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Everyday Ordinary Dawnings

Two more days to go, and I am enlisting my teenagers to help me wrap gifts. I'm still not sure what dessert I will serve and just realized I didn't buy the turkey in time to defrost before Christmas morning. I guess I'll be serving a ham.

Has your Christmas been imperfect? Well then, you are not alone.

I'm guest posting over at my beautiful friend Lori's blog today.

I'd love to hear in the comments how your Christmas has been less than perfect.

Come on over to Lori's and let's talk about it.

December 23, 2013 No comments

Because endings and new beginnings are just on the horizon: 
Ben and Ali took wedding photos in their newly purchased first home, photos that Ben recreated with his 3 year old daughter when he sold the house. He does it to commemorate a lifetime of living there that came and went. Two full of hope and promise moved in. A different two moved out, still full of hope and promise, despite the pain and loss. Heartwarming:

"This is a story about love.  The pain is nothing compared to the love that I feel for Ali and Olivia and that’s the story I want these pictures to tell to Olivia in the years to come and anyone else that sees them.  The pain will subside little by little but the love never will, no matter where we live."
Read on here.


Because Christmas is a little bit about the same old thing feeling fresh and new:
A Christmas twist on the old familiar. There is so much to love about this video, each word, every added instrument, the writing on the foggy window to the unsuspected choir.




Because this fall project has so much to offer both giver and receiver at Christmas:
Have you ever wondered what happens to those Operation Christmas Child Shoeboxes you packed long before Christmas was in full swing? My friend Lori helped process some boxes for shipping and opened Christmas morning a thousand times over. Read the whole sneak peak behind the scenes here.

I had the opportunity to tell two young ladies' first-hand stories of receiving shoeboxes on the other side of the world when life was dark and cold and lonely, where God seemed like only a fairy tale, but two girls really do happily ever after because of a shoebox. Read it all here.

Because it's a wonderful life:



December 21, 2013 1 comments


"She was a soft creature." That's how he described her. "She just fit right up under my arms if we were both standing without shoes on. And she would look up at me in that way that was hers ... every day until the day she died."

Describing his wife was only part of the video, and not even the point. But his description grabbed me.

Is there a better boast from a man of his wife? "She is a soft creature."

His is the example of true marriage: a woman completing her husband, his helpmeet. A husband adoring her for what she adds to his life, fullness.

And then we stop being the picture of marriage, and are the true marriage.

Christ can be God all by his lonely self. But he wants me by his side, his companion. I make him look good and bring Him pleasure.

To say so brings rapture, bold, scandalous rapture.

He wants me by his side. Me.
His child, I make him happy. I make him happy!

Do you see yourself as his comfort and joy? You are.

"For I have redeemed you; I have called you by name: you are mine" (Isaiah 43:1).





Sharing in weekend commutities: Sandra's Still Saturday and Deidra's Sunday Community.

December 07, 2013 5 comments





It's time to give thanks.

When I look back over the past year, I realize it has been a year of hardship.

Choosing a word for the year, like many bloggers do, has never felt right for me. But my 2013 now has a word.

STRUGGLE

It's not the kind of word you choose for yourself ahead of time.

Last Thanksgiving was the last time my nephew's wife was in our home. Noelle and Reagan spent Thanksgiving night Black Friday shopping with her. They never slept and made a great memory together, which turned out to be their last, because shortly thereafter, she left.

December brought the end of my aunt's 8 year battle with a deadly cancer.

I struggled to celebrate Christmas last year.

The new year was no better. A good friend died too young of a heart attack in January.

As winter gave way to spring, my job was downsized and so was my pay check. Financial pressure set in. We took our first cruise anyway because we had already paid for it.

Summer, the season ripe with life, brought death to our family again. My cousin's 17-year-old son met the Lord that sultry July night. And I have learned anew how to be as present in Tammy's life as possible from a distance.

Death came again in September when Mike's mom finally slipped through our fingers.

And here we are again: back at Thanksgiving.

No matter what, it always seems to come back to that: thanksgiving.

And despite this year of struggle, I am thankful.

I'm mostly thankful for lessons learned. These:

  • that we can. be. victorious.
  • the depth and wonder of forgiveness and friendship.
  • how to build myself up in my faith (see Jude 1:20).
  • how to fight defiantly for hope when bad things happen to innocent people.
  • the difference between a protective posture and exposing my injured self to God.
  • that what appears to be aimless wandering might be a straight path to knowing God.
  • that, ultimately, the real struggle is not your circumstances but how you face them.

My measure of thanks is directly related to the measure of hardship. When the lessons are hard won through struggle, the gratitude is truer.

So happy Thanksgiving; or sad Thanksgiving, whichever the case may be for you.

Both can be true and are equally beautiful.

In community with #TellHisStory










November 27, 2013 3 comments
Faith is a fight. Can I tell you what a relief it is that Paul said that? Because when it's true in my life, I feel like I must be doing something wrong.

Lately, I've been fighting. Defensively, maybe, but fighting nonetheless. I've hunkered down under a heavy piece of furniture doing my best to cover my fear and discouragement with something big and strong. I wait for the earthquake that's sure to come but hasn't. My legs have gone numb beneath me and my muscles are weary from being held taut, at the ready. The waiting is beginning to mess with my head. I need the earthquake to happen already or to know it's safe to come out from under the coffee table.

