From this side of the viewfinder

Lynn

2011-12-30T00:30:00.003-06:00

I wrote this at Northeast for the girl who lived across the hall from me on Murphy Hall third floor. She taught me a lot about friendship during that semester. All these years later, she is still teaching me about friendship because she is still my friend!

Being a friend
Is not just the things you do
Nor the things you say
Being a friend
Is not counted in monetary terms
Nor taken for granted
Being a friend
Is not as beneficial as it is necessary
But being a friend
Is a wide variety of things
Packed together with love
And distributed when needed most.

Untitled

2011-12-30T00:26:00.004-06:00

Another college era angst poem. Funny, I'm still asking some of these same questions about different people

Do things really last forever
Or do they gradually fade away?
Can I count on you tomorrow
Or just long for you today?
Is our friendship just a mem'ry
Something old that once had meaning?
Or is it lying dormant
Just waiting for the gleaning?
Are the tears I shed for nothing?
Have you turned away, cold?
Or were the feelings we once shared
For something else you've sold?
Do I have to hurt forever?
Does my heart just have to break?
Bit if you;d only offer
A second chance I'd take.
I know this is sentimental
And it sounds like you don't care.
But if mem'ry serves me right
You said you'd always be there.
Though these words are only symbols
Of the way I really feel
And the pain inside seems endless
It's not impossible to heal.

Sketches

2011-12-30T00:21:00.003-06:00

This one definitely was written during high school

The artist
Takes his brush
And brings to life
A bare, white
Canvas.
The colors dance
Across the board
And form the
Images in the
Eyes
Of the Painter.
And the deepest, most
Intimate
Thoughts and feelings
Of his soul.
The artist smiles
For
His painting
Reflects
The true person
Without saying one
Word.

I used to wish I was an artist
And could draw things exactly
As I see them.
But in a way I
Am an artist
For I write things
Exactly as I feel them.

For Carol

2011-12-30T00:12:00.003-06:00

I wrote this sometime during my senior year at Mississippi University for Women.

If I could I'd paint a rainbow
Every day up in the sky
To help to make you happy
Or comfort you when you cray.
To remind you that you're not alone
And to let you know I care
On those rare and far-between times
When I just can't be there.
But I'm not much of an artist
And rainbows just don't last.
Bad times just have to come
Though we try and keep them in the past.
But true friends are friends forever
Whether near or far away.
And the times we share together.
Are like rainbows every day.

Possibilities

2011-09-28T21:29:00.003-05:00

I have looked for you all of my life.

In the faces of strangers

In the places I’ve wandered

In the things that brought me momentary joy.

In the people who snatched my trust, shattered my heart

And crushed my spirit.

Yet I continued to look.

In my thoughts and plans, silly schemes

Memories, current moments, future dreams

I saw you.

You were there

Somewhere just beyond my reach,

Yet already tucked away in my heart

Waiting to develop at the precise and intended moment.

Maybe all the pain and frustration

Loneliness and bad decisions

Were just a prelude to the current respite I feel.

In time, I will know if this is different

If this is real and permanent

Or just more of the same old mundane

Wishful thinking?

I know the answer.

Reflections on 9/11/01 on 9/11/11

2011-09-11T09:03:00.000-05:00

This was the Impatience of Jobe that I wrote for the first anniversary of 9/11.

On September 11, 2001, I was asleep at the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center. I could hear my sister's voice on my answering machine in another room telling me to turn on the television. By the urgency in her voice, I could tell something awful had happened.

On TV, I saw a split screen view of smoke billowing out of one of the towers at the World Trade Center and smoke rising from the Pentagon. I recognized both structures immediately and, without knowing details, I knew that whatever happened was horrendous and affected us all.

Ten years later, I won't sit here and wax philosophically about the state of our country - and our world. We all know that. I'd like to think I am a better person today than I was on September 11, 2001. In a lot of ways, I truly believe I am. But sometimes I worry that I have become more jaded with time and have a lot less faith. And some days I'm not really certain how to rectify that.

So as I remember that horrendous day today - my generation's "date that will live in infamy" - my prayer is that peace on Earth will truly begin within me. It's not a solution by any means. But it's a start.

ANNIVERSARY OFFERS HOPE FOR THE FUTURE

“It was a day when thousands of lives
were lost and thousands of heroes were born.’’ - CBS
anchor Dan Rather

Where do we go from here?

That’s the question many Americans were asking
themselves Wednesday while observing the first
anniversary of the terrorist attacks on American soil.

I asked that question and many others on Wednesday
and the days prior. I’ve been asking several questions
over and over since Sept. 11, 2001. Some I’ve found
answer for; others I’ve found may never be answered
because some things in life are meant to remain
questioned.

In theory, I would have rather gone to bed before
midnight on Tuesday and slept until Thursday morning.
I didn’t want to relive the excruciating feelings I
had that awful Tuesday. I’d felt the pain that seared
my heart beginning to scab and heal a bit and I didn’t
want to reopen that wound.

In reality, though, I knew I would have to face the
day. Ignoring it, I understood, wouldn’t lessen the
pain nor would it erase the facts that evil had
attacked the very fiber of our beings and belief
systems as Americans.

I hadn’t planned to watch any of the TV coverage of
the anniversary. I bought three blank video tapes and
decided to record for posterity a sampling of each of
the three major networks’ coverage at varying times
during the day, ending with NBC’s “Concert for
America.”

My plans to sleep in and get out of bed in time to
go the memorial service at the Corinth Coliseum-Civic
Center were changed when an early-morning phone call
from a good friend who simply wanted to hear my voice
on a difficult day awoke me. Little did she know,
hearing her voice helped me face the day a bit easier
as well.

Not being able to go back to sleep, I did what I
did the year before - I turned on CNN. The network was
covering the reading of the victims’ names at Ground
Zero.

I was able to keep the tears at bay until
17-year-old Marianne Keane, whose stepfather Franco
Lalama was killed in the World Trade Center, took the
podium. With a voice strong and unwavering, the teen
shared what she had read at his memorial service.
The portion of Keane’s speech that hit me hardest
was when she discussed loss. “Things, people, they
go away sooner or later,” the teen said. “You can’t
hold them any more than you can hold the moonlight.
But if they have touched you, if they are inside of
you, then they are still yours.”

Sage words from someone just embarking on
adulthood.

In preparation for this Sept. 11, our news staff
spent the prior month talking with Crossroads area
residents about their recollections of 9/11/01 and how
life had changed for them since.

My assignment was to talk with children and teens
about the anniversary. Rather than talk to them
individually, I chose to submit surveys to two groups
of students at two different schools. One simple,
common thread ran through every survey: hope.

Despite the fear, confusion, turmoil and
heartbrokenness these students have been feeling for a
year, they are hopeful about the future.

Few, if any of them, want to forget what happened
in New York City, in Washington, D.C. and in a grassy
field outside Shanksville, Penn. But they want to move
on in life with hope for a bright tomorrow even in a
world that sometimes looks bleak.

My goal for Wednesday was that as we remembered
those patriots who were sacrificed in the World Trade
Center, the Pentagon and aboard United Airlines Flight
93, I would look for the same hope that teens in
Corinth and Alcorn County Mississippi, as well as
their counterparts all over America, are looking for.

I’m ready for us to put aside our pettiness, our
selfishness and our differences, learn to love each
other for who we are and what we are going to become,
and truly become what we have given mostly lip service
to for the past year (and years prior to this one).

Let’s truly become united in honor of September 11,
2001, and in spite of those who tried to divide us. As
it’s been said by more than one person, they may have
torn down our buildings and killed our comrades, but
they certainly didn’t conquer our spirit.

I just have to believe they only increased it.

Shooting star offers sign of hope, peace

2010-12-14T23:11:00.002-06:00

I wrote this several years ago in my other life as one of my weekly Impatience of Jobe columns for the Daily Corinthian. While looking for a copy of another column I wrote, I stumbled upon it tonight and thought how timely it was for how I was feeling. So I opted to share it here and as a note on my Facebook page.

Tomorrow is an unusually hard day for me. Eighteen years ago my mama died and eighteen years later, I still miss her. Hopefully I will see a sign tomorrow that will provide some peace - and hope and maybe, even, joy - for me on a day that is generally difficult ...

Signs.

From time to time, we all look for them as answers
that Someone is listening to us from above. Or simply
as hope personified in an animate object.

Different people have different signs that are
significant to them. Some are simple ones while others
tend to need the more complex signs to let them know
everything is really gonna be OK.

A rainbow, specific cloud formation or unusually
colored sunset are signs for some people that things
are going to turn around. Certain songs showing up on
a radio station play list, a bell ringing or the voice
of a friend on the other end of a phone signal peace
for others.

Still others find hope in the eyes of a baby or the
reassuring hug of a small child.

My sister and nephew rely on the feathered kind of
sign. A cardinal flying by or perched on a tree branch
speaks volumes to both of them during difficult or
confusing situations.

Whatever the method, you tend to look for these signs
in times of greatest need or distress. Or just times
when you need encouragement.

I’m no skeptic, mind you, when it comes to faith. I
just sometimes have a difficult time putting my trust
into it wholeheartedly. With this in mind, it would
come as no surprise that I don’t have a specific
object that I tend to look for as a sign of
reassurance. For me, it has to be unusual things
showing up in common places to get my attention.

Take a recent Sunday night for example.

Unable to make myself go to bed at a decent time, I
decided at around 11:30 p.m. that I needed to take the
trash outside. Some folks might think that time of
night is an unusual time to traipse outside,
sockfooted and trash bag in hand. Forcing the plastic
bag into the already stuffed receptacle, I noticed
some nearby neighbors had put up new holiday lights.
Taking a brief moment to enjoy the flickering bulbs, I
suddenly realized how brightly the natural lights were
shining in the clear, crisp sky.

Scanning the stars, I attempted to locate the few
constellations that I knew when suddenly, and without
any warning, a light streaked across the sky toward
the west.

Stunned, I held my breath for a split second. Finally
coming to my senses, I quickly made a wish. I won’t
give away the contents of my wish, just in case that
might really jinx its ability to come true, but it was
pretty much an open-ended one.

Trying to not be selfish in the midst of the season of
giving, and sensing there might not be another
shooting star pass my way anytime soon, I made sure my
wish included some of those I consider near and dear.

One part of the wish I will share, though, because it
has already come true in a sense. In the season where
the hustle and bustle tries to overtake the real
meaning of the celebration, I stood on my driveway and
wished for peace on Earth.

Granted that wish hasn’t totally come true around the
globe as wars still rage in distant lands.

But I will take that one shooting star as a sign of
the possibility of peace.

Just as the lyrics to a song I learned as a small
child goes, peace has begun with me for it has sprung
eternal within my heart. I determined that clear, calm
night that no matter how bleak things seemed around
me, I was going to look for a sign of light within the
situation and focus on that positive source.

From now on, too, I will look for those shooting stars
at unusual times to indicate the continuation of the
process of peace throughout the world. I don’t think
it’s impossible to achieve at all. Especially if we
start from within.

Listening ...

2010-10-03T22:21:00.002-05:00

Unbroken wings are free to fly.

Seeking real redemption

2010-09-18T22:57:00.001-05:00

True redemption.

Humans make it hard for me to really believe in that.

Why? Well, for me – with no apologies to Frank Sinatra – I’ve had more than just a few regrets.

I’m the first to admit it. You don’t have to remind me. I’m not perfect. I do make mistakes. And, sadly, sometimes I make the same mistakes over and over again.

There have been times in my life when I’ve made decisions that I thought at the time were in the best interest for others and myself only to discover later that, well, maybe the original choice wasn’t the best one I could’ve made. Especially when involving those closest to me.

There have been times when geography, circumstances beyond my control, or just straight up life has separated me from some of the folks I’ve loved the most. Sometimes it was in my ability to keep it from happening. Other times, well, it was something I probably could have controlled. And yet it still happened.

There have been a handful of times, though, when I made a conscious decision to simply walk away. For one reason or another, through lots of soul searching on my part, I felt it was in the best interest of those involved to go for the greater good of the situation.

Intelligent people don’t do that, you’re probably sitting there thinking while reading this blog post. Smart people who find themselves in difficult situations do exactly that hoping that, in time, circumstances will become a little better and possibly your paths might cross again when they are.

Or maybe I should call it what it possibly was – a gutless move by an immature kid.
Years later, I look in the mirror and see that I’m no longer who I was. And I find it hard to live with the remorse I have about some of the decisions I made. And find it even harder to live with the fallout from them.

I honestly never knew there was an expiration dates for apologies, but I’m learning the hard way there are. I realize I can’t really expect people to welcome me back into their lives with open arms decades after I left. But I’d like to at least believe in true redemption. I’d like to see a couple of second chances. I’d like to believe lives are big enough to encompass lots of people in them.

Yes, those are very selfish sentences, but I’d like to prove that I am a much better human being today than I was a few decades ago and that trust could be regained.

Is that being too unrealistic?

In no means to I believe our friendships could ever be exactly as they once were. Honestly? I wouldn’t want them to be for had they been that ideal, I would have never felt the need to slip away in the first place.

And in all honesty, one friendship I’m seeking to repair became a victim of simply time and circumstances. I never meant for it to disappear. It’s like, well, life became busy, I thought she was still by my side and when I turned to look, I’d gone one way and she had gone another.

And I could never seem to do enough to fix it, no matter how hard I tried. I’ve found silence at every attempt. And I’ve taken the silence as a sign of rejection. Which has led me to the conclusion that possibly forgiveness IS a lot to expect.

But I can’t stop hoping and praying one day it will happen.

Life is a vapor. It’s brief and it’s, well, unsteady at best. And I’m tired of living with regrets. I can’t quit trying to make amends. I can’t give up. I realize that I probably don’t deserve a second chance, but I’m still hoping that I will be granted what I don’t deserve.

After all, isn’t that what redemption is truly all about?

"What we got here is a failure to communicate ..."

2010-08-22T20:11:00.001-05:00

Voices. They’re distinct.

