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This is another post in a series, about a woman named Amara. Every Friday I will post another segment in this story.

What a day it had been already for Joy.

Her mother had been missing, and then found, in the wooded area near her home. She had been taken to the hospital nearby, to be checked out. Now, at only nine thirty in the morning, she had given countless vials of blood to be checked, and had undergone three medical tests, and was resting comfortably in the hospital bed.

“Mrs. Jackson, your mother has been given a sedative for the last test. She will probably sleep for a number of hours. You should go home, and get some sleep yourself,” the doctor on call said to Joy, with great sensitivity, and great concern. “Your mother will be well taken care of here. You need to care for yourself, so that you can come back refreshed, when your mother awakens later this afternoon.”

Joy started to shake her head, and was about to say no, when the nurse interrupted and said, “I will call you, myself, if there is any change, or if your mother seems to be awakening. Go home, Mrs. Jackson.” Joy looked at the nurse, then back to the doctor, to see that they were both nodding in agreement. She knew that to argue would be pointless, and she probably could go home for a bit.

“Besides,” the nurse continued while pointing to towards the corner of the room, “your daughters need to get some rest too.”

Joy’s head swung around to where the nurse had pointed. She had been so consumed with concern for her mother that she had totally forgotten that her two daughters were lying on a small sofa in her mother’s hospital room. They looked so beautiful, so worry free snuggled up together on the sofa. Joy could feel the corners of her lips curl up into a smile of pride.

“Mrs. Jackson?” The voice of the nurse moved her attention away from the girls.

“Yes,” Joy said with the smile still on her face, “yes, I will go home for a rest.”

Once back home, and the girls were in bed. Joy got herself ready for bed, but, with the adrenaline rush from driving back home, and getting her daughters settled in bed, she was not feeling ready to rest. She wandered out to the kitchen to heat her kettle and make a cup of tea. As she reached for her cup and saucer, she realized that, in all of the chaos of the past twelve hours she had not contacted Joe to tell him what had been going on.

She glanced at her watch, almost noon here means it is … almost four in the afternoon on the west coast. I can send him a text, and he can call me when he has a break later.

Joy went to her purse to retrieve her phone. “Oh dear, it’s almost out of battery.” She quickly touched the screen to create her text to send to him. “Mom is in the hospital. It’s been an ordeal. Text me when you have a moment.” Joy pushed send. Then she stopped, and re-read the words she had written. They were certainly not much more than sharing of information. No polite introduction. No questions about his day. No ‘I love you’ to sign off. Where did the feelings of affection for each other go? Maybe it was time that she lay down the olive leaf … Without another thought, Joy touched “love you” onto the phone screen, and then, as her finger touched the ‘send’ button, the phone powered off. Her good intentions lost, as technology defeated her well-meaning action.

Joy breathed a deep sign. She felt that even technology didn’t want her to be the slightest bit vulnerable.

“Well, I guess I will just get my tea and head to bed. Maybe I will be better able to handle Joe’s lifeless conversation after a few hours sleep.” Joy spoke her thoughts out loud to no one. Then she did as she said, taking her cup and saucer to her bedroom. Crawled into the sheets, warmed by the noon day sun shining onto her bed, and fell fast asleep.

Unfading – Part 1

Unfading – Part 11

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Sometimes my mouth has a mind that is completely separated from my brain. This particular day was a good case in point.

I work in a Christian High School (as an Educational Assistant). I also work with students who are in the same grade as my younger daughter, so I get to work in classes with students who I have known (as a mom) since these young adults entered kindergarten. When they were in their grade seven year, I worked in their grade as well, while filling in for a co-worker. I know them better than any other grade I have worked in before, and I feel very privileged to walk through high school (I hope) with them.

Sometimes I feel like mom of the grade, because I know them, and their families quite well. I remember some of the ones who had to be pried from their mom on their first day of school. I remember when they had new siblings born to their families, and when loved ones died. I remember when new students joined the group, when they competed in sports, and when they kept me up until 3am the year my daughter insisted that I invite ALL of the girls in her class to her sleep over birthday party (face palm for me for agreeing to that one). I also remember who was nasty to my kid on the playground, and who wiped her tears. These students are all precious to me.

