My Aching Womb...

I don't mean to be greedy, LORD...

But if You will give me the strength and health to do it again, I will. After all, I'm not quite as old as Sarah, and Jim isn't near as old as Abraham.

I know I should be grateful for the ones I've had...and have...and I am--but how could I not want to do it all over again when I come across a moment like this?

Dumpling and Cuddlebug, 2003

Happy Birthday To Me: 40 Going on 5

Today, I am 40. I don't care who knows. It is what it is--and I'm still figuring that out.

Sometimes I pause at my reflection and think, "Wow. I'm the grown up. I'm the grown up? That can't be right."

The hair is noticeably graying. The liver spots (do we still call them "liver spots?") started to show up last year. The metabolism halted, almost to the day, when I turned 38. Arthritis has settled into my heels so that I can tell you if it's going to rain tomorrow, even if I can't walk right sometimes.

I hope I've honed the skill of expressing a strong opinion without venturing into the unbecoming arena of dogmatism. It may still not be pretty, but hopefully leaves room for others to work out their salvation somewhere other than in the darkness of my shadow.

I know that there are fewer things I'm willing to take a stand against, but I'm much more willing to risk it all for the few things that are worth it.

Strangely, somehow, the more I experience, the less I know. That's not to say age doesn't bring wisdom, because it certainly does. But it would seem that wisdom says, "You don't know as much as you thought you knew."

Age=wisdom=humility. And it took the last 5 years for that equation to move the 18 inches from my head to my heart. I'm wise enough now to know that the coming years, Lord willing, will teach me many more things that--right now--I don't even know there are to learn.

There is something else about turning 40. Something that surprises me.

It would seem that there is still a hurt little girl living inside my wrinkling skin. Though she is surrounded by a most supportive and loving husband and the 3 sweetest girls she has ever known--still she must pray for the grace to delight in the Lord. More love to thee, oh Lord. More love to thee.

She struggles with the pain of rejection. And it is made more profound by the silence that meets her on a day like this one--not just any other day. He was despised and rejected of men. But she is yielded to it, knowing that by it, she is being conformed to His image. That I may know Him and the fellowship of His sufferings.

She wants more than anything to be able to shake the dust; to let the dead bury their dead; to know how to honor.

But instead she prays to find that sweet spot where her Heavenly Father's care assuages her pining for the one whose love she cannot have. When my mother and father forsake me, the Lord will take me up.

Because in Him, she has promises. Promises uttered by the mouth of God, Who created everything from nothing and had compassion enough to give all to buy her back from death and hell when she betrayed Him. He loves her. And by His grace, she loves Him back. She can trust Him. He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock.

He will never leave her; never ignore her, never choose favorites above her. I will never leave thee nor forsake thee. She cannot be written out of His inheritance. No one can snatch them from His hand.

With Him, she can be. And then be forgiven for it.

He is lifting her head now, and she is looking around at the beauty of the day He has made. She is deciding to rejoice and be glad in it.

And so, I am off to take her and my lovelies to the zoo.

Estranged

It's a sad state, isn't it?

10 years ago, when we were awakened to walk with the Lord, Husband made the very difficult decision to be honest with his favorite brother about our change of mind--indeed, our strong conviction--to reassign custody of our (then only) daughter to my God-fearing, Bible-believing, aunt and uncle. Two years earlier, when Fifi was but an infant and we were still lost, we looked around at our relations and saw only one semblance of a family unit amongst any of them: a young-ish, happy couple who had wanted children, but never had any of their own.

They said yes. We were relieved. We had put this duck in a row, and life went on as usual.

Unknown to us, they had received it as a great honor, and they began investing in Fifi's life through heartfelt notes, gifts of beautiful literature, cute clothing and even the occasional trip north and east to spend time with our small family two states away. This couple had always been our favorite, and it was wonderful to have them so interested and involved.

But we didn't know how tenuous was the relationship, really, until the dread night when Husband told them the news of our decision.

We thought they loved Fifi. But really they only loved the idea of Fifi.

Their pain was so deep; their wound so raw; their ignorance of our reason so profound, that Husband's brother has not spoken to us in any way, shape or form, since.

I take that back. He did respond with a letter last time Husband wrote to say we were coming to town to visit their mother, and wouldn't he please reconsider? The letter was so powerful that had Husband not been sure, sure, sure deep down in his heart that he had done the only thing he could do in reassigning custody of our daughter, his brother's words might well have killed him.

So, we live with it. The other brother lives between it, as does their mother.

And so do our girls.

As happens completely randomly sometimes, tonight, Dumpling asked Fifi from the back seat of the car, "Fifi? What's the name of the man who doesn't want to talk to us?"

She again wondered why, and we told her as delicately as we could. We told her that our choice about "emergency parents" had hurt Uncle's feelings very, very badly.

She wondered if he even knew that she was alive?

We assured her that he did--he surely knew about both Dumpling and Cuddlebug. I even told her that if it weren't for her parents, he'd probably like very much to meet her.

Wait a minute. Wait. a. minute.

I mulled that over quietly for a moment and realized within myself what a cop-out that is! We've not stopped them from writing, calling or having a relationship with their nieces for all these years! They have simply chosen hate and pride over even the simplest, most superficial contact with these girls.

And that's too bad for them. Or so I spend the next few minutes trying to convince Dumpling. I tell her how sorry I am because it isn't fair to her, it isn't right, and it isn't how a grown-up ought to act; and maybe we ought to consider that maybe a grown-up who behaves so unfairly isn't a grown-up that we want to know anyway?

But of course--she does. That's why Jesus loves the little children.

I remind her of the Scripture that comforts us about having to leave mother and father and sister and brother for the sake of Christ, "He promises us an hundredfold, and haven't we seen that in our new church? Aren't we so thankful for Mr. and Mrs. S? And the Ms who love us? And the Ls? And the Gs? And, of course, Pastor and his wife who love you girls? Don't we see the Lord raising up people to be a family to us?"

There is a only a reluctant, "yes," from the backseat.

We park the car and it is late. In a single file line, everyone heads up the short, narrow walk to the front door with Husband in the lead, but Dumpling hangs back by the tree where the walk intersects the driveway. She has something to say to me. And when the little girl who sometimes has trouble finding her words wants to talk instead of stuffing it down--I listen.

"You know what, Mommy? I would give up all those other people for just one uncle who loved me."

*ouch*

Well, truth be told, she does have another uncle that loves her--in Husband's other brother, but that's not what this innocent 8 year old means. She wants that Uncle who wants nothing to do with her, and none of my reminding her of others is assuaging the grief.

And it gets worse.

Moments later, the little girl who sometimes has trouble finding her words is now trying very hard to stuff down her feelings. I can see it in the her right eye--it is just barely welling. I ask her what's wrong and pull her onto my lap where she buries her head in my neck and cries for a loss she can't wrap her mind around.

And all I can do is hold her. And sympathize. I take her little face in my hands and look long into those warm brown eyes and tell her that if she hurts, she is not alone. Her daddy hurts too. The Uncle who doesn't want to know her, is daddy's own brother. How might she feel if when she grew up, Fifi never wanted to speak to her again? It's unfathomable; God forbid it! But that is his reality.

Thankfully, the camaraderie seemed to soothe her a bit.

And right then, a broken part of me quietly prayed--and still prays--about how we'll explain to them someday, the other estrangements with which we have dealt. Sad estrangements that have come by way of the destructive hands of others, not our own. Estrangements that didn't have to be. Estrangements that are simply evil ripened in the hands of the lost.

Vainty--the Locust that Ate My High School Years

Me, class of '86. Two hours hair and make-up--no wonder I never learned to play an instrument.

