Thank You

There are so many ways to say thank you. I like to accompany my expressions of gratitude with a gift or a sincere compliment; maybe an example of how a person's gifting has blessed my life.

My sister deserves a thank you. She has blessed me with an amazing monetary gift, enough to take care of quite a few immediate financial worries! But what I am truly grateful for is the fact that she listened, she heard, and she responded out of compassion and love. In her matter-of-fact, practical way, she tried to convey her reasoning to me, the whys and the wherefores. Reason has nothing to do with the love and the generosity and concern that she made apparent through her gift. I love this woman! Because she gifted me? Because she saw a need and she filled it? Obviously, I am thankful for that, but I am really thankful for the blessed woman of God that is my sister, who she is. She did what she did because of who she is, and I love who she is.

She is there when I need to talk, to share. It's funny, she thinks that is a one-way street with us! Oh, if she only knew how her cute little Texan drawl anchors me to reality when I am flying away, when I am trying to escape.
If she only knew how gratifying it is that she asks for and actually heeds what I tell her what I've learned in my psychology classes. She could be my "Experimental Psych" class project! I practice my counseling listening skills on her, she thanks me! I made an audio tape for her one time as she was going through some scary medical moments -- she played it over and over to hear the voice of her big sister singing to her just as when we were children -- what a precious memory. She felt safe and I needed her to feel safe with me!

She takes care of our Mama, almost 90 now. She does so many things that we should never, ever take for granted. She asks for nothing in return, just a little time on the phone to connect. She preserves that bond, that sister bond so beautifully. When this sister was a tiny little girl, she always had her "banky" -- a tattered little baby blanket that was her constant companion. One day I got some fabric (from another darling sister -- more about her later!:) and it reminded me of her. I pieced together a quilt for her, stitched it all by hand so that all the love I could bring was sewn into that little quilt, that comforter. All the things I couldn't say, didn't say, is represented by a million little stitches. Thank you, sister.

God talented me with a sewing skill, and an imagination to go with it. This skill has always served as an avenue for blessing. It seems to go perfect with a "Thank You." I had to make another quilt. I signed it, and stitched a tiny thank you in one corner. This one is for the young lady, not a sister, not a daughter, but a treasured friend who gave me the chance to find my voice, to write the next chapter of my testimony. She believed in me, she had faith in me, she encouraged me to do it, to speak at an organized women's retreat that hosted 200 women! She emphasized by her encouragement that I indeed did have favor. She pointed out that I had the anointing to teach this lesson. She placed value on me and I received it as I had not before received. Value, she recognized me as a woman of worth, and I understood that God was trying to convey this message to me for a long time. She is a wise and caring person who deserves way more than I could possibly do for her. I ask that God bless her immeasurably. Thank you, Friend.

Thank you, Father, for the treasures you placed in my life.

What Teachers Make

WHAT TEACHERS MAKE

A poem by: Taylor Mali

The dinner guests were sitting around the table
discussing life. One man, a CEO, decided to explain
the problem with education. He argued:
"What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided
his best option in life was to become a teacher?"

He reminded the other dinner guests that it's true
what they say about teachers: "Those who can...do.
Those who can't ... teach."

To corroborate, he said to another guest: "You're a
teacher, Susan," he said. "Be honest. What do you
make?"

Susan, who had a reputation of honesty and frankness,
replied, "You want to know what I make?"

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they
could. I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal
of Honor and an A- feel like a slap in the face if the
student did not do his or her very best."

"I can make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence."

"I can make parents tremble in fear when I call home"

"You want to know what I make?"

"I make kids wonder."

"I make them question."

"I make them criticize."

"I make them apologize and mean it."

"I make them write."

"I make them read, read, read."

"I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful, and definitely beautiful over and over and
over again, until they will never misspell either one
of those words again."

"I make them show all their work in math and hide it
all on their final drafts in English."

"I make them understand that if you have the brains,
then follow your heart...and if someone ever tries to
judge you by what you make, you pay them no
attention!"

"You want to know what I make?"

"I make a difference."

"And you? What do you make?"

Speak up!

I've been told all of my life to "speak up!" I also heard:
"Don't be so shy, nobody will bite you."
"Shut up!"
"She doesn't have anything to say now; I guess I told her!"
"Oh, here we go again, more stories."
--all of which served to silence me.

You get the picture.

God doesn't have a time line, that I understand anyway. Is it too late at 50+ to break the silence? If I were asked that question in my 30s, I'd think, why bother then! What difference could it make by then?

satan began to steal my voice when I was about 4 years old. Later, he let me think I got it back, accessed through the use of alcohol and drugs. Oh, the things I said.....even a pirate would flunk one of my vocabulary tests back then, if you know what I mean!


I had an amazing opportunity to share with 200 women this past weekend. At first, I prayed for a good hair day; I mean how could I stand in front of everyone with weird hair? Oh, this is all about me -- wait, no it isn't, it's about what God wants me to do -- then I asked God to give me an anointing to reach whomever needed to hear this word, to "shake something loose" as a sweet friend of mine so aptly phrased it.

I shared my testimony, well, part of it -- I ran out of time. I trust that was God's doing as well. Did my words help anyone? Probably, but I don't know that personally. I did receive a lot of feedback on my particular brand of humor. In short, I made people laugh; that was fun! What I now know is that being willing to share, and preparing based on what I felt in my heart, and the act of speaking itself gave me a brand new testimony:

I found my voice.