Many people in my life I can recognize purely by their voice. Although I’ve not heard my mama’s voice since December 13, 1992, I still remember how it sounds. That’s comforting at the times when I miss her most.

With other family members and close friends, I can hear their voices and I know who each one is without even seeing their faces. Even some of my newer friends like Robbie and Misty.

Voice recognition is just another way of identifying people. There are even times when you can recognize people you don’t even know just by hearing their voices. Take James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman for example. I don’t know either one of them – although I had a brief encounter with Mr. Freeman on the Oxford Square several years ago – yet I can recognize their voices in the many voice-overs they do for commercials and documentaries. They begin to speak and I instantly know it’s them.

I find it really funny when people call me on the phone and say, “Hey, it’s _____________!” Why do I find that funny? Well, #1, if they call my cell phone, I know who is on the other end of the phone before I answer it. Odds are, if I answer it at all they should feel fairly special because I often use the caller ID as a filter of sorts to determine whether or not I even answer the phone to start with.

But that’s another blog post within itself, I guess.

The other thing that makes me laugh when they say, “Hey, this is __________!” is simply, well, I know their voice. I’ve heard it enough that I’d recognize it at “hello.”

I have friends who our main source of communication is text messaging. It’s a decent way to “talk” – it’s instant and you can choose when it’s convenient for you to respond (although I try to respond ASAP because I can sometimes forget someone even sent a text).

Text messaging is often limiting, though. It’s really hard to put emotions in those little characters even using LOL or JK and such. When reading texts from someone one, you truly can’t get inflections in voices or even sarcasm (unless you really know the person writing the text message). Sometimes people totally misunderstand the intent of the emotion behind most text messages and can either get their feelings hurt or become really angry by something typed in a text.

For the most part, I’m quite content to communicate via texts. But there are times, I admit, when I simply need to hear certain people’s voices. Some of them I’ve gotten to understand that need; others still don’t quite “get” it. I can read encouragement, but there are times when I honestly need to hear some folks say, “You can do this!” “You can make it!” or “Hey, this won’t last forever!” Even “I can’t do much from here, but I really do care” translates really well in my heart when I actually hear someone physically say it.

I really appreciate it when some of my friends randomly text me and write “I love you, Kim Jobe” in the text, but there are times when I need to hear the people I care most about in this world actually tell me that.

And sometimes there are just those rare times when I just need to hear certain people talk. I don’t think it’s a lot to ask from a friend.

Tusha has been my friend since we were children. She is one of my most consistent friends – we have been so close for so long that she is truly more like family to me than a friend, to be quite honest. We started out as pen pals and wrote letters fairly faithfully through our early 20s. We have also spent quite a bit of time talking on the phone and I have visited her in New York three times. We, too, have adapted with technology and we often send emails to one another. To be honest, though, she is one of the few people I will sit down and actually pen a letter to because it’s that important to me.

Although we try not to do so, there have been times over the past 35 years (yes, we have been friends that long!) when we haven’t kept in touch as closely as we should. She is a second grade teacher, is married and has two young and very active children who enjoy dance, cheerleading and various sports. Spare time is a rarity with her. And I understand that. There have been a couple of times recently when I have sent her emails concerned about the distance between us.

A few weeks ago she called and we got the chance to talk almost uninterrupted for half an hour. It was during that conversation that we decided we were going to make a more concerted effort to communicate more often. We are going to take turns calling one another about every six weeks – if for no other reason than to check in for five minutes or so and hear one another’s voice.

It’s that important to the both of us.

Time is a high-dollar commodity. I’m going to quit wasting so much of mine and start investing it.

Good intentions are not a valid argument when friendships drift away. Life is busy, true, but we make time for things that aren’t even as close in importance as the people we hold near and dear. I plan to quit saying I’m going to get better about communication and simply put my good intentions where my mouth is – and either call the folks I love from time to time or at least send them a card to let them know I’m thinking of them.

I have a feeling it will be something that will not only bless the lives of others, but will bless mine in return.

What I'm [Stealing]

2010-07-27T17:15:00.001-05:00

“Borrowed” this from another person’s blog I read who “borrowed” it from one they read …

What I’m [reading] = Fearless – Max Lucado

What I’m [also reading] = Crazy Love – Francis Chan and one of the 25 or so ghost and folklore books I bought from Spice of Life’s going out of business sale. I normally collect them as souvenirs when I travel various places in the U.S., but I just couldn’t pass these bargains up!

What I’m [eating] = Every single thing in my sight, sadly! I’ve got to exercise more and eat better! UGH!! Currently, I’m waiting on breakfast so I can have a little pb/banana action today (even though one of my bananas looks like it has a black eye).

What I’m [hearing] = Right now? “Love Has Come” and “Your Love is a Song” on WRBQHD2 on iTunes radio. Normally I listen to Xmusiconline.com, but it seemed redundant today so I switched to this station from Tampa (I wouldn’t mind being in Tampa right now listening to some awesome Paula White preaching, to be honest!!)

What I’m [writing] = At work? Copy for the website which includes feature stories on new administrators and such. On a personal level, not much to be honest (and I should be writing more; I’m … hold it, hold it, you’re gonna be shocked by this admission … LAZY right now. Wishing I were doing more to feel more inspired, really).

What I’m [missing] = Hmmmmm … this could be a long list. Wish it stated what I’m NOT missing; that might be easier to compile and keep me out of some trouble, too. In a condensed version, I’m missing my friends Michelle and Janet – I wish we could all be in one place hanging out for about a week or six. ☺ I’m missing my Emmaus Walk #59 Team and Pilgrims – what a blessed weekend we had and I miss sharing the glow and love and praise and worship with all them.

What I’m [loving] = My life to a certain degree. Granted, it’s not as complete as I’d like it to be. I’m still looking for that special person to totally share it with and say “I do,” too. I truly believe he exists; He just hasn’t perfected the timing yet. I’m loving my job very much. I have some of the best co-workers (who have become some of the best friends and truest friends ever) and know some of the best kids in the world.

What I’m [googling] = Honestly? Wide width walking shoes. My friend, Robyn, wants me to walk with her and I NEED to walk (my diabetes NEEDS me to walk) but I have no comfortable shoes for this process. So I’m trying to find some. And definitions of certain phrases I’ve been hearing that I want to expound on as posts for my blogs. I’m working on two different posts right now – maybe three – thanks to Toy Story 3 and the recent CHS Band reunion!

What I’m [watching] = Way too much instant viewing stuff on Netflix! LOL Although it took me several weeks to view the DVD I had from them at home, I’ve managed to sort through the 200+ titles I have in my instant que and have watched quite a few movies and complete TV series on there. I was hooked on Hulu, but I think Netflix has a better lineup. Last night, though, I started a “Fearless” series on Lifechurch.tv. Pastor John got me hooked on Craig Groeschel several months ago, and I’m enjoying his messages so much.

What I’m [surprised about] = Well, not that my friends, Webb and Bubba, are getting married. I knew that was bound to happen eventually and I’m ecstatic. I was surprised about the flowers that the Dorans sent me earlier today. They’re gorgeous. I was pleasantly surprised how many people showed up at the CHS Band reunion last Saturday night! I was afraid folks just wouldn’t turn out, but I guess I forgot that they love Mr. E and Mr. Smith as much as I do.

What I’m [wondering] = How much longer this feeling of living in a state of limbo will prevail?!?! I know without a doubt that God has a plan for my life and He keeps telling me over and over again that it will be worth the wait. I just, well, sometimes get weary waiting. I’m trying to remember that wait is definitely an active verb and I’m not just being idle about it all. But there are still some areas of my life that I truly believe need some action and it’s getting really frustrating waiting for that to happen.

Who is He to you?

2010-07-15T13:20:00.002-05:00

Matthew 16 (The Message)
13 When Jesus arrived in the villages of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples,
"What are people saying about who the Son of Man is?"
14 They replied, "Some think he is John the Baptizer, some say Elijah, some Jeremiah
or one of the other prophets."
15 He pressed them, "And how about you? Who do you say I am?"
16 Simon Peter said, "You're the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God."
17-18 Jesus came back, "God bless you, Simon, son of Jonah! You didn't get that answer out of books or from teachers. My Father in heaven, God himself, let you in on this secret of who I really am. And now I'm going to tell you who you are, really are. You are Peter, a rock. This is the rock on which I will put together my church,
a church so expansive with energy that not even the gates of hell will be able to keep it out.
19"And that's not all. You will have complete and free access to God's kingdom, keys to open any and every door: no more barriers between heaven and earth, earth and heaven. A yes on earth is yes in heaven. A no on earth is no in heaven."

Who is He to you?

That question was posed at the end of a powerful video I ran across on a website recently. The video contained several people from obviously different backgrounds in life eloquently describing who God was to them.

Some of their answers included:
* a consuming fire
* light and big
* infinite
* eternal hope
* my redeemer and my sustainer in trouble
* light that pierces darkness
* the rim on every cloud
* unchanging
* He is love and He loves me
* He is indescribable and yet He loves me

Honestly, I had to watch the video twice to allow it to all sink in. And watching it brought to mind the passages in the gospels where Jesus asked his disciples a similar question.

For some reason, the version in Matthew is the one I chose to look up this morning. And to be honest, this passage of scripture frustrates me whenever I read it. You will probably find my explanation of that statement very funny, but read on nonetheless.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for those 12 men to have been hand-picked by Jesus to follow that closely with Him and serve His ministry. I wonder how much they really thought about what they were doing during the process or if they were just following out of faith. That is not really explained within the texts.

What frustrates me about Matthew 16, though, is Jesus posed this question and they obviously gave the correct answers. They answered the question directly, but the answers lack, well, eloquence. It’s as if I wanted them to suddenly become poets and offer words of fluent and beautiful alliteration. It was their moment to shine - and they were more dully straight forward.

This morning it hit me, though. These men most likely didn’t have the vocabulary to offer flowery speech. Many of them were laborers or simple fishermen. I’m not picking on them and I’m certainly not saying they’re ignorant, but how many times have you watched “Deadliest Catch” on the Discovery Channel and heard any of those guys spout
prose?

The other thing I’ve missed in the other times I’ve read these verses is: this transpired early in Jesus’ ministry. Although they had witnessed some of the miracles of Jesus and had an inkling into what He was capable of doing, they hadn’t really gotten a grasp of exactly how Jesus was going to literally transform the world as they knew it in that time and all of the eons to come.

They hadn’t “arrived” yet.

Nor have I.

Although I have known about God for more than 40 years, I have only recently begun to truly know who He is and what He is capable of doing. Had I been asked that question 20 years ago or even as soon as a decade ago, my answers would have been vastly simple compared to what I would reply today.

Who is He to me?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so frustrated with that passage of scripture after all. I can come up with some fluid, beautiful and poignant adjectives to describe God and His infinite roles in my life. But I’d like to believe, despite the times I waffle in my faith and despite the times I fail to honor Him and serve Him as consistently and deeply as I should, that my answer would come down to two simple words: my all.

Believing what seems impossible

2010-07-12T21:57:00.009-05:00

I’m not one to give up dreams very easily. Even the ones that seem almost impossible to attain, I still keep hoping they will eventually come true!

Recently, I have believed really diligently for a couple of things to happen in my personal life. Some of them are fairly simple and just seem a bit beyond my fingertips right now. Some of them I have in my grasp, I’m just waiting for them to completely be mine. And, well, there are a couple that if I dwelt really hard on them, I’d cry because they seem so impossible to obtain.

Nothing is impossible with God, though. I learned that as a child because our choir at South Corinth Baptist Church sang a song that had lyrics which stated, “Nothing is impossible when you put your trust in God; Nothing is impossible when you’re trusting in His word. Hearken to the voice of God to thee; ‘Is there anything too hard for Me?’ Then put your trust in God alone and rest upon His Word; For ev’rything, oh, ev’rything, yes ev’rything is possible with God.”

All these years later, I can still hear the choir singing that song and all these years later, I still believe that nothing is too hard for the God I serve.

It just seems like sometimes His delivery is a bit slow, you know?

Saturday morning I was driving to Tupelo to meet some friends for a fun day of shopping and eating – two of my favorite hobbies lately. Surprisingly, I was running a little late. Generally my route to Tupelo includes going down South Harper Road and hitting U.S. 45 right past the Mississippi Welcome Center. And that’s the route I took Saturday morning. When I got in front of the Northeast @ Corinth center, though, a train started to slowly cross the tracks right before World Color. I didn’t have time to wait so I turned around and drove up the road past the Alcorn School District offices. Preparing to turn left, I noticed a road closed sign on that roadway. So, I took a right and decided to go out Fulton Drive, a route I rarely take.

The sign at Shady Grove Methodist Church, my parents’ old place of worship, caught my attention as I started to drive past it. “The best is yet to come” it stated. Honestly, I wanted to stop right there and shout. But I was already running late so I just kept moving and shouted in the car.

The next morning, I drove to Kentucky to spend the day with my nephew and his family and my sister. Wednesday is Owen’s first birthday and we wanted to celebrate it in grand style. We decided to include a trip to church for our immediate family in the festivities.

Midway through his sermon, the Baptist preacher stopped, looked out into the audience and said six critical words. Yep, you guessed it: the best is yet to come.

That kind, longtime preacher man almost knew he had a Holy Ghost-filled person in his midst at that moment. Sistergirl wanted to shout! I remained in order, though, but my heart pounded harder than it has in months. It was all further confirmation to me that I am finally on the right track in my life.

And I think if I remain steadfast and unshakeable, I honestly believe the best IS truly yet to come!

He set me free

2010-07-09T16:43:00.006-05:00

"Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance
I just wanna praise you
I just wanna praise you
You broke the chains now I can lift my hands
And I'm gonna praise you
I'm gonna praise you

Been through the fire and the rain
Bound in every kind of way
But God has broken every chain
So let me go right now."