The Same Red Dress

Fifi and Daddy. Circa 2005

At 9 1/2, Fifi was about 2 years older than Dumpling was on her big night. I took the neck line apart and raised it up a couple of inches for the younger. I'll probably do it again for Cuddlebug in the next couple of years. Or next.

The dress was a thrift store find. If I remember right, it was $3.00.

Don't hate me because I'm thrifty.

Not-So-Wordless-Wednesday: Naaman

This picture is of time well spent last March. The flannel background was painted by my dear saint of a grandmother who passed decades ago, but whose work continues to this day, to bring the joy of Bible stories to little ones.

Hers was a life well spent in many such ways.

And picking up her mantle has been my Aunt #1. Cuddlebug and Dumpling are wondering how she can make Naaman go into the water with leprosy and come up clean?! *whisper* I wondered too, until she told me. Because I'm a genius that way.

But I'll never tell. Well, probably I will if you guess it.

10 Years Ago Today...

...Husband and I lifted then-2-year-old Fifi into a large U-Haul packed with our every earthly possession, waved goodbye to the neighbors, and closed the chapter on one season of our lives to embark on another. We were leaving our sweet red-brick home in the Sugarhouse section of Salt Lake City, Utah for an extended stay hotel in the great unknown land of guayaberas, breakfast tacos and midday siestas: San Antonio, Texas.

Well, we were right about the breakfast tacos, anyway.

But let me back up.

Husband and I used to work in radio. On the glamorous side of the microphone. Only, really--it's not so glamorous at all. We always felt overworked and underpaid. And we rarely had the tools and promotional support we thought we needed to succeed.

But worst of all was the way we were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. That is to say that radio stations are always being bought and sold, coming under new management and being staffed with the new guy's friends and favorites. It's all very subjective. It's life on the airwaves at a commercial radio station.

I think I lost a job that way 2 or 3 times; Husband's career was longer, so he endured the dreaded shoe a couple of times more than that. Once on his birthday even! The last time was a few short days after Fifi turned 1 year old.

And then he was finished. Good riddance.

With an equity loan signed that very afternoon to help make the household ends meet, Husband started a very small but full-service music programming service. He had some good contacts, landed a couple of clients, but ultimately found that the business would not support us. Although a failure, that year was the best of his life. It was a gift he wouldn't have dared buy for himself had it not been thrust upon him that way; he saw his daughter's first steps and heard her first words. *sigh* I can still see him setting her in her navy-with-white-polka dots stroller and heading down the tree-lined sidewalk for a walk up to Einstein's Bagels on 15th and 15th.

After about 8 months, he took a job selling satellite t.v. systems to restaurants, retail and convenience stores. Actually, he only had to sign them up for a free trial to get a commission. Sometimes he scored, sometimes he couldn't give 'em away--literally. Then one day he came home and said that his boss had territory in San Antonio that no one was selling and did we want to move?

*I'm sorry...say that again?*

Bizarre as it sounded in the moment, we considered it. We had a house that had appreciated well during the real estate boom along the Wasatch Front, and we didn't have any compelling reason to stay in Utah: we hadn't any family and we weren't part of "the Church."

And then Husband went out in the company RV to live and sell and generally check it out for 5 weeks and was sold. Or led. Definitely led. And to remove the very last roadblock, the Lord arranged for the United States Congress to repeal the capital gains tax on property as we were making our decision. That allowed us to sell high, and buy lower here in Texas without having to forfeit 28% of the difference.

We're often amazed at our tunnel vision in the moment. Clearly the Lord wanted us here. We knew that the job we were coming out for was tentative at best, we had no family here, and every one of our things was neatly packed in a truck--we could have gone anywhere and been as well off.

It was a fun, stressful, exhilarating, tiring, happy, long journey. We were on the road for 3 1/2 days, in that time we left our mark on an awning in Moab with our giant truck, found that our 2 year old was teaching herself some pre-reading skills when she recognized the "Subway" sandwich shop sign wherever we went, and endured the worst excuse for the best Mexican food in town in Cuba, New Mexico.

No offense.

2 homes, 2 jobs, 10 years and 9 churches later--and we're so glad we're here. Come what may, we know that 2008 will be a good year because the Lord is for us, as He is, and will be, every year until there is no more linear time and we will glorify Him and enjoy Him forever after in eternity.

Maranatha and Happy New Year!

Hard-wired for the Headship of My Own Husband

One of the stories that my parents like best to remember of my childhood is the time when I was about the age Dumpling is now--seven--and took a plane to see one of my two sets of out-of-state grandparents. Apparently, something I said caused quite a stir amongst my two very liberated parents in the mid-70s. I can't say that I have a vivid recollection of the day, but when my parents spelled out the story to me 25 years later, I did sense a memory of a perception.

Does that make sense?

I think I remember how I felt...or I can almost step back into my 7-year-old self and know what I was thinking.

What was this crazy statement that so desperately needed correction, redirection, worry, and concern?

"When I grow up, I want to be a stewardess."

Well, actually, that wasn't the word that rocked Dad's world. See, to that, my dad interjected that, "you could be the pilot if you wanted to be."

But, of course, I couldn't think of one single reason why I should...want to, that is.

I answered his noble attempt at raising the son he never had by saying, "No, Daddy! The boys drive the plane; the girls serve the food."

Yeah. That did not go over well at all.

But I don't regret it. I think I know what I was feeling at the time. Having no ideas about money and status, careers and glass ceilings, I simply recognized the woman's "role" as the one to want. I mean, think about it: while the pilot was stuck sitting still and cramped in a tiny little closet for hours doing all the tedious button-pushing, the stewardess got to dress up pretty, she got to see and be seen, and she got to do fun stuff like offer pillows and serve the sodas.

What's not to like about that when you're a 7-year-old girl?

And despite their best efforts to talk it, walk it, and despise it out of me, my parents were not ultimately successful in raising a feminist.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I spent a fair number of years in the work-a-day world trying to be a feminist--thinking I was a feminist--mostly because that was the default setting in the 80s and 90s--without the finesse gained by maturity, I embarrassed myself with requisite shrill demands for "equal pay for equal work."

But you know what? Surprise! I never got it. I only got what every other foot-stomping, loud-mouthed, demanding, pedantic woman with a chip on her shoulder ever got: asked to leave.

Anyway, the interesting part of this memory for me is not that I used to think that the stewardess was the job to want, but that I still do. Well, no, I don't actually want to go out and get the job of a (I guess the p.c. term these days is) flight attendant. But the point is that the job of the stewardess is the servant job--the nurturing role, the caretaker requiring a measure of compassion. And I'm hard-wired that way; all women are. We were created for the distinct purpose of helping and keeping company with our husband, if we have one.

Even the secular world "gets that" with that landmark quote from the man to his estranged wife, "You complete me."

So, how is it that being deemed the completer--the weaker vessel--has become a shame to women?

In the garden, during the doling out of the curses, of course.

God cursed the serpent to slither on the ground and eat dirt all his days for his place in the fall. And snakes still do, indeed slither, don't they?

He cursed the man to work hard, and with frustration pick through thorns and thistles to get his food by the sweat of his brow. My husband's garden is overrun with all manner of unwelcome growth at this late date in the season, as a testament.

And to the woman was assigned the consequence of a painful childbirth (and some teach pregnancy and rearing as well) and...the clincher...an inherent need to be in charge over their husband, all the while being ruled by them according to God's ordination.

It's all there in Genesis 3. And if God says it, that's good enough for me.

But wait! Isn't it just like our Father to temper what we deserve with grace and mercy? Jesus came here to show us what headship is to look like. It isn't oppressive if you look at it through the filter of His Word.