While I've down here waiting for the storm to pass or relent, I've been thinking about my mother-in-law. I never once saw her cower under her circumstances.  I swear that woman was nothing but grace and faith and a small mountain of quiet courage. Her walk with God was epic.

Was that real?

Because I've also been thinking a lot about being authentic and trying to embrace what He created me to be the best way I know how.

Part of me wants to just let it all hang out here in the name of authenticity and tell you that I'm slowly dying from a lack of oxygen, that a gray, foggy paralysis is settling into my heart and I'm not an overcomer. I'm defeated and weary. My strength and joy have been sucked away in small, unnoticeable measures over such a long period of trial that I'm all of a sudden surprised to find myself holding back tears with the Christian game face, all peaceful and victorious. If you look closer, though, you'll see it's hollow, fragile, and about to crack. I must have taken a wrong turn to have arrived at this vulnerable place.

So about my mother-in-law and so many other legendary giants in the faith—how did they do it? They made it look easy. You don't see their fight, but surely they did. Even Paul did. And who's more giant than the Apostle Paul? Only Jesus, and he, too, had to fight for it in the Garden of Gethsemane. Occasionally we get a glimpse into their fight from the outside, but usually not. Mostly they just look heroic and legendary.

It makes my cowering and quaking not all that impressive in contrast. But I'm tempted to be blatantly honest because so many in the blogosphere are cheering on those who are being genuine. I might get a 10 if you were scoring my relateability factor, but a dismal mark for inspirational. And I certainly can't say as Paul once did, "Follow my example as I follow Christ," because who in their right mind would come?

I'd much rather be seen as the hero. The superstar leader who has it all together with her 30-plus-year-old faith that guarantees clear sailing, is inspiring, and makes it look effortless. I have a reputation to uphold. "Yes. Please do. Follow me as I follow the example of Christ."

On the other hand, part of me wants to chuck my pride and not get out of bed tomorrow morning.

But Paul ran a race. Jesus left the Garden to face the cross. And my mother-in-law made the bed every morning without fail. Giants don't cower. At least not for long.

I've been doing it wrong. I'm not supposed to cower under heavy furniture. Faith is supposed to be my shield.

Are you in a fight? What shield are you using to be victorious?






November 08, 2013 3 comments


You know Romeo and Juliet, right? Well, they got nothing on this love story. Nothin'.

A love story of love stories.

A local news reporter walked into my office Thursday afternoon at about 3PM. The church I work for is located in one of the most dangerous areas of our city and  he wanted to know what kind of outreach we did in the community to meet the needs of at-risk kids. I put him in touch with Mike, because, although the church I work for does reach out to the community, it isn't targeting kids. But our church does, so I gave Dakarai Turner from WLTX News 19 Mike's card. By 4PM Mike was being interviewed, and the story aired at 11PM the same night. See what our church has been doing for years to rescue kids from a future of gang life, drugs, and prison. Thank you, Dakarai, for a great news package. (Today is the last Saturday of the month and we are out ministering in Arthurtown, a neighborhood in Columbia that only residents enter. Usually.)

Combatting Midlands Gangs With a Lifeline

And finally, this from Emily Freeman at Ann Voskamp's place today. Her book and message about our lives being art is changing me deeply, hopefully in a million little ways.

"The traffic in the sunroom is bumper to bumper." Read the rest here.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

October 26, 2013 No comments
I spoke of the problem of self-editing my life in my last post. As I continue to let this issue simmer in my spirit, I'm fast concluding that the only one who should be editing me is Christ.

If I am his handiwork (artwork), then he is the artist. You know—He is the potter, I am the clay and all that. That way, when I'm who he created me to be, I reflect his glory. It's biblical to bend to his touch rather than to try to craft myself into what pleases others and attempt to strike a perfect balance of likeable traits.

We begin self-editing for many reasons: discouragement, doubt, feelings of inadequacy, practicality, fear, rejection, and looking into the mirror and seeing our nasty sin. But mostly I think we do it because it's safer, less risky, and gives us a sense of control—false though it may be. It's the path of self-preservation, and that's the opposite of the crucified life.

When God corners you with that beautiful and scary truth, all that's left is to lay down our failures, insecurities, and all the other negative junk that tempt us to self-edit. We must strip ourselves of all our reservation and hesitation so what's left is the naked, raw material God wants to use to fashion us into his original masterpiece.

Won't that be fun.

But be assured, it will be worth it.


We may not turn out looking like we wanted to. But we won't be unrecognizable either. We'll finally be the version of ourselves God intended all along, crafted with all that was right in us when he knit us together in the beginning.

Doesn't that sound much better than attempting to rework all the negatives into some sort of positive self-made image? Besides, the only one I know who can to turn our negatives into positives is Jesus (see Romans 8:28), and anything I could make myself turns out to be an idol—totally not what I was going for.

So how about it? Are you willing to strip down and become putty in his hands?

"We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us"  (2 Corinthians 4:7).

October 22, 2013 2 comments




I cracked open A Million Little Ways a week ago on my back deck with a cup of coffee.
I ended up adding my bible, a journal, and computer to the mix. I looked up Greek words and lingered long enough to contemplate actual answers to Emily's probing questions. I answered some and scribbled yet more questions of my own. 

I read the first 2 chapters and journaled five pages.  