Warryn Campbell, Erica Atkins-Campbell and Trecina Atkins-Campbell

Standing on the platform with the Real Life Church praise & worship team one recent Sunday morning, I had a moment that might be defined as an epiphany (well, the second definition of the word; not the “feast” one): You never know how bound you have been in life until you are finally free.

That moment was truly a defining one for me and set off a process that will most likely be a continual one for the rest of my life.

It has been no great secret that I have been going through something for the past year. Although I still don’t want to talk about the entire particulars of it, I will admit that it totally changed my life as I knew it. Thankfully, it didn’t end my life since I’m much stronger than I give myself credit for being. But it did change me drastically.

Prior to this, I’d been hurt numerous times, but never at such a cataclysmic level. I was devastated. I literally felt as if someone had taken a surgically-sharpened machete, cut my legs off at the knees and then - almost gleefully - stood over where I lay and cut my heart out of my chest while staring directly into my eyes.

Dramatic? Maybe. True? Abundantly.

My heart was not just broken. It felt shattered beyond repair and felt as if the pieces were sitting heavy and almost vilely at the bottom of my torso. I guess the best way to describe how it looked to me in my mind is how one of those glass balls that hangs on Christmas trees would look on the pavement when dropped from the 86th floor observation deck of the Empire State Building.

Irreparable.

Worse than my heart being broken, though, I felt my spirit had been broken. Although I certainly didn’t want to harm myself, I simply couldn’t manage to care anymore. I was just numb, but painfully numb. That probably doesn’t make much sense but it seemed that I felt nothing yet I still hurt.

People closest to me reached out and tried to help. I didn’t resist, but I didn’t really receive either. I couldn’t. Oddly enough, a handful of folks who aren’t that close to me offered some words that later became very encouraging to me. And I’m honestly not certain if they even realized what they were saying or if God was just using them to messengers for Him since I wasn’t really listening closely to Him at the time.

I didn’t exactly give up on my faith, I just didn’t, well, have much faith in it. If God truly loved me, I couldn’t believe that He would allow this pain to continue. I begged Him to stop it, to fix it, to remove it and even, at times, to remove me.

In either a psychology class or sociology class at Northeast, I can remember learning about the stages of grief. I never truly believed they existed. With me, I generally lost, cried and attempted to move on. This time I experienced almost every single one of the Kubler-Ross model: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Until I started writing this paragraph, I didn’t realize I experienced them in that order, too, but I honestly believe I did although it seemed I kept revisiting the anger stage often.

Although I finally worked through four of the stages, I never could seem to settled on the fifth one: acceptance. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the pain to be over and to move on with my life. I’d prayed for that since the very beginning. I just couldn’t seem to walk there. It was like I’d almost get to what I deemed the “end,” and something would happen to propel me backwards. To say it was frustrating for me is an understatement. There were nights when I would cry out to God to remove the hurt, that I just couldn’t take it anymore. And then there were times when I would just scream because I couldn’t find the vocabulary to match my cries.

Then one Sunday morning we were singing Darlene Zschech’s song “Freedom.” Although I was “faking it until I make it,” I certainly wasn’t feeling the words until we got to the line in the lyrics which states “It is for freedom You’ve set us free.” And something within me moved. Standing there, I literally felt as if heavy, iron shackles were falling from my wrists and ankles. I really believe I saw them drop and heard them clank against the platform floor.

The final process was finally beginning.

I began delving more into the Word than ever before and it became alive to me. It was like a salve for my wounds. I learned that there truly is power in praising God, in my case, healing power. I really listened to the lyrics of “How Great Is Our God” and “Come As You Are” and began to sing them honestly and live them fully.

John 8:36 became my lifestyle.

Despite feeling free, though, I couldn’t seem to let go. I felt as if my immediate past was glued to me and I couldn’t release it. I’d pray for it to go away - for total restoration - but it seemed to me as if God wasn’t interested in completing the process.

Although I love Mercy Me, I didn’t want to continue living “Bring the Rain”:

"Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings You glory
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that's what it takes to praise You
Jesus, bring the rain."

I was ready for the sun - and the Son - to completely and fully shine in my life again.

But God doesn’t always do everything instantly. Sometimes He works by process and, well, apparently I was still a work in progress.

In January, I was invited to become a member of a team for a Walk to Emmaus. Although I didn’t feel worthy to do it, I found myself accepting anyway. Believing that God is come-as-you-are, I knew He would either get me ready or move the opportunity.

Standing in one of the team meetings, I sucked back tears as I looked around that room. We were truly a team in every sense of the word despite the fact that many of us had come into the Walk as strangers. We all had baggage. We all, it seemed, were going through something. We all were instantly bonded. We all became cohesive and undeniably close knit.

We all were at various levels of truly becoming overcomers.

The Walk weekend elevated me to a relationship level with God that I had never experienced before - not even on my own Walk. Still spiritually high, for lack of a better term, I went to Clinton for the Fourth of July weekend to visit Janet, a fellow W Girl who attended the Columbus college at the same time I had. Although I knew we would have fun, I never really dreamed it would be a weekend that was almost as spiritual for me as the one before.

I’m thankful God has provided me friends who aren’t ashamed to take my hand and approach the Throne of God with me often. I’m thankful for friends who aren’t so scared of me that they will get in my face and tell me I’m wrong. I’m thankful for friends who aren’t afraid to put on their waders and step out into the muck and gunk surrounding my life and offer to help pull me out of it. I’m thankful for friends who see value in me and deem me worthy to love even when I feel so unloveable. I’m thankful for friends who believe in me when I am unable to believe in myself. And I’m thankful for friends who are ultra persistent and refuse to give up on me even after I’ve long given up.

Bottom line, I’m just thankful ...

Monday morning came and it was time to head north to Corinth. Although I didn’t want to go, I really had no choice. Starting the car, I popped a CD in the player and Third Day’s “Mountain of God” began playing.

"Thought that I was all alone
Broken and afraid
But You were there with me
Yes, You were there with me

And I didn't even know
That I had lost my way
But You were there with me
Yes, You were there with me

'Til You opened up my eyes
I never knew
That I couldn't ever make it
Without You

Even though the journey's long
And I know the road is hard
Well, the One who's gone before me
He will help me carry on
After all that I've been through
Now I realize the truth
That I must go through the valley
To stand upon the mountain of God

As I travel on the road
That You have lead me down
You are here with me
Yes, You are here with me
I have need for nothing more
Oh, now that I have found
That You are here with me
Yes, You are here with me

I confess from time to time
I lose my way
But You are always there
To bring me back again

Sometimes I think of where it is I've come from
And the things I've left behind
But of all I've had, what I possessed
Nothing can quite compare
With what's in front of me
With what's in front of me

I thought that I was all alone
Broken and afraid
But, You are here with me
Yes, You are here with me."

Midway through the song, I began to feel a warmth start at my feet and slowly move up through my body. By the time it hit my shoulders, I was shouting and crying and praising God all at the same time.

I was finally healed.

There in the driveway of Janet’s home, the almost yearlong process was completed.

I wanted to do like the folks of the Old Testament variety and get out of the car and build a tabernacle. I didn’t literally, but figuratively, I did. And I will never, ever look at her driveway the same way again.

Stopping by Janet’s office, I had a such a huge smile on my face she asked me what was going on. Although I couldn’t fully find the words to describe it all, somehow she understood and she rejoiced with me.

Now I am looking at the world literally through different eyes and a different heart beats within my chest. Although I said I’d never trust anyone again, I’m cautiously and slowly relearning how to do that. I know I will begin to trust again soon, I will just be more careful in choosing who I allow into my life and how much of my heart I will give to those around me. I’ve hardly “arrived” yet and perfection is not even a word in my vocabulary. I’m still flawed, but I’m improved.

I’ve grown up a lot over the past few months and I honestly believe that’s a good thing. I told someone recently that I felt as if I had been to a rehab center of sorts and much of the junk that was once weighing down my life had been detoxed. I am more me today and more real than I have ever been.

And I like that feeling.

Please forgive me for sharing so many song lyrics, but music has always had the ability to speak to me more than any other form of written communication. Natalie Grant has a song that somewhat sums up where I am today. It’s called “I Will Be” and the lyrics are indicative of where I hope I am in my life - where I truly want to be.

"One heart, one voice
Living out love in this world of noise
My dream and my joy
Giving you all I have made a choice
Desperately I'm waiting
To answer your calling

I will be a candle in the darkness
I will be the hand of heaven above
I will be a mirror that reflects your
Endless love
I will be the hope among the hopeless
Where there is conflict I will be peace
Only by the power of your spirit that's living in me
I will be

Your heart, your plan
Give me your eyes help me understand
My feet, my hands
Holding out living hope to every man
Knowing what you've made me
With every single heartbeat

Gracious, Gentle and Kind
Knowing that your love will shine
Through mine."

Please be patient with me as I continue through this process we call “life.” I’m evolving every day and I like most of it. Change has never been something I enjoyed, but I now can say change was necessary.

I’m looking forward to the future and returning to look back and revisiting the pain of the past. In the present, I’m attempting to figure out just what it is that God has in store for me. I know He has a plan and I’m ready to walk in it now more than ever. I have dreams and desires that I am hoping He will see fit to fulfill soon.

Most of all, I am grateful - and so very blessed.

Cleaning house

2010-06-30T23:41:00.002-05:00

Last weekend, I was blessed to be among the team members for the Koinonia Walk to Emmaus #59. This was my first time to work a Walk since I went on my own in June 2007.

Working a Walk is equally as life-changing and amazing as going on your own. Seriously.

In 2007, I wrote a column for my then-job at the Daily Corinthian and referred to my Walk. I'd like to repeat (ole') it here just for good measure:

If you could be religious about housework, my mother
should’ve been considered a saint. She kept the kind
of home that you could literally eat off the floors at
most any given time.

Mama had no set day to do housework. She believed in
doing a little bit of it every day and would often
remark she was simply “keeping up” with it.

Although she would never admit to it, I almost believe
that Mama enjoyed housework.
A stay-at-home mom, housework wasn’t just a part of
her job. She truly seemed to consider it a way to give
back to her family by providing an orderly and clean
environment in which to live. What we lacked in means
she truly made up for in aesthetics.

My sister apparently inherited that clean gene from
Mama. I wish she would’ve passed on a little of it to
me. It’s not that I don’t have any pride and want to
live in a messy place, I simply don’t have the skill
to do the housework well.

As I was growing up, Mama would try her best to teach
me the simplest of housework tasks. I would eventually
frustrate Mama so much she would end up sending me to
watch TV or read a book rather than wear her patience
thinner with mopping or other household tasks.

She did manage to turn me into a certified dish
washer, though. Mama often remarked that my stacks of
dishes in the drainer should be photographed because
they were regular works of art.

Some folks do spring or fall cleaning in their homes.
Not my mother. As the seasons would begin to change,
she would get the fever to start cleaning out drawers,
tossing out what she deemed unneeded and unuseful
items. This was almost too much for her packrat
husband and packrat youngest child to handle. If I
didn’t meet her time constraints, I knew Mama would
toss out my precious treasures while I was away at
school or away from home so I often tried to oblige.

I could understand the necessity of the events, I just
couldn’t bear to part with some of the things Mama
would classify as junk needing to be tossed. Now
living in the age of eBay, I often wish she hadn’t
been so insistent.

That’s why I thought it funny the other night when a
friend of mine from Tupelo sent an email asking me for
ideas to get out of housework. Little does she know, I
could write a book filled with excuses and other
inventive ways to not mop the kitchen floor or vacuum
the hallway.

All this housework thought didn’t inspire me to shake
out my own humble abode, though. Instead it made me
think about how our lives are very similar. How we
often get so filled with junk that we need to be
cleaned out from time to time. I don’t mean literally,
mind you, though there are times when that probably
should take place. But I mean figuratively.

Sometimes the junk in our lives is obvious. It’s like
the sales receipts I have strewn on my dresser or that
drawer that my computer keyboard sits on. It’s obvious
on a day-to-day basis that I need to clean it up and
throw some of the stuff out. But I just keep looking
at it as I pass it by to do something else.

Some of that junk is like the stuff that is stored up
in my attic. It’s been there so long that I don’t
quite remember what is there. Or it’s been there so
long, like the 8-track tapes in the cardboard box
upstairs, that it no longer has a usefulness in my
life.

Yet I hang on to those tapes for fear I might someday
need them just like I have tried to hang on to the
junk in my life that I thought would eventually have a
purpose.

Several weekends ago, I got the opportunity to do some
real internal housework during a Walk to Emmaus (#45). For
the first time in a long time, my life feels bright,
shiny and cleaned up. And instead of finding a purpose
for the junk stuffed inside of me, I have begun to
realize more of a purpose for my life and faith in
God.

Now if I can just get as inspired with my housework.

I am done apologizing

2010-05-03T16:41:00.006-05:00

(But with apologies to Hootenannie for swiping this idea from her blog!)

-For being tall. 
-For not being “girly” enough.  
-For being messy. 
-For attempting to get people who once were integral parts of my life back there. 
-For offending people with my statements of faith and that my faith may not measure up to their conventional definition. 
-For not liking every person I meet. 
-For not putting up a Christmas tree. 
-For still crying when I miss my mama. 
-For staying on Facebook often. 
-For being lazy quite often. 
-For having such a huge heart. 
-For not being “sweet.” 
-For not really understanding when people waffle on plans for no real good reason. 
-For life being sometimes so frustrating I often need help figuring it out (or just someone to listen to me rant about my frustration). 
-For not being perfect and failing often. 
-For being somewhat anal and very OCD about many things. 
-For loving fiercely and loyally and telling people exactly how I feel and what’s on my heart very often. 
-For being honest.
-For things that really aren't my fault.
-For being loud and somewhat abrasive at times (even when I don’t mean to be).
-For taking my time to sometimes be “done” with certain things (and people) and for being slow to give up and give in. 

Where's your list? (It's honestly quite liberating to make one!!)