God's ways are a delight. His yoke is easy. Headship--or "patriarchy" as it is called in some circles--is protective, and orderly and beautiful. But it will forever be misunderstood, scoffed at, and mocked by the world.

Expect it from them. I do.

But Christians?

9/11

We must remember--not for the dead as much as for those of us still alive. We ought not be lulled into a false sense of peace...because the Lord Jesus has yet to return to this place and rule from his literal, physical throne!

originally posted on Monday, September 11, 2006

Every generation of American fighting soldier is made by a moment in history that draws or drives us into war. For this American generation, a new fighting force was born out of what happened on the morning of September 11, 2001.

On that morning, I was the tired, bath-robed mother of a 6-year old and a 16-month old baby. It was a day like any other. I remember getting the same late start on the morning that I always got and catching news of the first plane while watching Matt Lauer and Katie Couric on NBC's Today Show. *What a terrible accident.* I puttered out to the kitchen over the cool saltillo tile and was at the sink when Husband alerted me to the news that would confirm the worst and change everything forever -- a second plane had hit the other tower.

From that moment, and for the rest of the week, night and day, I watched television. I must have fed my children too, but I don't really remember. I watched men and women in their business best covered in soot and ash and blood. They were sobbing, and if they weren't sobbing it was because they were bewildered -- literally. Surely nobody was strong enough to just be "cool" about what was happening to them.

Thousands upon thousands of New Yorkers were chased out onto the street to watch the hideous spectacle of two fires so high in the sky that there was really nothing that could be done.

They watched their anonymous neighbors jump and tumble to their deaths -- hand in hand sometimes -- rather than stand the excruciating heat. Isn't it odd to realize that there is no way to ever be sure which of the 3000 victims were driven to make that choice?

And then a third plane found its target at the Pentagon and an overwhelming sense of predator and prey settled into my bones.

It wasn't too long afterward that everything got worse. Matt Lauer caught sight of one of the towers falling. I remember he questioned aloud if part of the facade was falling off, but in reality the tower was imploding upon itself. Its twin would soon do the same. Now the people on the street were running for their lives.

It was incredible. It was unbelievable. As I watched the grey and black clouds of smoke rumble to life and chase people down and around corners through the streets of New York, I was awed at the capability of humans for such enormous destruction, and dumbstruck to know that all this was still. so. small. in His sight.

Up sprang dozens of bulletin boards on which thousands begged for someone to resurrect their loved one. So many posters and pictures of smiling faces with descriptions and phone numbers and pleas. Thousands and thousands of pictures. Too many to actually consider. If they were alive, they would come home -- that's all.

That evening, Fifi walked the 50 feet to our mailbox and placed in its flowerpot foundation a little flag given earlier in the summer by a realtor for promotion on the 4th of July. I don't know what she really understood, but it sparked in her a patriotism that continues to this day.

Many days later, I watched revival during the memorial service at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. I thought I watched revival. I hoped it was revival. But the humbling has run its course; as a nation, we're mostly back to normal.

I remember that it took me almost a week to wrap my mind around what happened that day. Husband reminds me that in the earliest hours of the tragedy, I asked him, "What's wrong? You look as if you've been blown up?" I honestly, simply didn't "get it" that there were real people in those planes when they plowed into those buildings, and real people in those buildings when they toppled to the ground. Living, breathing, hurting, terrified people. It was Tuesday.

I think it was Friday night when I finally understood. Really understood. Understood it at my core. The kids were asleep, the work week was finished, and I was free to feel the fullness of it all for the first time. I fell into my husband's strong arms and sobbed. Just sobbed.

For days afterward, the skies above this country were quiet. Once they began to fly again, it was weeks before I could stand to watch a plane in flight. They looked like giant bullets to me. I couldn't look. I couldn't help but imagine every one aiming for a nearby structure. That seemed more plausible to me than a safe landing.

In the midst of the destruction, innocents died, others fought to the death and some gave themselves as heros. They were women and children; flight attendants and husbands and students; paramedics, chaplains, peace keepers and fire fighters. And now, they are joined in the aftermath of patriotic indignation by brave young Americans who have been equipped by God and man to face the terrible unknown with skill and courage and commitment. And many of them die too.

Today, I do remember, and I feel grateful for their protection. Thank you, Soldier. Thank you grieving Widow. I'm so sorry for your loss, Orphan. I can't imagine your heartache, Mother -- or Dad. What more can I do for you to honor their memory? The Lord bless you.

top picture used by copyright permission by Larry Towell

How Grandpa Won Grandma

This is my lovely Aunt #1 sweetly sharing the story behind this accordian. Those were the days. Men were responsible. Women were chaste. Each made a vow and a promise and only at death did they part.

And So, We Must Take The Road More Traveled

When we first started walking with the Lord some odd 10 year ago, we did it the only way we had seen modeled for us. We attended a 3-times a week, suit and tie, 19th and early 20th century hymns, VBS hosting, "Good morning Brother!" Baptist church. It was sweet. Very sweet. Baptists are very welcoming. Hospitality is their gift.

When that church split in a very ugly way, we "baby believers" scooted gingerly along the wall until the coast was clear, and then ran as fast as we could to the other side of the pendulum swing.

Our new church was contemporary. Kind of yuppie. Once a week service with a small invitation-only ladies' study. Husband wanted to be there, and I was just barely mature enough in my faith to know the importance of submitting to my Husband's will in such matters. So we stayed. And I prayed. I prayed the Lord would turn my heart toward this church.

And then on Easter, in the middle of the service and from the front row with then-3-year-old Fifi by my side, I dared to pray for deliverance from this church. Our trust was broken that day by the strange and "relevant" way the congregation chose to remember the Lord's resurrection. I think it was meant to be an outreach play, but it was rife with marital strife, bickering, teen angst and attempted suicide.

Our next stop was a Presbyterian Church (of America) chock full of wise, committed believers dedicated to the reverent worship of God and building up of the Body in Scriptural Truth and understanding. Unfortunately for us at such an early stage in our Walk with God, while they were utilizing RC Sproul's Grace Unknown to prompt Sunday evening theology discussion, Husband and I looked at Fifi's extra-large, illustrated Children's Bible and only half-jokingly admitted that that was our level of theology at the time.

Well...it was that and the heavy emphasis on denominational tradition.

Which explains why our next stop was a non-denominational Bible church. Good, solid teaching happening there, and we sat under it on and off for about 5 years. But gradually over that time, we were disappointed to realize that the focus of the church was on its private academy for K-12. And we were homeschoolers. So we never really integrated well. And then the Lord showed us some other concerns that led us to...

The homechurch movement. Sometimes called family-integrated. Antagonists might even say cultish. We spent two years attending two different congregations where there were no Sunday schools, no children's chapel--not even a nursery. Children sit with parents and siblings. They color. They groom their dolls. If they're blessed, the speaker will be gifted and have something to offer on their level so they can hear the Word. Mostly they sit and practice attentiveness, and that's not a bad thing.

There is a fairly strong emphasis on patriarchy in these circles. And that, too, is not a bad thing. It's scriptural. It's orderly. I appreciate that. But, what we've come to recognize in this environment is that for some, the family-integration and patriarchal commitment is overbearing. Dare I say: an idol.

How can I say that?

Well, it's not because the fathers and husbands are making choices for their families that mine wouldn't make or that I don't agree with. That's their business. Not mine.

But when another women's husband makes choices for their family that inevitably become choices for our family, then it has become my business. And Husband and I have decided that we're tired of it.

There isn't really anything to do about it. Ultimately, if others want to make non-essential, unnecessary patriarchal decisions for their families, that's their prerogative. But when those decisions bleed over and start making choices for our family, it's our prerogative to cut our losses and invest our time and emotion somewhere else.