So, on a particular day, early in the work day, the teacher of the first class I was assigned to be in asked a colleague of mine and I if one of us would lead devotions to her grade nine math class. Before my ears had completed the process of hearing and processing her request, my mouth said, “yes.” When my brain heard my voice, I think it wanted to move out. My pulse started racing, my palms got clammy and I experienced what can only be likened to a hot flash.

But, once I sat in front of this class of students, all that mattered to me was sharing the message that has been on my heart for many years. The message of grace.

Over seven years ago, I was at a school event, talking with two men, one about my age and the other in his eighties. We were just chatting, when the subject of heaven came up. The older man got serious, “Heaven is not for me, I’ve been too bad.” His words took me back … he had grown up in a Christian family, gone to Christian school, gone to church all of his life, and he felt that his place in heaven was dependent on his behaviors. Had he not, in eighty plus years of life, not heard of God’s grace? How many Easter services had he sat in? Didn’t he hear, at least once, that Jesus blood is the atonement (payment) for our sins … ALL of our sins?

So, my impromptu devotion for the morning was about this older man. It was about the grace of God, and how HE covers all of our sins. I was able to tell them if there are pious Christian people who make them FEEL that they are not good enough (because of their clothes, or their hair, or the music they listen to, or what ever other ‘important’ outward expression), they are wrong. The reality is that none of us are “good enough” to pass through the gates of heaven, it is only our acceptance of the gift of forgiveness and grace that God offers through the sacrifice of His son, that we are made good enough. I told them that it was that one message that I want them to take through their lives, and into their eighties. That I do not want them to be at the natural end of their lives and think they are not good enough for heaven.

They were respectfully quiet, I just hope their hearts heard this humbly delivered message, from one who hopes deeply that they believe it. And, if they do, my mouth saying yes when my brain felt too insecure, to sharing a devotion with them will be all worth it.

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—
and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—
not by works, so that no one can boast.
For we are God’s handiwork,
created in Christ Jesus to do good works,
which God prepared in advance for us to do.
But now in Christ Jesus
you who once were far away have been brought near
by the blood of Christ.
Ephesians 2:8-10, 13

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On Saturday I was heading out with the beast on a walk, along with my almost fifteen year old daughter. My daughter was telling me of her opinions and decisions on various topics, opinions and decisions that were far more wise than I would have had at her age.

I came home almost giddy! It is not often that, as a parent, you feel any sort of success. Usually, as parents, we feel only failure. This time I was doing my happy dance (now that is quite a mental picture).

Way back when our oldest daughter was a preschooler I heard someone speaking about parenting. This person said it is important to guide your kids towards thinking about, and making decisions BEFORE they are in a position of having to make them. So, when our kids were preschoolers, I would ask them BEFORE we went to purchase a Slurpie what flavor they hoped to get, and why. Doing this alleviated the frustratingly long time it would take them to make a decision, while there were dozens of people waiting in line behind us. Sure they sometimes changed their mind, but, overall, thinking ahead helped their anticipation of what they chose to grow. As they got older we would talk about drug and alcohol use in teens, and they would talk about the possibility of using those substances, and how that might hinder their future goals (another discussion that happens  W A Y  before grade 12 … more like since they could talk). So, as their peers started experimenting they have known, before peer pressure was involved, what they would choose, and why (this is not a guarantee, but if they have a goal they have chosen, and a reason for choosing it, they then have the intrinsic motivation to make choices, not in the moment, but that help them achieve their goals).

The why is important, because it gives them their own reasons for making decisions. I have always feared that my kids would make important decisions BECAUSE I told them, and so teaching them to think for themselves, set goals for themselves helps to ensure that I am not raising robotic clones.

Now don’t go thinking that I spent my Saturday patting my back. Raising kids is like playing mad scientist with a lab rat. We never know if what we are doing, and teaching, and praying for will actually produce a productive member of society. I am fully aware that even if there was a manual for successful parenting (don’t we wish) our kids still have to make their choices all by themselves.