No longer strangers

2010-04-30T23:04:00.007-05:00

04/30/10

Dear Lynda,

Hey! You have been on my mind so much for the past few months as I’ve gotten ready to celebrate Homecoming at The W this year. It was a big Homecoming for me and my friends from the Class of 1985. And wow, did we have a LARGE time! Such a large time that it's taken me a couple of weeks to put into words some of my recollections from that incredible weekend.

It would’ve been an even bigger time had more of my classmates been there. But Penny, Michelle, Judy, Gay, Sandra, Tina, Lynne, Laronda, and a few dozen others who were there took full advantage of the opportunity to gather back on that campus that means so much to all of us.

Michelle Byars Gray and I decided we needed some quality time back on campus so we took off work and ended up there around noon on Thursday. After eating lunch at The Little Dooey, we traipsed to The W to visit some people and places near and dear to us. During one of our adventures, I happened upon an old banner that had been signed by students and faculty in celebration of an athletic victory. You can’t imagine how excited I became when I unfolded it and saw your signature toward the top of it. I was somewhat surprised that mine wasn’t close by since we were fairly inseparable that year of our lives. Although it wasn’t nearby, I did find my autograph – not surprisingly written in D’Belle green Magic Marker – toward the middle of the cloth. Nisa and Michelle probably jumped six feet when I spotted my name because I squealed so loudly. And the squeal got higher pitched when I noticed that my good friend, Betty “Boop” Vick, had signed her name right next to mine.

That may seem like a simple discovery to you, but it was just a small concrete evidence for me that I – that WE – had truly once belonged there.

Oddly enough, Michelle and I hung out with students on Thursday who weren’t even born when we were coeds in Columbus. But that didn’t matter one bit. You see, we are connected and could relate to one another because of that thin, blue thread that binds the hearts of W Girls no matter if they attended classes in the same decade or not. And though we know that fact, it’s always fun to see it played out.

We were very excited that we happened to be on campus for the two-year Interclub March. Seeing those Blacklisters, Jesters and Maskers march toward that group of juniors lined up outside of the Café Olay brought back so many memories for us.

Although I didn’t let it show, I am still a little scared of one of those groups and watching them march toward me did make me a little nervous. It was awesome, though, to see a tradition that we consider somewhat sacred still taking place – even though their swaggers were a little different from the swaggers we were used to seeing. It was OK, though, cause it IS their school now and their two-year clubs.

After the march was over, I popped around the corner of the cafeteria with Michelle and snapped some group shots for my friends who weren’t able to be there that afternoon. Course it was funny watching the club members attempting to figure out which group I belonged to and what number I might have been in that particular group. A couple of people just outright asked me and I smiled and recalled the story of the late night that Penny, Jane Allen and a couple of others bestowed that sacred honorary 12 upon me. Although I’m certain there are others with similar experiences, I’m not certain many of them ended up in the group graduation photos at Mag Chain like I did.

I definitely thought of you as I looked in the faces of those girls wearing the red Xs and black eye patches. I really don’t think I ever told you how proud I was of you when you pledged Blacklist. We both know I had hoped you’d get a call from another two-year club, but that didn’t happen. Although I got to see you wear your white sweater a couple of times, I never got to see you function with the other girls in your line. That’s something I honestly still regret 25 years later.

I thought of you, too, as we ate dinner at The Goose with Michelle, Nisa, Amber and the rest of the crew. I wondered just how many Diet Cokes and Zero candy bars we had consumed from that place. Although the interior looks a lot different than it did when we spent so much time there, I could close my eyes and be transported back in time to that corner booth where we would sometimes sit and talk.

I especially thought of you later that evening when we were on front campus and I stepped up on the famous Jesus Bench. Just how many nights did we find ourselves having long conversations there? Much of the time you would sit on one end of that half-moon shaped concrete bench while I would stand – or pace – on the other end. I can still remember the specifics of some of those conversations all these years later. I found myself standing there sucking back tears because we were never able to maintain the bond we formed there. And I didn’t understand why and regretted it deeply.

Even though you weren’t at Homecoming physically, I saw you almost everywhere that weekend. I saw you in the faces of some of the students we met. I saw you sitting on the front steps of Stovall and recalled that last conversation we had there on the night of my graduation May 11, 1985. I felt your arm around my shoulder each time we sang “Friends.” I heard you helping me sing harmony on “Hail to Thee.” Our friendship was nestled very prevalently between the lines the characters spoke in “The Long Blue Line” theatre production Friday night.

You were the first person I wanted to call to tell how much fun the D’Belle party was this year (despite the fact that you were a Reveler, you always were supportive and loyal to D'Belles, too). I wanted to share with you how, for the first time in many years I felt a real bond with the D’Belles on campus and how much fun I had getting to know them. I wanted to excitedly tell you how I can’t wait to take the opportunity in the future to get to know them better despite the fact I won’t wear a green dress for them!

I thought of you while singing “Desperado” at karaoke and wondered what crazy song you and I might have chosen to sing as a duet.

There were so many times during that weekend that I thought of you that it made me miss you even more. And missing you made me miss others who weren’t there as well.

The past few years have been filled with challenges and changes for me on a personal level. And our alma mater seems to have been somewhat inundated with challenges and changes in her own right. There’s been a fight over the alumni association and a battle over changing the name of our beloved university. And there’s even been talk of merging with Mississippi State. Although I’ve had an opinion on every issue that has faced The W, I’ve been unusually quiet which is, well, unusually uncharacteristic for me. I can’t explain why, really, other than I’m just weary of all the bickering. I have opted to let someone else battle in the ring while I chose to do my fighting down on my knees. I still believe in the power of prayer and have entrusted God to work on behalf of our beloved Mississippi University for Women.

He truly knows best anyway.

Although I don’t know what the future holds for The W, I can’t help but believe that whatever does happen, those of us who have become connected by the heart there will remain that way. And I’ve got to believe that somehow the world will see the value of The W just as we did as students and as some of us still do. All of us chose that quaint little campus nestled near the heart of Columbus because we had a desire to belong somewhere. And it seems those of us who return there frequently do so because we have the desire to make sure our connections to one another remain intact and sure. Just as we want our university to remain intact and sure.

As quirky as it may sound, I need The W active in my life because it keeps me grounded. And that’s why I’ve remained so loyal to her for all these years. I’ve never really had much else to give, but I’ve tried to keep that intact. There’s a song we used to sing in D’Belles called “Mansions.” Oddly enough, I was discussing the lyrics to it with another D’Belle earlier tonight and explaining that although I didn’t have a lot financially to share with my club – or my alma mater, either – I certainly have lots of intangible things to give. The song pretty much says it better than I can: “We may not have a mansion, we haven’t any land, but we can give you sisterhood just come and take our hand …”

Sisterhood. That’s what I found 26 years ago when I became a “W Girl.” And that’s what I still have with those who I went to school there with and those who I have met since then. We may not keep in touch as often as I’d like or as often as we should, but that doesn’t mean I care any less about you. Or that my support of you has waned either.

You don’t find those kinds of connections many other places and I’m so grateful we have them at Mississippi University for Women.

As another D’Belle song states, “We were different worlds apart, we’re now the same. We laughed and played, and loved together like in a game. You could have stayed outside my heart, but in you came. And may our club just grow in love forevermore. This love for you has no beginning, it has no end. To you may all, my all and more, it’s always there. Though I’ve never given much to you before. God help our club just grow in love forevermore.”

Ditto for our alma mater.

Always,
Your former “bestest buddy,”
kim

Seeking Those Familiar Places When Times Are Tough

2010-04-21T23:07:00.003-05:00

In my former life in journalism, I wrote a personal column that was printed in the newspaper each Friday. I tried not to skip too many weeks. Some of my columns were worth reading. Some, well, not so much.

Although I often dreamed of my columns being considered good enough to be compiled into a book, that never happened. But I did attempt to keep a collection of all my columns. I have a blue binder containing most of the ones I wrote during those more than two decades buying ink by the bucket.

Someone asked if I would share an old column here from time to time. Since some of them are like old friends and I enjoy "visiting" them, I will honor that request. This column ran in December 2002.

Human nature is a funny thing.

When life gets too intense, we tend to seek out
familiarity.

Whether it’s a mother’s shoulder to cry on, a
grandparents’ home to visit or just a plot of land in
the middle of nowhere, we can often find solace in
simplicity.

Whenever life seems at its worst for me, I have
familiar places where I gravitate.

When times got toughest as a student at Mississippi
University for Women, I’d find myself at the “Jesus
bench.”

Looking on a campus map, you’d never locate this spot.
It’s not officially marked as the “Jesus bench” at
all. It’s a simple, concrete bench - a gift from an
earlier graduating class at The W - that was positioned
on front campus almost directly across from the school’s Baptist
Student Union house.

Seeking direction often during that period in my life,
I tended to walk around the beautiful campus.
Sometimes the walks came during the day while other
times I chose to walk at night. Many of the walks were
solitary ones, but often friends would join me as I
traipsed around that campus in the heart of downtown Columbus.

One of the more frequent co-walkers was Lynda Harris,
my best friend at the time. Many times we ended up on
front campus with Lynda sitting at one end of the
“Jesus bench” and me standing and/or pacing on what
was left of the other. We’d debate theology, talk
about dreams and goals or discuss future plans we had
for our lives. Since I was a senior and Lynda was a
sophomore, some of our talks centered on how we
intended to remain in close contact after my
graduation.

Odd how some things don’t happen as you plan them.

Growing up in Corinth, I could always find complete
solace on the front porch of Granny Hughes’ Franklin
Street home. No matter what mood I was in when I got
there, life got better perched on the top step of that
porch.

One of my earliest tastes of freedom came when I
learned to ride a bicycle. I started out with a small
blue bike that almost every one of my cousins and my
sister used to perfect the bike-riding skill. Being
the youngest, I got the bicycle when it was far from
its prime. But I loved it all the same.

One Christmas, I got a green three-speed bicycle that
upped my freedom greatly. The next summer, some of my
neighbors and I began riding our bicycles around town.
One of them owned a bicycle that had an odometer attached to his front
wheel and we found it was not unusual for us to cover
60 or more miles in a day.

Much of my rides included trips across town to Granny
Hughes’ house. Most of the time, I’d arrive at her
house, store my bike under her side porch and let
myself in because she was always talking on the phone
when I got there. It wasn’t until years later that I
realized Granny had stood at the door and watched
until she saw me peddling down the street and would
then phone Mama to let her know that her youngest had
safely completed her journey.

My bike riding ended about the same time I got my
driver’s license - which upped my freedom of mobility
a great deal. Even though I could get further in the
Gremlin (aka Jose the Wonder Car) than I could on my
bicycle, I’d find myself frequenting the same places.

Especially Granny’s front porch.

Mama, Aunt Peggy and Aunt Millie put Granny’s house on
the market shortly after her death in 1979. My parents
considered buying the house themselves, but I think my
negative reaction - given out of a heart broken from
grief - was one of the deciding factors in not
purchasing it.

And though my home is filled to the brim with
memories, there are times today when I wish we’d made
that move across town.

In 1992, life as I knew it changed forever when Mama
died. A few Christmases later, I deeply missed the
tradition of gathering on Franklin Street that our
family had followed for years. Depressed and dejected,
I found myself once again being drawn to that front
porch. Knowing the owners, I felt quite confident that
they wouldn’t mind if I spent some time on the stoop
in an attempt to relieve my holiday blues.

As I sat there wishing I could have just one more
Christmas in the house, I didn’t realize that the
owners were actually inside. Seeing me on the front
porch, and knowing what memories that home held for
me, they came to the door and asked if I wanted to
come in for a visit.

It was probably the best Christmas present I’ve ever
received.

Even today, I find myself drawn to that home on
Franklin Street when life deals its hardest blows. I
don’t stop and sit on the front porch as often as I
once did. I’m trying to learn to suck it up and work
it out on my own. Thankfully, though, I know the
couple who call the house their home today.

And I honestly think they will understand if, one day,
they look out the window and see me sitting there.

Forever connected by those long blue ties that bind

2010-04-12T21:05:00.005-05:00

An offense almost changed the course of my educational journey – and quite honestly my life.

Those who know me well know that I’ve never been all that feminine. I’ve worn a dress or 100 in my lifetime, but it’s never an article of clothing I’ve ever enjoyed putting on my body. I’ve always said my material of choice has always been denim. And I’m glad that I attend a church that blue jeans fit so well into the dress code.

Because of many things I can't control and some that I can - my size, my heighth my short hair and my affinity for blue jeans - people have sometimes referred to me as “sir” or just outright called me a boy. Very little makes me as mad as someone doing that and, since I consider it very derogatory, I often return a similar remark by switching up their gender or just saying something like "I’m a girl, ugly!"

It may not be the nicest comeback for me to offer, but it gets my point across that they made a crucial error in judgment. Cause I am definitely a girl – have been since birth and always will be.

As a junior in high school, we would often have college recruiters come to our classrooms to talk to us about the colleges or universities they represented. One sunny spring day (yeah, all these years later, I still remember the time of year and the weather outside – it made that much of an impact on me), a recruiter from Mississippi University for Women came to our math classroom. After going through the spiel about the Columbus school, she began passing out information packets to the girls in the classroom. When I held out my hand to take a packet, the recruiter took it upon herself to quickly remind me that it was a “single-sex university” and men were not admitted there. I narrowed my gaze, looked her directly in the face, and explained in a not-so-nice tone that I WAS qualified by gender to attend her university. You could say that she had certainly sealed the deal for me ever wanting to go there.

Of course, she attempted to rectify her mistake and offered me not only the information packet, but some stickers and a MUW T-shirt as well. I never said a word to her, but the glare I was giving her finally sunk into her brunette head and she moved on.

Since I had known pretty much since birth that I was destined to attend Northeast Mississippi Junior College (what it was named back in the “dark ages” when I was a child), I never worried much about where I would attend school after high school graduation. And the fact that NEMJC had the best band program in the state at that time somewhat sealed the deal for where I would spend the first two years of my college career.