So. We're back. Been there; done that. We've moved back to church in a conventional setting, and it's good. But we've taken some of what we've learned along the way, with us. More often than not, the girls sit, sing and worship in our company. But not always. There is room for them to be mentored and make meaningful connections with other trusted adults who have taken the initiative to know us.

Youth groups? I can't imagine. But never say never.

All the while, the girls know that in our family--family comes first. Loyalty to sisters comes above popularity. Honoring God comes before the pursuit of our own pleasure. Obedience to parents is an expression of obedience to God.

But I think that all of these things can be accomplished without sewing the members of our family together at the hip. That, of course, is meant to be figurative, but given the nature of the movement, I thought I'd better make that clear. Nobody is actually sewing themselves to one another.

At least I haven't noticed the thread.

And one new thing I learned. It made me a little sad when it was expressed to me by a very kind and wise man in our new church one day a couple of months ago. It would seem that in the pursuit of family-integrated, protective, unified bliss--people are being hurt. Perhaps some people inside the family, to be sure--but to my surprise, it's the people outside the family that are left to feel snubbed, rejected and left out. The family-integrated church movement isn't allowing for reasonably-supervised and meaningful fellowship amongst the young men or the young women who have proved themselves trustworthy, and it's not providing ample mentorship opportunities between the old and the young and the very young. But mostly, it's not giving anyone a chance to be of use. And the very best way to share Jesus with others or to build up believers and spur them on to good work is to let them be of use.

Jesus did. I wrote about it here.

It Would Be So Nice If Y'all Weren't Here

It was a common refrain in my own head last weekend. But first, a little background...

For about six or seven years, it has been my great pleasure to drive north to the Dallas area to honor Aunt #1 for her birthday. She is the curator of the family museum. While others reside there too, she is the one who maintains the homestead my grandfather built -- and I don't mean he hired a contractor. I mean he held a hammer in his hand, and took a nail from between his pursed lips, put it to the wood and built. his. house. He built it for his young bride and budding family way back in the 40s.

When men were strong. And women were virtuous. And children had respect for their elders.

In the early years of this birthday tradition I started, my efforts unwittingly ruffled a few feathers amongst other family members who only thought to stake a claim on her day at the very last minute (which is to say they didn't bother to call her to invite her to lunch until I had already driven the 200+ miles and settled into the guest room upstairs). But this isn't about that.

At first, the trips were truly all about my lovely Aunt and her birthday. Though I must admit how easily I grew to love spending the night in her home where there is no television and no easily-available internet access.

It is so quiet there. One can hear the Lord in a place like that.

And it surely doesn't hurt any to be awakened in the morning to the sound of her hymn-playing on the piano, or to descend the heavy wooden stairs that are said to have been salvaged from my great, great Aunt's girls' school and installed by my grandfather; there, I am greeted for the day by two of the kindest women I know, just up off their knees after making supplication to their Savior for this day.

When I make this trip, I sleep upstairs in the tiny room my Aunt shared with her younger sister once upon a time, and imagine my father and his older brother in the room right next door. I think about the stories I've heard from those days so many years ago. There's the story of two brothers who couldn't agree on the room temperature and would try to stay awake past the other to either open or close the window to his own liking. I used to like to note the scratching on the door to the boys' room that commanded, "No Girls Allowed," but it's since been replaced, to my chagrin.

I love to move slowly and bend lowly to view the few picture collages that still hang on the guest room walls; I remember my cousins and me the way we were before college or career, husband, hardship and homeschooling.

But perhaps my favorite thing of all is to stand at the top of the landing where there is a window said to be the very one my father would throw open and toss his shoes from in a vain attempt to shush the rooster that awoke him every morning. I'm guessing that is funnier now than it was then.

It didn't take many years of making this trip to realize what a refreshment it was to my soul. A woman who loves her children deeply and spends nearly every waking minute with them can surely benefit from an annual round-trip, solo turn at the wheel. To awaken refreshed to hit the road while it's still morning -- to listen to my favorite roadtrip music at full volume with no need to hear or listen or answer or acknowledge *sigh* it's just nice, that's all.

But this year, for some inexplicable reason, Husband didn't have a peace about me making the trip up the I-35 all by myself. Husband is not a bossy man. If he has a caution, I heed it -- and not only because I'm called to submit, but because I believe the Lord works to protect me through the covering of my authority -- my husband. And I trust his judgment completely.

Husband can also be pretty generous. I know he thought he would rather stay home and scrape the popcorn texture off our bedroom ceiling, but instead he graciously drove the 5 of us to my Aunt's home where we would join the party Friday night and then cater breakfast in for them Saturday morning. Whole grain pancakes, fresh mixed berries, syrup, whipped cream and scrambled eggs on the side. Yum, if I do say so myself.

So, we left on a Friday during the 1:00 hour, swept through Austin with relative ease and then arrived in Temple. Now, Temple is roughly the half-way mark, but on this day it would hold us up for nearly 90 minutes. Parked. People getting out of their cars to see what they could see. Folks four-wheeling down and over the median to make a new route (but we're in our bread-box of a minivan with a low bumper and undercarriage, so we're not following).

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

We have no idea what is going on up ahead -- or how far ahead something is going on. There are prayers spoken for the carnage that must have happened.

An hour and a half later we're thinking that there had better be some carnage up there because if this is TXDOT closing lanes for construction, one (or all of us) is going to have a fairly spectacular hissy fit! When we finally got moving, we saw nothing. No accident -- but no barricades either, so we're guessing we were parked so long so they could clean up the horror of whatever happened.

When I've made this trip by myself, it has taken anywhere from 4 1/2 to 5 hours. So far we've been on the road that long and then some, and we're still 2 hours away!

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

We traveled on, and after calling my Aunt with our regrets about the party that we clearly wouldn't make, we stopped at a Chili's and ordered up some dinner. What large portions! Had we known, we would have ordered half as much and saved twice the money.

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

And then, half way through the dinner she had pined for so desperately in the car, Dumpling decided she couldn't eat. She was tired. I was sure she was about to loose what little dinner she did ingest.

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

Thankfully, she didn't become ill. She truly was just so tired. If we didn't get her to the hotel and onto the fold-out couch fast, we were going to be stuck sopping up a little puddle of 6 year old. When we finally did make it to the room, we got a chance *can you hear the sarcasm* to count it all joy (because sometimes joy is a choice, not a circumstance) when the electronic key for the room lost its charge as we tried to unload the van, and the commode required plunging -- not once, but twice (or was it thrice?). I finally got wise on that one and sanitized the seat so that my darlings could feel free to stop building their little nests with wads and wads of paper.

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

As part of my hotel tuck-'em-into-bed routine, I gave the scary mommy lecture about how truly filthy the bedspread was, "so DON'T TOUCH it!" I checked for bed bugs. I gave the girls closest to the A/C unit the warmer blanket and laid my tired self into a bed that was clearly made up for someone 5 foot tall. I'm 5'8". Husband is 6'3". But, hey! Cuddlebug was comfortable in between us.

*It would be so nice if y'all weren't here...*

Never before has a verse rang so wonderfully true for me as it did that next sunrise:

It is through the LORD'S mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not.

They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:22-23

Which is to say that His mercies are new every morning. And it gets better from here. So much better.

We showered, dressed and made our way to Aunt #1's home after a quick detour to Starbucks and then the Walmart Supercenter for fruit, eggs and other fixins. It was a beautiful morning and the house was so lovely. So filled with light -- and Light. It is just nice to be in the company of Aunt #1 and Tia.

First thing, she took her great-nieces out to see the hens and a rabbit and they collected eggs; I remember overhearing discussion about whether to wash the egg with or without soap. After an hour or so, we all enjoyed a delicious brunch together and we eagerly listened to the newest information she had on nutrition and supplements.

