Keeping it real

grace: noun, verb, graced, grac·ing

1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action.
2. a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment.

You will not see my picture in the dictionary by this word. Oh no. No modeling contract in the works for me. Twice today I embarrassed myself by my oh so talented ungrace.

The first display was in the bathroom at work. This would not be a happy place for Michelle. I just really hate it when there are other people in the bathroom. The whole experience is one of high anxiety -- you know I am the only human being to go to the bathroom of course. But when you try to drink your requisite 8+ glasses of water a day you are going to obviously be making a trip or two. So today, I'm in my stall knowing there is someone in the next stall. Nervous bladder attacks plus always the possiblity lurking in the back of my mind of "what if I make some unfortunate noise?" That would be death. So I always go as fast as I can, turn around while zipping my pants I flush with my foot, wash my hands and get out. How absurd is this? But today, I turn around, lift my foot to push the lever............. I am wearing these cute little slides and when I lifted my foot up so quickly I flung my shoe off, lost my balance and fell backwards. I grabbed the wall to keep from falling over, had to reach around the back of the toilet to grab my shoe -- don't you know this was all done ever so quietly? The whole scene was so ridiculous I nearly choked to keep from laughing out loud.

Scene two: I'm walking toward the parking garage. I don't walk slow and I have to fight irritation when I get behind someone who is just meandering their way out of the building. So I get my chance and I break away - I'm leading the pack and just about the time I come face to face with a guy who is going back in the building.........I fall off my stupid shoe and am stumbling face forward. Do you know how hard it is to do something this embarrassing and still shake it off and keep walking like you really intended to do that all along? Oh but I tried.

I'm sure no one noticed.

Come to the table.......

Every Tuesday night for about 7 years now I go to a meeting for parents of kids who are struggling with addictions. When I first went I was desperate for help -- anything to "fix everything and make it be all right". Things have been 'all right' for 3 years now but I still go. I don't want to waste the experience and if I don't do something positive with all I gained it will not count for much. This certainly isn't a ministry I volunteered for nor EVER wanted but it's where I have been placed.

I have noticed over the years something about those who come through the doors of the "club" no one ever looks to join. Everyone comes in broken. They come in desperate for help, for answers. They've tried everything there is to try to fix their child. They come in largely as one of two distinct groups. One comes in broken and they know it. They admit they don't have answers, they don't know how to put the broken pieces of their family back together again. They know they need help and they aren't too ashamed or proud to admit and to ask for it. They pull their chairs into the circle…close in. They listen to the 'long timers' as they share their experience, strength and hope. They soak up the serenity of those in the circle. The other group of people that comes in are broken too. But they refuse to admit it. They hold their pain close to their chests with a plastic smile pasted on their faces. They sit in the chairs nearest the door…or even at times, pull their chair out of the circle and sit back behind everyone else. They leave just as broken as when they came in.

I think there is a parallel there in the way we come to the Lord's Supper. We can come to the table broken and knowing it. Knowing, somehow sensing that help is there for us and we pull our chairs up as close to the Lord as we can get…bathing ourselves in the healing power of his love and forgiveness. Or we come too proud, too ashamed, too hardened to admit we're there for us…not anyone else. We're there because we're supposed to be but we don't dare get too close to the table...and in so doing we miss the union that is ours in the taking of the bread and the cup--that sacrifice that allows for our wholeness. And so we leave just as broken as when we come in.

Walking the tightrope

It has come as quite a big a surprise to me that having a child move to another state has been so painful. I remember driving away from the college campus in West Texas where we moved our oldest for his freshman year. I thought that was hard -- and it was. Somehow going to college doesn't feel quite as permanent as when a 21-year old moves out. The college experience provides you with a gradual letting go and maybe that's the difference. This was one day I'm fixing his dinner and next day I'm standing at the curb watching him drive away.

In case you are wondering I haven't been doing that great a job at that -- letting go. I'm trying. Really I am. But he reminded me the other day (and in not a very polite tone I might add) that he was a grown man and he didn't need to call his mother OR have his mother call him. He'd been calling me every day - giving me updates or asking what he should do about something involved in setting up house. And then one day in his mind he cut the cord........and didn't let me know. And I crossed that invisible line. He was not happy. And that made me mad. In a "I brought you into this world, young man and I can take you out!" Bill Cosby sort of way.

Which I have discovered, makes letting go easier for a time.

Thanksgiving at My House

Okay, so I'm not done with stories from my past.

The very first Thanksgiving I spent away from home was when I was 4 months into my marriage and just 21 years old. My husband thought it would be a great idea if we had all the single students over to the house for dinner and naive babe that I was I said "Sure!" As plans firmed up I learned we would have 4 young men as our guests and I was a nervous wreck. I called my mom every hour for days up to the big day asking how big a turkey to buy and how did I make dressing and when should I.......on and on. One thing I was confident about was the pies. I knew I could make pies - they didn't scare me a bit. Somehow I got it all together and on the table shortly after our guests arrived. Grateful single men that they were, they ate heartily of everything. Then it was time for the piece de resistance....pumpkin pie. I had made two and one was a little prettier than the other so that is the one I brought to the table and cut. Generous pieces were placed on each plate and a big bowl of Cool Whip (I don't care what anyone says that tastes better than real whipped cream.) . Conversation slowed as they began eating and I sat back (I don't care for pumpkin pie so I was abstaining) and surveyed the situation. I had done it! I had cooked Thanksgiving dinner!! I reached over and took a small bite of pie from my husband's plate and nearly choked.