Oddly enough, I never really could get peace about where I would spend the remaining two and what college or university name would be on my diploma once I earned it. I dreamed of far off campuses like Rutgers University in New Jersey, New York University in the Big Apple or the University of Missouri at Columbia, the premiere journalism school in the country at that time.

My parents, who held the most control over this decision since they held the bank account at that juncture in my life, were not so keen about any of those choices. My father, who was one of the most over-educated people I knew and had attended at least 16 different colleges and universities at that point in his life, was quite convinced that a higher education experience in Mississippi was the best path for his younger daughter.

So convinced, in fact, that he could not stop touting how much I would get out an education from Ole Miss. No offense to my friends who have enjoyed going to school in Oxford, but nothing made me well, want to throw up more than to think about having to commit to two years there. I had visited the campus several times and knew that I did not belong there. It was too large and, in my mind at that time, way too preppy.

Still not certain where I would be transferring to in the fall, my friend Sandra and I decided to go to Mississippi State and visit a couple of our friends from high school one weekend so I could determine of Starkville could be the “right fit” for me. As we were leaving Booneville, though, Sandra asked me if I minded stopping in Columbus for her to complete some paperwork for enrollment at, yep, you guessed it, Mississippi University for Women.

Although I wasn’t happy about it, I agreed since she was driving and I still wanted to spend the weekend in Starkville.

Arriving on campus, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful The W was. It literally looked like something out of Southern Living magazine or some other coffee table periodical. The architecture of the buildings on front campus was amazing and the grounds were so well-kept it seemed you could literally eat a picnic dinner from them without a gingham blanket.

Stopping at the admissions office, Sandra was signing some paperwork when someone asked me the magical question: so where are YOU attending college next year? “I don’t know,” I quietly replied. And before I knew it, that someone had arranged for a student to take me on a tour of the campus.

Walking down the street, the student began to point out nearby buildings of interest and spouted of the history of them. I heard the first few sentences, but half a block into the tour it seemed as if the heavens has parted and God Himself spoke, “This is where you belong.”

Literally.

Seriously … I heard it – first with my heart and then, seemingly, with my ears.

I choked back tears and thanked the student for the tour after it was completed. She smiled and said, almost knowingly, “See you soon.” Convinced that I might decide to go to school there, the admissions officer we were dealing with sent home a packet of information with me.

It was a very silent ride to Starkville. For the first five or so miles, I looked out the passenger window trying to sort out in my mind what had just happened. “I think …” I began, breaking the silence in Sandra’s car.

“You think what?” she replied.

“I think I might belong at The W with you,” I said, as a tear starting to trickle down my cheek. The offending comment made by the college recruiter years prior, oddly enough, never really entered my mind for longer than a millisecond and definitely never played a role in my sudden desire to go to school there.

All weekend I worried how I was going to tell my parents I wanted to go to school in Columbus. I wanted to call them and just get it over with, but I knew that kind of discussion really needed to be done face to face. So I waited until we got home on Sunday.

Gathering my parents together around the kitchen table – where so many other family conferences had been held before – I slowly described how The W looked and how I felt on campus there. “I just feel like I belong there,” I ended my tale. “And that’s where I would like to transfer this fall.”

My mother never said a word. She had never been too convinced that Ole Miss was the place for me either and worried her youngest child would spend more time conducting extra-curricular activities rather than finding herself in the classroom. It was my father who spoke up and said, “But I really think Ole Miss is the better choice for you academically.” I gathered my thoughts for a second and replied, “Daddy, it’s either The W or McDonalds – you make the decision.”

Knowing he had very little to argue with, Daddy said that he trusted my judgment and agreed to let me go to The W. We filled out the proper paperwork and got the financial part settled. I went to orientation that summer, met with my advisor and got a schedule filled out that I could live with.

Being the last one of our little group from Northeast to decide to go to The W, I was the odd one out when it came to a roommate and I had to take the luck of the draw. And boy was that not so lucky! I survived that semester, though, and convinced my parents prior to Christmas that I would function better in a private room. Since I’d obtained – on my own initiative – a scholarship from The W, they allowed me to try the next semester without a roommate. It worked so well that I didn’t have one my senior year, either, except for the first few weeks a girl I knew from Northeast was on campus before she went home to Ripley to student teach.

There have been numerous decisions that I’ve made in my lifetime that, in retrospect, weren’t the best decisions I’d ever made. But my two choices of where to further my college education don’t fall in that category. I’ve never, ever regretted going to Northeast for the first two years of college. I loved being a part of the Show Band from Tiger Land so much! I made some of the best friends ever and have managed to maintain contact with many of them over the years. A few of us have taken a short hiatus in our lives, but not totally in our friendships and we have managed, after time, to reconnect. But even still, regrets – yeah, Frank Sinatra – I have a few …

I enjoyed being elected Northeast Student Government Vice President and taking over the office from someone I literally idolized at the time, Cathy McCommon. I enjoyed the somewhat popular on campus at Northeast. I knew lots of people and felt as if I had lots of friends there in Booneville. I never really felt that way in high school and it was a truly nice feeling.

Transferring to The W where I literally knew six or seven people on campus, I really wasn’t scared because I totally felt it was where I belonged. Even though people in my junior class pretty much had their established groups of friends, I did manage to break into a few of them. And I also managed to make friends with the underclassmen – especially some of the freshmen who were newbies on campus just like me.

Oddly enough, there was never a time that I felt like I didn’t belong at The W which was something that was one of my biggest fears about going to the University of Mississippi. I pledged the Dixie Belle Social Club and found a place not only in that group, but made friends with members of the other social clubs on campus. I sang alto for two years in the Baptist Student Union Girls’ Ensemble and became close to the other singers. I even became “bestest buddies” with another member of the group during my senior year – a friendship I regret not cultivating on into adulthood.

The campus newspaper gave me plenty of experience with feature writing and photography. And I was asked by the editor to put my photography talents to work with the yearbook as well during my senior year. A good percentage of the photographs in that book were taken with my old Minolta XGA.

Throughout the years I have remained as connected to my alma mater as life would allow me. It’s helped that I’ve never lived too far away from the quaint little campus in Columbus that I couldn’t get back for a day trip or a weekend visit.

The W is one of those places that is hard to explain to those who have never experienced it – and often misconstrued by them. But, for the most part, the loyalty of W Girls to our alma mater – and to one another, truthfully - is fierce. And we are all knit together by a thin blue thread that connects all our hearts – whether or not we attended classes on campus at the same time. And we might not always agree with one another, but you let our university or one of us become threatened in some way and well, you really don’t want to see the fury of a W Girl who thinks she or her fellow W Girl has been scorned.

Some of my closest friends throughout my life have been people I either attended The W with or have met since then. I’ve sought advice from many of them and obtained the sagest. At the more difficult times in my life, it’s my fellow W Girls who have been the first at my side whether literally or just a phone call away.

This week as I anticipate celebrating my “Halfway to Golden Girl Status” Homecoming, there are a handful of women who are going to be in Columbus who I literally cannot wait to see. Lots of time has passed since we shared late night dreams of our future sitting on half beds in our dorm rooms, sang class songs in the cafeteria together, pledged our loyalties to our social clubs and walked down the sidewalk in front of Callaway Hall, sidestepping to that old tune and holding tightly to the traditional chain of magnolias we carried on that sultry May 11 morning. We have all had heartbreak and successes, goals achieved and plans shattered. We’ve loved and lost. Yet, just as our alma mater has withstood the sometimes meaningless and often merciless attacks throughout the past 25 years, we, too, have survived.

And, for the most part, we all are stronger because of the challenges we have faced.

Although some folks may argue that who I am was formed within the first few years of my lifetime, I think that who I am – and who I am becoming – should be credited to a hodgepodge of variables. Whether you think those from The W who have influenced me the most and helped me to become the person I am today should be chastised or praised is up to you.

What’s my supposition? The best parts of me are because you loved me, you believed in me and you even – unashamedly and fiercely - supported me. You even protected me when I needed it and were unafraid to reprimand me at the times when I needed that, too.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

I’ve struggled today to find the exact words to tell you how much. Although this is a good try, I don’t think it quite captures or defines what a difference you have made in my life. And, once again, I’ve turned to the written word to express myself. Although some people think I hide behind written communication, I’ve just always felt it was the best way I could express what is truly in my mind and definitely in my heart.

So, if our paths cross this weekend and I look at you as if I want to say something profound and, instead, hug you a little tighter and hold the hug a bit longer than normal, please remember what I’ve written here.

And know you’re one of those whose influence has developed me into me.

Lost in "Lost"

2010-03-31T08:25:00.003-05:00

I fell in love with "Lost" from the very first episode.

With that said, I have understood little about the show since the first episode. But I still love it. And I've seen every single episode to date - some of them twice.

Now that I don't have cable in the 'hood, I have to watch it a day - sometimes two or three - later. But even that arrangement is OK.

I'd hoped more of my Facebook friends would discuss the episodes from week to week. I've decided they are about as as confused about the final season as I am.

Sawyer is probably my favorite character. I cried when Juliet died and I'm not ashamed to admit that. I thought her character was awesome. Many people think Jin and Sun are boring - I don't. Jack and Kate get on my last nerve. Ben and Locke just annoy me but I understand how integral they are to the storyline so I don't complain too much about them. I'd date Hurley in real life if he existed - and lived in the Crossroads area.

Because of "Lost," I've managed to break out and watch some other shows I might not otherwise have even given a shot - "Firefly," "Fringe," "Flash Forward" to name a few. Maybe I just like odd shows whose names begin with an F, I dunno,

I could go on and on about "Lost" but I won't. I may write more toward the end of the season.

Or I might not.

Please feel free to post your comments about the show! I'd love to read them - and know I'm not alone on the island!!

Keeping it together

2010-03-25T08:02:00.001-05:00

Really heard this song this a.m. as I was getting ready for work and just had to share the lyrics with you guys!! It's by a fairly new artist named Matt Maher and the name of the song is "Hold Us Together."

It don't have a job, don't pay your bills
Won't buy you a home in Beverly Hills
Won't fix your life in five easy steps
Ain't the law of the land or the government?
But it's all you need

And love will hold us together
Make us a shelter to weather the storm
And I'll be my brother's keeper
So the whole world would know that we're not alone

It's waiting for you knocking at your door
In the moment of truth when your heart hits the floor
And you're on your knees

And love will hold us together
Make us a shelter to weather the storm
And I'll be my brother's keeper
So the whole world would know that we're not alone

This is the first day of the rest of your life
This is the first day of the rest of your life
'Cause even in the dark you can still see the light
It's gonna be alright, it's gonna be alright

This is the first day of the rest of your life
This is the first day of the rest of your life
'Cause even in the dark you can still see the light
It's gonna be alright, it's gonna be alright

Love will hold us together
Make us a shelter to weather the storm
And I'll be my brother's keeper
So the whole world would know that we're not alone

The Look of Love

2010-02-21T21:13:00.000-06:00

Back in the 80s during an unusual era of music, ABC had a hit song - “The Look of Love” – that I thought of recently. Even though the examples don’t fit the lyrics of the song, I still could hear the tune as I penned this blog post.

Throughout my life, I have had a slight misconception about love. I thought it was purely a feeling and I often found myself frustrated when the “warm, fuzzies” weren’t a part of my life.

Years later, though, I finally “get” that love is way more complex and cannot possibly be totally contained in feelings alone. And often love is easier to comprehend when you actually see it in action.

Love truly is a verb.

Although I’ve most likely had the ability to actually see love before, it has only been recently that I’ve truly noticed that love does have a look. And that look takes on different forms.

I am blessed with a myriad of people who are literally caretakers in my life. I sometimes think when Hilary Clinton gave her “It takes a village to raise a child” speech, she had me in mind as well. Being a single adult with no really close family members living in the greater Corinth area, I am pretty much on my own. So I rely on the kindness of strangers close friends to fill in the gaps when I simply can’t do it myself any longer.

Visual love shows up in friends bringing food to my home during the times I’ve been sick recently. Love has taken the form of the shoulders I have cried on during some of the more difficult, heart-wrenching times of my life. The looks of love have reassured me that the old adage really is true – what doesn’t kill me really does make me stronger.

There are times when so much has been going on that I feel like Goliath, honestly.

I see love when I go to visit friends and their four-year-old son tells me to sit down on the couch because “you’re never going home.” It’s amazing how good it makes you feel knowing you’re so accepted by someone that they never want you to leave even if it isn’t realistic. His older brother often plops down beside me on the couch and uses my shoulder as a headrest. Whenever I’m in another room and he doesn’t hear me talking, he always asks if I’m still there making sure I’ve not left without telling him goodbye. Like I’d leave there without a hug from him!

And watching the two of them skitter around whenever I come to their house literally warms the inner most regions of my heart. Children are very honest; when they show you they love you, they truly mean it! I believe in those two little boys so much that if they told me they could fly, I’d go outside and look up.

I saw love Saturday as I watched Alicia wash my filthy car. It was a beautiful day to do anything outside, but I never dreamed the spring like day would include manual labor. I’m fairly certain Archer, Tripp and I didn’t help knock off the dirt that much – what little we spent actually working - even though I was the only one of the quartet who could easily wash the top of the car.

I’m quite certain I’d never mentioned to her how slightly embarrassed I’d become driving a filthy vehicle. I would’ve already washed it myself, but someone misplaced the handle to the outdoor faucet. Because she saw a need in my life and met it, though, Alicia allowed me to see love in action.

A look of love can even be seen from long distance. I see it often when “Carry On My Wayward Son” (yeah, I roll old school on my tones) alerts me to a text message and I see “I love you, Kim Jobe” on the screen of my cell phone. Ninety-nine.nine percent of the time the message is from one of my closest friends, Janet. Although we are geographically challenged with her living in Clinton and me living in Corinth, we take advantage of technology to keep tabs on one another. Our friendship has spanned decades and even though we have sometimes gone years without communication, there is not a doubt in my mind that Janet loves me. I’ve seen a look of love from her numerous times.