Later, Aunt #1 pulled out the flannel-graphs and backdrops painted by her mother so many decades ago and told my girls the story of Naaman and the little servant girl who told her master about the man of God, Elijah. The girls all tried to figure out how she made the paper Naaman dunk in the water and come up cured!

Later, they listened to Fifi play her violin. And we talked. And we felt so loved, and hope they did too.We five -- who can too easily sap any room of all its energy if we stay too long -- left after a few hours ("Leave 'em wanting more!" is our motto) and visited the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza because that's where Fifi is in her study of history.

That evening, we caught up with Aunt #2 and Uncle -- you never met a couple who doted on babies better than this one! Of course, we don't have any babies anymore. But Aunt #2 did sweetly pull from her hat, a wonderful meal to share with us and we caught up on some of the changes that have happened in both our families over the near 6 years since we almost completely lost touch. Their nest is empty now. It was very different. Not sad, just different.

The next morning, we attended services at a Bible Church in North Texas, whose Pastor has been a family friend since my conversion in 1997. In our frequent search for a church in our own home town, we've momentarily considered committing to the 5-hour drive -- each way -- to hear Pastor preach. But we're not so completely crazy. We hear him when we can, and he never disappoints. We're encouraged and convicted, and always so glad to have been there.

And then they feed us. Every time we head up that way, we offer to take Pastor's family out for a meal, and every time, his Titus 2 wife is ready with a meal in the oven or the crockpot. She's amazing and I'm not kidding!

This time was especially humbling considering the week they had, and the one for which they were gearing up. Travel, lots of travel -- and time away from one another. But they sandwiched us in, which is better than I'd have thought to do given a minute to think about it -- and I told them so.

As our trip wound to a close and we hit the road under threat of torrential rain and lightning that evening, I reflected on how very much we did on this trip. As a family, we visited with so many of our favorite people.

And I think I was able to say -- honestly -- that it was really nice that they all were here.

Dear Me in 1982,

You are about to embark on a very important 4 years: high school. You're supposed to make lots of decisions that will set the course for your life. Nobody is going to make those choices for you, or grab you by the hand and lead you to a decision. You are going to have to get involved.

When they call you for that one and only meeting with your high school counselor, act interested. Ask questions. Find out. Sign up. Make a follow-up appointment. Do not let yourself slip through the cracks because you're lazy and passive that way.

I know you feel very lonely. You don't know it on a conscious level yet, but it's true and it drives you to befriend people who, while they make you feel included, really aren't good for you at all. You would do well to just befriend yourself, study hard, set goals and ignore the guys. I wish I could tell you who to hang out with that might share Jesus with you, but if there are any Christians in high school, they're being pretty quiet about it.

When you go to Dona G.'s good-bye breakfast at Coco's your sophomore year, the waitress is going to ask you how you want your eggs. Don't say, "fried." It's either poached, scrambled, or a specific "doneness" of fried, i.e., over-easy, over-medium, sunny-side up.

And when you have that horribly embarrassing accident in your lavender pants in 9th grade science class, and it sends you to the nurse's office for a change of clothes -- that IS an emergency. Call your mother home from her job at the post office. Let her figure it out. She's the parent; let her rise to the calling. Stop acting like an orphan.

And do you think you might find it in your busy, busy schedule to write a thank you note to the aunts and grandparents that faithfully acknowledge your existence every birthday and Christmas? Stop being such an ungrateful teenager. You make me so embarrassed.

Don't give up on school. Read more. Look into some of the academic clubs that you don't even know exist. You don't need popularity, you need passion.

When Joe invites you to the homecoming dance, skip it because it's giving your mother a coronary. Yes, she's being a hypocrite, but have some compassion -- she can't help herself.

When Daryl starts to pay attention to you, be careful. He's going to steal your heart and shatter it in a million little pieces that will take you years and years to pick up.

When Chad takes you out in his fabulous Z28, know that he, too, is going to squash you like a bug eventually. Maybe don't chase him away by laying claim to him with that engraved keychain that says, "You're mine, babe." Yeah.

Enjoy your singing career with Tony. Don't get attached to him though; he's going to New York with Linda, and he'll work on Broadway for decades to come.

When Kevin invites you to prom your senior year, skip it.

You're about to discover yourself in the music department. Enjoy it, but don't be surprised that there are politics at work, even amongst the teachers at the expense of the students. Don't be suicidal about it.

When you have to choose between the student council and concert choir your senior year, choose the choir.

And do your best singing the national anthem before the baseball games your senior year. Your dad is outside the stadium waiting to give you a ride home, and he's choking up at the sound of your song; he'll tell you about it -- but not for another 15 years.

And stop smoking. You're a good vocalist, but if you take better care of your instrument, you might be great! Talk to your director about your potential, your future and the possibilities -- otherwise you will leave high school completely ignorant, as did I. And your music will be lost for decades.

And when you check out the radio broadcast trade school -- enroll! Even though it's a sham. Even though some of the teachers are not worth the time it takes to attend the classes. Even though you're pretty sure the administration is scooping up homeless people to get the government grants. Enroll!

Your perfect match -- your soul mate -- is waiting for you there, and you are going to be so loved all the days of your life. You're going to live a blessed existence with him and raise three of your favorite people ever. Marry him. You won't regret it.

Love,
You, 25 years later



Thanks for the idea, Connie!

Remembering That Day

Every generation of American fighting soldier is made by a moment in history that draws or drives us into war. For this American generation, a new fighting force was born out of what happened on the morning of September 11, 2001.

On that morning, I was the tired, bath-robed mother of a 6-year old and a 16-month old baby. It was a day like any other. I remember getting the same late start on the morning that I always got and catching news of the first plane while watching Matt Lauer and Katie Couric on NBC's Today Show. *What a terrible accident.* I puttered out to the kitchen over the cool saltillo tile and was at the sink when Husband alerted me to the news that would confirm the worst and change everything forever -- a second plane had hit the other tower.

From that moment, and for the rest of the week, night and day, I watched television. I must have fed my children too, but I don't really remember. I watched men and women in their business best covered in soot and ash and blood. They were sobbing, and if they weren't sobbing it was because they were bewildered -- literally. Surely nobody was strong enough to just be "cool" about what was happening to them.

Thousands upon thousands of New Yorkers were chased out onto the street to watch the hideous spectacle of two fires so high in the sky that there was really nothing that could be done.

They watched their anonymous neighbors jump and tumble to their deaths -- hand in hand sometimes -- rather than stand the excruciating heat. Isn't it odd to realize that there is no way to ever be sure which of the 3000 victims were driven to make that choice?

And then a third plane found its target at the Pentagon and an overwhelming sense of predator and prey settled into my bones.

It wasn't too long afterward that everything got worse. Matt Lauer caught sight of one of the towers falling. I remember he questioned aloud if part of the facade was falling off, but in reality the tower was imploding upon itself. Its twin would soon do the same. Now the people on the street were running for their lives.

It was incredible. It was unbelievable. I remember watching in horrified awe as the grey and black clouds of smoke rumbled to life and chased people down and around corners through the streets of New York, threatening to consume them. I was mortified by the capability of humans for such enormous destruction, and dumbstruck to know that all this was still. so. small. in His sight.

Up sprang dozens of bulletin boards on which thousands begged for someone to resurrect their loved one. So many posters and pictures of smiling faces with descriptions and phone numbers and pleas. Thousands and thousands of pictures. Too many to actually consider. If they were alive, they would come home -- that's all.

That evening, Fifi walked the 50 feet to our mailbox and placed in its flowerpot foundation a little flag given earlier in the summer by a realtor for promotion on the 4th of July. I don't know what she really understood, but it sparked in her a patriotism that continues to this day.

