Category Archives: Uncategorized

Sometimes don’t you just want to sing and dance through the streets at the wonder and glory of God?  It’s early here – night sky that inky blue tinge with the promise of the sun, like the Heavens themselves are holding their breath; will the Sun show itself, or did it decide to stay home and put its feet up just for the day? I’d say after at least a billion years it might deserve a day of vacation, but that never happens.  The sun always winks over the mountains and gently spreads itself over the rooftops until it gets to mine.  And I’m filled with the simple joy of being.

If you’d have asked me three months ago “who ” I was, I would have answered without hesitation: I’m a runner, a writer, a volunteer, a veteran, an ex-nurse, a daughter, a sister, an aunt.  Notice, please those are all description of what I do or did, how I live day to day.  But they do not define me. In answering those questions, I missed one: I am a daughter of the King.   How in the world did I leave that one out, because that one, that is perhaps the only one that matters? Continue reading →

I have a dirty little secret that, if I can rely on your discretion, I shall share.  I am, uhm, addicted to “The Price is Right.”  This is not a new issue for me.  No, unfortunately, I have been enamored of this totally American game show since I was three – knee high to a grass hopper as most Southerners would understand – three, when it was still acceptable to take  your security blanket everywhere – in public sight.  (Come on, ladies, you still have a security blanket; it’s called a purse, and as we get older they get bigger.  Men, don’t ask why because we don’t know.   It’s best to just accept the phenomenon.

So, as I’m typing this, Drew Carey is accepting over-enthusiastic hugs from a young, pretty, blonde woman whom I am willing to wager  he has never met before, and I smile because, while I love, love, love this show, this subtle Southern personality would no more be capable of climbing all over drew Carey like a rhesus monkey than I would be of designing and executing the building of one of those houses that cling to the side of the cliffs above the beaches of California.   In other words, highly doubtful I will be making my TV debut with Drew Carey handing me Plinko chips.

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When I was 4, and my brother, M, not quite 6, we lived in Dallas, Texas.  I remember that Spring being, oh, so very windy.  Every kid in our neighborhood had a kite.  Back then no one I knew had the fancy expensive kind you buy down at Kitty Hawk, but the cheapy K-Mart plastic kind with the thin white string that if you flew the kite too high, well, that string would snap right in half, then bye-bye kite.

My father took us to K-Mart, and I don’t remember what M chose, but one look at the bumblebee kite, and I was captivated.  Now, this was a bit of a strange enchantment as I am allergic to any and every kind of bee – carry that epipen in my purse or in my running/hiking Camelbak. But perhaps that was the fascination – here was a bee that could finally not hurt me.   I could touch it, play with, and it could not do one blasted thing to me. Nothing would do but that bee kite.  So, dutifully, my father paid, drove us home, then began to put the kites together without reading the instructions.

My father never, ever read instructions.  Printed instructions were for those not savvy enough to figure it out on their own.  Most of the time his projects came together well but took a little longer than if he’d read the directions.  So, my bee kite, which should have taken all of about 5 minutes took about 30, and I was not a patient pre-schooler.  (I’m sighing as I say this.  God has used much of my life to try to teach me that particular virtue.  Sometimes I want to scream at Him, “Fine, I get it.  Next, much, much less painful lesson, oh, Father God, please?”)

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So, I have this plaque that used to sit above my coffee maker; I’m pretty sure I told you about it before.  It says, “Good morning.  This is God.  I’ll be handling all your problems today.”   Judging by my stress level and the anxiety medications my doctor felt inspired to suggest as he asked kindly if I had a therapist, apparently that site just wasn’t in plain enough sight.

I did the obvious, and moved the coffee maker – not really.  I moved the plaque.  When you come down my stairs immediately you are confronted (might sound like an assault, and if you haven’t had enough sleep it certainly feels that way) by a very large plantation-shuttered window.  Well, I stood on my tippy-tip toes and stretched the full length of my just-under 5 ft tall body and shoved that plaque to the top ridge of the shutter.  Now I couldn’t miss those words unless I was deliberately evading them, and I was never good at hide’n seek.  I see that assurance every time I come/fall/trip down the stairs, and with the state of my memory right now, believe me, I’m making an inordinate number of trips back up the stairs: for the shoes already by the front door, the cell phone already in my purse, the sweater already on my body.  I guess you could say my unreliable memory is a blessing.  Now I see, really see, that plaque 12-15 times a day.  And the memory thing is turning out to be excellent for my thighs, too – bonus!

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Dark, foreboding starless nights where I wander in my mind alone and afraid from the relative safety of my own bed trap me in the terror of the unknown, the unforgiven, the unloved.  And as I writhe in the agonized horror of that deepest fear, the place I hide even from myself, the place that naming somehow gives sway over me, I whisper now to you: am I worthy of love at all?