Don’t get me wrong, she is not perfect, and can still make ridiculous decisions, as any teen (or adult) can. What I do see is that she is pulling through this time of adolescence with wisdom and an end goal as her guides.

And that gives me great hope for her future.

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I love order!

I could be the most anally ordered person on the planet, if I let myself. I innately love it when things are done well, when plans go smoothly, when all the pieces fit perfectly together. It is satisfying, it is comforting, and it is NOT real life.

Our alarm clocks don’t go off, our job gets eliminated, our kids make choices that we see will have dire consequences, our significant other doesn’t bring us flowers anymore (or he/she doesn’t love us anymore), we get sick … really sick, people we love die. Real life is not always ordered, not always smooth, and the pieces do not always fit together.

Real life is messy. A normal, real, everyday life is full of mistakes, blunders, interruptions and disorder. That is the reality that we should open our eyes to each and every day.

I was at church recently, when the order of the service was … altered. Something unscripted, unpredicted, un-orderly happened.

As the pastor (have I ever mentioned how cute my pastor is? AND I get to sleep with him! … but, I digress) was preaching about how we are not condemned for our sins, because God provided the way to be redeemed (saved). After making a statement about that, there way an immediate, joy-filled “amen” that came from the congregation. The “amen” did not come from someone in church leadership, it did not come from one of the wonderful church foodies or worship leaders, it was not uttered by one of our more charismatic members, it did not even come from a pastor’s wife.

The “amen” came from a little boy. A little boy of about six years old. A little boy who has special needs.

Now this little boy is, as my grandmother would say, “cute as a button.” He is full of love, and energy, and is not inhibited in any way, or at any time. As cute and as joyful as he is, he has special needs. And, as one who gets paid to work with students with special needs, parenting him is more stressful, more demanding, more un-orderly. His parents awaken, every day, knowing that their human desire for order will be obliterated as soon as the day begins.

And, despite the fact that he is a walking, talking, chaos-causing conduit of disorder, he was able to hear the good news that God gives through the redemption available to us. He blessed the entire congregation by his impulsive, disorderly, “amen”.

And, he humbled at least one, silent, pastor’s wife, who was sitting there, content in her orderly state.

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From my searching, I have discovered that a creed is a statement (confession or opinion) of beliefs of an individual or group.

For me, a creed can only start one way … I believe. From those two words come the expression of the worldview of a person, a family and/or a group of people.

It is a good thing to consider what it is that you, that we, believe. And, it is good to write it down. Somehow in writing our beliefs down, what we believe becomes more clear, more intimate, and more of a challenge to fulfill in our lives.

I discovered the beauty of this practice a few years back when I was working on a Worldview course. After studying what a worldview is, after looking at the creeds of old, after many (many, many) hours of reading about the things to consider when uncovering ones worldview, I came to believe that this is a practice that all should do. The process was freeing, it was revealing, it was foundational for how I wanted to live my days.

Now my creed does not speak as eloquently as the much older Apostle’s or Nicene Creeds, which date back (it is believed) as far back as the middle of the second century and around 325AD, respectfully. It does though, speak to what I see as important in my life.

It is a challenge, and might even reawaken brain cells that have not been utilized for awhile, to sit down with paper and pen (I suggest pencil … you will make mistakes) or at your keyboard, and start writing what it is that you believe.

Start with how the world started.

How life begins.

What is important to you.

What motivates you.

What you hope to accomplish in your life or what you want said of you at your funeral.

What is worth dying for.

This is an exercise worth getting down on paper. It could change how we treat others, how what we do with our time, and could change how we live our lives.

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This is another post in a series, about a woman named Amara. Every Friday I will post another segment in this story.

As Joy sat at the kitchen table, providing as much information as she could think of to the police officer, she was feeling an increase in numbness of her entire body, including her mind. The effort it took her to focus on the officer’s questions while, at the same time searching her mind for possible places her mother might have gone, was greater than any she had exerted in her life.