I’ve seen other “looks of love” from long distance – my friend, Michelle, who has remained one of my fiercest supporters and close confidants for decades. Although there have been times I have doubted and questioned almost everything in my life and reevaluated every single relationship I had, I’ve never once questioned her loyalty or friendship. Not once. That’s huge!

Michelle is always among the first phone calls I make in times of crisis, sadness or rejoicing. I am so thankful I had the opportunity to spend the biggest part of a week with her in DC recently.

Today, I even saw the “look of love” in action on my way to church. It came from a couple I didn’t even know. As I stopped by my office to pick up the weekend newspapers, I noticed two people walking down the hiking/biking trail. I tend to notice when someone uses it because, well, it gets less usage then was projected during the construction phase of the project.

Bibles in hand, I had no doubt where the elderly couple was headed (I use that term “elderly” lightly because they were walking more spryly than I ever world be) toward Tate Baptist Church. That in itself was special enough to observe, but two other details made the observation special. The man lovingly held the woman’s left hand in his right in such a manner that you knew it was a natural – and regular – occurrence. But the looks on their faces were priceless. Although they weren’t looking directly at each other as they chatted while taking a leisurely stroll to church, the countenance on their faces betrayed their hearts. They had the look of love and it showed.

Sitting in my car, watching from a distance I longed for that look. And quickly reminded God of what I believe He will deliver one day. Someone I can walk hand-in-hand with along a pathway while those around me see a specific look of love.

My point ... and I have one!

2010-02-10T21:02:00.002-06:00

I was invited to speak to the Fellowship of Christian Athletes at Corinth Junior High School. I had my friend, Alicia, read this over for me and give it her seal of approval. My friend, Marea, came to support me which was loads of fun. Of course, this is just the outline of what I said - I added some here and there!

What’s the point?

You have probably asked yourself or your friends or your family members or even your teachers that very question – or one similar to it – numerous times thus far in your life. Sometimes you have asked it out of frustration. Other times you have asked it out of desperation. And yet other times you have simply asked that question in an effort to avoid answering other questions.

And I’d wager that much of the time you haven’t received a very good response in return for your question have you?

Everything in life has a purpose. And much of the time you have a role to play in that purpose.

There’s a familiar passage of scripture in the Old Testament that discusses purpose fairly thoroughly and states that everything has a purpose. It’s found in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 and I’d like to read it to you from The Message translation of the Bible:

1 There's an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on the earth:

2-8 A right time for birth and another for death,
A right time to plant and another to reap,
A right time to kill and another to heal,
A right time to destroy and another to construct,
A right time to cry and another to laugh,
A right time to lament and another to cheer,
A right time to make love and another to abstain,
A right time to embrace and another to part,
A right time to search and another to count your losses,
A right time to hold on and another to let go,
A right time to rip out and another to mend,
A right time to shut up and another to speak up,
A right time to love and another to hate,
A right time to wage war and another to make peace.

With that in mind, you can see there’s a purpose for algebra, and politics, for curfews and being grounded, MCT2 tests and even for, well, Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers, I guess.

But seriously, even knowing that everything in life has a purpose, you sometimes don’t always know what it is all the time. Or at the time you REALLY want to know what the purpose is for you to be in the middle of various circumstances in your life.

I’d like to stand here as an adult and tell you that there comes a time in life when you know the purpose for everything. I wish that were the case, but it isn’t. But as you get older, the purpose of some things that once seemed so very important to you either make a whole lot of sense to you finally. Or their importance in your life diminishes to a point that it’s not such a major thing for you.

Take heart and be encouraged, though. You have a purpose in life and a destiny to fulfill although it’s not always that clear to see. How do I know this? Because Jeremiah 29:11 states that God has a definite purpose for your life – “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the LORD. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”

That’s the same God who created and controls the universe – and He has a plan just for you. So take heart, and don’t give up but look to Him to show you the purpose for your life. You have a special one that only you can fulfill. Ask Him to show you what He wants you to do now and in the future. And then be obedient to Him and walk in the purpose He has for you.

That, most likely, is your point.

Following the lead

2010-01-18T11:38:00.003-06:00

We want various things out of life: success, love, acceptance, the list can go on and on.

As humans, we seek these things in various ways. Yet sometimes we find them – or good examples of them - in the most unexpected places.

Recently I learned a great lesson in acceptance from a four year old boy.

My friends, Michael and Alicia, have two sons. Though both are definitely children – and both are definitely boys – I don’t know two other brothers who are quite the opposites as these two. But the harmony seems to work well in the Doran household.

Both of the Doran boys are precious and I feel so blessed to have the opportunity to get to know them and to watch them grow up. Tripp is so quiet you often forget he is around. Archer, the younger of the two, is … hmmm … well … wide open. He never does anything in first gear and seems to have a comment for everything going on around him. Although he is only four, Archer is right on target with his observations much of the time. Sometimes he simply amazes you with his insight.

On New Year’s Eve, I realized that I was a part of his world when we got ready to leave the church and Archer looked up, took my hand and said, “Come on, Kim, let’s go!” making certain I didn’t get left behind.

But it was another encounter where I really knew I was “in.”

After church at Crosswind Sunday night, a group of us decided to go out to eat. Archer soon became the event coordinator showing everyone where they were to be seated. “You sit there and I’m going to sit there,” Archer said to me, pointing at two side-by-side seats.

Table banter quickly started and from time to time I would tease Archer about something. Noticing his brother had a pickle spear and Archer didn’t, he piped up and said, “Mama, I need a pickle!”

Alicia picked up the pickle spear from her plate and was just about to reach across the table to hand it to Archer when he spotted a pickle spear on my plate, grabbed it and said, “I found one!”

Not fazed at all by his action, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite of it as Alicia began apologizing for Archer nabbing my pickle. I quickly told her not to worry about it at all since people eating from my plate had never bothered me in the least.

In reality, though, Archer’s actions spoke volumes to me. Why? Because he has accepted me as part of his life, he felt comfortable enough to take my pickle from my plate. Even at four. Some folks would say he might have exhibited better manners had he actually asked if he could have the pickle. I don’t agree. The action of Archer simply getting the pickle showed me that he had accepted me to a point that he knew I wouldn’t mind sharing my pickle with him and that he was so comfortable with that thought process that he didn’t even have to ask for it.

OK, OK, I know … I’m reading way too much pop psychology into the reaction of a four-year-old who, more than likely, just wanted a pickle and mine was the nearest available one. So he nabbed it. But maybe I’m not. Maybe the four-year-old is exhibiting the kind of humanity we all need to learn even as adults. That’s what I’m going with in this scenario. Because he has accepted me into his life, he is comfortable with me enough to know what my response would be to any of his actions.

That’s probably very heavy expectations for a child, but not so much for an adult.
Archer’s action was a good example of the lesson Bobby Capps had just attempted to show us in his sermon just minutes before. In his talk, Bobby explained that people often feel shame because of something they’ve done, something they perceive themselves to be, something they are (ie a little different or strange) or basically because they feel unaccepted.

Because of a simple gesture, a four-year-old made me feel as if I had the seal of approval in his little world. And it felt good.

It also challenged me to make certain I allow those folks around me who I deem important to feel the same. And that I’m careful to not make them feel unaccepted and unwanted.

Funny how children can lead, huh?

Still learning

2009-11-06T08:30:00.003-06:00

I am a kindergarten drop-out.

That's my confession for the day. Most who know me well already know the particulars of why I dropped out of kindergarten. Those who don't know the particulars, well, know me well enough to figure out why I didn't survive that early session of learning in my life.

I made it two weeks: reclining on a bathroom rug at nap time (not sleeping but eating Lisa Winter's snack - she was very glad I dropped out, I'm certain) and going home every single day to tell Mama that the kindergarten teacher was really that woman who wore a black dress in "The Wizard of Oz."

Several years ago, an author penned a popular book called "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." Although I'd recommend the entire book (I listened to it once on tape while travelling to Nashville. You will realize how long ago that was when you note I stated I listed to it on TAPE), there's an excerpt from the book that gets reprinted and repeated quite often.

While thinking about a lot that I don't know today (not to mention things I still have yet to "get"), I realized that I did learn a lot of positive things very early in life. Maybe not in a kindergarten setting but at the age I would have been in one.

So I wanted to share Robert Fulghum's insight here again. I needed to be reminded and feel some other folks might need to be as well. Particularly on the day after such an almost unspeakable tragedy occured on an Army base in Texas.

If only we could adopt a large portion - if not all of these - concepts in our lives, I can only imagine how different the world around us might be.

So here it is. Read it for the first time or the bazillionth. Although I'm certain the last sentence of this passage is placed there on purpose, it does resonate what could solve some of the turmoil we now feel if we would only adopt it as a basic action in each of our lives.

All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten.
ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW about how to live and what to do
and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not
at the top of the graduate-school mountain, but there in the
sandpile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don't hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don't take things that aren't yours.

Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life - learn some and think some
and draw and paint and sing and dance and play
and work every day some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic,
hold hands, and stick together.

Be aware of wonder.
Remember the little seed in the styrofoam cup:
The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody
really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even
the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die.
So do we.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books
and the first word you learned - the biggest
word of all - LOOK.

Everything you need to know is in there somewhere.
The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation.
Ecology and politics and equality and sane living.

Take any of those items and extrapolate it into
sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your
family life or your work or your government or
your world and it holds true and clear and firm.
Think what a better world it would be if
all - the whole world - had cookies and milk about
three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down with
our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments
had a basic policy to always put thing back where
they found them and to clean up their own mess.

And it is still true, no matter how old you
are - when you go out into the world, it is best
to hold hands and stick together.

Sooey!?

2009-11-05T10:03:00.004-06:00

I took an H1N1 shot today at work. Yep, I'm one of those "high risk" individuals who works with children so I was innoculated! I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I had just commented to someone at another school and not 15 minutes earlier that I wouldn't take one because it's too "experimental."

Never say never!

I thought about that conversation as I was watching the nurse plunge the needle into my arm. Painfully. (Not really. She was awesome. I honestly never felt a thing!). I tried not to cry since there were kindergarten kids and first graders taking the shot standing staunch and brave like seasoned Marines.

Now I feel the urge to squeal. And I'm craving slop. I sure could use a roll in a huge mud hole somewhere.

If you see me wearing a University of Arkansas shirt, you'll know the shot has really done me in!

All in a day's work for her

2009-10-21T15:28:00.000-05:00

I have lots of acquaintances but few real friends. You know, the kinds of folks you could call from jail at 3 a.m. and they would bail you out … eventually. Or the ones you could call from the hospital in the wee hours of the morning and they would come to your bedside – most likely without changing out of their pajamas.

I am blessed with a handful of people like that in my life. Even though they offer me encouragement and the love I need to survive on a daily basis. Often they will do something so extraordinary that will just wipe me out emotionally. After it happens, the event just serves as a reminder why I love and admire them so much anyway.

Denise Webb did just that Tuesday.

As principal of two elementary schools that will be consolidated into one beautiful new school next year, Denise has a job few people could do. Much less WANT to do, honestly. The sheer responsibility of it must be overwhelming at times. Yet Denise does a phenomenal job overseeing the business of both schools which includes taking care of the students and the personnel.

She calls it just “doing her job.”

While I was at West Corinth Elementary School Tuesday morning, a child became ill in the cafeteria. Denise immediately went to his side and remained there. After they moved him to the little cot next to the principal’s office, Denise sat on the end of it and comforted the child. They talked about monster trucks and other things the little boy wanted to discuss.

Watching the tender way Denise was caring for that little boy smacked this big girl right in the heart. I literally stood there and sucked back tears. Although I’m never ashamed to cry, I was simply afraid if I started I wouldn’t stop this time. I was that touched by what I’d witnessed.

And the good feelings produced by the principal didn’t end with that act of kindness.

We went to watch drummer Nina Rodriguez give a presentation to the West first graders using small drums. Each child was given the opportunity to pick out a drum and then Nina taught them how to associate their school subjects and rhythm.

Denise noticed one child in particular was having a difficult time playing his drum. Rather than just coach him from the sidelines, Denise got on the floor with him, took his hands in hers and began showing him how to play the different rhythms on the instrument.

I was able to capture this digitally through the viewfinder of my camera while sucking back even more tears. One of the photos captures the youngster gazing at Denise with such a look of awe and admiration. It’s one of those moments that is hard to explain, for the most part, but is easily interpreted by viewing the photo.

Denise recently returned home after a weeklong mission trip to El Salvador. I never said anything to her about it, but it has been funny to me that she took a trip to do in a foreign land what she does on a daily basis here at home. But I’m very proud of her for following the Great Commission and extending her missions work.

And equally proud of her for coming back home and continuing to serve here.

On Tuesday – just as she is pretty much every day of her life – Denise Webb was the hands and feet of Jesus in the world around her. And her example made me not only admire and love her more, it made me want to be even more like the One she was representing.

The one she so boldly serves.

Choosing freedom

2009-09-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

I heard this song on the way to work recently. I’m sure the entire set of lyrics could serve as the foundation of a sermon on their own - course, to keep folks happy, we’d need to toss in a few verses from the New Testament among the lines there!

Although the first verse gets my attention every single time I hear this song, it wasn’t what drew me in today as I was listening to it. It was actually the bridge this time. Although all four lines speak very deeply to AND about my life, it was one line in particular that “got me” today:

“Captured by grace now I’m finding I am free...”

Freedom carries a lot of definitions and means a lot of different things to individuals. National freedom has proven to be costly for some folks, tightly protected by some and taken for granted by others.

You can be free from many things in your life and your environment like sin, substance abuse, physical ailments, or an abusive spouse.

And sometimes you are free before you ever realize you were bound.

One Sunday morning at church we were singing the song “Freedom” and it hit me. I was free! For the first time, I totally understood the verse in John 8:36 (The Message version): “So if the Son sets you free, you are free through and through.”

Another translation puts it this way: “So if the Son liberates you [makes you free men], then you are really and unquestionably free.” (Amplified Version)

Unquestionably free - that has a nice ring to it.