I was a very insecure 21 year old and laughing at myself was a skill I simply did not possess. Mistakes of any sort were met with silent mortification. Which explains why I ate that piece of pie with a smile on my face.

Didn't every one make their pumpkin pie without sugar? I. LEFT. OUT. THE. SUGAR. FOLKS. The pie that wasn't as pretty? Perfect. Since that time I'm a bit paranoid about serving people anything I haven't tasted first. But today it would crack me up. Then I wanted to cry.

Not bad

One last story from the past........

It was a while before the kids met Thomas (well, obviously not too long a 'while' since we married six months after that first disastrous date). Katie met him first. She was four. The boys had gone to spend the weekend with their dad so it was just she and I that Sunday morning. At the time Thomas and I were going to different churches so we decided to meet for lunch before he had to drive back to Dallas. In that little community if you went out to eat after church that meant you went to Pizza Hut. So Pizza Hut it was. Katie sat in the booth beside me, Thomas across the table from us. Thomas did everything but stand on his head trying to get Katie to talk with him but she just wasn't cooperating. She mostly hid behind me and snatched glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

On the way back to our house she was very quiet. I was anxious to know what was going through her head so was trying to figure out the best way to coax it out of her. We were about one block from our house when she finally spoke up.

She never turned to look at me - just kept staring straight ahead. But this is what I heard....


"Not bad, Mom. Not bad at all."

The big date

A date!!! I hadn’t been on a date in 20 years but all of a sudden I felt just as much teen-age angst as I ever felt. What should I wear? I’ve got to get a babysitter. I called friends of mine in Amarillo to see if I could spend the night with them Saturday night – we had decided that in addition to the Saturday night event we were going to we would take in breakfast and church Sunday morning before I headed home. Mr. Nice Guy was actually working in Dallas at the time so he was flying up to Amarillo and would pick me up at my friends’ house.

The friend who was at my house when I got the call insisted on paying for a manicure so I set out for Amarillo Saturday morning with fake but beautiful hands, a stomach full of butterflies and a determination to find ‘something to wear’ at the mall. The perfect pair of jeans later I headed to Canyon to my friends’ house for a long catch up visit. Before I knew it the door bell was ringing and I was introducing everyone. Then it was off for dinner and later, the Emmaus Candlelight that was the main purpose of our evening.

Thomas and I have laughed over that first date a million times. Because, y’all there would have been no second date and certainly no marriage had I based it on the first date impression. Whew. Talk about bad!! It was. That’s another story – I’d hate for you to think badly of the dear man. Obviously I saw something that was worth a second look since 6 months later we were married.

I don’t know if many men would have been so willing to take on the responsibility of a wife with three kids. Thomas was not just willing, but eager. He had given up on the idea that he would have children since he’d reached the ripe old age of 40 without having found me. So to get 3 in the bargain was just the ticket for him. He has been in Indian Princesses, Cub Scouts, coached all sorts of sports teams. He’s held puking heads over the commode (I just can’t do throw up), he’s canoed down the Brazos, he’s sometimes worked 2 jobs to support us, bought cars, clothes, Play Stations and Barbie by the dozens. He did it all without having had much of an example in his own life too – proof positive God has been in the picture since the very beginning.

Oh yeah....My original “Gideon’s fleece” check list?
1.) With all his heart
2.) Never
3.) None
4.) 18 months & 7 days

Mr. Nice Guy

A friend excitedly told me she wanted me to meet this guy who had moved back to the panhandle – he was such a great guy and he was soooooooooooo nice. My smiling face said “Sure” but my brain was saying “Nice. Right. There is no such thing as nice.” She invited me to a weekly accountability group and lo & behold, Mr. Nice Guy was a member of the group. He was always cheerful and seemed to be an integral part of the group. He shook my hand when we were introduced but that was about it. Ya'll he was ca-yuuute (for you non-southerners -- C. U. T. E. is actually two syllables at bare minimum) and I didn’t mind looking at him a bit but beyond that, I hadn’t a thought in my mind. After all, timing was not right according to my time table and I was still pretty fragile.

Fast forward several months - it's a Tuesday evening about 8:30. For some time I had been meeting with two sisters to just pray – it was such a great time and one of the high points of my week. One of the gals had already left and I was just casually visiting with the other when the phone rang. I answered the phone and my friend could tell there was something quite momentous about this phone call. She watched as my eyes widened and I promptly backed up to prop myself against the wall behind me. Instead, I bumped into a shadow box with 4,738 miniatures in it and knocked it kerpow, straight to the floor. My grace astounds even me.

“Michelle, this is Mr. Nice Guy. How are you this evening?”
“Oh, I’m fine! And you?" I think it actually sounded more like mmm,..uhhhh, fffffine.
“I was wondering if you would like to go to Amarillo with me this Saturday evening?”

HOLY CRAP. I was 37 years old and I was going on a date.

I did what any self-respecting girl does in a situation like this. After agreeing and getting the details I hung up the phone, looked at my friend and …………..

screamed.

