Gonna Fly

"I want to get away, I want to fly away." - Lenny Kravitz 

Found. Mom's journal entry dated January 7, 2001:

O.K. Lord, 
putting on my Nikes,
pressing my wings,
moving down a 
      brand new road...
   gonna fly.

Sayonara perfection

“When all the details fit in perfectly, something is probably wrong with the story.”  - Charles Baxter

This is not the photo for this post, but its the fastest one I could find before I run out the door to catch my boys who are heading down the driveway.  The ideal photograph for this post is probably residing on the hard drive of my good friend who lives in coastal North Carolina.  It is a professionally taken picture of her and her new husband just after their wedding, flanked by the children who assisted the wedding - the flower girls and the ring bearer.  My son was the ring bearer - and while the bride and groom and all the little girls were smiling properly with content, my boy was screaming and crying his little eyes out.  Best. Wedding. Photo. Ever. And testament to the fact that not everything goes perfectly, in fact, that maybe nothing ever goes perfectly.


Today I am getting mentally ready to have my first biopsy at MD Anderson, which is totally fine and totally strange all in the same moment.  As a new friend of mine reminded me "don't borrow trouble".  She is terribly right, and so to help alleviate my anxiety about the procedure I've been processing my thoughts and trying to catch up on old writing work.  Part of that was going through my blog, where I noticed I had several "draft" posts that had never been published.  So, I've posted several things today, all written within the span of the past few months.  


Sometimes I write stuff and I leave it there, as a draft, because I don't think its good enough, or I want to add to it, or I am concerned about putting it out there.  It is funny to think of how many things we don't just do because we are worried or scared or trying to make it perfect.  It's never perfect, folks, we know this, but we do it to ourselves anyway.  We tell ourselves what we have to offer or give or say or do isn't enough.  But it really is - it is more like magic than anything.  We are the artwork of a master creator - we live and breathe from a creative source.  Why do we pain ourselves with doubt and worry, instead of running full speed ahead?  I am reminding myself again today of this, and I'm giving up the anxiety and the worry and the fear and the paralysis that comes from these things.  Sayonara, perfection.

A little grace

"The Ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well." - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross 

If you've ever been involved in recovery work, you've likely heard of the concept "progress, not perfection".  To me, a recovering Perfectionist, it is hard to let things take their natural course, hard to let go of things I am grabbing so tightly onto, hard to forgive myself and hard to let things just "be".  More recently, progress in my life looks as simple and basic as lowering my two feet down to touch the cold hardwood floor in the morning, telling my husband something on my brain, or crying when I really need to cry, instead of holding it in against all odds to stay put together.  I made progress today with example number three, of all things in front of my darling three year old son, who was alone with me at the time as his daddy had just left for school.  Yes, I cried in front of my son.  The minute I felt the emotion welling up in me like a hot air balloon, I realized it was going to come out whether I wanted it to or not, whether it was appropriate to cry in front of him or not, so I just went with it.  

After spending exactly 365 days on a prescription medication designed to bridge my depression stemming from the grief associated with my mom's death, I'm now medicine free.  This was the pact I made with myself from the beginning when I first debated back and forth with taking it or not taking it.  After trying running and even completing a half-marathon to try and dull the heartache, I realized that this grief stuff was hard work, too hard even for a runner to beat back on her own, so I committed to taking the medicine and promised that I would take it only a year.  That sounded great then, a well-thought out plan with an end date, but I had no idea what I would be setting myself up for at the end of the treatment.  You see, anti-depressants are a class of drugs designed to make the high and low parts of your day disappear like a rabbit in a hat. As the dimmer switch brightened suddenly, the skies were more blue, the flowers were more fragrant, the rain was more wet and the feelings - the feelings and emotions that come during day to day events were all coming back, fast and furious, similar to a roller coaster, if only slightly less terrifying.

And there my son was, in this moment of tears, assuredly and quietly this little voice, “mommy, can I hug you?”.  Just as quick as a paramedic to my aid, there was my little man ready with an embrace.  I took him up on it right away and then he asked me "mommy, are you going to have a happy day or a sad day?". 


This is the big question at our house and it all revolves around our power to choose for ourselves.  Mark has drilled this whole concept of choice into Ryan's very being from a very small age.  And Ryan knows that he can choose for himself - happy, sad, silly, mad, you get the idea.  I told him once if he ever got just this one concept about life, that you can choose how you will respond to something outside of you, that he would really have it made.  And I really believe that, but actually doing it is sometimes another story.  I know all too well that life trips us up, sad things happen and the day can get hard in an instant.  As a reminder, there is a sign that hangs above my kitchen stove that states in black and white, as clear as one could possibly state - "its' never too late to start the day over".

The whole concept of a new day resounds so powerfully with me.  And to have my son of all people, speaking truth in love to his mama, was just the grace I needed today.  It's a wonderful reminder on my daily journey to forget perfection altogether.  I'm not sure where the whole perfect habit came from, but I certainly know its not attainable.  A little bit of grace never healed so much as it did coming from the soul of my little boy.

Stillness of God

Mark and I have been married ten years, soon to be eleven.  In our life together we have moved a lot, as we are now in house number eight.  In the corner of the brick paver patio in the backyard of this house lives a terracotta pot.  I can't recall if anything was alive in that pot when we moved in, though if there was anything there, I did not tend to it and it died.  For the entire summer, fall and winter, this pot must have known I lacked a green thumb, because it sat with trepidation as I glanced at it from time to time, my mind wondering if I should throw it out - give it to my neighbor - or leave it.

The crazy pace of this thing called life allowed the pot to remain, untouched, fruitless and empty on the patio as a million other things were placed ahead of it in the neverending to-do list of all things "urgent and important".  It sat, dormant, quiet, still and barren.  I never touched it, never watered it, never pulled the weed-looking sapling that began to grow out of it out.

Yet this past week when spring came a bit early, visiting with warm winds and wet rains, the little terracotta pot yielded its bounty - a cluster of small, but vibrant purple flowers. 

As I surveyed the landscape this morning, I noticed even more green shoots coming up through the forgotten soil, pushing the baby tree out of the way as they came thundering out of the dirt.

Recently, I've begun the practice of meditation and silent prayer.  It has been a touch and go habit, because sometimes I think I really can't waste that ten to twenty minutes doing nothing.  The pace of life and of our society informs us that stillness and and quiet are not to be rewarded.  In beginning the practice of meditation and prayer, my own body and soul, quite attuned to the busyness factor, detested the uncomfortableness of it all.  It's easy to think that if you don't see any action, that nothing is happening.  Somehow we equate stillness with nothingness. Except in the terracotta pot, with months of no water, no food, and the coldest of weather, purple flowers have bloomed out of that stillness.