This is what I don't want to sneak past me from those pages: 

God is pleased to have the fullness of his glory dwell in Christ (Colossians 1:19) and just as pleased to have Christ dwell in us (Colossians 1:27). 

As Christians and God's artwork that bear his image (Genesis 1:27),we have been tasked long ago—like Garden of Eden long ago (Genesis 1:28)—to do good works.

That good work is not my to do list or generated from any other outward, earthly source. (That's going to be a huge paradigm shift. Huge.)

Instead, that good work is this: to reflect his glory, his identity from the core of who we are in everything we do, in the way only we can—through all the intricate, artful facets he created uniquely in each of us.

I knew about reflecting his glory already. But because I thought I already was doing that through my task-oriented living, this old thing that I've long known is now fresh and ripe with scary possibilities and unknowns.

But I've been "do" oriented for so long I've lost track of the "be" orientation. Reflecting his glory from my core instead of from my to do list requires knowing who I am way deep inside.

Here's the rub: It's been so long, I'm not sure I know who she is anymore.

I've been editing who I am for public consumption for some time. It's a joint venture that began when my mom dropped me off at the birthday party when I was four and reminded me to say please and thank you. It continued in 7th grade when I adapted what I did, wore, and said to my predictions of how ill- or well-received I would be by my peers. The self-editing matured in college into honing my image to what I deemed to be the perfect combination of  "blend in" and "cool unique contribution." I've tweaked into my 40s.

How do you untangle that decades-in-the-making fabrication?    

It's risky, will take courage and faith. It's going to take work, too, because old habits and vantage points don't change all by themselves.

But it will be beautiful and freeing and a work of art all its own that makes God renown in my corner of the earth.

It's going to require listening more to the Holy Spirit within me than I listen to my screaming to do list or surface desire to fit in.  

Do I know how to do that? No. Will it change what my days look like? Maybe a little.

But probably not much because I still have all those daily responsibilities that aren't going away. I will always have a to do list. I just don't want it defining me and driving me anymore.

What needs to change is who is carrying out all these daily details. Another thing that must change is what anchors me as I do the same ol' things I always do. The reason why I do them will be different. The how I do them will probably change too, even if the what, where, and when remain the same. The adjustment is small and nuanced, but has great potential to radically change my sense of purpose and my attitude as I approach each day.

A good place to start is to remember we are God's artwork, and, therefore, our daily output should be artwork as well. And that will only happen if it comes from who we are and not what we do.    

 
October 20, 2013 No comments


Whether you gain huge popularity or are only loved by your family, whether you influence 10 or 10 million, always approach life with generosity, gratitude, and graciousness.  Love this from Emily this week:

What we can learn from Martha Stewart and Mr. Rogers

An inspiring (and well-written) story by Lane McGregory of Tampa Bay Times about a gutsy kid who is fast running out of time and anger, and so dared to hope went viral last week. I know you saw it somewhere. Twitter, Facebook, somewhere. What you probably didn't see is Flower Patch Farm Girl's equally poignant and unnerving response:

Why We Are Called to Davion

This, from my beautiful, wounded cousin whose God is turning her mourning into dancing, ever so slowly. She's so broken, I think it might only be a toe tapping right now, but she is trusting in the God that has her right where she is, and I hear the quiet, beautiful music in the distance on that road less traveled:

Where Two Roads Diverged and She Had No Choice.

And for all these heart-warming and heartbreaking reasons, I long for more love in the world, the kind that is patient and kind, doesn't envy or boast or keep a record of wrong. These posts this week remind me that for now, we see in a mirror dimly and only know in part. They make me thankful that then, we will see face to face and know fully.

"Love Is" Original music by Adrian González from his album No Record.



Happy Weekend Wanderings, y'all.
October 19, 2013 2 comments

Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again. --Jesus

It begins first thing each morning: empty the dishwasher, begin to reload, pack three lunchboxes, recite the breakfast offerings to three unenthusiastic kids, the shrill countdown to oh-my-gosh-we're-gonna-be-late. There's also the laundry baskets, the bills, unopened mail, supper plans, and a phone blinking and beeping a night's worth of notifications and a day's worth of plans. All before 7:30 AM, the day still young, the To Do list already long.

What advantage does man have in all his work
Which he does under the sun?
...the sun rises and the sun sets;
And hastening to its place it rises there again.
...All things are wearisome;
Man is not able to tell it.
The eye is not satisfied with seeing,
Nor is the ear filled with hearing;
...I have seen all the works which have been done under the sun,
and behold, all is vanity and striving after the wind.
~Ecclesiastes 1:3, 5, 8, and 14

Somewhere in the midst of the busyness, I search for the compass of meaning and hope, but find
"Empty"
"Spent"
"Used up"
on the dial that used to show True North. 
 
What was it God said to me just this morning? It feels like so long ago, I can't remember. It's hidden in the fog.

I'm talking about water, wells, fog, and vanity over at Laced With Grace today. The rest of this post is over there.

 
 



October 09, 2013 1 comments


It's 6:03 and I've entered the quiet kitchen to begin the morning. It's Sunday, the earliest morning for me all week.

I have vague memories of mom cooking hot Sunday dinners when I was very young. After my parents divorced it didn't continue. The big hams slathered with yellow mustard and lumpy mashed potatoes drowning in butter became a thing of the past.