Funny thing about it, though, I didn’t realize I was so bound until God set me free that random Sunday morning. Although there were no literal chains holding me captive, in my mind I could see heavy chains - much like the strong and heavy iron ones prisoners were held by back in the day - dropping from my hands and feet and waist. And I could almost hear the clinking sounds as they fell to the floor our church.

It was a truly amazing moment for me. And one I’m glad I have DVRd in my memory so that I can play it back from time to time.

Although that kind of liberation may not make sense to some folks, it was a literal life-changing moment for me! I can’t begin to tell you what a difference it has made in my attitudes, my actions and my outlook. I literally do praise a little louder than I did before. I jump higher, I love deeper and I worship more freely. Most importantly, I trust more fully than I ever did.

I have been released.

And I credit it all to God’s amazing grace and forgiveness. Although grace and mercy often go hand in hand, they are truly different characterizations. Mercy, by definition, is seen as not receiving the punishment we deserve to receive while grace is receiving something positive that we did not deserve to receive.

It’s arguable whether or not I deserved to be bound. But it’s really arguable when I can admit it was something that I probably allowed to happen even though I never truly realized it had.

Utilizing grace once again, I truly want to do just as the song states, and love God not with just words but with every bit of my being. I want to not only live a life that honors Him and His glory but I want to live in a way that leaves no doubt how much I truly love and adore Him.

And because of that love I give to Him, He will enable me to share His love with those around me.

My earnest prayer for my own life - since I’m instructed to pray for myself as well as others - is that I will remain free and not allow myself to ever become as bound as I once was.

I now know the difference. And I choose freedom.

Everytime I Breathe
(Big Daddy Weave)

I am sure
All of heaven's heard me cry
As I tell You all the reasons why this life is just too hard
But day by day,
Without fail I'm finding everything I need
In everything that You are to me

(Chorus)
Every time I
breathe You seem a little bit closer
I never wanna leave I wanna stay
in Your warm embrace
Oh basking in the glory shining from Your
Face and Every time I get another glimpse of Your heart
I realize it's true, that You are so marvelous God
And I am so in love with You
Yeah, so in love with You

Now how could I,
After knowing One so great
Respond to You in any way that's less
than all I have to give

But by Your grace,
I wanna love
You not with what I say but everyday
In the way that my life is lived

(Chorus)
Every time I breathe You seem a little bit closer
I never wanna leave I wanna stay in Your warm embrace
Oh basking in the glory shining from Your face
and Every time I get another glimpse of Your heart
I realize it's true, that You are so marvelous God
And I am so in love with You

(Bridge)
Wrapped in Your mercy I wanna live and never leave
I am held by how humble, yet overwhelmed by Your majesty
Captured by grace now I'm finding I am free
You are marvelous God and knowing You is everything

(Chorus)
Every time I breathe You seem a little bit closer
I never wanna leave I wanna stay in Your warm embrace
Oh basking in the glory shining from Your face
and Every time I get another glimpse of
Your heart
I realize it's true, that You are so marvelous God
And I am so in love with You.

Turbulent learning

2009-09-20T22:53:00.002-05:00

I’ve been blessed to travel on commercial airlines quite a bit in my lifetime thus far. I won’t say it’s one of my favorite ways to get from the proverbial point a to point b, but you simply can’t beat it for speed when it works efficiently.

I’ve flown in various kinds of weather – snow, rain, thunderstorms – and on varying sized planes. Whether they were little commuters, with two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other to make a row, or 10 seats across completed with two rows, all of them have made me feel as if I was being hurled by Hercules through the air in a tube.

Today was no exception.

The commuter flight from Philadelphia to Memphis was filled to capacity. The guy beside me was a bit bigger than me and didn’t have a problem taking up his seat and part of mine (in addition to the arm rest that was supposed to divide our space). Although I was far from comfortable sitting by the window (a spot I don’t normally choose and I wasn’t at liberty to change), I tried to make the best of it by concentrating on the Beth Moore book I had started on the trip up on Wednesday.

Completing the book before arriving at our destination, I was looking out the window at the cloud coverage when our pilot’s voice came over the PA system reminding us to keep our seat belts securely fastened.

Although the pilot was anticipating turbulence the pilot never slowed down. In fact when it did get bumpy, he seemed to be flying wide open through it. The plane weaved and bobbed, but the pilot never seemed to take his foot off the gas pedal (I’m assuming planes have gas pedals like cars – I honestly don’t know). He never slowed up.

I couldn’t see the pilot’s hands at that moment, but I sat there imagining that he was gripping the steering wheel with both of them. I doubt it was a “white knuckle” moment for him, though. I’m certain he had logged some air time in worse weather than we were experiencing on that September Sunday afternoon. Instead, I’m sure his hands were poised in the same sort of confidence he exudes while sitting in that seat on any given day.

Most likely the pilot just placed faith in the aircraft to operate in the manner in which it was built.

In my mind – and a short time jotting it down later in the back of my Beth Moore book (the only paper I had available at the time) – I drew an analogy of our lives and the flight while looking out the window from seat 7A.

I will be honest. I wasn’t totally at ease during the last moments of that flight. But I wasn’t frightened to the point that I wanted to cry out to God to rescue us from the weather conditions although I always tend to fervently pray without ceasing whenever I’m seated in an airliner.

Instead, I thought about some of the bumps I’d flown through in my own life in the past few years. Some of them were truly difficult to maneuver. With some of them I had to rely on skill to navigate through them while others I just had to choose raw courage and strength.

The turbulence affecting our plane Sunday was brief and we were jetting through smooth skies the rest of the way to the airport. I’ve learned to realize the turbulence that rocks my personal world from time to time is often just as brief and I soon find a smooth pocket of airspace in which to set the course of my life on again.

Yep, I honestly prefer the smooth sailing over the bumpy rides in life. But it’s in those rougher times that I recall who truly is piloting the vessel. And I again let go, sit back, relax and enjoy the ride a bit more by allowing Him to have complete control.

Out of the mouth of babes

2009-09-08T15:40:00.003-05:00

My sister and I went to visit my nephew and his family up in Kentucky over the Labor Day weekend. While I was putting my stuff in my bag to come back home, my great niece, Taylor, and I had the following conversation. Keep in mind she is just barely 6 - but pretty sharp for that age.

Taylor: "I got you something at a yard sale the other day." (Holding her hand out with an object in it).

Me: "Awww ... that's a cute little cat! Thank you!"

Taylor: "You're welcome. See, whenever you want a baby, all you have to do is look at this."

Me: Speechless at first. "Well, OK. Thank you for thinking of me!"

I tried to set the cat down on the bed where I was going to leave it (I'm not quite convinced it actually belonged to her. She likes to make up stories to go along with objects around her).

Taylor: "You have to put it in your bag and make sure you take it home with you!"

Me: "I will put it in my pocket so it won't get broken." (Planning to leave it upstairs before I went downstairs).

But I forgot. So the cat sits on my desk at work right now. I brought it with me to share the story because I think it is so cute. I don't know what her reasoning is for telling me that when I wanted a baby to look at the glass cat. Maybe she thinks I'm so good with Owen that I need a baby. Or maybe she figures my life is incomplete without one.

Little does she know that I really don't want a baby. Especially not at this season in my life.

I think a few of my co-workers are a bit leery of the little animal. One of them calls it a "fertility cat."

I think I will leave it there for a few days just to make 'em a bit more nervous!

Like a prodigal son

2009-09-05T10:25:00.004-05:00

I love a good story. And I come from a long line of good storytellers.

I don’t mean my family members are liars since that’s the mental image that often comes to mind when you use the word “storyteller.” I simply mean that many members of my family have been good at taking words and crafting them into pictures in your head you can almost physically see.

Growing up, I would often enjoy listening to my parents, grandmother and several other members of my family as they would sit around the living room or kitchen table and weave tales about life when they were younger. I was often mesmerized by the things they had done, the places they had been and the tough times they had survived.

That’s probably why I began writing poems and stories at such an early age. I wanted to record things they had told me or things that just seemed to be floating around in my head. It most likely had an impact on the career path I chose in the early part of my life. The newspaper business gave me lots of experiences. Being able to listen to someone talk and then make a creative news story (aka a “feature”) out of it was one of my favorite parts.

The Bible is filled with a lot of stories, too, and many of them are crafted in some of the most beautiful language. There are numerous stories on those pages – or web pages since I use Bible Gateway online a lot these days – I have grown to love for one reason of another.

While doing some of the tasks at home today that I’ve been putting off, I began thinking about the story of the prodigal son. It is probably one of my favorite stories found in the Bible. I’m certain most everyone is familiar with it – younger son gets restless and is drawn to the bright lights and opportunities of the big city, demands his inheritance from his father, moves to said big city, quickly goes through his inheritance and finds himself doing menial labor and eating out of the pigs’ trough.

After awhile, the son realizes that being at home with his father wasn’t so bad and he swallows his pride – which was probably all he had left by that time. The son makes the decision to go back home and beg his father to allow him to become a worker on their family farm.

Although the story in the Bible doesn’t give us a true account of what the father was doing during the time his son was living it up in the city, it would be fairly easy to imagine what the father was doing. Especially since we know the father was probably a good man. Most likely the father was at home spending a whole lot more time on his knees praying for his son and asking God to not only protect him but to bring him back home. I’m certain, too, during his day-to-day tasks, the father would find himself gazing in the direction of the city wishing his son would leave there. There were probably times when the father would think, “I’m just gonna get in my truck and go bring that boy home!” But he didn’t because the father knew the son was learning life changing lessons that he could never teach the son at home.

One of the most beautiful parts of the story to me happens toward the end of it where the son is on his way back to his home and the father catches a glimpse of him walking up the road. Instead of sitting down on the porch and waiting for the young man to get there, the father instructs those around him to call everyone together and get a huge celebration supper ready because his boy is heading home.

Not content to wait for the young man to get to the house to greet him, the father runs - not saunters or walks - toward him. Thinking about the story I can see one of the best examples of what I’ve heard called a “man embrace” ever written. The father doesn’t just pat his son on the back or shake his hand, but he takes the young man fully into his arms and hugs him as he has never hugged him before.

He didn't care where the boy had been, what he had done or even what his motives were for his return. The father was just purely glad the boy was finally home.

I guess I like the story of the prodigal son because I see a lot of myself in the characteristics and actions of the young man. I never packed up everything I owned and left my parents’ home for a large metropolitan destination. Although there was a period of my life that I did want to seek fame, fortune and other things in New York City, I never got enough courage up to go.

Although I hate to admit it, there have been numerous times when I have packed up my life and moved it away from the will of God for one reason or another. Sadly, some of the reasoning behind these decisions seemed perfectly right to me at the time, too.

But just as the father in this story, my Heavenly Father was patient with me each and every time I strayed. I’m certain He didn’t like my actions and didn’t agree with my thought process at the time, but He allowed me to go. I’m almost certain that He watched me as I walked away and shook His head at the ignorance of my decisions. And I think there were probably times when He wanted to rush in and make me change my mind.

He didn’t, though. Instead He waited patiently for me to realize that life outside of Him is really not where I am destined to live. That even though it might seem easier to me to do things my way, He knew I had to come to the realization that His way was the best – and only – way for me to live.

I’ve recently returned from a period of being a prodigal. Just as with every other time, it was difficult and sometimes even dark. But just like every other time, I learned great lessons about grace, mercy and the true character of God.

I have even learned more about freedom.

Although I’d like to say I won’t wander again and that this determination to live my life wholly and fully for Him won’t fade this time, I know myself. I’ve been excellent at failing. But this time seems a bit different.

With all the shifting and change – some that has been so painful I didn’t think I could bear it – I have told several people that I truly believe God is getting me ready for a man, a mission or a ministry.

God does give us direction, yet faith is sometimes like walking with a map written in an ancient language you can't read or translate too easily. You can’t always see the places you’re heading because you can't read them, but you can see the trail to follow marked clearly to your destination.

That’s what life has been for me – I’ve known much of my life that God truly had a plan, I just couldn’t seem to see it much of the time. I have often used the analogy that my life was like a 1000 piece puzzle that was stored in an old shoe box. I knew there was a picture there to be completed, I just had difficulty putting the pieces together since I wasn’t able to see that big picture.

God has recently revealed to me a larger portion of the picture for my life. And it is good. Even armed with that information, though, I still don’t know the timeframe when it will come to pass. He has told me time and time again recently, though, that it’s all temporary. I’ve had to laugh each time I’ve heard Him say it because temporary is one of those words that can’t easily be plotted on a time chart. Temporary can mean an hour, a week, three months, five years or almost a lifetime. Temporary can sometimes feel like forever.

I’ve pretty much decided, though, that temporary in this case simply means soon.

Growing up, my mother would often tell me “we’ll see” when I would ask her about doing something. I learned quickly as a child that “we’ll see” was just her way of nicely telling me it was never, ever gonna happen. I hated that because it seemed to build a feeling of false hope in my life. I grew to despise that phrase so much that I have gotten angry with friends who have responded with it when I’d ask about something we had planned to do or something I really wanted to do.

Ironically enough, God has recently given me the “we’ll see” connected to the big picture He is leading me toward. But I don’t bristle as much now when He says it because I understand that He actually defines the phrase as "wait and see."

For now, that’s what I’m doing - somewhat patiently waiting. Not sitting back in a recliner with a remote control flipping through my life. But actively getting to know Him better and learning to serve Him more while I wait to see the next chapter that He is writing in that epic novel called my life.

All I know for certain is: it’s gonna be good.

'Here's to the uniforms of blue ...'

2009-09-02T06:15:00.003-05:00

Next spring, I will mark a significant passage of time on the campus of Mississippi University for Women. My classmates – or rather those who actually show up for Homecoming – and I will have made it halfway to Golden Girl status. Hard to believe since it sometimes seems like only last year we rambled that historic campus tucked in an area of land near downtown Columbus.

And then sometimes, given the passage of time and the distance time has thrown some of us away, it seems that the years we spent there was just a nighttime dream and never really existed at all. I know it happened, though, because I have the memories – and a few photographs (as well as a few literal and emotional scars) – to prove it.