My church

This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: 

that even when we're most sure that love can't conquer all, it seems to anyway.

-Anne Lamott

I think it was my fault completely.  I must have drawn attention to myself after volunteering in a ministry that formed at my church just after hurricane Katrina made landfall.  I got myself noticed (in good ways and in bad ways) during that time.  I rolled up my sleeves and got my hands dirty working with fellow Christians who shared a heavy heart over the disaster, and were dedicated to helping those victims with traumatic tales who were surviving in devastating conditions.  Somehow the timing of the next vote at our church crossed with the fateful day of this hurricane, because my name got added to a list of candidates for Deacon at the church, a list that I was completely unaware of.  And you know what? I got voted in to the club.  I was ordained as a card carrying member of the diaconate at a Baptist church.  Talk about grace.  These people give it in spades.


Me, who hasn't invested years and years into organized church life. Me, who hasn't tithed for decades and only recently started tithing with regularity. Me, who has never attended a Youth for Christ rally or a Young Life event. Though I know the name, I don't know any Billy Graham campaigns. And I've never regularly attended midweek prayer service nor ever woken early to participate in sunrise services on Easter.  My life, both now and as a child, has never been defined by the church calendar.


I attended summer camp once in my life, during junior high, at the invitation of a friend whose family was quite involved in the church.  I walked down the aisle at the end of services one night and accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior and was baptized soon after we returned from camp.  The rush of feelings I had at camp quickly dissipated as I re-entered regular life, and soon it was a distant memory.


My commitment to Christ, as well as my desire to know and understand his teachings, has grown and changed since that ordination in ways I could never have imagined.  I'll save those stories for another day.  But I still only know two bible verses by heart.  One taught to me as a child by my grandmother, the other I picked up as an adult after befriending a woman at my church, who is more like my surrogate grandmother. John 3:16 and Jeremiah 29:11, if you were curious...  I don't know the difference between a hymn and a chorus, and I still do not know the books of the Bible in sequential order, or in any order at all, as a matter of fact.  I don't know the words to "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and I don't sit in the same seat in the pew each week, or every week for that matter.


There seems to be a lot of talk in my 55 year young church about change, and I know that with change - good or bad - comes loss and stress and worry.  I'm probably lumped in with the younger set, the troublemakers who are out to rip tradition to shreds and spit on anything holy.  Well, okay, not exactly.  But I am not really sure that I detest the current traditional offerings of my church, and by traditional I really mean "traditional to the 1950's".  I see value in tradition and in meaning and I see value in change and reform.  I don't presume that Those who followed Jesus the Nazarene worried if he wore a necktie when he preached, or argued about which musical instruments were used to praise God.  And this goes two ways.  He probably didn't concern himself with who published the hymnal, the hairstyles of his disciples or whether or not communion was performed by intinction.  For the record, I just learned what intinction is, and that some people take issue with it.  I think the main difference for me is that I wasn't raised in a church like this, and it might even more be the fact that I wasn't raised in a church at all. I'm like a mongrel lacking proper pedigree, an outsider unfamiliar with the tradition and the culture.  It doesn't mean it's wrong or even that it has to change, it simply means I don't understand it.


As I seek to understand the politics and traditions that are so heavily steeped in church, I tend to ask myself in the cliche "what would Jesus do?" or better "would Jesus even care?".  So many of the issues I see and hear about seem to be a matter of personal preference, not doctrinal position.  I'm not even sure that Jesus would quibble on some of the doctrinal points of the church.  He would probably not be rambling on about whether or not we have gay members or black members or non-Christian members - he would be asking if we are inclusive, if we are outwardly reaching and if we have been tending to the damned plank in our own eye.


My church has people in it who are struggling with these heavy, church-y issues.  And it honestly makes me sad, because I can see the hurt that happens when you lose something you love, something you are used to.  And sometimes, the struggles I hear about make me confused because they don't line up with the stuff of Christ and his parables.  What's with those darn parables, anyway?  I probably don't share their struggles because I don't share the deep and lengthy history that they have with this particular church building and set of practices.  


All of this got me to thinking about my own struggle with "organized religion".  So here is where I am with my church struggle...  The things I crave to know include how to build a stronger marriage with my spouse, how to raise my kids with a faith that can make it in a secular world and how to love my neighbor like I love myself.  And I want to figure out how to share my faith with the lady stuck on the street and to get some encouragement for how to be a better friend.  For me, the bulk of life and of action occur outside of church.  I mean, we're only there for two hours, tops, once a week, right?  I need those two hours I spend in the church building to catch me on fire so that I can take those teachings out into the world, as I re-enter the world of faith issues, of discovering how to serve my community, and of learning who my neighbor really is.  I am of that generation where "authenticity" and "truth" ring a loud bell, and I don't want any of that fake, pretend stuff.  I come from a line of life gone wrong, and so I don't want any of the platitudes or simple answers, either.


The one thing I know to be absolutely true is that the people that I've met in my church have shown me a thing or two.  They've invested in me and my husband.  They've hugged on my son and encouraged my stepdaughter.  They ponder my questions and they engage my doubts.  They come calling when they don't see or hear from me in a week or two.  And I love these people, even if we don't share the same love of Sunday morning organ music.  I love some of them like they are my family.  My experience of this whole church thing, the tradition or the style or the dress code has shown me that these things do not in and of themselves make church.  If I had to "do church" in the breakroom of a warehouse with standing room only, or in the living room of someone's home with their dog jumping up on my lap, I would still seek out that time each week, regardless of place, conditions, or looks because I need my church - I need my connections with my brothers who are seeking what's true, noble, right, pure, lovely and admirable.  The church, my church, is the people, the commitment we make to each other, and the ways we choose to love each other and our neighbors, the ways we seek to flesh out what matters in this life.  


Without my church, I lose the relationships in my life where people call me to task and where people encourage my faith.  I lose the ability to worship my God in community with others, to stand in awe of Jesus Christ and his sacrifice for my life and their lives.  I lose my connection with the teachers, the dreamers and the doers of the world who are committed to making a difference in the lives of others.  My church, with its snarls and snares, its love and its grace, its boldness and its fear, is where the root of my faith has grown and flourished.  Much like my life, the biggest lessons I learn are in the struggle.  I hope we do the same. 

When time slips away

When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back.

- Paul Coelho

Real estate has been really crazy lately.  I mean I have had more than one conversation in the past week about how busy we are and how it seems like every single household in Houston has made a concerted effort to buy and sell every piece of real estate they own in a 20 mile radius, and all on the same day.