Then I met my mother-in-law and began to be invited to her Sunday table. She fed me nightly during my engagement to her youngest son and we had full time jobs and four night classes. We studied all day Saturday and slept Sunday afternoon to make it through those weeks. If she didn't cook and Mike didn't drive, I'm not sure I would have survived those semesters.

Her arroz con pollo was one of my favorites, and she could cook it blindfolded while reciting the beatitudes. But she couldn't teach me how to make it. The woman didn't own a single recipe. One time I watched her make it. I tasted when she tasted, stirred when she stirred, and wrote it all down.



I still don't make her arroz con pollo, and I've since learned it's partly because I don't have one of those classic pots that I have found is in every Cuban cook's kitchen. But it's partly me too.

Noemi revived Sunday dinner for me. As newlyweds, we would return to our hometown for weekend visits. When I spent the night at her house, I was privy to her hustle and bustle around the kitchen in the early hours to have lunch ready.

I gladly took up the Sunday lunch mantle, her chicken and rice notwithstanding.

My kids have a lifetime of Sunday lunch memories around our kitchen table. They will treasure them one day, at least that's what I tell myself.

They're not so fond of them now, because, in the last ten years, our extended family has gone out to eat Sundays after church. Noemi's days in the kitchen are long since over. And so, while the cousins and aunts and uncles and Aya went to Cici's for bad pizza, we went home to homemade spaghetti sauce bubbling in the crock pot.

Today, while I get the brown rice to a boil and slide the roast into the oven just before 7AM, I'm thankful for a godly woman, her legacy of Sunday lunch, and the way that she fed me when she fed me.



Sharing with Michelle's Sunday/Monday community, because sometimes what you learn on Sunday you didn't hear in the sermon. And with Laura's Play Dates with God.


October 07, 2013 5 comments
Daddy/Daughter Duet
There's an adorable, pajama-clad little girl who can't sleep because of the scary fireworks and a dad with a pink ukulele and a mouth-trumpet solo. It's everything wonderful about parenting and childhood.

Emily's Open Letter to Generation Y 
"Maybe you are one of the 300. Or maybe you are a single mother. Maybe you manage a liquor store. Maybe you work at Wal-Mart, the graveyard shift, and you've been told your whole life how much potential you have, but you don't see it.   . . . We are dust, turned into miracles, because of a God who loves us."

The Love of Laundry @ Sayable
Lore Furgeson contemplates the married life she will soon embark on, and she's speaking my language because around here the new life we face, maybe not new — but different, is one without my mother-in-law in it.  She speaks about loving this life, and it will speak to you wherever life finds you right now too.

Inspired RD with Just Be
My weekend wish for you . . . and me.
October 05, 2013 1 comments




Leaning over the bed, my hand on her quilt-covered knee, the tears came but the words wouldn't.

I've never not known what to pray before — not in 30 years of praying.

But I am stumped this time. There is life hanging in the balance and she is moving through the murky fluid of this life toward her heavenly eternity so quickly now. I know I'm letting her down in my speechless stupor, but I can't help it.

Do you pray for healing? Rest? Or that she would just stop breathing? Please, Lord, no more effort? This life has become such effort! Do I tell her goodbye? It doesn't feel right. Do you do that at a death bed?

So I don't say anything and feel inadequate.

I kneel down at the foot of the bed, my hand on Noemi's  bony knee and breathe. I breathe in the presence of the Lord. Because, no doubt about it,  He is here.

First sight of a newborn straight out of the womb is our closest glimpse of heaven. And I saw on the news this week that the newborn scent is addictive. The brain responds in the same places and the same ways it does when addicted to vices.

Could the longing for heaven be our vice?

Because I swear, when I had no words last night and could only get to my knees while my husband whispered Spanish into his mother's unconscious ears, I did what's taboo — I stared at her, speechless, wanting to memorize the holiness in the room.

Slipping into heaven is the same glimpse of our Maker and Home as sliding into this life.

It's intoxicating, not morbid, and I'm not letting her down. Rather, she is letting me in.

That's what I know to be true in my wide-eyed wonder.

“O death, where is your victory?
    O death, where is your sting?”
(1 Corinthians 15:55)

Five Minute Friday
1-Minute Bible Love Notes
September 27, 2013 7 comments


I looked up and there she was, a vision coming down the sterile hallway in her crisp lab coat. I had averted my troubled gaze from my husband's jaundiced brow to see whose staccato footsteps were echoing off the tile floor. Her walk was confident, and that's how she first ministered to me. That and the empathetic tilt of her head. Her left-breast monogram said RN; Her grim smile said survivor and friend.

She looked all over the hospital for us because we were in X-Ray getting a needle-guided biopsy. "This not knowing is the hardest part," Kay said.  She knew this because her husband had just finished treatment for his own lymphoma. Her hug, though there were countless preceeding others, was my first glimpse from our trial to the other side of it.

They had gotten through it; Maybe we could, too.

Last Friday and eleven years later, Mike and I walked into another hospital and took the elevator to the oncology floor. We prayed and held their hands and kissed their babies. We got to be the confident walk and head tilted just so for Brian and Charity, their bridge to the other side of their fear and waiting and wondering.

::

There it was, all Facebook official: a prayer request from my nephew who was just laid off. My thoughts went immediately to his wife Anabelle, because we've been there too--twice, in fact. I tap out the text message praying I am the living, breathing proof that they, too, can get through this.