The one I caught.............

Since I told the story of “the one that got away” I decided that today I would share the story of how I met Thomas. It’s a story of God moving in definite, traceable ways so that I, a very wounded woman, could trust that it was God and not me.

About a year after I learned that John (my ex) was in love with my good friend (I have since redefined what ‘good friend’ means to me) I wrote in a prayer journal: “God I am very tired of going it alone. Being a single parent is hard when the kids are so young and need so much. Where do I turn when I am worried about money or discipline or any of the myriad of things that come up in the day?” And He said, “Michelle, you turn to me.” I was learning that in so many ways and it was filling my cup and I was learning to trust Him. For too long I’d placed men of God or knowledge of God ahead of knowing God but I was learning each day the blessed difference. In spite of all I was learning about and from the Lord there was one area of my life that I hadn’t turned over to him. That was the pain and the shame and the failure of divorce. I was so very ashamed – I felt certain that there was a large bold red letter RDF tattooed on my forehead. Rejected!! Divorced!! Failure!! was all that I felt about me at the time.

The next entry in my journal went something like this: “Lord, I don’t know if there is a man in my future – I don’t know if I’ll ever trust again but even if I do, who is going to choose me? If there is somebody out there that can overlook the fact that I obviously couldn’t do marriage right – if there really is such a guy then I am going to need all the assurances in the world from you that it is your hand guiding the relationship”. Not mine. Not this mythical guy’s. Not any human hand. Then I decided to lay out my fleece just like Gideon did.

1.) He must love the Lord above all else.
2.) He must never have been married before – I have enough baggage for two.
3.) He must not have any children of his own – my children need undivided attention and loyalty
4.) He must not call me or ask me out until 18 months after the end of my marriage.

I thought I had made the list so impossible that I wouldn’t have to worry. I would accept my single state and not have to take a chance on love again because well, God didn’t send me anyone that met the requirements. Let’s face it, a man with no kids and no prior marriage at the late 30’s age point?? Most of those that were still single were single for a reason, people!

Aaaahhh, but my God is so big.

To be continued…………..

Ode to the Cowboy, The End

At the time I was dating the boy who would later become my husband but I was pretty miserable. His definition of “exclusive relationship” meant I dated him and he dated whomever he chose. (For evermore why didn’t I see the handwriting on the wall?) I was so completely lacking in self respect and confidence and plain good sense that I was going along with this plan. Being with a bad boyfriend seemed much more desirable than being without any boyfriend. It was my security blanket….proof that someone could love me. He was the darling of every adult in my life and they all thought I should hang on to this great catch. I was nothing if not obedient. Gorgeous Cowboy had seen me with Steady BF all around campus and he had told his advisor that he was going to pursue me. Advisor said “She’s taken, you won’t have any luck” and that was all the encouragement he needed. Suddenly I was running into him. Every day. Every where. By this time in my goof-off educational career I was passionately pursuing my major - Student Center 301. Liz and I were Spades Champions Extraordinaire and were happy to take on these cowboys as fresh meat new challengers. They reciprocated by teaching us the card game Pitch. Being the talented, bright person that I am, I quickly had a double major – Spades and Pitch. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a whole lot more than the thrill of a card game that was causing this feeling in my stomach. The thoughtful politeness of this boy-gentleman had my brain in an uproar.

Obedient self: What about Steady Boyfriend?
Dizzy self: He doesn’t treat me like GC does.
Obedient self: But you have Steady BF's class ring!
Dizzy self: But he doesn’t smile like GC does.
Obedient self: But your parents, preacher, youth minister love steady BF.
Dizzy self: But my stomach doesn’t do flip flops when he catches my eye and winks.

You see the dilemma. Stay safe. Or go against everything you have ever done in your obedient life. I did what any sane, rational, obedient 19 year old college girl would do.

I fell head over heels, madly, deeply in love with Gorgeous Cowboy. All I wanted in life was to be beside this guy whose life had been so different from mine. Oh who am I kidding?? All I wanted in life was to be in the arms of this guy. He knew about things I had no knowledge of whatsoever. For fun he rode bulls. He never did let his hair grow and he kept those Wranglers. Mercy!!! I grew to appreciate those Wranglers. He made me feel confident and smart and beautiful. He made me oh, so weak in the knees. He made me believe I was worth the chase. In turn I knew he was worth the price. My parents didn’t approve or understand. There wasn’t anything at all wrong with GC except that he wasn’t Steady BF. At the end of the year we said goodbye. I knew it was the final one. He had dreams that included the National Finals and the rodeo circuit…dreams that a girl didn’t want to try to compete with nor keep him from. Deep down I knew I was Obedient Girl and would ultimately walk the path others had chosen for me. For the first time in my life I knew that sometimes you have to let go of someone you love because the time just isn’t right. Sometimes the girl doesn't get the guy.

I haven’t seen him since then. I heard he’d settled in that area but I never go back there anymore so I don’t know. If there is any justice in the world he’s gone bald and has dunlaps disease (his belly done lapped over his belt). If he has aged like this man I’m going to need a drink. Or a shrink.

This is my Ode to The Cowboy. And to Young Love.
The End.