I am not complaining about the crazy though, trust me.  After a year like 2011, anyone who clung with me to the threadbare strands of what was left of our industry is likely thrilled to be working 60, 70 and 80 hour weeks.  This year just has a much brisker pace to it than years past, and I have a lot more little details spilling out from my brain and onto my calendar, and I have to take the rest and scribble it onto a little notepad that sits next to my bed, just so I don't forget anything.

My style of administrating all the details usually happens best when I weave clients in between all my other life stuff.  No two days in my line of work are the same - its coffee, write an offer, bank, check a house value, then research a tax bill, lunch (sitting down if I'm lucky), negotiating a repair, gym, mediating between heirs, and so on.  I have gotten very well versed at flexing my time so that I can get the little stuff in my life taken care of, and still be available whenever my clients need me - which is really the name of the game in real estate.  Showing up  - answering the phone, making the call, saying the hard thing, meeting the client.  99% of real estate is just showing up.

So anyway, yesterday I was trying to see what I could sandwich around a client's request to see a townhome in Dickinson at the tail end of Houston's rush hour.  This is typically a 30-45 minute drive for me, but at 6:30 pm, its more like an hour to an hour and a half drive.  One way.  So, I roped my husband and my boy (affectionately termed "my boys") into making the trip with me, because the little country town of Dickinson is just a hop, skip and a jump from the really fun town of Kemah.  The Kemah boardwalk is a man-made destination, just 30-45 minutes outside of downtown Houston, an ace in the hole of Tillman Fertitta enterprises.  Anyway, I had visions of sunset, cocktails, dinner and fun on the boardwalk on a quiet Tuesday night, and thankfully my boys threw all their chips in with me on this plan.

So the showing didn't work out - turned out Dickinson is almost a two hour commute for my buyer, so we wrapped up the tour and headed onto Kemah.  Part of the fun of the Kemah boardwalk, as most Houstonians know, is the midway.  Full of rides and games, ice cream and funnel cakes, the midway is right on the border of the entrance to Galveston Bay, so the views aren't too shabby.  From the top of the Ferris Wheel, the bay is clearly visible and dotted with sailboats and speedboats.  It takes you up high over the Kemah bridge, the Waterfront Harbor Marina and the massive waters spilling in and out of the gulf.  And on this particular night, the Ferris Wheel was the only preschooler friendly ride left open when I made my way to the ticket booth at close to 8pm, the train having closed just minutes before.  I wondered if this was in fact the ride my boys would've wanted - its kind of slow and steady, and they can be kind of fast and speedy.  They had really wanted the train, after all.  Walking back towards them with the three tickets in hand, my husband asked which ride, and with my reply came excitement because that was, in fact, the ride they were hoping for.

It was our first "family" ride - and the Wheel was deserted, cars totally empty except for ours.  Which we didn't mind at all, as we had just spent dinner outdoors on the boardwalk surrounded by attack sea gulls.  In contrast, The Wheel was quiet and serene as it lifted us around and around its center.  My son loved it, my husband even snapped some photos of us, but the best little thing that happened yesterday was thanks to the ride operator.  Innocently, he asked as we made our journey down towards him, if we wanted him to slow down the machinery while we were at the top.  We said sure, why not, and as we wound around again the machine began to slow itself down, and by the next revolution, there we were, on top of the Ferris Wheel.

And I could actually more accurately say that we were on top of the world.  Floating in the cool night air, still.  It was a magical moment.  I glanced across the car at my husband and it was like we both knew the gift that we'd just received.  The sudden, deliberate freezing of the ride was an analogy for that which I have been secretly wishing for - a sudden, deliberate freezing of time.  Kind of like where a character in a movie gets suspended over their real life and gets to peek in at life, unbeknownst to others in the plot.  Time stopped, and for just a brief pause there we were, suspended in a gently rocking car, the three of us.  And I totally got what Brian Andreas so eloquently states when he says "time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life".  The inner turmoil that has come from some recent discoveries about possible issues regarding my health and contemplation about how things might shake out for our future were both silenced as the gift of the current moment frozen in time spilled out through a few tears.  It was a moment unlike any other that I have ever had.  And in it, I think Mark and I both drew a deep breath and some deep courage about who we are and where we are headed.  Sometimes, it really does take a complete removal of one's self from reality to get a grip on what's true - what's unchanging - what's deep and meaningful and filled with soul.  And to think we got that for $12.99 plus tax at a carnival ride just makes me smile a little bigger.  The little things really can be way more amazing than the big things.  This moment was way more amazing.

It felt like forever until the wheel budged our car in its descent back into reality.  I have never wanted to thank a ride operator so much in my life - really I wanted to jump over the railing, run down the ramp and hug him for the little gift he gave us.  We exited the little ride and went on to walk the boardwalk one last time before heading home.  After that experience I couldn't resist Ryan's request to run through the sprinklers at the end of the walk.  With a renewed vigor for being daring and for celebrating moments, he reached out and grabbed each of us with his hands, and exclaimed "ready, go, now!" (which I think meant ready, set, go), and off we were, the three of us, tempting fate as we dashed wholeheartedly into the randomly timed sprinklers again and again, trying to avoid getting totally soaked, laughing like crazy through the entire length of the run.

Avery Can

Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.
- Alan Sachs

Dear Avery Lynn Canahuati,

I found out from a friend that you died yesterday. Barely five months of living and you're already gone. And to think I just found out about you a few weeks ago... But you've been on my mind since I first learned about you and your sweet mom and dad. Unable to move much of your body or speak, but you've been teaching me the whole time. I want you to know how grateful I am for your mom and dad.

My husband always says that situations don't create character, they reveal it. I think your diagnosis surely did this in your parents' lives. Avery, you may not have been able to fully realize it, but your dad and your mom are very selfless people. Courageous, and honest and loyal. Fun loving, and willing to hope and not afraid to feel. When they learned of your SMA, they chose to zig when others probably would've zagged. They chose to make each day count. Instead of embracing bad news, they chose to embrace hope.  Who could have ever known last year, leading up to your big birthday, that your life would be so short? That you wouldn't even make it to your first "half birthday"?

Avery, It is with heartfelt and tear-filled gratitude that I write this. Thank you for reminding me that little moments count and that life is both amazingly precious and amazingly short. Your mom and dad's choice to share you with the world has made such an impact on my life. Thank you for living wide open and out there in front of everyone. Thank you for your smile, and for showing me about really living, even in the midst of dying. I took a deep breath, wiped away my tears, and went and grabbed my boy, just a few years older than you, to hug him tight and tell him he's loved.

Another thing to wipe off your bucket list - make a difference in the life of a stranger.

Well done, baby girl. Rest in peace.

With love, Susan

For more about Avery, please visit her blog at http://averycan.blogspot.com/

Giving up

"What are you giving up?"