Many days later, I watched revival during the memorial service at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. I thought I watched revival. I hoped it was revival. But the humbling has run its course; as a nation, we're mostly back to normal.

I remember that it took me almost a week to wrap my mind around what happened that day. Husband reminds me that in the earliest hours of the tragedy, I asked him, "What's wrong? You look as if you've been blown up?" I honestly, simply didn't "get it" that there were real people in those planes when they plowed into those buildings, and real people in those buildings when they toppled to the ground. Living, breathing, hurting, terrified people. It was Tuesday.

I think it was Friday night when I finally understood. Really understood. Understood it at my core. The kids were asleep, the work week was finished, and I was free to feel the fullness of it all for the first time. I fell into my husband's strong arms and sobbed. Just sobbed.

For days afterward, the skies above this country were quiet. Once they began to fly again, it was weeks before I could stand to watch a plane in flight. They looked like giant bullets to me. I couldn't look. I couldn't help but imagine every one aiming for a nearby structure. That seemed more plausible to me than a safe landing.

In the midst of the destruction, innocents died, others fought to the death and some gave themselves as heros. They were women and children; flight attendants and husbands and students; paramedics, chaplains, peace keepers and fire fighters. And now, they are joined in the aftermath of patriotic indignation by brave young Americans who have been equipped by God and man to face the terrible unknown with skill and courage and commitment. And many of them die too.

Today, I do remember, and I feel grateful for their protection. Thank you, Soldier. Thank you grieving Widow. I'm so sorry for your loss, Orphan. I can't imagine your heartache, Mother -- or Dad. What more can I do for you to honor their memory? The Lord bless you.

top picture used by copyright permission by Larry Towell

The Last Strand of the Tapestry

In 1997, I was a happily-married, stay-at-home mother of the cutest, smartest, most promising little girl ever born (because aren't they all?). My husband was in a career transition and money was tight, but all our needs were provided for, we lived comfortably in our own home and all had our good health. I had a very pretty little life. Except I had not Life.

The strands of the tapestry that is my conversion are here and here and here and here.

A lot of what I've written is, of course, understood in hind sight. In the moment, I didn't see what was going on because I didn't have any basis for understanding. I didn't know then as I do now that one must hear the good news message to be able to receive it -- but I was hearing it. I didn't know that the fact that He saved me to Himself in the middle of Mormon country would only serve as a mighty powerful testimony to His sovereignty and His authorship -- how incredible is that? And I didn't even know that love was a principle tenant of the faith -- but I was watching it in action in the lives of my cousins.

After I fell to my knees and acknowledged God that Saturday morning, I went about my business as if nothing much had happened. And really, compared to what was yet to happen, not much had. I was not saved just because I had encountered God. That moment would happen a few days later.

Husband went off to his new sales job one weekday morning and I was low. I can't remember what Fifi was doing -- perhaps she was being entertained by angels because they knew this was going to be a big morning for me. This was to be the morning of my inhertance: April 9, 1997. I started the morning by surfing the channels and landing on a prayer and healing service. It was new, strange, and intriguing. I watched for awhile and can remember thinking to myself, "That would be really nice if someone would pray over me." It was a mildly uncomfortable thought and I'm even a little shy about sharing it here, but I think the Holy Spirit was hovering over the black void of my dead spirit in that moment, much as He hovered over the watery void before God spoke the light into being; I'm not sure it was as much my thought as His prompting.

Yes, I wanted to pray but didn't know how or where to begin. I knew I needed someone to lead me. But how was that to happen? Who would I ask? And what exactly would I be asking for? My first thought was of my Grandfather, the pastor -- or Aunt #1. But no -- that wouldn't be right. They would just get excited thinking I wanted to "get saved," and since I had no idea what was happening to me, I decided not to call them -- for sure.

For the next 2 hours or so, I would argue back and forth in my head about what I should do and what I couldn't do -- what I wanted to do but was afraid to do. I just did. not. understand. Toward the end of this time, I remember "hearing" a name being called out to my psyche. It wasn't my name as one might suppose it should be if the Father is drawing; it was Jesus'. I didn't hear it with my ears, and I know full well that Jesus isn't the proper, authentic pronounciation for the Savior's name, but unmistakably that is the name I "heard," more than once as I tried --really tried -- to resist His grace.

And then out of nowhere the most logical of all prayer partners came to mind. Why had I not thought of her earlier? My father's younger sister (Aunt #2) was his choice to be our guardians, should anything have happened to them when we were young. He liked her -- even if she was a Christian. And she is likable. Very maternal. Friendly Southern twang with a deep abiding love for her Savior. So I called her. She asked how I was. I began to cry. She asked me so sweetly if I was ready to pray to receive Christ. I said yes. She led me in what to say and I said it. I was broken, emotional, embarrassed and truthfully -- a little confused. Maybe confused isn't the right word; I didn't have my heart and mind wrapped around what was happening and it would be a few weeks before I would have that AHA! moment in which the atonement made some sense to me. But I was saved -- that much I know -- and I knew it then, even if I didn't fully understand all that that meant.

Oh, yes...and many months later I would discover that right before my phone call, Aunt #2 had just finished listening to a sermon on tape all about how to lead the lost to Jesus. He had withheld her name from me until she could finish that teaching. She was ready.

Poor Aunt #2. After nearly 29 years of prayer, and in my embarrassment, I extracted a promise from her not to tell anyone. It was a shameful moment of pride as I remembered what a team mentality I had been taught to take over the whole issue of religion. It was "them and us," and I didn't want "them" to take any satisfaction in my crossing over from the "us" team. What a sad reaction on my part. A few hours later, I think she called me back and implored me to let her tell Grandpa and the rest. I relented. I hear that when he announced the blessed news to his small congregation at the evening service that night (must have been a Wednesday) there were gasps and cheers and tears as most of the church was made up of my extended family. They tell me that he exhorted them to pray for me and support me because, "She'll get none from her own family." He knew that better than I with that statement -- that's for sure.

I had the most wonderful "honeymoon" period with my Lord. My favorite thing of all was the sense of calm and assurance I felt when I contemplated the fact that He knew me. He knew me and He loved me and if no one ever understood me ever again, it was o.k. because He knew me. Oh, I loved that rest.

In those first hours and days I felt His presence strongly. There was definately an invisible Someone shadowing me. I also remember having the bible on my mind; night and day. I hadn't been told of its importance, but I dreamed of its pages flipping from cover to cover, and I had a strong desire to read it. He raised me slowly -- from infancy to toddlerhood -- showing me my sin and giving me His gift of repentance so that I could confess and He could cleanse.

But I didn't tell Husband right away. How do you tell your spouse of nearly 9 years that everything is about to change -- like it or not? I didn't tell him because I didn't know how to. But that very Saturday, a strange "coincidence"happened. Husband's sister-in-law called to chat and announced that she was being confirmed in the Episcopal church later that afternoon! She had been in classes for a full year up to that point, and we had no idea. It gave me a natural window of opportunity. "Honey? Speaking of things spiritual..."

He didn't react badly. He looked a little stunned, and I thought -- a little envious, as if He knew I had something that He didn't, and He would like to have it too. He came to church with Fifi and me once we found one that taught the Word, and the Lord weaved a tapestry for Him, too, within the year. God is gracious.