Ode to The Cowboy, part 1

I have been stalking this woman for months now. No day is complete unless I have entertained myself with her captivating stories. She had me from the get go because a) she’s funny and b) she lives in the country. Oh, I’m so jealous. In light of an approaching anniversary she has been sharing the story of how she met and married her cowboy.

That has me reliving my own love affair with a cowboy. Keep in mind this is a PG site (my entire life is a PG story ANYWAY). I’m using the term “love affair” in the most innocent and beautiful of ways. After all these years I still remember that breathless-heart racing-mind numbing rush of emotion that hit me whenever I looked at my cowboy.

It was a Friday night in the 19th year of my life. My attached-at-the-hip-best friend, Liz and I were dragging main, because it was, well, our job. We had stopped at the 7-11 at one end of the drag to do something vital like buy gum and go to the bathroom. We walked out the door to my bomb car and noticed two guys who were noticing us. In an interested kind of way. A girl just knows these things.

[What follows here is important information necessary to 'set the scene'. The whole “Flower Power, Love Child, Hippie, Power to the People” era had just recently made its way to our neck of the woods. It took about 5 years for West Coast changes to make it to our little berg. So, our wardrobes consisted of well worn, very bell-bottom jeans with patches, peasant blouses, long very straight hair and beads. With the exception of the peasant blouse business, this was a unisex wardrobe. All the guys at this college had long hair, bellbottom jeans and flip flops. Until my sophomore year. In came this influx of cowboys on rodeo scholarships. I had never seen such a thing! Those poor guys would be so cute if they’d, you know, wear Levi’s instead of Wranglers and let their hair grow for heaven’s sake!]

Back to these boys at 7-11. They were wearing big cowboy hats and grins, oh my gosh, their grins. So we grinned back. And they asked, “Can we have a ride back to the dorm?” Here it became my Christian duty to help – it was nearly winter in Colorado and all. Their jackets didn’t look warm enough to protect them from the elements. Clearly I was being called upon to entertain one of those “angels unaware” that the King James Version told me about. I’m nothing if not obedient so I said “Mmmmmm, but I don’t know you…..smile, wink…” “I’m Hunky Cowboy and this here is Gorgeous Cowboy”. Now that we were friends, we all crawled into my car (girls in the front, boys in the back) and backed out of the 7-11 and immediately pulled into the dorm parking lot. (I didn’t say they had to walk far). We talked for hours that night and I knew that the world as I had carefully defined it had just taken a 180 degree turn.

Merciful Heavens it is finally the end of the story...........

Those are the stories of my life…in the boat, and out of it. Going down for the 3rd time and walking across the top of the waves….What have I learned? I learned that what happened to me had to happen in order that God be able to mold me into a vessel he could use. Back in that first part of my life I was trusting fully in my ability to do all the right things and none of the wrong things. That was an empty, vain religion that was no life preserver when the storms of life hit. It was only after I was broken that God was able to begin a work in me that he hasn’t finished yet.

Once at a ladies retreat we looked at Hebrews 11 and the great hall of faith heroes. Our speaker suggested that we all add a verse to that chapter so that our verse 41 would read “By faith ______(insert your name) did...." If my Bible had a verse 41 it would say "By faith Michelle hung on” As I was thinking about that lesson God allowed me to see vs. 40 with new eyes. I thought about that long list of people who did great things by faith, parted the red sea, left their homeland, offered their only son, hid the spies and many other things. The chapter closes with this verse, “these were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised.” But they had faith that caused them to act whether they saw the fruit of their faith or not. Just like Habbakkuk said in chapter 3 of the book that bears his name “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vine, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food. Though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord.”

And so my conclusion is this – authentic faith isn’t gained by staying in the boat. It isn’t a faith that sees. It doesn’t have all the answers but it is one that is in a God that is big enough to handle the questions, the anger, the doubts. It’s the faith we possess when we are honest enough to admit “God I don’t understand. I may never understand. I don’t have to understand.. It’s a faith that says ‘Whatever, Lord’.” And that is enough. I’d like to close this long saga with a paragraph from a book I read recently that has powerfully impacted me. (The Prisoner in the Third Cell by Gene Edwards)

"You have now come face to face with a God whom you do not fully understand. You have met a God who has not lived up to your expectations. ....You are going to get to know your Lord by faith or you will not know him at all. Faith in Him, trust that is in Him...not in his ways. ....today you are resentful of those who so callously hurt you. But no, not really. The truth is you are angry with God because, ultimately, you are not dealing with men, you are dealing the with sovereign hand of your Lord. Beyond all events, behind all things, there is always his sovereign hand. The question is not, "why is God doing this?" Why is he like this? The question is not, Why does he not answer me? The question is not, I need him desperately, why does he not come rescue me?" the question is not, why did God allow this tragedy to happen to me, to my children, to my wife, to my husband, to my family? Nor is it why does God allow injustices?

The question before the house is this: Will you follow a God you do not understand? Will you follow a God who does not live up to your expectations?

Your Lord has put something in your life which you cannot bear. The burden is simply too great. He was never supposed to do this! But the questions remains, "will you continue to follow this God who did not live up to your expectations?"

And for me, the answer is yes.

Almost to the end.......

There is a quote from Charles Spurgeon that spoke to me when I first heard it:

God is too wise to be mistaken
God is too good to be unkind
So when you cannot trace his hand
Trust his heart.