This is the question I've been hearing lately and it means that lent is almost here. Since Ash Wednesday is tomorrow, I've been thinking about it a lot. Drum roll please, because the answer is.... I still don't know.
I did not grow up in the church and did not come to my faith in Christ until later in life. As a result, I am a bit green about all the practices and disciplines of Christianity, though I am trying to make up for lost time. I did not know what Lent was at all until I attended college at a Catholic school and wondered why my fellow classmates had black ash on their foreheads, and did not begin trying to keep lent until a few years ago when it was introduced into the life of my church. I happen to attend a Baptist church, so its a bit new to them, too, but we are all learning together.


So, for those of you who may not know, Lent is a forty day season in the church year (excluding Sundays) that tends to be a time of reflection, moderation, repentance and spiritual discipline for Christians as we prepare for Easter. These forty days are an invitation to renewal. Lent is not simply a time to give up a vice or make a simple diet change but rather a call to preparation as we approach the celebration of resurrection. It is through this season we are called to truly experience what the human struggle is all about.

It is akin to the spring cleaning we all do each year - but its a spiritual spring cleaning.  Throughout the course of this season, you might consider spending time each day focusing on one or more of the following:


- Time of solitude or meditation each day

- Keep a journal reflecting on some of the things you are reading and learning

- Read a book for inner reflection and growth

- Focus on the other instead of the personal ask in prayer

- Make a list of people what you need to be reconciled with

- Forgive

- Let go of a grudge

- Say “no” to something that is a waste of money or time

- Find and be a voice for those that have no voice

- Love


Are you ready to enter into a season of renewal? What are the next steps for you as you ponder the lenten journey?

Little things

"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."

Here is the last picture I have of my mom holding my son before she died.  You can't see her, because she did not want to be in photographs anymore at this point.  I didn't know then that this would be the last picture.  Just a quick shot of her holding my wiggly little three month old.  I'm glad I took it, because looking back, this little thing was actually a big one.

A beautiful mess

"Men wrongly lament the flight of time, blaming it for being too swift; they do not perceive that its passage is sufficiently long, but a good memory, which nature has given to us, causes things long past to seem present." Leonardo Da Vinci, Thoughts on Art and Life

At the nudging of my husband, I finally cleaned out the top drawer of my desk.  This desk drawer has served no useful purpose for me in its lifetime.  I usually don't need more than my mouse, some stamps and an ink pen to get through my day, thanks to my heavy use of technology and conversion to a "paperless" office.

However functionally obsolete, the desk drawer remains.

And it has remained a repository of all things golden, all things important and meaningful to me.  Find something and not sure what to do with it?  To the depths of the desk drawer it goes, never to be seen or heard from again.  In fact, I have not even opened the darn thing since two moves ago, when I thoughtlessly slid everything that was on top of my desk into it with one quick motion as the movers made their way up my front walk to ring the bell.

I unearthed the mess today.  Its quite the find.  There it is, in the 15 by 12 inch shallow box - my life.  My memories, my most exquisite joys, my heart and my fears and my travels and my deepest sorrows - all right down there in that drawer that sits ever-so-quietly beneath me each day.  These are things that cannot be organized in any understandable form or fashion - pieces of my past, some things so old I can't recall their exact importance any longer.

This is what I imagine the picture must be inside my head on any given day.  Something like tracing your fingertips along the edge of embroidery.  The physical manifestation of all my hopes, my thoughts and my dreams in all those fleeting moments of life.

The drawer is finally empty - but my mind is now full - busy wandering the landscape of a life so very different just a few short years ago.

Drunks, Gypsies and Baptists

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world." James 1:27

"You know what the old joke is about Posta Vecia, right?"  Nodding our heads "no", he continued, "there are only three types you'll find in Posta Vecia - drunks, gypsies and Baptists." I had to start laughing, because these are my kind of people, but then quickly added "that's a compliment for Baptist missions, right?"

Posta Vecia is a region in Chisinau, the capital city of Moldova.  Seven years ago, when I first heard that we might send a group to go on a mission trip to Moldova, I was game, as I thought they meant a region in Mexico, my home away from home!  Wow, at 25 did I have a lot to learn...  In studying about the country, I quickly determined it is a simple, heavily agricultural country with industrious, hard-working people, brought up in the no-nonsense tradition of the old Soviet bloc.  A Moldovan proverb says "life was worth living if you built a house, brought up a son, planted a tree and dug a well".  This idyllic lifestyle was quickly brought into true focus when I began reading more deeply about the country and the difficulties experienced there.

My husband went on our church's first mission trip to Moldova at the urging of our dear friend and former pastor Gary Long.  Here are some facts about Moldova that I have learned: it's best known feature is that its the poorest country in Eastern Europe, where up to 30% of its population migrate to other countries for work.  Another outstanding characteristic of Moldova its its nickname "the kidney donor capital of the world", earned due to the extraordinary number of folks who sell their organs in order to survive another year.  And what do you think happens when adults leave the country?  The so-called "lost generation" leaves their children behind, as wards of the ever-so-poor state, to scrap for food and clothes, sleeping on 50 year old cot mattresses, as they try to raise themselves among thousands of others, in the heart of the orphanages that dot the countryside.  All the while knowing that when they grow too old to live at the orphanage (age 16 or so), they will be out on the street to fend for themselves, without family or education, at risk of being captured for trafficking within weeks of their new-found freedom.

What's left to sell when your parents are gone, or their optional organs have all been farmed out?  Cheap sex and slave labor.  One of the hottest markets in the world, the human trafficking trade has rocked Moldova to the core.  The levels of forced prostitution of young women and forced labor of children on farms who come from this tiny country make it the primary country of origin in Europe for victims of human trafficking.  Suffice it to say, these kids are in grave danger.

For almost a decade, folks at my church have given mercilessly of themselves, their time, money, efforts and hearts to bring aid to these high-risk children through an organization directed by Steve Davis, called Justice and Mercy International (JMI).  The worst day that my children are afforded here in the States simply does not compare in any form or fashion to the absolute best day for a child living at the Falesti orphanage in northern Moldova.  Our kids have three squares, goodnight hugs and kisses, clean beds, freedom to play, laugh, run.  And this is just the beginning.  They usually also have several pairs of shoes, at least one bike, a Wii, a DS, and now that new DSi, too.  Throw in some knowledge of God, mixed in with trust, security, and basic needs met, and you've pretty much got our American kids summed up in a nutshell.

