials behind my name now??  

Silly thinking, huh?

Sometimes retirement seems like a screeching halt to everything that defined my life.  Going from what I considered to be significant activities to stuff that just appears to be merely small things.  But I really believe God is the designer of every "screeching halt"  we experience in our lifetime.  

 Life is peppered with periods of adjustments.  Lots of them.  Some exciting, some not so much.  Big plans reduced to small things.  Every age group gets in on these types of life events.  Not just us newly retired folks. 

There is a scripture that keeps coming to my mind.... "Who dares despise the day of small things?"  Written by the Old Testament prophet Zechariah, who was talking about the slow process of rebuilding the temple of God that had been destroyed by Babylon.  Big beautiful temple reduced to nothing.  

God designs these times to draw our attention back to Him.  Nothing to despise; no reason to despair.   He's right there with us in the small things.    In the quietness of our souls He can speak to us and mold us and make us who He needs us to be.  His temple.  1 Corinthians 3:16.   Something beautiful.  No initials required.  No title other than Child of God.  

One version of this scripture calls it "small beginnings".  I like that.  When our comfortable life is reduced to small things, it's really a new beginning.  Not the end. God isn't finished with me.  He will bring purpose to my days. 

And on that note, I hear the mountains calling and I must go.  Fixing to  lift my eyes to the hills where my help comes from. For a couple weeks....our first 2 week vacation ever.   

 Not gonna lie, I think I can do this retirement business.  Oh yeah.    

The littlest firecracker

There's this boy who occupies a big part of my heart.  His story is pretty miraculous, being born around 25 weeks gestation and weighing in at a tiny 1 pound 10 ounces.  

Sometimes I think his first three months of life in the NICU groomed his personality and demeanor in an extraordinary way.  Struggling to survive and  facing truly frightening life-threatening situations regularly.  He endured pain on a regular basis.  His medical records are filled with stuff that is absolutely terrifying to think about.  And he really was alone in the world, no visitors ever. Although he was blessed by the love of wonderful caring nurses in the absence of his birth parents or any other family.  

And.... I feel certain he had a constant round-the-clock Visitor, who had everything under control.

Not the typical start to one's life.  Not at all.

The little guy came to our family a survivor.  He has a unique way of accepting whatever.  Just being content with life.  Rolling with the punches.  Going with the flow.

The best example of his unique demeanor happened one year ago on the fourth of July.  Little J was 5 years old.  His mom and dad let him spend the night with Grandpa and Grammy B.  We hadn't bought any fireworks, just planning on enjoying the magnificent displays from our neighbors.  But J's folks had let him bring a couple things to shoot off.  And he was super excited to do so.

So the three of us sat side by side in our lawn chairs out on the driveway while the neighbors around us started their firework parties.  One neighbor boy noticed that little J was just sitting there with his old grandparents, not doing any fireworks. And he felt sorry for little J.   So he brought several sparklers over  and said, "Here are some fireworks for you to light!".  Little J excitedly said, "Oh I've brought my own fireworks that I'll light up after the sun goes down."  The neighbor boy kindly left the sparklers for J, which we quickly burned up.

Then we sat back in our chairs and watched the skies.  Our neighborhood really knows how to put on a show for the 4th.  Little J would watch one after another and repeatedly ask Grandpa "Is it dark enough yet for my fireworks?".  All the while keeping an eye on the sky in awe of the bright colors and lights and loud booms.  It was impressive.  Truly.

Finally the time had come.  J was over the top excited about his two fireworks and he proudly announced to the neighbors it was time for his fireworks. Grandpa helped him light the first one.  Then they ran fast back to the chairs to watch as it sprayed colors about two feet in the air.  Two feet.  24 inches.  And approximately 10 seconds duration.  No loud noise, just a little poof sound. Grandpa tried to pace the excitement 😁 and suggested we watch some more of the neighbors' show before we shot off the last one.  But it wasn't long before J was ready to set off his final firework.  

Same type fountain cone.  Same sad little pathetic result.  I was kind of bracing myself for tearful disappointment from the little guy.  Honestly, I was a bit tearful with disappointment for little J.  Wishing we'd bought more for him to shoot off.  

But not J.  Nope.  He was ecstatic about how beautiful his fireworks were.  No mention of how they were so very very different from the massive fireworks all the neighbors were shooting off.  No complaints about "I wish I had more to shoot off."  No begging grandpa to go buy some more at a nearby stand.  

Pretty sure I could learn some important life lessons from this young man.  

Like:  
          Be happy with what you have.
          Make your life fun.
          Comparison brings the death of contentment. 
          

Yes, he was only 5.  And he's only 6 this year.  But the contented attitude continues.   He's happy.  Just happy to be.  He came very close to not being.  I'm so very grateful he is.  So very grateful he is ours.  Thank you, God.  