So I trusted God to show up and I asked him to hold me up. For four years we lived through the highs and lows of a family that loves an addict. I went to places I never dreamed I would go…both literally and figuratively. I never ever expected to see my child in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. I would never have imagined a day when I would say ‘thank God he is choosing alcohol now instead of pot…at least it’s legal”. Long periods of time would go by where he was almost the happy funny kid I gave birth to, followed by periods where he gave into Satan’s lies and slide into the cesspool of lies that the enemy filled his mind with and he would attempt yet again to drown out those voices of insecurity and inadequacy with drugs and alcohol. I prayed for him to get sober. I prayed that God would somehow make him hate alcohol. I didn’t see it happening. But it began to matter less to me. Not that I quit caring….not by a long shot. Not that I began accepting his life style choices. Never did I or would I do that. But I began experiencing the sweet serenity of knowing God was in charge. God loved my son more than I did…hard to imagine but I knew it was true. I still cried. I still mourned the loss of dreams I had for the kid. I still panicked from time to time. But over all I knew that he was one of God’s sheep and God doesn’t lose his sheep. [As an aside, he chose to get well on October 14, 2004 and as today has been sober nearly three years. Recovery works. He will never be cured from this dreadful disease that he has but he has chosen to live in recovery and I praise God for the deliverance. I am deeply grateful to all those who own a part of that recovery because of the battle you waged on your knees for his soul. You’ve loved him, accepted him as your own and that’s a debt a mother can never repay.]

Remembering......

Six years ago today I was sitting at the front desk of the busy legal department where I worked. I was feeling comfortable and confident. (After all I had been in the adult working world for fifteen months now!) One of my co-workers came running to the front and said "Have you heard? We're under attack!"

Those were words I simply could not get my mind around. Under attack? How could that possibly be? Immediately I thought back to Pearl Harbor (which I know about ONLY from history books, thank you very much). Those things didn't happen anymore, did they? We were America! Who would do that? My friend sat down at my desk and urged me to go to the conference room where a television was reporting the shocking news. I sat in that room, eyes glued to the screen, listening to reporters, listening to the shocked and angry remarks of the attorneys standing around me. Strange the words that came to my mind at that time. "My God, my God why have you forsaken me?" I lived a naive, very sheltered, very Texas life. That the world was much bigger than that, filled with people who hated us for everything we stood for and most dumbfounding of all, did so in the name of the God they served was a revelation to me that morning. In a moment the world became far less safe and much more vast than I previously believed. And maybe for the first time ever I saw what a world without God looks like. Not the "oops" kinds of sins of which my world is made, but rather a world where the sacrifice God made for it is unknown or just denied.

The corporation I work for went into immediate lock down. Those outside couldn't get in, those inside couldn't get out. None of the things we were working on a few minutes earlier seemed at all important. No one wanted to be alone, everyone wanted to go home. Home where their loved ones were. Home where we had previously thought we were safe. Home where we could hide from terror and hate and destruction.

Maybe the most important lesson of all was this world is not our home.
"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going." John 14: 1-4

More and more.......

This next storm was nothing I could anticipate, expect or be prepared for. This storm involved my first-born. I have a connection to him that defies my explanation…I deeply love and adore all three of my children but there is some sort of psychological, spiritual bond that I can’t explain that exists between myself and my eldest. I have always been able to sense when things weren’t right in his life. When his daddy left he was almost 11, he was old beyond his years and totally devastated by his dad’s actions. He would pour over his Bible in his room and copy verses that he would then write to his dad and ask him to explain how he could do what he had done if he preached the opposite. He grew angry and angrier.

When I remarried and moved here we brought along a little boy who had been a very big fish in a very small pond and put him in an elementary school that itself was larger than the entire K-12 population of the school he had moved from. He made his very best friends in the youth group; he was in the Gifted/Talented program in middle school and high school. He had a sweet girlfriend. He also began taking drugs. I knew something was wrong with Matt…but never in my wildest dreams would I have come up with the answer of drugs. That was foreign to me. I wasn’t stupid – I read all the signs a parent is supposed to watch for….change in friends…nope. Falling grades….nope. Disruptive, defiant behavior….nope. He went to every youth group party, devotional, mission trip, road trip….he maintained an A average, scored a 1300 on his first attempt at his SAT without preparing at all. So of course my son wasn’t doing drugs. He got a very generous academic scholarship to a Christian college and in the fall of 1999 he moved to West Texas. There, away from the confines of home he became a bona fide addict. I would venture to guess he was high nearly every day of his freshman year. Having a 2.3 grade point average doesn’t impress the scholarship folks and at the end of that first year I think he had 13 total credits. We were in debt….and furious. But still ignorant. Still with no clue as to what he had been doing out there….other than not his class work to be sure.

Shortly after he got back home that May we discovered what the problem was and I was completely shocked, heartbroken, and terrified. We told him he could not expect to smoke pot and live in our home – he had to make a choice. For the first time in his life he yelled at me and walked out. Out of his home, with the clothes on his back, a contact case and his car. I didn’t see him or hear from again for over two weeks. That was when I really learned about crying out to God. I became aware slowly that the panic I expected to feel was usually at bay….amazingly enough I could sleep. For two weeks I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, where he slept, if he had anything to eat….he didn’t have clean clothes. But God provided me with the strength for the moment. There is no other explanation because this girl could not/would not have survived the ensuing years. After a couple of weeks he called and asked if he could get his clothes. He rented an apartment near our house and so began a period that lasted four long years.