Steve Davis, Director of JMI reviewing the latest information on Moldova with 

Toni Hill-Kennedy, WMBC Moldova Mission Team 

We've gone back year after year, either in person or through donations of much needed supplies, as a part of our commitment to serving those in need in places foreign to us.    This journey has been life-changing for many people on both sides of the ocean.  Many in our congregation financially support the kids in the orphanages and still more support the young adults living in the transitional living homes.  This year we won't send the team we've been preparing, due in part to schedules and in other part to concerns about the trip logistics, and I cannot help but feel saddened.  This is not a summer trip we "should go to", its a life-giving experience that we "need".

The challenging affair that is Moldova is that its never the same.  It's a third world country, not a well-planned resort style community.  The government continues to meddle, the corruption of the guards flourishes, the directors of the summer camps change, and the rules for accessing the kids are always different.  These things can make it harder to plan the perfect mission trip, and harder to have all the exact details in place before take off.  The thing that never changes, folks, is that the kids need us.  There is never a shortage of work to do in Moldova, even if the agenda isn't finalized and remains far from perfect.  These boys and girls need so badly to see a flicker of the light of hope in a country without any.  They need to experience love, perhaps knowing it for the first time, through the compassion of a stranger who comes to visit.  A stranger who thinks they are coming to build a bed, or teach a camp lesson, or rouse up a game of soccer.  But I know the hidden truth about a trip like this - that a certain heart was forever changed while playing defense on a soccer field in the midst of an orphanage in Moldova.

"It is God to whom and with whom we travel, and while He is the End of our journey, He is also at every stopping place." Elizabeth Elliot

Ordering every minute of our day, planning each step along the journey and making sure everything is perfectly reduced to writing leaves out one big thing: The God Factor.  We have to remember, the plan part is all God's anyway.  It's His redemptive mission, He has just invited us along for the ride.  And have you ever noticed that God sometimes wants different things for your life than you want for yourself?

Our part of the work as we prepare to go on a mission trip is to make the journey into our own heart.  Stopping intentionally throughout our days to be with God through the practices of reading the Word, solitude and private prayer.  Learning to have faith and to be flexible - or as my mother always said to "trust the process".  Not at all like my mother implored, I often find myself guilty of selfish behavior- running out the door, speeding off to the next obligation on my agenda, so busy that I don't stop to reflect on what I'm actually doing and who I might impact along the way.  Sometimes my lack of faith leads me to doubt if I'm really making a difference at all, as I consider marking through things on my calendar with big red X marks to cull them from my "to-do" list.  In these moments, instead of humbling myself and placing my trust in God, I am leaving God out of the picture and choosing to guide my own way.  In tough times, when it seems that things aren't going right, I am tempted to give up without even consulting Him if I don't think things will work out according to my plan.

The first thing we do in tough times is the most important thing.  It shows where and in whom our faith lies.  The thing is, it's easy to let our thoughts and feelings grow to take over and tangle up our life, wrapping around like a boa constrictor and strangling the spirit out of us.  Part of following Christ involves shedding that old boa constrictor skin, and casting off those old ways of being.  This shedding is only possible through God's grace.  This spiritual transformation journey we're on is a continuous and lifelong process, and I believe that taking the nature of a servant to humanity lies at the heart of it all.  If we don't get out of our own head and our own issues - out of SELF, we never will be able to truly see the needs, hurts and heart of OTHER.  

Richard Foster, in his book Celebration of Discipline reminds us that "self-righteous service is affected by moods and whims.  It can serve only when there is 'feeling' to serve.  Ill health or inadequate sleep controls the desire to serve.  True service ministers simply and faithfully because there is a need."  I love that - 'because there is a need', not because I wanted to help with a need, or because a need sounded good to me, just plain and simple - ministering because a need exists.  And this is the cool part - because the needs are great out there, we are all standing, right this very moment, knee-deep in some sort of mission field.  This part means we can take heart that God's call on our lives can and will impact the world for good.  There is a great big, broken world out there waiting for us to open the deepest door to our heart, and allow ourselves to be moved by all the cracks in the world that let the light of God shine through.

"In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps." Proverbs 16:9

We may at times feebly fret around, hurriedly making our plans, worrying about our preparedness - but God...  God already has the plan of action.  We need only respond to His calling us - voluntarily, gratefully and with pure heart- and be ready to bear his grace to others.  He calls us as servants (Matt 20:25-28), priests (1 Pet 2:4-9) and friends (John 15:14-15).  In the midst of the business of your life when God calls you into action on this journey, and don't doubt for a second that he won't - what is the first thing you will do?

Ctrl+Z

"Every decision I make is a choice between a grievance and a miracle"  Helen Schucman

The undo button.  Gotta love it.  I probably use this single feature on my computer more than any other.  More than the Save function, more than the Print command, and more than the super cool duo of Cut and Copy.  The thing is, I make mistakes all the time when I'm typing, and one of the most common mistakes I make is accidentally erasing whole chunks of a paragraph at once.  I only mean to delete a partial sentence, but somehow the entire selection gets highlighted and in my typing frenzy, poof, its gone.  The Undo button comes in like a lifeguard at the beach, rescuing all that is important to me as I write.

I got to thinking about how I wished my life came with an Undo button.  Make a mistake, say something mean, act inconsistently with your values?  No worries, just hit "Undo".

This week, I said some things to a friend that, though not terrible, certainly weren't said in love.  I brought impatience and irritation to the conversation, instead of compassion and love.  She didn't seem to notice, but she was busy and hurrying to her next task, and it was Sunday and it was at church of all places.  I wished it were possible to eat those words, but the minute you put something out there, you can never take it back or turn back time like it never happened.  Because it did happen.

Sometimes its easy to let the little things like this slip by us, unnoticed and unattended to, but they usually end up creating a giant snowball as new hurts are added to the mix, and then its an altogether different story.  This exchange continued to roll around in my mind and towards the end of the evening while cleaning up the kitchen, I remembered some great wisdom that tells us to "never let the sun go down on your anger" (Ephesians 4:26).  I found her number, reached her on the phone and apologized.  It was done - the world set right - all in five minutes or less.  She graciously accepted my words, but either had no idea anything had even happened, or was letting her Southern show by telling me she didn't understand why I felt the need to apologize.  God bless this woman, she truly is a saint.

And while I realize that not every hurt is this easy to right, it is true that we should work to right every wrong - continually working things out with each other so that bitterness is not allowed to take root in our lives and our relationships.  In recognizing my wrong action towards her, I was able to make a choice to stop the action.  Then and only could I have the platform to set it straight between myself and my friend.  And it was there, in the seeking forgiveness and the act of forgiving, that I caught a glimpse of God's grace and forgiveness.

10 ways to make chemo suck less

Entering with crutches, canes, walkers, wheelchairs cancer courage may be disguised

Behind baldness, oxygen cannulas, wigs, hats and headscarves.

This cross section of America, leveled by diagnosis are survivors awaiting intensive

And invasive procedures.

