Nuggets from the Fire

I think it is such a miracle when a baby is born.  It is like God is saying that he is for us.  He could so easily just zap babies here but he chooses to allow us to participate with him in creation.  Amazing.  Life is like that.  We think we have so much control but really he is doing all the work of forming us.  We are just waiting for him to bring our purposes to life.  We grow and mature just as an infant does, but we are still totally dependent on him to breathe life into our days.  I saw a new born baby this week.  Silas Talton graced us with his presence last Thursday.  He was 8lb. 3oz. and is as beautiful a baby as I have seen.  Sweet little face and a head of black hair.  It struck me, as I watched him sleep through the celebration of his birth, that he is resting. Even in the event of the day he slept. I want to learn from him.  A baby does not strive to be born.  When the time is right he simply comes.  Oh it is work for the mom, but even in that, the body does most of the work for her.  Like it or not the baby comes in its time.  I do not want to strive in my life…I want to rest in my calling, to know that God has seasons and growing to be done.  Work is stressful right now…I am striving and still not getting everything done. Frustration and being overwhelmed are my daily companions now.  This hasn’t happened like this before.  I feel God’s grace lifting for this work.  I do not exactly know what that means because I love teaching.  However, I am waiting to see what God is up to with me and my job…trying to rest in knowing that he will birth new things in his time. 

Yesterday I had my first official haircut!  It was getting a little bushy.  I have been putting it off, for fear that, we would cut my curls off and they would be gone. My sporty new look is fun and easy.  I do not want to loose it.  Basically, we trimmed the sides in close and thinned the top.  Then she used a STRAIGHTENING IRON to style it!  Can you believe that? She had to pull the curl OUT to style my hair.  That has to be a first.  The curls are still there, as I continue to adjust to having them.  Some days it is wavier, other days it is curly.  It completely depends on the weather.  I now understand why all my curly headed friends hate the rain.  There is no controlling curly hair.  Straight hair on the other hand is the same forever…straight. 

I think the fact that no one is happy with the hair they have been given is a testimony to our human condition.  We always seem to want what we cannot have. My nose is too big, my ears too small.  My eyes are too close together or the wrong color.  I wish my legs were longer.  If only I were short. On and on it goes each time we look in the mirror.  The problem is that when we are not satisfied with how God created us, we are questioning him.  We are suggesting that he did not actually know what he was doing when he made our attributes.  Yet he says we are fearfully and wonderfully made.  He knitted my straight hair into my head when I was yet in my mother’s womb.  It says a lot about my relationship with him when I allow the commercials, magazines, and media to tell me what is beautiful.  I am a one of a kind creation made by the creator of the universe and I am trying to look like a girl on a magazine cover? 

The really cool thing is that God is big enough to make my straight hair curly.  Never mind the way I got my curly hair, the fact is, he has the power to change things. In regards to the looks of our earth suits, he does not often exercise this power.  He loves what he created…who he created.  In his opinion, he made you just the way he wants you.  Why change?  You are his perfect creation…curls or straight or bald…I have had them all and he loved me through them all because He made me beautiful.

Have I forgotten you all? No way.  I just am overwhelmed with activity as of late.  I have much to share but little time to write it down to get it out there. Now that Peter’s football season is over, I am hoping to have more writing time during the week.  I am going to try to carve it out.  This week I have to work the third grade musical.  We are using grant money to fund some of the costumes and such…so that fell to me…grant co-director.  I do not mind it, but it is a lot of extra work…so I will busy Monday and Tuesday evenings with that.  Hopefully, I will get some new things written and posted by Wednesday. 

Have you ever felt like you were over something only to find it brought back to the surface?  I mean I knew I would never get over having cancer, but my past few weeks at breakneck speed it has been almost possible to forget.  Not in the quiet places, but in the activity it seems as if it was all a bad dream.  Yesterday the deep places cried out again at the finale of the 3-Day walk for breast cancer.  It does not matter that I did not have breast cancer.  They do not have a walk for ovarian and uterine cancer, but that is beside the point.  The point is that almost 3,000 people walked 60 miles to raise money for cancer research.  One of those 2,500+ people was my sister, Melinda.  That was the point. 