“Mrs. Jackson, since your mother has the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease there was no waiting to officially start searching. We have had announcements of her disappearance airing on the radio for the last hour. The other officers have gone to all of your neighbors in a one mile radius, but we have had no leads. It is now five hours since you spoke with her on the telephone. We will now start checking the wooded areas, with a search team to see …”

“That’s it!” Joy shouted, coming out of the trance-like state that she had been slipping into. Oh, why didn’t I think of that before? There is a clearing in the wooded area just up the street, on the north side of the road, about a mile in. My parents took me there when I was young. It was special to them, to us.” As the words were passing Joy’s lips, she was recalling the clearing, and being there at times when the sun was pouring down on them through the trees.

“Can you describe exactly where you think your mother might be?’ Officer Joseph asked.

“Couldn’t I just come and lead you?” Joy was desperate to do something other than have to think.

“Mrs. Jackson, if really would be most helpful if you stay here, so that when your mother is found, you are easy to reach.” The officer was friendly, but firm enough that Joy did not press further to lead the way. She then proceeded to give specific directions to the special area in the woods.

In no time at all, there was a search party dispatched, and Joy was no longer needed.

It was now almost two in the morning. Her girls were sleeping in the spare rooms. They looked so peaceful, so relaxed, as they slumbered on in their dreams. Joy felt nothing even close to relaxed. She felt fearful, she felt she had no control. At this point Joy was not sure what was worse, the fear of her mother being missing, or the thought of not being in control.

As she returned to living room, from checking on her daughters, she glanced at the photos all around the room. Those photos told the story of her mother’s life, the story of Joy’s own life.

On the mantel were pictures of her entire family. There was the family picture from when she was just five. This was the picture that came to Joy’s mind whenever she thought of her family. It was taken before Joy had come to first face death, it was before her big brother Jacob got sick, it was before her vast amounts of time with her grandparents, it was her childhood … before.

That picture had been taken on a sunny spring day. Her mother had been given a free photo session in town, and none of the family had wanted to dress up and go have pictures taken. So her dad had promised that if everyone went with a good attitude, he would purchase fried chicken on the way home, and they would hike to their precious spot in the woods to have the first picnic of the year.

Oh what fun they had that day. Even the photo session was more joyous, knowing what was to come. They laughed more than Joy ever remembered before, or especially since that day. She and Jacob skipped their way through the shaded parts of the hike. Her mother and father walked along, smiling. She had even caught them holding hands while they sat and picnicked in the clearing. Joy could remember giggling when she pointed to her parents hands, clasped in the others. She giggled, and Jacob gagged. Oh what sweet, sweet memories.

Then, as they sat there, laughing and enjoying the time together, the clouds opened up, and poured down a cool, sunlit, spring rain shower on them. They giggled all the more, as they packed up their picnic, and ran for the cover of the wooded area. They then stood under the trees, and watched the beautiful water and light show. The rains had not even stopped fully when the biggest, and brightest rainbow appeared in the sky.

“Family, that rainbow is a sign of good things to come,” Joy’s father said, with the biggest smile on his face. He had turned to her mother, and Joy could still remember the way they looked at each other.

“I believe you said that just a few years ago, my dear, when you brought me here to steal my heart forever,” Joy’s mother replied, “you do remember the rainbow then?”

“I could never forget it. It was a good sign then, and it is an even better sign now,” and then he grabbed his wife’s hand, and kissed it.

Joy and Jacob then worked their way in between their parents, and into a big family hug.

Joy could almost re-live the inner warmth of that moment. It is almost as though the world stopped, as their family shared a time of love and closeness that was one in a million. It was the last moment they shared together in that way. Everything changed just a few weeks later, when her brother was found to have …

“Mrs. Jackson, we found your mother. Mrs. Jackson, wake up, we found her.”

Joy was being pulled from the slumber she did not realize she had slipped in to, by the voice of the police officer who had been stationed at the house with her. Joy opened her eyes, feeling so very disoriented.