And He did send me friends of support. Many relatives (and their friends even) wrote me beautiful letters of welcome and invested in my Walk with resources they knew I would eventually need: commentaries, bibles, tracts and concordances. A few days before Father's Day of that year, I called my dad as a courtesty to inform him of my plans to fly out to Dallas that weekend to be baptized by his father. I don't know what I thought he would say. I should have expected it, but was surprised nonetheless that he seemed a little angry. He was measured and calm when he explained (something to the effect of), "You're going to grow to be sure that I'm going to Hell and I want to spell it out right here that you are not to speak to me about the Gospel or try to convert me. It's going to be hard for you sometimes -- very hard. But I don't want to hear it -- ever. Are we clear?" (Years later he would up that ante to include everything that even mentioned my love for God: Christmas cards, birth announcements and the like.)

Grandpa, who had suffered from prostate cancer for many years, baptized me under trying circumstances on Father's Day, 1997. He was weak and the devil was in the details, quite literally. Many things did not fall into place: the doors at the borrowed church were bolted and we were without a key; and Aunt #1 missed the baptism because she had been sent to retrieve a key, but meanwhile my uncle jimmied a lock; the font was low for the immersion service and my grandfather who spoke perfect Southern Spanglish forgot to "flip the switch" in his head and baptized me in a toungue that I didn't comprehend. But I understood enough. He said it was a great day for him. He choked up and I cried, and we persevered and made it happen (but not because my salvation rested on it, mind you, I don't understand the scriptures that way).

All of my cousins and aunts and uncles were there. I was Grandpa's very last baptism, and while that detail escaped the rest at his funeral, I feel blessed for the 6 weeks of fellowship by phone and fax that we enjoyed before he went Home to be with His Father.

I'm so thankful that the Lord did all that; I love my tapestry. I love everything the Lord creates because I love Him.

The 4th Strand Of The Tapestry

...It's ironic that the Lord would let me be blessed in any way by a female televangelist. But, then, He can do anything, any old way He wants to! Today, I believe and attend a church that believes the Bible is not antiquated in its exhortation that women should not teach and hold authority over men.

But this testimony isn't really about that, is it?

My testimony is ironic in more ways than that. The nature of it -- the consciousness of my conversion, the starkness of the contrast between the old me and the new creature are all things for which I'm thankful. The irony is that now that I know Truth and am compelled by His love to walk in the Light, my charge is to raise my children in such a way that they will not know such a watershed moment. Isn't that strange?

I'm thankful for my testimony because it was a watershed for me. Salvation skipped a generation down my branch of the family tree, so the fact that I've had to, "leave father and mother and sister for the sake of Christ," only deepens the sense of treasure for me. The most amazing thing about my testimony is not me or my circumstances -- it is the understanding that the Creator of the universe regarded a speck of dust; a vapor; a rebel against His holiness. And what's more, in His regard for what He has created, He pursues and quickens countless other millions of people just like me and performs a miracle for each and every one: salvation and the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. It is a miracle. It is my very favorite miracle, and it lasts forever and ever.

So far in my testimony, I've written of the various introductions He made of Himself to me. Here, I saw Him taking care of His own, and I recognized those who were His by the love they showed to one another and to me. And here, though I witnessed a counterfeit, I nonetheless recognized the virtue in assembling together to spur one another on to good deeds. And here, I drank in the milk of His Gospel much the same way a newborn is nourished at her mother's breast without any understanding of the nutritional components of the life-building food source.

But those things were not enough to save my soul from hell where my nature and my flagrant rebellion had earned me a place for all eternity. I needed to be shown my sin and I needed to repent. This happened in a moment and then continued for many moments afterward -- and to this day.

A few weeks before the moment of my rebirth, a close relation had traveled north for a visit to our home. This relation and I were close in the sense that we had a lot of history together, but our relationship had always been a little strained. During the long weekend visit, egos and expectations got in the way and by the 2nd night of our time together we were engaged in the most horrific argument I'd had as an adult. It started over something silly like my offense at her dislike of what we made for dinner. Admittedly, it wasn't fancy -- but we'd been without an income for over half a year. How dare she complain!

I can't remember the details really. I just remember the contempt. The ferocious anger. The rash accusations. The shrill volume. The stubborn stand. The selfishness. The raw ugliness. The stunned look of disbelief on Husband's face as he watched the exchange.

If it sounds like I'm blaming this relation, well, it's because I did! And I continued to blame her for the next week or so. I was completely confident in heaping all responsibility on her...until the Holy Spirit began to convict me of my sin. He was holding up a mirror to me in this relation; everything I saw in her was true of me too. I'm no longer talking about the specifics of this one fight; the Holy Spirit was dealing with me on the more profound issue of my very nature. It was a strange, new thought for me, because in all my life, you know...I'd never been wrong...about anything.

Here is where the strands of this tapestry begin to weave together. On one of the Saturday mornings when Husband took Fifi away for the morning, I was feeling a little low and spent the morning throwing myself the biggest pity party ever! I remember vividly the 5x7 portrait of my beloved Dad (who was alive and well one state away) that hung in our short hallway. I recall staring at it as if I believed that the picture would come alive and talk with me if I looked at it long enough. Suddenly I became acutely aware of my unbelief, and more specifically in the moment -- my inability to believe. And I blamed my Dad. He was, after all, the "black sheep," the prodigal son, the Hebrews 6 rebel, the goat -- the tare.

So, on with my pity party! I didn't have any balloons or streamers, but I did allow myself a good cry -- a loud, uninhibited, endorphine-pumpin' good cry. I cried for my lonliness. I cried for my hopelessness. I cried for my sense of existential despair. I did not understand at the time that what I was really crying for was the same emptiness -- the same deep need that resides in every human being. My wonderful husband couldn't fill it. My baby couldn't more than pacify it. My Aunt #2 later explained it as a cross-shaped vacuum in the human heart that can only be filled by the work of Christ on that tree at Calvary.

Then I did something that changed everything. I took off my sandals, as it were, and approached the burning bush. I got down on my knees and prayed to a God that I didn't even believe in. I poured out my disappointment. I cried about my need. Me! Me! Me! It was still. all. about. Me! (He's a remarkably patient God.) And then I thought of the cousins. Their witness was so strong. I told the Hearer of my prayer, "I want some of that peace! I want that peace that I see my cousins have!"

And almost before I finished my thought, my tears had ceased and my whole self was calmed. It wasn't a tapering off, or a gradual composure; it was a strikingly sudden end to what had been one of my very best hysterical crying jags. I paused for a second and tried to take in what was happening...and decided, "No. I'm not done."

Yes, I was that narcissistic. I was having a good cry and I wasn't going to be short changed! So I thought and I thought and I tried to muster up some more tears. I was a junkie looking for another rush of that hollowed-out feeling that comes from a full-body sob. And then...nothing. Nothing? Nothing! How could that be? I wanted to cry, and I was good at it. But, I had no more tears, no more unrest because I had just asked my Creator for peace. And peace is what I got. At least in that moment...

The last strand of God's salvation tapestry for me is here.

3rd Strand Of The Tapestry

So...in part two of my testimony, I was looking at library books trying to choose which branch of the social club called Christianity I would choose. Because I was not a believer. I was in a period of gestation. Only I didn't know it. Do babies know it in the womb, after all? I think not.

So I must back up and fill in some holes as I realize them in hindsight.

During my last year of high school in 1986, instead of making plans for college and testing toward that end, I was gathering small appliances and establishing myself with a job that could pay the rent. As a first-born and typical teenager, I had been itching to have a place of my own for as long as I could remember. All that to say, I didn't go to college; in fact, I didn't particularly apply myself to the education that was offered me in high school.

And I didn't care for a long time. For 10 years, it wouldn't even occur to me that there was something -- anything -- of any relevance that I might have missed. I don't remember what was my introduction to the issue, but I do recall realizing that a lot of people in this country seemed to have some familiarity with the Bible and that it was a regarded piece of literature. So, I decided I would educate myself -- or at least vaguely familiarize myself with the oldest and most popular publication in human history. I would read the bible -- for the sake of the literary pursuit, mind you.