Sometimes, real hospitality comes form having been in the hospital.

Sometimes, being in the hospital is easier when you know future hospital(ity) will be its offspring.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God (2 Corinthians 1:3-4).


Rick sent me this scripture when my brother Jeff died. I shared it with Rick's brother Jeff when Rick died. It was my comfort when Mike's cancer raged unchecked, so I shared it with Charity this weekend. And I pray I am living it for Anabelle and Victor.

The best kind of comfort is born in affliction. It may be the consolation prize from your trial, but it is a prize.

#TellHisStory with Jennifer.

September 24, 2013 4 comments

1. He is the sandwich-maker.
2. He winks at me at the kitchen table.
3. He doesn't mind doing laundry.
4. He waits up late for Adrian.
5. That he rented a VCR on our wedding night so I could watch the wedding. First.
6. That even though I promised I'd never tell anyone that, it's not that humiliating anymore.
7. His from-the-hip wisdom when he talks with our children. It amazes me every time.
8. Watching him go gray.
9. That he didn't die from pancreatitis or cancer, although he really, really scared me on both counts.
10. He is more zealous than any other man I know.
11. He is a gentleman and treats me like a lady. Always.
12. He is funny.
13. The kids maintain that he's not, but they say so while they are laughing at his quips.
14. His knowledge and love of God's word.
15. That we can speak our own language.
16. When he left for Africa last month, we had an entire conversation with no words, only texted pictures.
17. Twenty-four years together and all the things that come to a long-time marriage that can't be rushed or even foreseen. So worth the wait.



18. That he spent his honeymoon at his new bride's grandparents' winter home in Florida.
19. Even after they changed their plans and came home early.
20. That he decided to live a healthy lifestyle 10 years ago, and has never quit.
21. For letting me finish college after we married.
22. Because you wash my car and keep air in my tires.
23. That he has faced adversity and failures with a rare mix of dignity and humility.
24. When I am lost and even though I have a smart phone with GPS, he looks up the map on his own phone or computer and interrupts what he's doing and talks me through it.
25. That he honed his preaching skills in the bathroom mirror with shaving cream on his face.
26. He's a better preacher because his first humble audience was the unshaven man in the mirror.
27. That he no longer needs to practice in the mirror.



28. He's not afraid to cry.
29. He's not afraid to speak the truth when it needs to be said, even when it hurts and is a real challenge.
30. He lives his convictions even when it's inconvenient.
31. He loves me. Very well, in fact.
32. That he's daring and he doesn't forget to grab my hand and take me with him on those adventures.
33. That he picked Duchess because she was the runt of the litter.
34. That's probably how he chose me too. He's a sucker for the underdog.
35. The way he secured our first date, by not being able to actually ask the question.
36. That he let me pick out the engagement ring, and doesn't mind that I later traded it for my grandmother's ring.
37. He is not easily angered, or insecure or testy.
38. He does what it takes to get the job done, no matter what the job.
39. Our many love songs blogged and Facebooked and the long ago duets we sang.
40. Even the one he sent me in the mail one time long before the convenience of internet and youtube.
41. I love him even though he forgets to wear his wedding ring these days.
42. Even though I'm the one who has to pay the bills and keep the checkbook.
43. Especially because he loves Jesus more than me.
44. Especially because he overlooks my faults and short-comings and still wakes up next to me no matter what has come or hasn't.
45. For the gift of Adrian
46. Noelle
47. And Reagan
48. And for making me look forward to our empty nest.

Happy Birthday, Mike.
All my life and love,
D
September 15, 2013 4 comments


I prayed and doubted in equal parts. They cancel each other out and leave me here, still here, under the weight of difficult circumstances. And God has me right where he wants me.

Not defeated. Not discouraged. Not stagnant, alone, or despondent.

But surrendered.

A girl can easily tire of both doubting and praying, because both are a fight and hard work.

*   *   *  

The wrought iron security gate broke away from its hinge and fell on top of me. I might have died there under that weight. It left me unconscious, badly injured, and in medical shock. I don't remember the accident or any of the subsequent events that day including the ambulance siren, emergency surgery, or landing in ICU.

The rest of these stories are at Laced With Grace today. I've got a strategy for when what you need isn't what you want. Maybe you need one of those? Come on over.


Laced With Grace
 
September 11, 2013 No comments

There's been tragedy in our family.
The kind that brings you to your knees with no seeming strength to stand back up. 
Our seventeen year-old cousin Elijah perished in a car accident two weeks ago.
And with that Sunday morning phone call, which whispered horrific news,
I felt some measure of the anguish God surely felt when He was instantly separated from his creation,
the one in his own image—male and female, when they ate the fruit and did, indeed, die.

It feels like a sucker-punch, and I'm yet to catch my breath.
Who is ever prepared for this kind of news?
It silenced me for a bit
But I am writing again; because writing is what I do.
Today I write at Laced With Grace from Daniel about what to do when life gets hard.

I dedicate this piece to the Davis Family in memory of Elijah,
who loved God and now sees Him face to glorious face.

I invite you to click here to join me at Laced With Grace.

August 14, 2013 4 comments
Have you ever been so disappointed you weren't quite sure what to do? Found it hard to just take the next step? It didn't even have to be something major, just something heavy enough to make you stumble and lose your stride in life.