“We found her.” The police officer’s face sad that she shared the relief that Joy would as well. “We found her, right where you lead us to look.”

Unfading – Part 1

Unfading – Part 10

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Archaic … my kids would say I am not getting there, but that I am there already.

Although I would only say that I recognize that I am on the road to being archaic, I have to say that I am not enjoying some of the changes that my body and mind have been encountering over the past few years, and, as I look to the future, I am even less encouraged.

My acknowledgment of ‘time moving along,’  all started on my thirtieth birthday (over a decade ago … gulp), when I went to have highlights done in my hair. I had this sweet young thing as a stylist. You know, the kind that is … perky … everywhere (finger down throat), and she was maybe twenty-two. As we were discussing what I wanted to have done, she says, “I’ll put a little extra highlights in the back where you have the most gray hair.” Well Happy Birthday to me … I never knew before that sweet young thing decided to ‘help’ that I had ANY gray hair!

Truly, since that day, it has all been downhill. I mean that literally, because ALL of my body parts seem to migrating south! If this trend continues, I will be wearing thongs on my feet that were never intended to be worn on my feet. In addition to the real effects of gravity on my physical body, is the physical growth of my children to much greater heights than dear old mom. They are looking further down on me every day!

There are also the changes to my cosmetics. I used to just wash my face at night, now I apply firming cream … I am thinking that the jar it comes in should be closer to the size of milk containers we purchase, because I need to apply it much lower than just my chin! Maybe someone could invent an apparatus that sort of airbrushes it onto your entire body?

Then there is my clock. At a time of life when my kids are ready to chat at midnight, my body and mind start on the shut down process at about eight o’clock in the evening. Just last night, while out for coffee with one daughter, she said, “Mom, you are really quiet.” To which I replied, “my dear my brain cells are so tired I cannot find two to rub together that are alert enough to create the necessary ‘synapsing’ to fire up a thought or opinion.” Added to that, sleeping in means I sleep until after seven, rather than before six.

My memory, which I have always prided myself on, seems to be slipping too. I seem to constantly be saying to hubby, “you never told me that,” to which he always replies, “yes I did.” Hum, maybe this one is not related to MY aging, but his. Afterall he is older than me … always has been, always will be … and for that, I am thankful 😉 .

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Today, February 29, 2012 (where I live), is Pink Shirt Day (pinkshirtday). It is a day when we are encouraged to wear a pink shirt, in support of the movement to stop bullying. I LOVE this day! I LOVE the outward expression to say, I will not tolerate bullying. Somehow, in putting on a pink shirt, says that you give bullying more than just lip service, but that you are willing to show how you feel, and think, publicly.

I will be wearing pink today.

We have all experienced bullying. Whether it was ‘just’ a little teasing when you were in preschool, or outright threats against your life, as a teen, you still remember it. You still remember where you were, what you were doing, who was with you, and maybe even what you were wearing. And you remember all of this because the bullying caused a trauma in your brain, and the scar of it’s bruising is permanent.

That is how bullying works, it is permanent. Even those who think that we make too much of bullying, can recall with perfect memory, a time when they were bullied. Maybe they feel it strengthened their character, maybe they feel it did not alter the course of their lives, and maybe they are right … but they do still remember it.

I love that media sources are fully behind this movement to eliminate bullying. But … I am not sure that they are fully committed to it.

Anyone who has heard news sources speak of pro athletes, celebrities, or other world personalities, knows that their presence in our society makes them fodder for harassment, gossip, and denigration. Somehow, in our society, we have decided that bullying is bad, but only if the one who gets bullied is not rich.

I disagree. How many wealthy public personalities have suffered at the hands of the stalking and bullying media? How many have lost their right to privacy? How many have lost their physical lives? The ‘reason’ for the bullying that they receive is usually that, they are public figures, and this is just the downside to all the perks that they get. Hum, if a student council president got bullied, would the bullier be able to use that excuse to justify his/her behavior? I think not.

Our media seems to have a Teflon coating. They seem to be able to dish out the harassment, gossip and denigration, but it is never their responsibility for what they say. They would say that they are simply giving the public what we want to know, about these famous people. As though it is our (or the media’s) right to invade the lives of others.