We walk bravely into sterile treatment rooms, sometimes sharing these intimate

Moments with long suffering loved ones, sometimes alone.

Cancer coaxes us to unnatural waiting room conversation, quick comrades exchanging

Secrets and realities of cancer survivorship.

Destructive realities and reassurances of re-creative hope bond this family of coincidence.

Conversations are careful, listening is attentive; Sharing is respectful.

Blessings are voiced and support is gentle. 

God is present in the waiting room.

- Sharon Gould, 2007

Cancer treatment means more than losing your hair.  Its much better than stem cell transplant, but much worse than catching the flu.  A friend recently asked me if I had any good information on care for her father as he began treatments for his recent cancer diagnosis.  I wrote up as much as I could and thought it was worth sharing with the whole world, so here it is for your perusal.  God willing, you are never in the position of needing to care for someone or support someone who is undergoing chemo or radiation, but if you are, please know that you are not alone and that there are many things that can be done to improve a bad situation.

My mother had an irregular biopsy result at age 46.  Three years later, during the week of my senior prom, she was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer at 49.  My parents intelligently decided to keep this information secret from me until after I walked across the stage to receive my high school diploma.  Just 17, I had a habit of skipping classes, and they probably knew that I would go off the deep end with information like that.  The weekend that I was dancing the night away at the Adams Mark Hotel with my high school sweetheart, my mom underwent a radical mastectomy and chemotherapy, including the practically-lethal FAC combination of drugs.  After that, she took several more rounds of chemo, and was finally placed on Tamoxifen.  After 5 years on Tamoxifen she was "cured" and released from further treatment.  "Cured" turns out to be one of those words that can be a big fat lie, because she was diagnosed during an emergency exploratory surgery with stage IV metastatic breast cancer in January 2004.  From 2004, I was at every meeting, every hospital, every diagnosis, every doctor's office and every treatment until she died in 2009.

The photo above was taken in 2009, just days after we had received the "you have three months left" monologue by her doctor.  My mom figured that news meant she should accompany me on a 6 hour round trip road trip to see her youngest granddaughter's dance recital.  This is the kind of trooper my mom was.  I was privileged to make the journey - through cancer treatments and to the dance recital - with her.

As far as pain and symptom management, there are so many things that could happen, so I don’t want to drown you with information overload.  Cancer is not a playbook that has any rhyme or reason to it.  Don't waste time worrying about and learning about stuff that is not actually happening to your loved one.

The most important thing I can say to you is this: say what you need to say, be real, do what you need to do, listen, be with, support, pray.  That last one bears repeating - pray.  Some of your prayers will be streaked with tears and more will come as the lump in your throat sort of prayers.  Still others will be the prayers that no words can adequately convey.  Pray these wordless, tearful, inadequate prayers.  It is important, especially in a time like this, where things are clearly not in our control, to get the words out to the One who hears them all.

And I realize that typing everything I know from my journey is probably going to just freak you out and for no reason whatsoever.  So this is the sum of things - your job is to be a squeaky wheel.  Make sure your loved one knows they do not have to suffer silently if something hurts or does not feel right. The doctors, nurses, pharmacist and even palliative care team, can make many changes, both small and large, that can help alleviate symptoms or make a patient feel better, so do not give up. I took care of my mom’s treatment and kept her records and asked the questions and managed her care, side effects and everything for five years. I could not possibly type it all here, but here are the top ten things that I think are worth considering:

1. Do not blindly trust.  The medical establishment is great, but if something does not seem or sound right – ask ask ask.  People make mistakes.  People don't always pay attention, or know what is going on.  Treatments are optional.  Not every doctor is aware of what the other folks on the treatment team are up to.  Speak up.

2. Don’t push your loved one.  Don’t make them do stuff (eating their entire plate, or going for a walk).  Just keep gently trying to help them. Try not to get mad at them - this is a tough journey for us, but it is even tougher for them.  If they are up to it, read scriptures to them, play a game, watch a movie, or pray with them or over them. Pray over their illness, their body, and whatever is hurting.

3. Caregivers have feelings too. This is hard work. You will experience grief, anger, and all kinds of yucky emotions. Stay in touch with your feelings and get good self-care.  There are organizations just for us caregivers. Churches and hospices usually offer these types of groups.  If you get really tired or overwhelmed, see about getting some help – a family member, a maid or even home health if needed.

4. Don't be afraid of alternative therapies, but don't be a fool either.  Chemo and radiation have their well-respected place in medicine, they really do work.  There are other complimentary therapies that might be available to your loved one also.  At MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, I was able to consult a healing touch therapist, who took care of my mom while she was in ICU.  And I was introduced to Reiki,  which channels energy and healing in the body.  I saw this stuff work with my own two eyes.  Don't forget to make your plans known to the primary doctor, for sometimes some things are off limits.  For example, my mother was not allowed to take vitamins, because they would give health to the cancer cells.

5. Make new best friends.  Befriend the scheduler, the nurse, and the nutritionist. These people are your team.  The good news is that cancer care centers, docs and nurses are good at this cancer crap – they know this stuff - so make them your allies.  Bring them cookies and send them cards and generally make sure they fondly remember who your family is.  You want these people on your side in a crisis, and in the medical field, the way to the heart is typically through the stomach.

6.  Sometimes its the little things.  The right products or routine can make all the difference.  While taking radiation, my father in law used a mouthwash called Biotene and the best thing for calming skin exposed to radiation was this lotion called Aquaphor.  During chemotherapy, my mom used a baking soda/water rinse or a baking soda/salt/water rinse.  Mouth care is so important during cancer treatment. The cancer medicines kill bad cells, but also kill good cells.  This means that the fragile, thin cells in your mouth are at risk for attack.  Pain there means eating and drinking go out the window. This is a situation to avoid at all costs.  Always work to keep their mouth healthy. This can save lots of heartache and headache.

7.  Cater to whims.  Chemo altered my moms taste quite a bit. Gave everything a metallic and salty taste, and while this was usually temporary, it really disrupted her desire for food.  When mom stopped wanting to eat, she tried those drinks from Ensure and Boost, which are kinda gross. So I started to make these power shakes – with ice cream, whole fat milk, protein powder, a bit of Ensure, and then I'd mix in all kinds of fresh fruit. She could drink way better than she could eat. After a long while, she did not even like those, so we found an amazing little drink called Resource Breeze that you can order online they have lots of flavors.  Also, hard candies and even ice were big hits.  She loved the Jolly Rancher hard candies. Also, Popsicles were a huge hit.

8.  Liven up the treatment room.  For nausea – the best thing the doctor can do is give Zofran with the chemo drugs.   Consider bringing a "picnic" bag full of things - ipad games, ipod movies, music, relaxation Cd's, a good book or whatever else will take their mind off the treatment.  And know that sometimes nothing will take their mind off the treatment.  Don't forget the Jolly Ranchers!