Then this is for you:

8½ Ways to Shake Off Discouragement

1.  Do the next thing you would have done anyway. I know. You don't want to, but do it anyway.
2.  Cast all your cares upon Him; He cares for you. (1 Peter 5:7)
3.  Indulge in a few tears alone in your car.
4.  Roll the windows down and feel the speed. When the wind hits your face, it's impossible not to smile. Impossible, I tell you.
5.  Turn up the music and sing loud. B.J. Putnam's Glorious is good, but that's just me.
5½.  Play drums on the steering wheel to earns bonus points.



6.  Go for a run, or a spin on your bike, or whatever you do to sweat and breathe deeply.
7.  Fall into the arms of a loved one. Linger there and feel the wonder of love.
8.  Get a good night sleep. Things are always better in the morning. It's true—really.

So tell me, how do you find your hope agian when you've been discouraged?
July 23, 2013 5 comments
I cannot believe I'm going to add my meager thoughts to the growing pool of commentary on the Trayvon Martin–George Zimmerman circumstance/trial/verdict/tragedy/travesty/I-don't-know-what-to-call-it. But I can't wrestle the ideas in my head to the mat without writing, so here goes nothing.

I don't think I'm a racist.

I don't use the N-word, never have. All my life I've been friends with people who have browner skin than I do. I've also not liked some of those people with browner skin--kind of like the blonder skinned people I've come across in life. I take some and I leave some of both the darker and lighter variety, so I must not be choosing friends based on the amount of brown in their skin. And I think this is a pretty good litmus test. If race is a non-issue, you are not a racist.

It's hard for me to say white and black, because none of us are either. It's never been a proverbial kind of black and white either. But I'll use the terms, since it's easier and that's what everyone's used to.

When salesmen (and women) come to my door to sell me something, my guard goes up. I treat everything they say to me as suspect because I know they are trying to make a sale.  Does that make me evil?

When I see families in the grocery store in which the females are wearing burkas, I watch them with intrigue, and wonder what they believe and why believe it, whatever it is because I understand that Islam is a wide umbrella of diverse beliefs. I don't do the same with a single Western-wearing family, be they white, black, Latino, or of some other geographical gene pool.

Am I profiling?
Is profiling always bad anyway?

It doesn't mean I wouldn't be friends with Arabs if I got to know them. I watch and wonder because I'm mesmerized by a culture I have little experience with and little connotative understanding of. So it's more curious than sinister, my fascination with the burka-clad women and their families.

I'm always sad for the families that feel a woman should cover herself to the point of impeding vision and comfort. (We have hot summers in South Carolina.) I wonder if Arab-Islamic culture is ashamed of the female body. I don't view the parts of female skin that men can expose without judgment, as something that must be covered at all cost. I don't see my body—or anyone else's for that matter—as a stumbling block for over-sexualized men.

 Thinking of men as over-sexualized would also be another stereotype, would it not?

And what of teaching our children about stranger danger? Is this all of a sudden not okay?

These are all taboo thoughts I wrestle with. Do they make me racist? a profiler? a stereotyper?

Mike said something in last Sunday's sermon that had nothing to do with the subject of the sermon (the church at Laodicea), but he managed to get it in anyway to our multi-cultural congregation:

The amazing thing is that our bodies are only earth-suits, And the earth-suits are all made of dirt. Some of us just have richer soil.


It's a lovely thought that conjures much about the artistry of our Creator in my imagination.


I don't define people by a physical characteristic. Not eye color, weight, whether or not you bite your fingernails, or have high cholesterol. Not even whether your skin is black or white.

Now, some of those characteristics might give me some insight into the soul and spirit behind the earth-suit, initially at least, but they aren't defining characteristics through which to view the sum total of a person.

The news this week tells me that much of America still sees society through the lens of race, and that makes me all kinds of sad. I like to think I'm further along on the road to race being a non-issue, and I wish we, as a nation, were too.

I've often wondered whether other nations, who, like America, have the stain of slavery in their history, have been able to let go of the atrocity and leave it in their past, which is the best any nation can do once slavery is part of their story. From what I know of Cuba, they have. They don't decipher between black Cubans and white Cubans. They just identify themselves as Cuban, recognizing a common heritage that is at once wonderful and flawed. Has England gotten past it? I don't know, but if so, how? We Americans need to learn this lesson.

I wasn't there when the circumstances that led to the death of Trayvon Martin unfolded. It amazes me that so much of the American public is willing to formulate opinions based on very limited knowledge of the facts, and many of us are not trial lawyers but, in fact, novices when it comes to the details of the American justice system. This says nothing about differing state laws, but that fact further makes my point.

Now, with that said, it appears to me that what resulted in the death of human being began with both Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman feeling threatened and viewing the other as suspect.

We still quote Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. so often because his voice and his message are still necessary in our society even a half of a century later. With all respect to the brave and heroic Dr. King, this proves that he has thus far failed in his mission.

How refreshing it would be if his remarks were irrelevant and unnecessary today. That would be the greatest tribute our country could give this courageous man who spoke truth when it was unpopular.

Instead, we have two people who suspected one another and felt threatened by the other. And on the heels of the verdict this week, we have a nation guilty of making the same assumptions. When ill-will is carried out to its ultimate conclusion, it will end in death every time. It started in the Garden of Eden with the serpent, when Satan challenged Eve to look upon God's loving command as suspect and tempted her to feel threatened by God. The confrontation didn't end well for Eve.