There is truth to their argument, too. The TV shows, the magazines, the websites, and the pictures of famous people that we ingest as a society are extensive. We seem, as a society, to have an insatiable appetite for the joys, sorrows and downfalls of the famous.

Maybe we need to not buy those magazines, watch those programs, subscribe to those websites that feature pictures and stories of individuals. We need to recognize the reality that bullying has probably been done to get the pictures, and the stories are often full of presumptions, and ‘anonymous’ tips from ‘insiders’. Maybe we need to take responsibility for our ‘second hand bullying’ by viewing and reading these materials.

Maybe wearing a pink shirt, while denigrating the players on our favorite sports team, or reading the latest on ‘Brangelina’ in a magazine is actually rather … hypocritical? Maybe we need to start looking at celebrities through the same lens that we would want to be viewed. Maybe we need to “do to others as we would want them to do to us” (Luke 6:31) … THAT is the golden rule that would end bullying forever, and for everyone!

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Normally I do not think of my errors as regrets, but as mistakes that have taught me, and have caused me to grow. Lately, though, a regret from the past has been … haunting me. I awake, and think of it. I lay my head down at night, and think of it.

The regret I refer to is one that, if I were to speak of it when face to face with another, my eyes would tear up, my throat would swell, and my sorrow be felt throughout my body. My regret is for an error I made, when I did not speak up for someone who was being taken advantage of, someone who was being harassed, someone who was being bullied. I … regret my lack of action.

This regret is not one from my distant past. It is not one from my childhood or teen years. It is not from when my kids were little. It is a full blown adult regret. I could have stood up for another, I should have stood up for another, and I didn’t.

I expect that there is purpose in my remembering it lately. Maybe, the lesson for me is that I need to ensure that I never repeat my inaction. I need to ensure that I do not keep silent when I see or hear others being bullied. I need to be on the lookout for times when I might be able to speak up, for those who are being treated poorly.

When I think of my learning this lesson, I think of Isaiah 43:18-19 (to the right). Although I could never forget the regret I actively feel for my past mistake, I believe that God is doing something new in my heart, and in my life through the practice of not remaining silent. And with each action I take, I feel new, I feel renewed … as though by turning away from my past lack of action, I am being refreshed like a dried up river being watered in a dry wasteland.

Doing what is right … it can be hard to make the first step, but, once you do it, you (and, for me, the person you are speaking up for) will be energized by your right action.

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A few weeks past we had a group of friends over to watch the Superbowl. It was a fun day of eating (too much), talking, laughing and even a bit of watching the game. One of the families that we had over, has a son named Ben, who is six. We also have a son named Ben, who is twelve.

I love it when ‘Big Ben’ and ‘Little Ben’ (as we call them, and as they call each other) are together. I am not sure what it is about Little Ben that brings out a different side, a sweeter, more nurturing, more patient side of our Big Ben. It is as though there is an invisible force between these two boys that draws them together.

Our Ben wants to play with Little Ben, and is willing to play what Little Ben wants. He also loves to teach Little Ben new things, or show him cool videos. We do tell our older kids, when visitors with younger ones are coming over, to make sure that they feel comfortable and welcomed, but Big Ben’s responses to Little Ben are tender, kind and he is eager to be with him. There is just something ‘kindred’ in how they relate to each other.

Maybe it is that they share a name, or maybe it is that they are both youngest, or maybe it is because they are both the only sons in the family. Whatever it is that brings them together like opposite ends of magnets, I do not know, but I feel energized, encouraged and pleased to see them together.

Seeing Ben and Ben together reminds me that it is not always when we are with our ‘natural’ (similar aged) peers that we shine the brightest. They do not always tap the best in us. They do not always make us better.

As the mom of the bigger Ben, I am so proud of how he treats Little Ben. I am reminded of the good that he can share with others, and I see a glimpse of who he is in the eyes of God. And, in His words, Ben is my (beloved) son, and in him I am well pleased.

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