9.  Learn the patterns.  Like any good parent of a preschooler knows, figuring out the right routine makes life so much easier.  In cancer treatment, the same rule applies.  There are tons of chemo drugs, sometimes they are given alone, sometimes in combination. Each drug is a different animal. Read up on them and their side effects and other helpful bits of information to help you figure out the pattern of your loved one's needs as well as their side effects.  Learn about the period called "Nadir" – its usually 10 days after his treatment give or take. The patient is usually more apt to get sick/infected during this time when their blood cell counts are down, so take precautions during this time.  You will probably see a pattern emerge for them – see if you notice when their “good days” are, and try to schedule stuff (visits, meals, fun) on the good days.  The power of the immune system is greatly reduced during treatment. Their are lots of easy ways for them to get sick - after the first ICU visit, we bought stock in Germ-X and even kept a little box of masks and gloves during nadir days, hospital visits or when she wasn’t feeling good. Remember, the sickest place on the planet is the hospital!


10.  Be kind.  The more well your loved one can stay happy and healthy during their therapy, the more likely they will actually get to finish treatment.  Make rest, relaxation and nutrition top priority.  Build in times for laughter (the best medicine) through movie days or nights, tell jokes, watch a comedian on television.  Do more of what lifts their spirit, and yours.  


This stitch in time will be made easier by these things.  Fighting cancer is hard, but fighting it together makes it more tolerable. 

Emergency food pack

"'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, 'truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" Matthew 25:37-40

"Mommy, mommy, I'm hungry!" he kept whining. I kept trying to assure Ryan that it wouldn't be much longer, and I wondered what it would be like if after obtaining groceries from the food pantry, I had to board the Metro #8 for a crosstown trip with two bags in hand, my purse, our coats, and my 3 year old (who was still hungry).

"That is why we're here, baby", I tried to enlighten him with a chipper attitude.  "We will get you something to eat here".  That was yesterday in the middle of the Braes Interfaith Ministries (BIM) Food Pantry at 4300 West Bellfort in Houston, which is on the grounds of my church and smack in the middle of my upper middle-class neighborhood.  As we prepare to give to the Souper Bowl of Caring on February 5th, my goal is to help inform my church congregation on a more personal level about the needs of those in poverty living in our midst.  I'm pretty sure that I fed him yesterday morning, so this extra hunger pang just sought to deepen my whole experience at BIM.  The day started with meeting the folks who run the show there.

As I walked down the corridor, I ran into the Director and Social Worker, Eloy Montes.  He and I go way back to 2005, when we became the hub for an emergency shelter after the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  Both of us committed to helping others, it is always easy to sit down and cut through the small talk to get down to brass tacks about need, and how we can make things better for those in our community who are suffering.  After he introduced me to one of BIM's volunteers, Charlotte (pictured above) who was celebrating her 91st birthday (that is not a typo!) and 21 years of service to BIM, I was ready to learn more about this organization.  God willing I live to and look as great as she does at 91 - and have the energy to volunteer on top of it all - what a remarkable woman. 

After gathering some facts on hunger, I asked him what a food pantry client would receive when they first came through the doors at BIM.  He kind of skirted my question, and asked me in a gentle manner why I was asking.  He then added that I could get assistance from them, even if I was out of their service zip codes, because I was a member of the church.  I was taken back a bit, wondering practically out loud, did someone tell him?  Does he know?  Our tight finances, the product of the down economy coupled with legal battles for the little person, are not a huge secret.  In the past week, I have been figuring out how to keep my family fed with less use of meats and have just ordered bulk rice and beans as a part of that process.  Going from having anything you want, to actually looking at prices is very humbling.  I decided to keep it "professional", so I sat up a little taller in my seat, and a bit self-consciously waived him off with "no, no, of course not.  I just want to know so I can write about it."

I really wasn't there for food.  We are actually doing just fine, and my pants aren't falling off or anything yet, but his question got me thinking, and I started to wonder what the actual EXPERIENCE of having to go to a food pantry was like.  It's not like I'm that far away from being someone who could actually benefit from these services.  Eloy asked if I wanted to take some photographs of the intake area before I left, and I said I would and headed down the hall.  He called out to remind me that I only take client photos from the back, to help hide their identity and to preserve their dignity.

I was able to get some shots of an intake interview of a single woman, and made sure to photograph her from the back.  Afterwards, I noticed how empty the waiting room was and decided to go for it.  Moments later, I put myself in her shoes and Ryan and I were in the seating area, me filling out a family intake form and Ryan playing puzzles on the kids' table.  It was funny that the volunteers either did not remember I was the one just taking pictures, or maybe they truly did not care, because I received the same standard treatment that everyone else got while I was there.  I didn't have the proper "documentation", but they kept searching out how they could help.  They don't want to turn anyone away that is in need, so they came up with the solution of the "emergency food pack".  Once I came back, I could get the regular groceries from them every thirty days.

Suddenly I was the woman in the hot seat, who could only be photographed from the back.  Some paperwork, a few signatures, an interview, and the surrender of my driver's license, I had a shopping cart loaded with food about thirty minutes later. The contents of my treasure included one loaf of white sandwich bread, five bagels of various flavors, one package of rye bread, one loaf of olive bread, one package of mac n cheese, one jar of jelly, one jar of peanut butter, one can of peaches, two cans of chili, one can of carrots & peas, one pack of hot dogs, one little cake, one bag of beans, one bag of rice, one pack of spaghetti noodles, some fresh collard greens, carrots, broccoli, toothpaste, hand soap, a few pounds of frozen chicken and a sample size Clinique facial scrub. 

That last discovery at the bottom of the grocery bag made me laugh.  How did they know I'm a Clinique devotee?  I wonder if they knew who they were giving that to - like do they cater towards the different clients with these toiletries?  Or do they give men Clinique facial scrub, too?  

On a more serious note, I had a couple of realizations yesterday as I spent a few minutes on my day off, loading my groceries and my kid into my late-model Lexus and headed back towards my granite accented kitchen in the middle of my beautifully-kept neighborhood full of manicured lawns, foreign cars and wealthy folks with corporate jobs and privately schooled kids.

First, I do not have it near as tough as most people in this world, even if my income hasn't been what it was in the past - I still have indoor plumbing, a roof over my head, a set of wheels and a little baby weight.  Second, as a gluten-free household, we can't use even half of what they sent home with me.  Third, I have no idea how I would make those meager foodstuffs last for the 30 days a family has to wait before receiving more food from BIM.  And finally, how the heck do you cook collard greens?  These are the kinds of questions I never thought I would be asking myself, and thanks to my first-hand experience at BIM, I have started to think more deeply about needs versus wants, about the disparity between those of us who have and those of us who don't.  And why its the way it is, and what can be done about it.  As we prepare for Lent, perhaps you are thinking too about these types of things.