And now, we are all fallen human beings capable in our sinful nature of the holocaust and slavery and murder and self-defense and self-promotion. Even at high cost to others. That's the kind of evil that lurks within every single person on planet earth from the garden until now. None of us are exempt from this plight. Even with our black and white skin and our high cholesterol.

That's what makes love so radical.

Our country is devastated that one human being can die by a bullet shot from the hand of another human being while the justice system can find no crime committed or a charge that will stick. This is the muddy matter we deal with on a fallen planet. It's not black and white. There are no easy answers.

In the end, no matter how rich our soil, all our mud-pie bodies have had the breath of God's image breathed into us by Almighty God--all of us. Despite the propensity for evil within us, God gave us value and deems us redeemable. All of us.

That makes the only viable solution at this point, love. Love is the one and only absolute that covers every other inadequate thing about us.

My hope is that love will be enough. For the grieving Martin family, the forever-changed Zimmerman family, and the still-divided United States of America.


Let him lead me to the banquet hall,
and let his banner over me be love.
Song of Solomon 2:4

Related Post: As Simple as Black and White

Sharing in community at #ShareHisStory.
July 17, 2013 2 comments

Dear Adrian,

One day, most likely, God will bestow upon you the precious and grave responsibility of rearing children.You will be both overjoyed at the prospect and feel grossly unprepared and inadequate.But the task will be yours nonetheless.
 
You and your wife will do this job with diligence and a most loving heart and with more prayer than you ever could have imagined.You will count on God and cast the entirety of your hope in I Peter 4:8 and pray that the truth of it holds: that love will cover a multitude of sin.

By then, you will see your imperfections, your need for growth and learning.You will long for the time that will, by then, have passed when you could have prepared ahead of time to be an adult who would one day be fit for this job of parenting.Your knees will shake when you see your child thrive and push well toward the goal of independence.They will shake when you see her flaws and weaknesses that surely will entangle her.You will be weak-kneed for eighteen awe-inspiring years of her life.


And that’s the way of it, Adrian. During the time of learning and instruction and growing, you despise the process and think you are above the need of it. And only when the door is forever shut on that opportunity of being poured into by your own loving parents, will you see your need and wish you could fling the door wide open again. Maybe, in God’s economy, the woeful inadequacy we feel facing the responsibility of nurturing another human being into a whole, healthy adult is the distinguishing, qualifying trait recommending us to the task. Who knows.

And here we are with you—our firstborn on the brink of adulthood. I clearly see you pushing well and the things you still lack for success in your future. I vividly see both.The window of teaching time is closing, and I frantically try to cram into the diminishing crack the last bits I have to give you of all you will need but don’t yet have.

We have done our best to teach you and show you our faith. Dad and I have tried to model our work ethic, self-discipline, determination, perseverance, our unwavering love of God, our love and grace toward others, and how to choose forgiveness over judgment for yourself and others, knowing love can and will cover a multitude of sin if we let it. If we fall on that truth and are grateful for it again and again. We have done our best not to squander our years with you, son.

Our best did not live up to my standard of perfection. Please know that the remaining margin will niggle me and tempt me to worry, but I will resist the urge to continue to be responsible any longer for your composition as a man. It is time for you to be a man all by yourself. To be responsible, to both guide yourself and follow God for yourself, to set your own goals and achieve them with all the resources you have been given.

 
 Be sure we will now crouch on the sidelines, watching with bated breath, willing you to do well. We will be here when you realize you have questions after all and are in need of wisdom and know at least where to find some. We will be here for you when you need us until we are not here any longer.

I may be fearful of all you still lack for adulthood, but I’m equally proud of who you are and who you are becoming. I love you, Adrian. I pray I have loved and served you well.

Always, and with a mother’s love you will comprehend only when you are older,
Mom
1 Peter 4:8
July 01, 2013 2 comments

 
It all started when my boss came to me with a request at work. He asked me to do something that felt as if I were being singled out from among my peers to be the only one to adhere to a new policy.  There was a temptation to take offense, and I felt every telltale symptom begin to rise inside me.

I was indignant.
I couldn’t take my mind off the situation.
My outrage grew, and it began to upset me.
My shoulders tensed.
My mind raced, and my heart pounded.

All the while, I sat silently at my desk with a professional air carrying out my work. But be not mistaken. There was war going on in me.

My pride had been injured, and the urge to retaliate was intensifying with every passing moment.

I strategized ways to challenge the request, at least indirectly, and the arguments “for” and “against” began their dialogue in my head.  

Confront it--you will feel better. At least you will make your point. He’ll know you know. This is unwarranted and unfair. Fight. Back!

But how does that help you? You’ll still have to comply with the request. Is this worth making waves?

But you can’t just take this on the chin silently.

I was almost too far gone when I realized this was a crucial moment. I knew what I must do.

The rest of the story is at  Laced With Grace.  Join me there. 
June 27, 2013 1 comments














I grew up where the seagulls circled overhead and oyster shells crunched under car tires on our long shell driveway.

I knew nutcrackers were for eating crabs and shrimp belonged in omelets at breakfast.

I knew the welcome of the live oaks that twisted their way in divergent directions toward centuries.

Who can blame the Spanish moss for embracing such outstretched arms?