Four days and counting.......

This letting go business hurts! Tyler made it to Denver safely (though not without incident) and is planning to drive on to Winter Park tonight. When he left he had his bed tied on to the top of his Explorer. It was a reprisal of The Beverly Hillbillies to be sure. Then somewhere in the Panhandle the wind that IS the panhandle relieved him of that load. He just kept on going. So somewhere in the panhandle prairie some cow was treated to a softer place to sleep.

I've cried every single day and night - surely this is going to dry up soon. I have listened to Mark Harris's "Find Your Wings" over and over and over. I'm a masochist like that. The song is absolutely so beautiful and the words straight from a parent's heart. "It's only for a moment you are mine to hold. The plan that heaven has for you will all too soon unfold. So many different prayers I'll pray for all that you might do. But most of all I'll want to know you're walking in the truth. And if I never told you I want you to know. As I watch you grow I pray that God would fill your heart with dreams and the faith that gives you courage to dare to do great things. I'm here for you whatever this life brings. So let my love give you roots and help you find your wings." Now obviously I've listened to it once or twice since I can relay the words so effortlessly.

I know that I have no real power to make things all right or to keep my kids from all harm or temptation. Having one so far away serves to emphasize that all too painfully. I have to trust my feeble efforts at parenting and most of all the God I pointed the way to. I know (although can't quite fathom) that God loves Tyler more, even than I do. I am proud that he dared to do this thing - follow his dream (I seriously hope being a ski bum is not the entirety of his dream!) and make the hard choice to leave all that is familiar. He knows I'm here for him. He knows above all else GOD is who He said He was and is watching over him when I can't.

I'll get beyond this grieving in time. I keep telling myself that dozens of my friends have walked this way before me and survived. I hear, even, that the empty nest has an allure of its own. I'll have to accept that by faith at the moment. I did tell Tyler's brother that I had just cancelled his move to Africa. He could find a mission field in Richardson. Oh my I don't know how I'm going to do that one.

Pray for me!

Yet still more..........

This was not a storm I was prepared for. It was a storm fiercer than any other I had faced. I was swept out of my boat and into the darkest, roughest water I had ever imagined. Most of the time the best I could hope for was keeping my head above water and oftentimes I was barely that. This was the beginning of the long dark winter of my faith. Unlike my previous storm where I called out to God and He responded in unmistakable ways, this time God was silent. I couldn’t sense his presence. I didn’t see his hand in my life. Life became a battle---making it to the end of the day so that I could go to sleep was the highest of my goals. And every day was exactly like the gray day before it. I came to church but could never make it through an entire service. I prayed prayers that felt empty and futile. The only person in my life who loved me completely and unconditionally was gone. How was I to go on? WHY DID GOD DO THIS TO ME?

Through the love and support of a good husband, good friends, a good counselor and good drugs I was able to eventually claw my way through the depression that had settled but I still couldn’t feel God’s presence. Would I ever hear his voice again? I didn’t even have a chance to make it to the boat let alone get settled in it before the next storm hit. In many ways it was the worst one yet. The other storms had been devastating…but none came as a complete and total surprise. I knew my husband didn’t love me….I was shocked that he would choose divorce but still – mentally I had a degree of preparedness. While I certainly did not expect Daddy to die on my kitchen floor a week before Christmas I knew he would die someday. And I knew I would never be ready to say goodbye to him. This next storm was nothing I could anticipate, expect or be prepared for.

Story of the storm.........

I am the oldest of four. My parents had three girls in three years and six years later my brother came along. For a lot of years I got to be Daddy’s “son”. Friday night football games were our date nights right up until I was in high school. I got to go to work with him in the summer. I spent lots of hours riding with Daddy in his truck. I grew up believing there wasn’t any thing worth knowing, any thing worth doing that he didn’t know or couldn’t do. He had lost his own mother when he was a small boy and so grew up being passed from relative to relative…whoever could feed an additional mouth during the days of the depression. As a result of that he wanted to build a family unit that was strong – providing for us the sense of security he never had. In the eyes of the world he lived and died without much that makes a man a success. But it was through him that I learned I could do anything I set my mind to. It was because of him that I’ll tackle nearly every home improvement job I think up. I can still hear in my mind “Shoot, if they could do it we are smart enough to figure it out too!” It was also through him that I learned a deep appreciation for the Word of God. Daddy’s work day started at 4:00 a.m. and if you ever got up to go to the one bathroom our house had in the middle of the night you were most likely going to find him sitting in his recliner with his Bible in his lap. He taught me by example to “hide the words in my heart” as it says in Psalms 119:11.