I'm going to display the donations I received along with some other facts and figures at my church in our missions space - Jacob's Well - as part of a multi-sensory display on hunger and poverty from now through the end of Lent.  And if the next time you see me, you notice that the texture of my skin has improved, well, that's because I'm keeping the Clinique scrub.

Channeling my inner quitter

"Adversity is like a strong wind.  It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are."  Arthur Golden

Last week, when the "family" frame fell from the dresser and sent shattered glass spilling all over the floor I started to wonder if was an omen.  I considered for a brief moment the current level of my inner strength and wondered how much longer I could hang on, trying to keep our family bound together.


I have a closet full of inspiring quotes hung on every available nook and cranny. My desk is a catchall for books devoted to playing life full out, and most days I tend to be a person ready with an extra dose of support and encouragement. Friends often call when they are stuck in a dilemma, or thinking about quitting their job, or quitting their spouse. But yesterday at about 2 o'clock in the middle of a picture-perfect suburban community and on a day dedicated to a man who never gave up fighting for what was right, I found myself in a place I don't visit too often, that place of wanting to quit. A priest once told me that at any time I experienced evil or negative thoughts that I should mark my body with the sign of the cross. Recalling this today, I did it and asked God to have mercy on me, and that was really the best I could do. It wasn't even a wholehearted cross, more of a resigned and unbelieving one.


If your life is anything like mine, you probably have had at one time or another a source of chronic stress that has caused you pain.  Well today, I guess I was channeling my inner quitter because something deep inside of me just fell on the floor screaming and kicking like a small child. I just wanted it to stop. I was tired of doing the right thing and tired of things being so unfair. I was tired, frankly, of all of my prayers going unanswered. 


Tired of thinking about it and tired of being supportive about it. I was hurt and a little bitter, and was too tired to try and cover it up or pretend I was okay.  On the phone with my husband, I could only offer as a response something to the effect of  'I'm not in a good place about this today', and left it at that. I am glad that my cell signal was not that great because it probably would've been worse to give my defeated thoughts the mic.  My husband is extremely perceptive, and knowing this about me he was gracious to help me end the conversation. 


As I watched the children in my charge playing happily on the playground, I could not shake the negative feelings I had, and if there had been a bar at said playground, a stiff drink would have been the next thing on my list.  I kept thinking on it and justifying that I had given it my all, and that I had done every possible thing right and there was nothing left for me to do. This train has been a long time coming, and with its force so unyielding, I have been on the look out, imagining how surely it will knock me down.  My friends and the world at-large would probably understand and support my exit, stage left - a graceful bowing out - at this point.  


To tell you that I love this small person would be a major understatement.  Having her missing from the day to day has been like an operation whose chief result was the amputation of one of my limbs. The past three years of my life have been an unwelcome exercise in false accusation, rejection, and heartbreak.  This is how convinced I was... Until I opened up my Bible to Galatians 6:9: 


"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." 


Riiiiight. 


I am all about finding great, inspiring quotes in the Bible, don't get me wrong.  Especially when those verses that I stumble upon justify or support my position.  But when my thoughts are like these, finding God's answer to my problem isn't always something I welcome. Because when I read Paul's letter to Galatia, I know I'm wrong.  I know my way of thinking is faulty.  The good old Apostle must have been onto something there.  You do see the promise in that verse, don't you?  It took me a while.


And the thing is, I either believe the Word of God, or I don't.  So which is it?


It sometimes seems that the deeper my communion with God, the more things in my life go haywire.  Paul's words are just as true and just as important as remembering what John has to say to us: "the thief does not come except to steal, to kill and to destroy" (John 10:10).  Sometimes our captivity is so extreme, that only the power of God can rescue and deliver us, or those who have been lost to us. Being overcome with despair or disillusionment about a situation is natural - even Elijah faced the desire to give up.  The only one in the nation of Israel who was being true to God - cried out "It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life".  The Bible reminds us in times like these, the God of yesterday, today and tomorrow is able to provide the strength we lack and the strength we need.


And I have to remember, in all of this, being saved doesn't mean being safe. If anything, accepting that invitation to new life in Christ is anything but safe, lest we forget how things ended for Christ and many of his disciples. Being saved doesn't mean things will be easy, or that things will be fair. Contrary to some schools of thought, it does not mean that I will have a perfect family or that I will get the best parking spot at the grocery store. But I know that in spite of this world, and in spite of myself, I am called not to simply to have faith, but to do God's work and God's will. 


God's work. Not my work until I see no more use in doing it. God's will be done. Not my will until I'm disillusioned with the potential outcome.  If I have any inkling about what He is up to in this world, I know that He bonded her to me for a very good reason.  Never has a child needed to be loved so unconditionally and so purely.  And though at this particular moment in time, she doesn't know the whole truth and I'm not in a position to tell her, and perhaps even later down the road things won't end up how I think they should, I realize that this world works on His time frame, not mine.  It is not my job to determine outcome or even to avoid failure, it is only my job to not grow weary in doing good.  To take comfort in following the advice of someone very familiar with failure and to "never give up, never give up, never give up". 


Me: God, what if she doesn't ever learn the true story of how much we love her? 
God: Love her anyway. 
Me: What if all the work that we do to try and fix the breakage fails miserably?
God: Try anyway. 
Me: What if everything we labor and build for her gets destroyed overnight? 
God: Build anyway.  
Me: What if? What if? What if? 
God: My child, My child, My grace is sufficient for you. 


2 Corinthians 12:9 "and he said unto me, my grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness." 


There are some times in my life where I think it would just be plain easier if I still had my mom or dad around to seek advice from.  But through these unspeakable losses, God has shown me that He can be trusted and that I can lean on Him for all my troubles.  He will give me the strength to get through today, even when I'm in a mess, unraveling and tearing at the seams.  For some lyrical thoughts on not giving up, please check out this awesome song, Mended, by The Autumn Film.


Sometimes it is easy to want to stop doing good, because it appears to be doing no good at all.  It is very true that the work we do for the Lord is not usually tangible and trackable.  I can't measure my results in the same way I can with my real estate sales, or with my half-marathon time.  As a friend reminded me today - we seek to live Gods story, not our own. That His story of grace might be seen through (or perhaps at times, in spite of) our lives and our actions.


God, have mercy on me, a weak and wounded sinner who sometimes forgets just how extraordinarily you love me. And how you call me to love others in the same extraordinary fashion.