       

Can I see your photo ID, please?

Do you simply adore the picture on your driver's license?  Is it pure joy to pull that precious picture out and show it to airport security, or at checkout counters, or to the police officer when you've been pulled over for traffic violations?  

I think I know your answer.  Me neither.  

A couple weeks ago I received the dreaded notice in the mail that once again it's time to renew my driver's license.  To say I wept with joy upon receiving the notification simply isn't true.  Quite the opposite.  Memories of my last ID picture experience haunt me.   

Six years ago when I last renewed my license I determined that my new picture would be my best ID picture ever.  There were no large zits on my nose, and I hadn't recently fallen off my bicycle resulting in a black eye.  Been there, done that.  

The mirror and I were tolerating each other relatively well and I believed this was the year for photo success.  

As usual, I waited until the last day possible to renew before paying a penalty. It's kind of embarrassing to admit, but I actually spent the entire evening prior to going in for license renewal planning for my picture.  I styled my hair, I put on make-up, I wore what I would wear the next day.  Then I practiced taking pictures of myself until I figured out how to have the best smile.  Totally uncharacteristic of me when you consider I didn't spend nearly as much time preparing for my wedding.  Or job interviews.  Or professional photos of our family. 

This was different....I was determined.  Fixated.  Obsessed.  Best ID pic ever coming right up.  

The next day my hair still looked decent and I was able to reproduce the previous night's look.  I.  Was.  Ready.  My husband was off work and agreed to drive me to the driver's license place and drop me right at the door in an attempt to preserve my stunning appearance.  Boom. This was going to be so easy.  

Even though it was early in the day the temperature was already over 100 degrees with intense humidity and the winds were blowing at record speeds. We arrived at the specified location where there was a long waiting line out the door.  So we waited  in the air conditioned car for the line to shorten a bit.  Not to happen.  I finally just bit the bullet and got out of the car to wait in line.  The front of the building was fairly sheltered from the wind, so it was just a matter of the high temps and humidity.  It was just a short little wait before I could enter the door into air conditioned comfort.  No problem.  

Except there really was a problem.  

The air conditioning had malfunctioned inside the building.  They were leaving the front door open to attempt to keep it cooler inside.  Yes, the outside air temp of over 100 degrees was considerably cooler than it was inside with every square inch of that little office packed with people waiting.  No exaggeration. The place was wall to wall people.  Of the sweaty variety.  

But I kept a positive attitude.   Surely it wouldn't take long to make it to the front of the line. Surely I still looked as stunning as when I left the house.   Surely the sweat that was now pouring (POURING) from my hairline down across my face, filtered by my mascara-laden eyelashes, and saturating my cute top would only serve to give me a dewy glistening youthful appearance. 

Uh, surely I was deluded.

And then, in an attempt to make the room cooler one of the employees set up an industrial strength garage-type high speed fan to move the air.   On a stand. Set to the highest speed possible.  Pointed right in my direction.  My wet sweaty hair was being restyled while I waited.  How convenient.

If I'd had a mirror at the time perhaps I would have bolted out the door, and come back another day.  And paid the late renewal penalty.  But I didn't.  

Have you seen that famous scraggly-haired, icky-faced mug shot picture of Nick Nolte? Yeah, my ID picture turned out nowhere near that good.  

But it is indeed a picture of me.  Yes.  No denying that fact.  It confirms my identity.    Sadly.  

I looked up the definition of the word "vanity".   Interesting.  

   1.  Excessive attention to one's own appearance

   2.  Futility.  (for scripture reference, read pretty much the entire book of Ecclesiastes)

Lesson learned.  It is futile to give excessive attention to your appearance.  

Never again.

From party lines to selfies

Do you ever think about how much telephone technology has changed over the years?  Even over the past decade with all the smart phone advances.... simply mind boggling.  

Growing up in the 50's and 60's most every home had a stationary telephone.  Attached to the wall by a long cord.  I remember a time when we merely lifted the handset and waited for the operator to answer:  "Operator",  and then we'd give her the name of the person we wanted to talk to. "Connect me to so and so".  Just that simple.

My sister was actually a telephone operator back in the day.  It was a very cool job.  Being a phone operator probably required strong vocal cords and a pleasant speaking voice. And at times nerves of steel.  My sister tells a story of the time she took a call from someone reporting that our home was in flames.  So I guess phone operators were the original 911 dispatchers, too.  

And then, wonder of wonders, along came the rotary dial.  The beginning of a technological explosion for Ma Bell. And the beginning of the end for telephone operators, I would imagine. 