In December 1997 mom and dad were coming to our house for an early Christmas celebration. Because my sister is a 12/25 baby she has always gotten top billing on that day (and rightly so!). So Mom and Dad came on Thursday the 18th and were going to go on to Abilene on Monday the 22nd. The next day was the last day of school for the year and the kids were all excited about the class parties and Secret Santa’s and the school break. That Friday morning I got my kids up and out the door while welcoming into the house the two little babies I was keeping at the time. Rylee was 2 and Nicholas was 1-1/2 and we were going to have our own Christmas party. Nicholas had gotten very attached to “grandpa” the night before so as soon as he got there he was looking for Grandpa. Daddy had waited until the kids were gone to get his shower and so it was after 8 when he came into the kitchen with Nick draped around his legs. They sat down at the kitchen table and began to play with the toy that he had just gotten and I asked Daddy if he was ready for breakfast. “Sure Hon” was his reply”. I turned to get the muffin out of the oven, butter it, pour the coffee and answer the ringing phone all at the same time. Tyler was calling – he had forgotten to take his Secret Santa gift to school. During the conversation I heard the unmistakable thud of a head hitting the floor. Moms of boys are well acquainted with that sound. Nicholas cried out and I turned expecting to scoop him up into my arms. As I bent down to get him out of the corner of my eye I saw daddy slumped in his chair and then watched in slow motion as he slid to the floor.

The next events remain vivid in my mind’s eye…as though they were burned into my consciousness forever and yet the minutes, hours and days leave no real perception as to their actual passing. I remember grabbing the phone and dialing 911. I remember screaming at the operator both to come and to let me go because I knew CPR. I can see my mom sitting on the floor and cradling Daddy’s head in her lap and asking me over and over “Don’t you know what to do?”. I can feel his chest under my hands as I began CPR – a skill I had never intended to use and certainly not on someone I knew. I can still hear the paramedics tell me I had done well and to let them take over. I cannot erase the pictures of his body lifting off the floor as they shocked his heart over and over. The surreal-ness of following the ambulance to the hospital still overwhelms me. I remember every face of every person who had heard the news and come to gather and support me in the family room of that hospital. I remember the pain in Keith’s voice as he prayed for us. I remember going into the room where the shell of the man who had shown me the way to Jesus was laid, gathering my babies to my chest as they cried tears of fear and confusion and hurt. Instead of gathering around a Christmas tree that year, my family and I gathered in the snow around a hole in the ground where they laid that shell to rest. I remember crying harder than I imagined a person could cry until it felt as though my very insides had ceased to exist.

We Interrupt This Series For........

...an important announcement.

I am grieving the loss of a job. Reality is that I have successfully worked myself out of it and am one blubbering soggy mess. This morning I kissed my child goodbye and watched him drive off for adventure in the guise of INDEPENDENCE. I have been looking forward to this day but I planned for independent living to take place in the far off reaches of, say, Plano. Then when I got used to that maybe even North Dallas! This is not to be for #2 son. He’s pulled up stakes, loaded his Ford Explorer full to bursting with everything we could cram in there and is moving to Winter Park, Colorado. He does not have a job (“Don’t worry, Mom! There is ALWAYS a job if you aren’t afraid to work.”), he does not have a home (“Don’t worry, Mom! I’ll find a place to live.”) and he doesn’t really know anyone, with the exception of the one friend he talked into making this leap with him. Oh, did I mention his Ford Explorer is FIFTEEN years old and he is leaving with MAYBE a six hundred dollars in his pocket???

It seems like just yesterday this confident, self assured, hardworking young man was my equally as confident & self assured curly haired baby boy. He’s never met a stranger, can charm the socks off you with one genuine grin and has been an absolute joy. Oh to be sure, he is hard-headed, stubborn as a mule and hearing impaired if he’s not hearing what he wants to hear. He is an adrenaline junkie and scares the living daylights out of me (Have I mentioned he skateboarded off the house? Drove a car when he was two? Refuses to wear a helmet?) and is not nearly as serious about life as I would wish. But he hugs and kisses his momma every single day of the world when he leaves the house and when he comes back in – how am I going to manage without that?

Tyler, age 6 months:

No matter how many clothes he had on when he went down for a nap:

With his doll (he was only two!!)"Billie Sue":

Easter Sunday at 3-1/2:

Living his dream:

Go with God my precious gift – may all your dreams (and none of my fears) come true….

Short story today.......

It was in the storm I met Him.

I learned that storms, though brutal, do not last forever. They eventually end. I learned that storms are survivable when God is in control. I didn’t need the oars anymore. God was captain of my ship and I thought I was exactly where God wanted me to be. He brought a man into my life that adored me and was eager to become Dad to three hurting kids. The fact that he was willing to take on a woman scarred by divorce and serious trust issues and three children who were dealing with abandonment issues of their own is proof either of God’s direction in his life or insanity on his part. The jury is still out on that one! All of a sudden this country girl found herself living in a metropolitan area that was literally 50 times larger than the community she had moved from. I went from a place where we grew and canned our own food to a place where people were far more likely to get dinner from the drive through than their back yard. I was in culture shock but God was in control. (As a complete aside from this serious post I would like to say that I have completely adapted to that drive-through thing and am compelled to say the day-in and day-out cooking thing is highly over rated!)

And so the story goes on.....