Oh, the things I have witnessed and not raised my hand to stop, the words I have used to shred others, the times I could have loved but chose not to do so.  How different would I like to have lived my life given a second chance.  But would I really?  Probably not, because, as I am well aware, our experiences make us who we are. Continue reading →

I laid awake last night staring at the ceiling wondering what I had missed, pretty sure I had missed something.  Otherwise, why was I still awake?  Door was locked, alarm was on, stove was turned off.  I traced the ceiling with my eyes, mentally fidgeting.  Hmmmmh…then, God seemed to whisper: apparently, I had not really finished with “Cutting the Box.”

So, here it is.  Are you ready? Continue reading →

Last week, I collected a friend’s mail for her while she was out of town.  She had been anxiously anticipating a late Christmas package, or rather her preschooler had been, and I checked for its arrival with almost as much nervous glee as if it were my gift coming.  Now, at our little condo complex, when we receive packages in the mail, those packages are gently, tenderly, and lovingly placed by our kid-gloved mailman into these large, centrally located, rectangular locking metal boxes, and then the key to that mailbox is placed in our individual mailbox. (All true minus the “gently, tenderly, and lovingly placed”  and “kid-gloved” parts. ) Continue reading →

Last weekend my brother, sister-in-law, and I took their boys to Flagstaff for the day.  We ate lunch at Beaver Street Brewery, home to my absolute favorite hamburger (My brother and I have a friendly “agree to disagree” about this.),  and had a snowball fight, which I would like to say I won, but then I’d be lying.  After I surrendered the snowball fight, we turned the car home toward Phoenix.  On the way back, we stopped at Rock Creek Café for pie.  If you question the need for this detour in our sojourn, you either have never had the pie at Rock Creek Café, or your taste buds are faulty, my friend.

So, we sat there in the historic waystop, pie and coffee on the table, silence befalling our party except for the occasional sigh of contentment.  I believe it may have been a collective pie stupor.  Then Auz, my 10 year-old nephew, did the unthinkable; he pushed his pie plate away announcing he was “full.”  We adults stared at him aghast, but Z, Auz’s 6 year-old brother, practically shimmied with excitement.

“Can I have it?” Z asked.

This was unprecedented.  Someone, anyone, could not finish their amazing pie?  And it was chocolate cream pie, at that, the holy grail of pies.  We, the grownups, looked at each other.  Could we, in good conscience, allow a 6 year-old to consume two pieces of pie?  Ahhhh, but there was a bigger issue at stake.  Could we permit a perfectly good piece of Rock Creek chocolate cream pie to go unfinished?  The decision was clear.  My brother and his wife exchanged that spousal look that says “You know you know what I’m thinking, or at least you better pretend to know,” while I nodded my approval.

My brother cleared his throat.  “Z, you may have the pie.” (Please don’t judge us.  It was chocolate cream.)

Z reached for his brother’s pie.  “Come to poppa,” he exclaimed gleefully. Continue reading →

Breath of heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, breath of heaven.  Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy.

Sometimes God comes quietly, gently, peacefully.  Sometimes He reaches out and brushes the tears from your cheek with the slightest touch of his hand in a whisper that breathes to your heart that you are strong enough to survive your storm, that you will be okay.  But sometimes, well, sometimes there is no whisper of a touch, no whisper to your heart, and you are left wondering.  You are left hurting.

Fall on your knees.  Oh, hear the angel voices.  Oh, night divine.  Oh, night, when Christ was born.  Oh, night divine.  Oh, night divine. Continue reading →

The other day, I made apple butter in my Crock Pot.  Those unfamiliar with the gloriousness that is apple butter, think apple pie on a spoon.  Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and apples in a thick brown concoction that bursts warm Autumn sunshine on your tongue.  It’s that good, but then I’m a long-term devotee.  I guess you’d have to taste it to be convinced.

Anyway, I peeled the apples then cut them into chunks.  I dropped the apples into the ceramic bowl of the slow cooker then added the apple juice, sugar and spices, just as I always do.  I set the cooker’s timer on low for many, many hours and waited.  Soon I was tantalized by the delicious scent of cooking apples wafting through the rooms of my home, and I could picture the apple butter on my spoon making its way to my mouth. But, alas, it would be several hours before I could enjoy the fruits of my labor; I had to wait.  So, I did – wait and wait and wait and wait.  After eight hours, I poured the whole hot, steaming lot into my blender and whirred it down to the consistency of applesauce then back into my Crock Pot it sloshed to cook off more liquid.  Finally, ten hours after I had begun the process, my apple butter was ready.  And was I ready to try it!

I scooped up a bite and joyfully brought it to my mouth.  As I sipped at the flavors, I patted myself on the back.  I had hit just the right notes of spice and sweet.  A thrill jolted through me – until , disaster! There was a slight crunch.  In case you’re wondering, there should be no crunch.  It’s “butter” – crunchy “butter” is never a good thing. Continue reading →