During my grade school years the Bell Telephone Company would periodically send out a rep to our little town's elementary school.   The rep would do an in-class presentation on how to operate the fancy new rotary telephone.  He would set up phones that would actually ring and each student would practice answering the call politely.  "Always say Hello when answering a phone call" "The caller always needs to give their name once someone answers."   Phone etiquette.  We learned about phone etiquette in grade school, but it was actually pretty elusive in daily life.  

Party lines were a definite factor in the demise of phone etiquette.  

Regularly you would pick up the phone to make a call and hear conversations of the other folks on your line.  I think we shared a party line with two other homes.  You could hear a conversation and quickly/quietly hang up.  And you could find yourself repeatedly clicking the hang-up button on a party line conversation after you'd picked up the phone several times trying to make a call.    And.....you could, if you were brave, interrupt the conversation with something like "I need to make a call, how much longer are you going to be on this line?".   The word  politely may or may not describe this whole party line scenario.  It wasn't much of a "party" most of the time. Well, unless you could get by with listening in on a really interesting private conversation.  Not that I know from experience.  😇  

I remember a day when hearing the phone ring was really exciting and we might even race across the room to see who could reach the phone first.  Wow. Fast forward a few years. Our phone rings and even though it's probably right there in our hand, we often choose not to answer at all unless we recognize the number on caller ID.  Just let it go to voice mail. Or send a text, for crying out loud. The mystique and appeal of Alexander Graham Bell's marvelous invention has worn thin I guess.  

And now, our phones are smarter than we are.  

My folks passed away before cell phones were even a gleam in Dr Martin Cooper's eyes.  (yes, I googled "inventor of cell phones" just now....on my smart phone).  Often I try to imagine what my folks would think of phones in this day and age. "Well, Mom, first thing I do when I wake up is pick up my phone and look at it intently for several minutes before I even get out of bed."  (Of course she's picturing a rotary phone like in the above picture and wondering why I would ever want to pick it up and look at it)  "And then of course I carry it with me wherever I go throughout the day.  And sometimes I'll use it to take pictures of myself on Snapchat looking like a puppy with its tongue hanging out, then I'll send that picture to my hubby while he's at work."  "How old am I, you ask?  Oh, I'm in my 60's.  All grown up.  I guess."

Oh what you started, Mr. Bell and Mr Cooper.  What could possibly be next in the evolution of the telephone? Google and Siri probably already know.    That's just how smart they are  

Three words

Every living person will have, is having, or has had a chapter in their life story that can only be described as a dark valley of sadness and despair.  Broken chapters. There’s no way around it.  No way to skip over them and hurry on to the good part. Brokenness can show up in many different forms. Death, addictions, abandonment, on and on. The list of possible scenarios really is endless.

Brokenness happens. To every one of us. Hasn't happened to you yet? Well hang on. It will at some point.

Having lived as many decades as I have, of course there have been plenty of broken chapters in my life story. Life in real form. None of these chapters were pretty and none of the details are necessary to share. Just think of your own broken chapters and read on.

During a broken chapter many years ago I had one very close friend who was aware of my situation. I was able to talk with her through my tears. She would listen and she would cry along with me.  Always I did most of the talking, and she just listened.  But one particular conversation before church she said three words to me that stopped me short.  It was really the only advice she gave me, and it sure didn’t seem like the profound help I might need.  She said:  “Just praise Him”.  Really?  I’m at my lowest point ever in the history of my life story.  Praise Him?  When I can barely make it through an hour without weeping, how on earth can I offer anything close to real praise?  

But I learned that there is power in praise.   Praise through brokenness forces us to spend time thinking until we come up with something to genuinely thank Him for.  The sacrifice of praise involves finding the good.  Whatever is good, pure, true, honorable, lovely, excellent, just, commendable -- think on these things.  Philippians 4:8.  Find the good.  There is ALWAYS good to find.

Broken chapters don't get much more difficult than losing a child. My niece recently watched her precious little 8 year old girl spend the last year of her life battling stage 4 cancer. I watched her and her husband suffer through indescribably difficult days and nights. The word "difficult" doesn't even begin to define. Her strength amazed and inspired me, though. During some of the darkest days of her life I heard her say "I'm a firm believer that there is always something to be thankful for in every single day." She chose to praise Him. Even while her heart was broken and her life shattered.

Broken praise takes our mind off of our problems and helps us focus on the One who has the answers.

Eloquence not needed. No minimum number of words required for Him to process your message of praise. Even through a flood of tears when all you can say is "thank you Jesus". Just. Praise. Him.

 He is worthy of our praise.  He works through those who praise Him. There is power in praise.  Especially broken praise.  Broken praise is precious to the heart of our Father.  Offer up your broken hallelujah. Watch him use your broken praise to change your heart.

The beautiful thing about broken chapters? They're just chapters. They're not the whole story. The page will turn, your story will improve. Praise God. Just Praise Him!!!