As I stood at the finish line waiting with my family, I shed tears when each group of women crossed the line.  For hours they came.  Many were themselves in tears because they had made it for someone, in memory or in honor.  I could not help but wonder about the stories of each one.  There has to be something monumental to drive you to walk 60 miles in three days.  I watched a little girl make a sign to wave that said, “in memory of my mom.”  People around us had items of remembrance to wave as the walkers came.  A blue and yellow striped scarf and a pumpkin hat were solemn expressions of love lost.  Many of the walkers wore shirts with pictures of their friends, moms, sisters and daughters. The since of loss was palatable. 

Yet, the celebration of the event brought a great sense of hope.  Hope for a cure. As the women walked, cars rode by at intersections and honked their horns.  People held signs and balloons to motivate the walkers to continue their journey…their mission.  Music was playing and despite blisters, they walked.  My sister walked. I held my bright orange sign with block letters that said YOU DID IT SIS! I AM PROUD OF YOU.  My mom had pink balloons.  Melinda’s children, Sarah and James held bouquets of flowers.  My dad’s camera was snapping. Her husband Steve, my Aunt Betty, and my brother Michael stood as lookouts to spot her coming. It was a family affair. I cannot really describe how my heart felt to see her coming across the street to the finish line. It caused my tears to flow harder, and in our embrace I felt joined in the journey…she in mine, and I in hers. We were united together against a common enemy.  The hug acknowledged the hard fought battle on both our parts, her determination to walk and my determination to live.

The closing ceremony was a celebration of massive proportions. The atmosphere was electric, as if Olympic athletes were entering the park. Only they were not Olympic athletes, they were normal everyday people…walking with a purpose.  Teachers, business people, moms, all people like you and me.  They marched in arm in arm, some limped, and some danced. All smiled. Inspiring pink banners moved through the crowds when the walkers approached. Over 350 volunteers filed in behind the participants as they all arrived at the victory circle. Thousands of spectators surrounded thousands of participants in one huge show of unity. 

Then, came the survivors.  The speaker shared moving words of hope and courage as they entered the center of the circle. The deep places of my painful journey surfaced as the rivers of tears flowed down my cheeks. Mom joined me with a tearful embrace, and we stood holding one another in remembrance of the past year. The walkers lifted thousands of shoes in a salute of honor, as if to acknowledge the pain of the walk was minimal compared to the journey of surviving cancer.  It was an overwhelming step towards the healing of emotions for everyone touched by this disease.

 I left feeling inspired, as if my journey was not in vain, but was one that touched those around me. The same is true of my sister and her team.  Their determination to make a difference raised $68,000!  Eighteen amazing women, empowered to walk for 3 days…what a journey!

And now my readers, that brings me to you and all those that gave to this event.  Amazing and inspirational describe you as well.  You rose to the occasion and gave.  You may not feel you did that much however, the final total for all of the donations was 6.6 million dollars, and every dollar counted.  For the walkers, the journey was long and hard.  Families that have lost loved ones, as well as those of us that have survived, appreciate all the effort from so many to do so much.  My sister said it well, “For these three days it was as the world should be.  Everyone got along and was united to work together.”  I could not have said it better myself.  Thanks sis!

Part of Living Fully is grabbing opportunities when they present themselves.  After hearing about an exhibit at Carlos Museum at Emory, I decided to do something I rarely do…take a personal day.  The exhibit is The Cradle of Christianity and it is a collection of artifacts from Israel during the time of Jesus.  I heard about it from a woman at my school.  The problem was that it ends this Sunday and our schedules are packed this weekend (the exhibit will be too).  What an opportunity to see some amazing things from that time period!  And since Hannah has an interest in all things archeological, I decided to jump out and go.  I threw caution to the wind and pulled my daughter out of school to take her to a museum.  I know that is not all that big a deal to play hooky to go to a museum.  In fact, many would say that it is a boring thing to do if you are going to cut school, but it was freeing to do something together in which we are both interested. I called my dad and he came with us.  A three generation hooky day!

The things we saw were priceless.  The exhibit had some wonderfully preserved artifacts from both Jewish and Christian traditions.  There were burial boxes that they used to bury the bones of the deceased.  They had the box of Caiaphas, the priest that handed Jesus over to Pilate.  There was part of a Dead Sea Scroll that describes a third temple.  My favorite thing was a piece of the temple that was inscribed the trumpeting place.  It was from part of the temple where the priests stood to blow the trumpet for the gatherings of worship.  Room after room of mosaics, and history of the places Jesus walked.  He saw many of the same pieces that I looked at today.  There is something about that.  I have always loved history because of the way items tell a story.  Today, what I saw was part of THE greatest story. Hannah was enthralled.  There is a sense of mystery in viewing these kinds of artifacts, like pieces of a puzzle.  After this, there are more traditions I want to study.  I want to see and learn the secrets God has locked up within them.  It was a fabulous day to play hooky! 