And I had fun in that discovery!
There is an indescribable freedom in following the plan God has for your life as you learn it. He reveals each step as it comes, as He readies and equips you for it.

Sistertime

Tomorrow.
About 4:30 pm
my sister
Celia
I need sister-time!
half a week of complete understanding
in-tune-ness
no words necessary
all heart
my friend
my sister
forever

Too much

Too much to do.
My list is long and I can only check off a few things.
Some of my list involves others and I can't control that.
I feel overwhelmed.
Somme less-than-great situations challenge my generosity, and my grace.
I am seriously lacking in either.
Today.
Maybe for awhile longer.
I'm setting my "clock" to mid-April.
Then I will be done!
But are we ever done?
Done for what?
Peace.
Jesus said we can find peace in the midst of the storm.
OK

Know your audience

One of the rules of speech-making in my college class was "know your audience." I always considered the eye contact, what to do with your hands, the confident smiles, and the other stylistics of making a speech to be more important than who was listening to you. But that's the point-- you want to speak to the people sitting in front of you.

I have always wanted to teach and now I do. I teach 4th graders. I love 10-year-olds. Teaching has very little to do with stylistics, it has everything to do with audience.

For over seven years, I had been involved in local jail ministry. I led Bible studies, taught women how to read the Bible, and shared my testimony. I listened to their tales, their sorrows, and dreams and hopes. I shared my faith, added my faith to theirs for miracles to take place. Eventually my husband and I led chapel services on Sundays. I told them how I met Jesus and what He did for me. In short, I became as a friend to each inmate. I grew to love many of these sincere women who fell to the temptations of this world and ended up in jail.

In casual surveys asking what is your greatest fear, people answer to speak in front of a large group of people, even over and above fear of dying! That's crazy!
But I was not afraid. I think because I was "just" being a friend. We talked, we shared, I didn't teach or preach. I listened, I didn't "counsel."

I loved my audience, my friends. These were women who made mistakes, well, ok, they outright committed crimes! They were sincere, honest, vulnerable, yet teachable. And they were broken, but they were shrewd. Most of the female inmates, as the county government agencies called women in jail, (I used to think that was horrid!) had "Phony Baloney" detectors which were usually 100% accurate. As a ministry volunteer, I didn't dare go in there and "bring them Jesus." I didn't preach to them about the Word, I merely shared it. If any volunteer thought they were the cat's pajamas and all that, those women would skin them alive! Or something like that.

If my testimony can help someone, serve as an example of what God can do in an ordinary woman's life, then I want to say it. I must. Maybe my words may unlock a need, a shyness that can then be treated.

So who is my audience now? Women in the church. In some ways, women in the church can be tougher than the women in jail. Women in church may face mental bars that lock them up, while women in jail face steel bars that lock them in. We used to say in jail ministry that we all face b-a-r-s -- bitterness, anger, regret, and sin -- that's what keeps us imprisoned as much as steel does! Women in church can disguise themselves with clothing and "Christianese," but women in jail only have their name and their word to distinguish one from another -- everything else has been stripped from them. Bible concepts translate differently. "Loving your neighbor" can mean two diametrically opposed things to each set of women. Jokes and humor have a raw edge that cancels out pretense or decorum. Shock value is at a premium and is used often.

Jail ministry was a part of my life, a part of my growth. It was a memorable time in my life and I am thankful for it. It is time to stretch again. I want to grow, to challenge myself. I want to find my voice.

And the time to do it is now.

No man is an island...

That's not what Simon and Garfunkle had me believe when I was 15 or so. Their song "I Am a Rock" was my theme song. It gave me permission to staunchly protect my vulnerability. And close out everyone else.

A winters day
In a deep and dark december;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Ive built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Dont talk of love,
But Ive heard the words before;
Its sleeping in my memory.
I wont disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

But when I counted myself among the saved, I knew that there were many, many others who were included in this group, this group that belonged to Jesus. The numbers scared me, but as I began to know to Whom I belonged, the aforementioned wall began to be torn down. Maybe I could reach out and not feel pain. Maybe I could be safe outside my womb. Maybe my armor was futile against the penetrating love of Jesus. I felt like a rock sometimes, but that didn't mean I felt no pain -- I just felt burdened. I wanted to be an island, free from the relationships of others, but I was drowning in my own tears. At 15 or 16 years of age, there are no memories in slumber -- everything is new, is raw, is here, is now. To forget means to disregard oh-so-recent events. Time is relative.
I loved and I was hurt. I befriended but I was betrayed. But to really love is to risk the pain of rejection and betrayal. As a grown woman who hasn't seen 15 for several decades, I have learned the value of relationships, and indeed, am learning all the time. Some of my teachers are children, young adults, and of course, Jesus. God IS love. Perfect love casts out all fear. See, I didn't hate people -- I was just afraid of them.

I have come to a juncture in my life where I must share my hard-earned lessons. I am learning to love people, and it is quite revelating. God must grant me the words, the grace, and the motive to speak into the lives of others. If we are not here to help anyone, then what are we here for? To take up space?

Jesus penetrated my stony heart, my selfish heart. His love opened up the vault that I had closed for so long. No man is an island is a true proverb and that is how God made it. He is a relational God and He meant for it to stay that way.