Remember the rule based religion I talked about earlier – I was finding that doing the right thing didn’t necessarily means I would get the right results. It didn’t protect me and you know what? It didn’t comfort me either. The first lesson God wanted me to learn was that He alone had power over the storm. He didn’t cause the storm but he was in control of it and he knew Michelle’s boat was rocking but not upside down. The second lesson and probably the most important was the hardest for me to accept. God had people all over that little community of 3500 that didn’t show up to the same building I did on Sunday morning. I know for some of you that is hard to understand why it came as a surprise to me. But for my time in the world it was a huge revelation and one I didn’t accept easily. There were great birthing pains as my faith stretched before I could wholeheartedly believe and accept that. Even that I had to learn the hard way though. The church we had worked with were grieving, in shock themselves and most believed (and told me) that I should leave. Only when it was those in other faith groups who sat with me, cried with me, made sure I had a place to go on holidays, who told me they were fasting for me. Only then did I accept and believe that I was receiving the love of Jesus from people who months before I would not have fellowshipped. Accepting their love for God provided me with the greatest freedom of all…I wasn’t their judge and in freeing myself from that responsibility I received even greater freedom. The freedom to make mistakes myself. I finally was free to admit I didn’t and couldn’t get it all right. And that was ALL RIGHT! The greatest lesson I learned during the storm was if I kept my eyes on Jesus the storm wasn’t as frightening. If I took my eyes off him I saw the waves just like Peter – but when I was keeping my eyes on him life was euphoric. My faith grew by leaps and bounds. God’s word became real and active. He met me where I needed him. With whatever I needed. With all I needed. For perhaps the first time I understood that God was actively involved in my life and He was really REAL. He wasn’t some judge far off but a father very near. God saw me through that first real storm of my life. I am ashamed and sorry to admit that up until this time I had been absolutely faithful in my service to God. I had been teaching Sunday school since I was 14 years old. I held teacher-training workshops and tried to teach other women to love Bible class teaching as much as I did. I went on mission trips. I was THE preacher’s wife for goodness sake….and yet I didn’t really know God. I knew all about him. But I didn’t know him. I replaced my idolization of my husband and other men of God with an idolization of the only one worthy of my worship. I wish I had time to share this part of my story. Of the ways I would pray a prayer for a specific need and a few hours later I would get a phone call that would begin with “Michelle, you don’t know me but…” Every single need. I had no job history, no marketable skills and yet we were provided for the entire time I was a single mom. I ended up with my own business that was exactly my skill set and I was able to provide food, clothing and shelter for my family. The fact that any of this happened and that I was able to do any of it is proof positive that God was in control of the storm. None of what was accomplished during that time was me…none.

and still more.......

It was somewhere during this most difficult time that a young man moved to the community as a vet in the largest vet practice in town. He was different from anyone I had known before. He talked of a personal relationship with God that was intimate and engrossing. He thrived on talking about Jesus as though he were a friend and most of all he exuded a joy that eluded me. One fall day when the pain was so great I could bear it no longer I got down on my knees in my dining room and cried out to the God that I had all but abandoned. Truth was I was angry at him. Everyone repeatedly told me that my husband was gifted from God…his ministry certainly seemed to be blessed by God. I couldn’t reconcile that with our day-to-day life and had decided that if God was blessing my husband then I didn’t want anything to do with God. But that fall day I was desperate enough to try him one more time. I told God through the tears that I didn’t understand what it was that Greg had but I wanted it and to please take anything in my life that was standing between me and the Lord’s active presence in my life. No sooner had I uttered those words than I quickly added on a postscript to please not let anything happen to my children. I didn’t think my emotional health was strong enough to live through anything happening to them but I offered up everything else in my life. As was my habit at the time I then set about planning God’s answer for him. I don’t know why I thought God needed my help…or why I thought I COULD help…goodness only knows things were a mess. But I always wanted to help so I figured out that my husband would take a sabbatical from ministry. We would have time to reunite as a family and we would be very poor but we would grow back together and things would be great. Somehow in my warped head of rule keeping I knew that marriage was for better or worse for life and I assumed that everyone played by those same rules. I was wrong. On the day after Christmas 1990 I was packing our bags to return to Texas after spending the holidays in Colorado at my parent’s home. My husband had just gotten the latest Max Lucado book and he had gone to bed early the night before pleading a sore throat. He was going to read the book and he asked for notepaper to take notes. He was an inveterate note taker and that request wasn’t the least bit unusual. I checked all the rooms for any shoes or new toys that we would miss at that precise moment when it was too far to go back and get them. No toys, but there lying on the floor between the wall and the bed was that ML book. I reached down to pick it up and the papers fell out. I picked them up, shuffled them a little to get them back inside the front cover when I noticed the words “My Darling”. An apology note I thought to myself…for any of a hundred neglects and so I sat down and began reading. I hadn’t gotten much beyond the first paragraph when it dawned on me that this wasn’t making any sense and only a little bit farther when it became painfully clear that the letter was to one I would have called my best friend. From my husband. The boat I had been riding in was rocked in a wild storm that completely caught me by surprise. The oars were washed overboard, I couldn’t see the shore and I didn’t know how to swim. Those days were the most gut wrenching I had ever experienced. In one decision by my now ex husband, I lost my identity (Preacher’s wife), my house (preacher’s home), my financial support and my church family. For 16 years I was the preachers wife.. 16 years I had lived in 3 different places. 16 years removed from the community I’d wanted to spend my whole life in. It was no longer home. Daddy had gotten sick and for me and 3 kids to move back home would have been a financial hardship. My kids were Texans! Through a series of events God led me to believe he wasn’t done with me yet in that little community.