But I think I was embarrassed. How to undertake this strange new pursuit? Behind Husband's back, of course! Typically on Saturday mornings, Husband and I enjoyed the farmer's market together, but since I had Fifi, I often let him take her there alone so I could use the time to unwind or catch up on some household chores. In the Spring of '97, I made a habit of seeing them off and then working against the clock as I reached into Fifi's closet where my never-been-used Bibles were stored.

Her room was lovely. Decorated, yet not cluttered. I had painted it with mauve-lavender walls divided from a pale pink by an elegant blueberry border all themed around a cross stitch design I did for her while I was pregnant. The windows in this small room let in a lot of light, and with its age, there was a charm and character that I miss. It was here in this quiet room that the Lord would weave a 3rd strand into the tapestry of my conversion over the course of weeks. The story starts back here.

I sat in the oversized rocker that faced the crib, and opened the leather-bound book to Genesis. I was reading King James English with no foundation of language, so suffice it to say I didn't understand much of what I was taking in. I certainly didn't get the symbolism and the "encrypted" promises that I've since been taught and can see for myself. I remember understanding only that the main characters in the story were Adam, Eve and the serpent, Satan -- and that's about all I caught. I took in so little of it really, that a while later when I was sharing my testimony with a relative, my Aunt #1 politely interupted me to remind me that I had indeed been in the Word! I'd forgotten.

Speaking of Aunt #1, there was one more source that was sharing the Gospel with me. In my city at the time, there was not a lot of religious broadcasting available sans the semi-annual General Conference of the LDS church, but I did happen upon one teacher who I would watch because she was thin-statured, had big Texas hair (even though she was from Colorado) and a gentle, friendly twang to her voice. She reminded me of my favorite Aunt. When Husband would catch me channel surfing to her program, he would chuckle at me and I'd defend myself saying, "She's really nice. It's almost like visiting with Aunt #1."

I'm not sure, but I believe the teacher was doing a study on Revelation, so...I didn't get much out of it. Or so I thought...

The 4th strand of God's salvation tapestry for me is here.

The 2nd Strand Of The Tapestry

I'm remembering and recording my testimony of how I came to realize my election, or a.k.a. how I came to know the Lord. I wrote a little about it before.

In 1997, we lived in Mayberry. Well, that's how it struck us. We lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, in a small, red brick house from the '60s where the neighborhood sidewalks were lined with large elms and some of our neighbors had raised their children in the same homes in which they now welcomed their new great-grand babies for visits on weekends. The area was called Sugarhouse, and it fit the description; the area was truly sweet.

Across the street from our house was the Edgehill Ward of the Mormon church. So close were we that most nights, we could hear the soles of the boys' shoes sqeaking as they played b-ball in the gymnasium. The Ward was the geographically-assigned church to the people of the LDS faith who lived in the surrounding few blocks. It was their meeting place for church and outreach functions to the neighbors, but not for the sacred, secret rituals which the church is known for -- those things happen in their temples.

Every Sunday morning, Husband and I would watch dozens and dozens of families climb the steps in suits and ties and dresses with heels in the heat of the day, and marvel that they were trapped now for 3 whole hours listening to who knows whom drone on and on about who knows what! We. were. so. glad. we. were. not. them!

But then I recognized something new one weekend. I saw the young family next door walking to church and I can remember seeing the four of them ascending the steps. I think she wore a pretty, conservative sea-green short sleeved dress and had her baby boy on her hip; he wore a sports jacket with dress khakis and held the hand of their 4-year old daughter who wore a bow in her still baby-thin hair. They looked so peaceful and together. They belonged. They were welcome. The social trappings of church were beckoning me. Community was calling. My Fifi was nearly 20 months old, and it dawned on me very heavily in that moment, that I wanted that sense of community for her.

So, that week I went to my local library to check out some books on the different protestant religions. I knew almost nothing about anything. Outside the very occasional VBS or Sunday school class with Grandma 5 states away as a youngster, my exposure to the Gospel began and ended with the "Jesus Saves" posters that I'd seen held up over the crowds at televised golf tournaments when Dad had possession of the remote control on Saturday afternoons. *yawn*

I think though, that I knew what I was not. Not Catholic. Not Mormon. I borrowed a few books to take home in the hope they would help me decipher the differences amongst the rest. And I knew what I was looking for -- I was looking for the group that would require the least of me because I knew that I didn't actually believe in anything...

The 3rd strand of God's salvation tapestry for me can be found here.

The 1st Strand Of The Tapestry

Six pre-pubescent girls with high foreheads and big teeth are making their beds in Grandma's living room. Three or four will share the fold-out couch, another will use the ottoman that transforms into a single, and another will lay herself down on a camping cot. But sleep will not come for many hours, and not before much giggling and pillow fighting, and only after many tense moments waiting for the stern warning to, "Be quiet!" that we so richly deserve, but rarely comes.

My cousins and my sister and I were from two very different worlds, but somehow we managed to have such fun together during our infrequent visits to Grandpa's. They were raised in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, while we unashamedly sought our validation in the world system; they went to church and memorized scripture while we spent weekends primping and practicing the bar scene at the local roller rink; they homeschooled and we thought they were freaks.

During one of our slumber parties, one of my cousins cornered my little sister and scared her half to death with the true, if not so eloquently-stated Gospel that cautioned her that she was headed for hell if she didn't receive the Savior. So...maybe 10-year olds ought not be preaching the Gospel -- with words, at least. After all, we don't hear Jesus say anything until He's 12! And He was perfect! Maybe there is a lesson in that. But, I digress...

Unfortunately, that incident made it right to my father and he was a little more than angry. I've never seen my dad throw a fit -- ever -- but I know that his wrath is swift and sure, nonetheless. As a family, we didn't see my cousins again until my Grandfather's 80th birthday celebration almost 20 years later.

But I did see them sooner than that. The year before I became pregnant for the first time, one of the major airlines ran a 1-day-turn-around cheap fare over the 4th of July, so I traveled alone from my city to their's. I was curious, the visit was quick, and I was hooked. That Thanksgiving, I would send a letter to be read to the group of 5 aunts and uncles, one grandparent, 12 cousins and countless 2nds, sharing the news of our baby on the way. They rejoiced as if I was the first woman in history to make such an announcement. Two Resurrection Sundays later, Husband, 10-month-old Fifi and I would return for a full weekend. These folks were welcoming and received us with grand gatherings of family (so much family!) and food. They seemed genuinely interested in us.

I never felt any judgment from them, though I knew that their belief system told them that I was going to hell. They just loved me. One of my cousins gave me a queen-sized, hand-made quilt. No one ever gave me something that was so invested with themselves before, and I was moved. We began to keep in touch by this new, convenient medium called e-mail.

Their story in the moment was quite remarkable, though in my unregenerate state I didn't consider it so -- I thought they were remarkably ignorant, galactically stupid and maybe even a bit crazy. Why? Because they were communicating news to me of the impending "condemned" status of the trailer park in which at least 4 of them lived with their spouses and children. One cousin had a baby on the way -- maybe her 3rd or 4th -- I don't remember. They were all going to lose their trailers, or have to sell them cheap, and get off the land -- fast! They were young and just starting out; they had no where to go. I laugh now when I remember sharing their e-mails with Husband. I was incredulous over how bold they were in their witness that the Lord knew, and would provide for them. They said they weren't worried. I thought they had better get worried in a hurry! I was blind, and I was wrong.

This is but one prominent strand the Lord used to weave together the circumstances of my "quickening" 9 years ago. The 2nd strand of God's salvations tapestry for me is here.