            I love living in the mountains.  Right around the nearest curve there is a scene that changes with every sunrise. Each hour in the day brings subtle differences that show the never-ending palate of God.  This afternoon, a passing shower left a curtain of white blanketing the fields, and the mist was thick, considering it was daytime.  Trees hidden from view, horses invisible, and the fence was barely an outline. A blur of gray-white cloud enveloped the scene of God.  If I did not know the view well, I would have questioned if what I was seeing were real or shadow.  However, in the background the stately, solid mountains towered within the mist.  The haunting smokiness of cloud obstructed a full view. Yet, with knowing eyes, I could see that there was a charcoal edge breaking through the hanging clouds. I could make out the shadows that were the mountains.  For a moment, it was disarming to think that something as huge as a mountain could simply disappear from view. Yet, when I recognized the shape of the shadows, I felt a familiar comfort in their presence.

There are times when life is as foggy as the mountains after the rain.  Everything seems shrouded from view, and covered with mist.  Even regular daily choices seem unclear, and it is hard to walk in faith when God seems this invisible.  We try to trust him, but we can barely make out the outlines of the life around us, until…we sense his shadow.  It takes something gigantic to make that kind of a shadow.  Somehow, the overcast scene becomes familiar, and we see the steadfastness of God through the clouds. First, it is just the edge, but when we look through knowing eyes, we begin to see the truth.  He is sovereign.  He has not left us alone in the mist, but actually towers over it.  The foundation of his sovereignty is what causes our eyes to know.  He is there.  He is with us.  There is a plan.  When we see this view of shadow and mist, our lives become a scene on a canvas, painted by the creator. We recognize God in the cloud and in the mountain because he has revealed himself to us. The view before us is beautiful, as it teaches us the nature of God.

Good morning!  This weekend was Mountain Day at Berry.  Hannah and I took some friends of ours.  We had such a good time.  Hannah is so excited about the possiblity of going there…it was fun to watch her show her friend around as if she is already there. (She has already applied and we are waiting to hear.) It was a beautiful day and we must have walked miles…up to the resevoir, all over the moutian campus, over to Oak Hill.  It is always fun to go down memory lane.  Berry was such a huge part of my life at the time, that it is like part of my history to go back there.  And if Hannah does end up there, I guess I will be visiting more often than the past few years. 

She is growing up.   That is bittersweet.  I cannot wait to see what she does and where she ends up in life.  It is a new chapter and you know me…a writer, so I cannot wait to see what happens in her story.  But then it is also a closing chapter in my own story.  I have loved this season of life.  Being a mother was my life’s goal.  I have lived it and loved it.  Not that I am stopping, but for Hannah my role will change.  I am looking forward to that as I drag my feet trying to slow it down.  Funny how we can be so torn between emotions. In all of this God is working…in me, in her…bringing his purposes about.  All I can say is that I am glad it is his job and not mine. I will wait and see what the next step brings…

          I think that every person needs to be refreshed from time to time.  It is built into us.  Tonight there was a rain that lasted about 3 hours at my house.  I sat on my back porch and listened.  It was gentle, then stormy, then gentle again.  The drops fell steadily, sliding down creating slick, shiny green leaves.  They blew this way and that until finally, they rested.  The consistent beating of the drops made a splashing, humming sound…soothing.  It was comforting in a way.  I found myself transported from my hectic day to a place of refreshing…a restful place that promises a fresh clean tomorrow. The air will be crisp and breathing will be easy.  Green leaves, bright blue skies and cotton candy clouds will be more vivid in the morning light. 

God is like the rain.  Our lives get dry and cracked.  Our souls are parched and thirsty for him.  He desires us, and so he sends the rain of his spirit.  He consistently pours out his drops of love, trying to fill up our dry hearts. Drought conditions leave us desperate. We seek him, he sends a flood, and we go from drought to drowning.  His love overtakes us until we breathe it…in, out, in, out.  We are saturated and rest follows.  After his rain, our hearts are clean.  The heaviness of life is lifted creating a fresh outlook.  His light brightens the day and life seems somehow clearer. The rain washes us clean. It is a steady downpour.  Listen.  Can you hear his refreshing rain?