I knew that most people's jogging routes didn't include a gulf of saltwater and a lighthouse.

I knew not to take it all for granted.

In hindsight, I did.

It's rather impossible not to.

One who is full loathes honey from the comb,
but to the hungry, even what is bitter tastes sweet.
~Proverbs 27:7


Photo Credits: Mike González, who is visiting my hometown without me this week.
Lighthouse by Adrian González, who is finding songwriting inspiration in my old haunts.

June 18, 2013 3 comments
Lately my words have retreated to my personal prayer journal, the place where Jesus keeps me sane enough to face this busy life. I've been working on locally published pieces too, and well, that means the blog has taken a very distant back seat.

I've published this and and two other pieces that only appear in print in the last few months.

Speaking of my prayer journal, I'm working my prayerful way through Praying the New Testament with Elmer Towns. This book is revitalizing my sad and tired prayer life (and prayer journaling). Best thing that's happened to my faith in a while. Thank you, Mr. Towns.


Summer reading is in full-swing around here. My oldest loved to read until he learned that he loves music. So he became a writer—as in songwriter. He gets a pass for not reading anymore since he writes. After all, all writers are readers, but not all readers are writers. And besides, he's graduated, so it's the first summer in quite some time that he hasn't had required reading.

He's graduated. Did you see that? I snuck that right in there. That's kind of how it happened to us in real life, too. Just snuck right up on us. Some of my favorite images:









With graduation I digress. I was supposed to be talking about summer reading, remember? So Adrian's all graduated and a lost cause as far as books go.

Noelle's and Reagan's taste in reading tells the complete story of those two sisters. Noelle has read two books all year; Reagan has read five novels in the first two weeks of summer. Noelle loves the Disney Kingdom Keepers books, but only when I force her to read 60 pages a day. Reagan, at 13, is dabbling in the adult section with crossover authors like Nicholas Sparks and Francine Rivers. The last two weeks of school, Reagan read five novels, started Divergent during exam week and finished the sequel and four more books since summer started. I can't keep this girl in enough books. Here's her stack for youth camp next week and a trip to her friend's lake house the week after.


I'm hoping these six will last her the whole two weeks since she'll actually have to live some of her own life in between the pages. That girl and her reading habit--she's worse than me, be only because she reads faster.

On another note, Mike and Adrian have already left for youth camp to prepare some of the logistics at the camp site. It happens to be in my hometown, and I happen not to be going this year. So Adrian's been texting me pictures by which to live vicariously. I try not to be jealous, but so far his pics have made my mouth water and my feet feel like running and my nose smelling the Gulf water in the air.



Fayard's roast beef po-boys, dressed and pressed. They're on the short list whenever we make it through town. It occurred to me when Adrian sent the picture that Cuban sandwiches are pressed on a grill too. Both our hometowns know how to press a po-boy. Though they don't call these sandwiches "poor boys" in Cuba, they could.

And that lighthouse? Well nothing says home like the Biloxi lighthouse for me, except maybe the old pier in the Back Bay at Paw Paw's house. We lived a mile west of the lighthouse and three blocks inland. To the left of the lighthouse in the photo are the two opposing lanes of Highway 90 traffic and then sand and the Gulf of Mexico. This was my jogging route more times than not. Who could blame me?

And they have now seen our family restaurant in the small craft harbor since it reopened a year ago for the first time since Hurricane Katrina. It's been elevated and the views are even more magnificent than they were at ground level.



The girls leave tomorrow after church with the rest of the youth group, which necessitated a rash of shopping and the largest clothing conundrum east of the Mississippi.


I've locked Boomer in his crate so he won't leave me too. Just kidding about Boomer. He's faithful. NOT! This morning, while I was still the only one awake, he forgot completely who feeds and bathes him and who's his momma, and wandered upstairs to the girls' bedroom door and laid down right there, not even deterred by the fact that the door was closed denying him access to the cozy children were all snug and warm in their beds. That's Boomer. He's faithful, even through closed doors.


.
#556 ~ 575

~ a resident songwriter, music-maker, and former reader
~ graduations: endings that masquerade as commencements (you're not fooling a single parent)
~ hometowns and smart phones that take pictures that can be texted and a son who knows how I wish to be there
~ the Biloxi lighthouse and fond memories
~smells that stay with us, like the Gulf in the air, and freshly mowed grass in summer
~ good food
~ extended family
~ youth camp
~ anticipation
~ summer reading
~ road trips and living out of a suitcase
~ sisters who couldn't be more different nor love each other more
~ overflowing dresser drawers
~ Boomer the (un)Faithful
~ prayer and morning devotions
~ blogging
~ fireflies having a party in my front yard at dusk
~ healthy girl food while everyone else is gone this week
~ staked heirloom tomatoes
~ the view from here






June 15, 2013 3 comments
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About Me

About Me
Dawn is a writer, Bible teacher, speaker, and pastor's wife. She co-founded Columbia World Outreach Church in Columbia, South Carolina with her husband, Mike. By day, Dawn manages a law firm. In the leftover hours she writes for various online and print publications. You are welcome here. What you will find is real life and a faith that's a living organism -- which is to say it's growing and sometimes cranky, exuberant, stinky, wobbly, petulant, overconfident, tired, satisfying, and beautiful. May you find here some courage to own your own days and your own unfinished faith.

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