It’s funny and probably really odd to some folks that I’m already preparing for an event that doesn’t even occur for eight months. I’ve already begun emailing, texting, Facebook messaging and harassing many of my friends and acquaintances from that era of my life insisting they attend Homecoming in April 2010.

Few have committed already to attending homecoming. Some of them have simply replied that they're disinterested in being a time traveler for a weekend, content to live in the present and remaining in contact with those “W Girls” they want to keep in touch with. Others haven’t even responded at all leading me to believe they’re quite happy not spending time reminiscing with old friends they used to sing songs in the Café Olay with.

I’m not exactly certain why I am more excited about this Homecoming than any others I’ve attended in the past. I’ve been pretty faithful to make the pilgrimage to Columbus – having only missed three or four of the events since the year after my graduation. I don’t really have any bragging to do, per se. Although I’m proud of the work I do and absolutely love my job, I probably wouldn’t be in the Top 10 percent of the most accomplished among my classmates. I opted for the safer route for work and took few risks in life. I feel like I’ve done some awesome work and made some differences through what I’ve done, but I don’t feel what I consider career success measures up to what others might term it.

And that’s really OK.

The thing that makes me most proud is where my life has grown since my junior and senior years at The W. During that time period I made some of the same stupid choices that most college kids make. I didn’t by any means leave Columbus even slightly unscathed – and my GPA reflected my party-loving attitude. I made friends fairly easily for a junior college transfer and seemed to fit in well on campus despite the fact that I never earned any of the accolades those students who spent all four years of their college careers there.

But I don’t feel less of a person today because I wasn’t a Hottentot or named Miss MUW.

It’s a hard analogy to put into exact words, honestly. But singer/songwriter Brandon Heath has a little ditty getting lots of airplay right now that makes me think of the upcoming Homecoming activities at MUW. Although I’ve not looked up the background of this song, I can pretty much guess he is directing it to at least one certain person and trying to drive home a point about how his life has changed. I’m hoping those who see me at The W in April note a similar thing about me.

Here are the lyrics:

I wish you could see me now

I wish I could show you how

I'm not who I was

I used to be mad at you

A little on the hurt side too

But I'm not who I was

I found my way around

To forgiving you

Some time ago

But I never got to tell you so

I found us in a photograph

I saw me and I had to laugh

You know, I'm not who I was

You were there, you were right above me

And I wonder if you ever loved me

Just for who I was

When the pain came back again

Like a bitter friend

It was all that I could do

To keep myself from blaming you

I reckon it's a funny thing

I figured out I can sing

Now I'm not who I was

I write about love and such

Maybe 'cause I want it so much

I'm not who I was

I was thinking maybe I should let you know

I am not the same

But I never did forget your name

Hello

Well the thing I find most amazing

In amazing grace

Is the chance to give it out

Maybe that's what love is all about

I wish you could see me now

I wish I could show you how

I'm not who I was

Although my experience was a bit different than his song (and I think there are a few folks who have been mad at me for quite some time rather than me made at them – although hurt would be a more appropriate term to use in my case), I’m hoping that I have some time in April to prove that I am truly not the same person who strolled the MUW campus with an infallible and almost arrogant attitude at times.

I am not who I was because God has been working on me for many years to transform me into the potential that He created. To bring me to a point where I want to be simply me. I’ve not arrived yet and His work probably won’t be completed by April 16. But I’m hoping that enough of it will have been done by then that people will see I have changed.

My prayer is that they will see Him reflected in my face, in my attitude, in my speech … basically in all of me.

I’m hoping that they will realize I’ve matured and in that growth I’ve become more comfortable within my own skin. I’m hoping they see that the arrogance of youth has been replaced by the wisdom of the Word of God and a life of learning from the mistakes I’ve made despite the fact I keep making some of them over and over again.

But I’m guessing that’s where grace fits into Kim Jobe’s life most.

Most of all, I’m hoping for a time to make amends and renew old bonds.

Perhaps my “W Girl” friend Janet Boozer Butts stated it best when we were discussing this blog post recently and I hope she doesn’t mind that I borrowed a few of her thoughts:

“There is just something about it (Homecoming) that draws us … love, sentimentality, memories … plus I think that era of our lives we were just dealing with life the best way we knew how to and now that we are older, we look back and say, 'What was I thinking?' and can’t believe we were that silly and immature (at least that’s what I think and I keep hoping that I’ll find some kind of sense that I might have left up there in my closet or something).

“I want a do-over. I know that I can never go back to the times I spent there, but, for the most part, I want to really experience it all again now that I am more cognitive.

“I wish I had paid attention …”

Me, too, Janet me, too.

And given the chance to share some time in April, 2010, with some of those people who played such significant roles in my MUW years, I’m already planning to pay lots of attention.

Meet ya in Columbus?

Great message from The Message

2009-08-24T17:38:00.004-05:00

My lifelong friend, Jamey, encouraged me to read a very familiar scripture passage in The Message. It's a translation I don't read very often and after reading Matthew 5 from it, I'm asking myself why I don't consider it more. I shared most of the chapter as a note on my Facebook page, but wanted to post it here as well. Much of it literally speaks to me! I especially like the part of verse 3 that states with less of us, there is more of God - that's truly how I am trying to live my life!
Anyway, please consider reading this translation of Matthew 5 - and let it speak to you as well!

Matthew 5
You're Blessed
1-2 When Jesus saw his ministry drawing huge crowds, he climbed a hillside. Those who were apprenticed to him, the committed, climbed with him. Arriving at a quiet place, he sat down and taught his climbing companions. This is what he said:
3"You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
4"You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
5"You're blessed when you're content with just who you are—no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
6"You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
7"You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.
8"You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
9"You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
10"You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.
11-12"Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble.
Salt and Light
13"Let me tell you why you are here. You're here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You've lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage.
14-16"Here's another way to put it: You're here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We're going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don't think I'm going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I'm putting you on a light stand. Now that I've put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you'll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.
Completing God's Law
17-18"Don't suppose for a minute that I have come to demolish the Scriptures— either God's Law or the Prophets. I'm not here to demolish but to complete. I am going to put it all together, pull it all together in a vast panorama. God's Law is more real and lasting than the stars in the sky and the ground at your feet. Long after stars burn out and earth wears out, God's Law will be alive and working.
19-20"Trivialize even the smallest item in God's Law and you will only have trivialized yourself. But take it seriously, show the way for others, and you will find honor in the kingdom. Unless you do far better than the Pharisees in the matters of right living, you won't know the first thing about entering the kingdom.
Murder
21-22"You're familiar with the command to the ancients, 'Do not murder.' I'm telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother 'idiot!' and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell 'stupid!' at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill.
23-24"This is how I want you to conduct yourself in these matters. If you enter your place of worship and, about to make an offering, you suddenly remember a grudge a friend has against you, abandon your offering, leave immediately, go to this friend and make things right. Then and only then, come back and work things out with God.
25-26"Or say you're out on the street and an old enemy accosts you. Don't lose a minute. Make the first move; make things right with him. After all, if you leave the first move to him, knowing his track record, you're likely to end up in court, maybe even jail. If that happens, you won't get out without a stiff fine.
Adultery and Divorce
27-28"You know the next commandment pretty well, too: 'Don't go to bed with another's spouse.' But don't think you've preserved your virtue simply by staying out of bed. Your heart can be corrupted by lust even quicker than your body. Those leering looks you think nobody notices—they also corrupt.
29-30"Let's not pretend this is easier than it really is. If you want to live a morally pure life, here's what you have to do: You have to blind your right eye the moment you catch it in a lustful leer. You have to choose to live one-eyed or else be dumped on a moral trash pile. And you have to chop off your right hand the moment you notice it raised threateningly. Better a bloody stump than your entire being discarded for good in the dump.
31-32"Remember the Scripture that says, 'Whoever divorces his wife, let him do it legally, giving her divorce papers and her legal rights'? Too many of you are using that as a cover for selfishness and whim, pretending to be righteous just because you are 'legal.' Please, no more pretending. If you divorce your wife, you're responsible for making her an adulteress (unless she has already made herself that by sexual promiscuity). And if you marry such a divorced adulteress, you're automatically an adulterer yourself. You can't use legal cover to mask a moral failure.
Empty Promises
33-37"And don't say anything you don't mean. This counsel is embedded deep in our traditions. You only make things worse when you lay down a smoke screen of pious talk, saying, 'I'll pray for you,' and never doing it, or saying, 'God be with you,' and not meaning it. You don't make your words true by embellishing them with religious lace. In making your speech sound more religious, it becomes less true. Just say 'yes' and 'no.' When you manipulate words to get your own way, you go wrong.
Love Your Enemies
38-42"Here's another old saying that deserves a second look: 'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.' Is that going to get us anywhere? Here's what I propose: 'Don't hit back at all.' If someone strikes you, stand there and take it. If someone drags you into court and sues for the shirt off your back, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. And if someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.
43-47"You're familiar with the old written law, 'Love your friend,' and its unwritten companion, 'Hate your enemy.' I'm challenging that. I'm telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves. This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that.
48"In a word, what I'm saying is, Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you."

Undo

2009-08-12T10:37:00.006-05:00

I keep the radio station KLOVE playing at my house 24/7. It's unbelievable how much more peaceful my home has become even though I'm the only one who experiences that peace much of the time.

Often, a song I hear on KLOVE gets stuck in my head and I, well, meditate on it pretty much all day long. That's what has happened with Rush of Fools' "Undo" today. So much so, that I have opted to share the lyrics here with you who read my blog. Search for the song on YouTube when you get a chance and listen to it for yourself. You won't regret it!

Undo
I've been here before
Now, here I am again
Standing at the door
Praying You'll let me back in
To label me
A prodigal would be
Only scratching the surface
Of who I've been known to be

Turn me around, pick me up
Undo what I've become
Bring me back to the place
Of forgiveness and grace
I need You, I need Your help
I can't do this myself
You're the only one
Who can undo what I've become

I focused on the score
But I could never win
Trying to ignore
A life of hiding my sin
To label me
A hypocrite would be
Only scratching the surface
Of who I've been known to be

Turn me around, pick me up
Undo what I've become
Bring me back to the place
Of forgiveness and grace
I need You, I need Your help
I can't do this myself
You're the only one

Who can undo what I've become
Make every step lead me back to
The sovereign way that You

Turn me around, pick me up
Undo what I've become
Bring me back to the place
Of forgiveness and grace
I need You, I need Your help
I can't do this myself
You're the only one who can undo
You are the only one who can undo
You're the only one who can undo
What I've become

If you do nothing else I suggest ....

2009-07-27T17:28:00.004-05:00

Read this book.

Period.

It's one of the best examples of the outcome of outreach that I've read thus far. So what if it's probably the first outreach related book I've read. It's still worth your time. I promise!

It starts out a little slow, but hang on until the end. I sobbed so hard through the last three or four chapters that I had a headache once I was done.

But it was worth it!

I don't wanna say too much more about it and ruin it for anyone.

Once you've finished the book, make sure you come back and comment here and tell me how very right I was to suggest it!!

Bleeding red, white & blue

2009-07-04T13:18:00.003-05:00

Patriotism is in my DNA.

I know that sounds weird, but I believe it’s true. I was born to be red, white and blue.

One of my earliest, most vivid memories is standing and watching my mama wipe tears away after listening to a song on TV. I was about three or four, probably. I knew all the words to the song. It was one of the first ones I learned after “Jesus Loves Me,” “This Little Light of Mine,” and “Happy Birthday.”

Although I didn’t know why Kate Smith singing “God Bless America” made my mama cry that day, I somehow understood the emotion behind those tears and wasn’t frightened. I guess the same emotion behind Mama’s tears was why a small child would memorize that song. I think it was because I loved geography and especially liked the part that states, “from the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam …” (Oddly enough, that’s a good percentage of the 40 word tune, too!).

I grew up in a small town that, even though it has progressed a lot since my childhood, is still a small town. But that small town helped instill values in me that I’m very grateful for.

My parents and grandparents can be credited (or blamed, in some cases) for a lot of the person I am today. I learned from them early in life to honor, obey, love and serve God and to respect America. My daddy served a stint in the United States Air Force during the Korean Conflict. Although he never saw battle outside of a barroom brawl on Saturday nights in Seoul, he had an important task during that time to train men how to use the radios in order to keep communication open on the battlefield. Although he never flew a flag outside his home, Daddy certainly could have been defined as a flag-waving American by the way he lived.

I’m not certain what really spawned Mama’s deep-seeded patriotism. Maybe it was having living through the Great Depression and World War II that marked her heart with such a love for her country. Or maybe it was having parents who also had a deep and abiding love for America.

Whatever it was, I can remember watching Mama place her hand over her heart whenever she heard strains of the national anthem and can recall viewing many tears trickle down her face as she would sit at the kitchen table in the mornings and pray for her family and her country.

My parents were both wonderful storytellers. There were nights when we would turn the TV off and one or both of them would begin weaving tales about their childhood. Often the stories would involve where they were or what they were doing during significant times in history. I heard Daddy tell his recollection of the day President Kennedy was shot in Dallas so often I can almost repeat it verbatim.

Although I have lived through some pretty significant historical events and can tell you where I was when I heard some of them happen, none truly changed my life as much as September 11, 2001. I had worked later than usual the night of September 10, 2001. I had planned a trip to Atlantic City, N.J., the next week to attend the Miss America Pageant for the fourth time and had some tasks that needed to be completed before my time off rolled around.

It was a phone call from my sister, Jindra, that first alerted me to the attack on American soil. Even though I had heard the phone ringing, I couldn’t seem to wake up enough to get up to answer it. Through the answering machine, I could hear her telling me to wake up and turn on the TV.

Wondering what was of such epic proportion that she would call me from work to tell me to watch TV, I fumbled for the remote control and turned the TV on in my bedroom. Through sleep-glazed eyes I quickly noticed that the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and the World Trade Center in New York City were featured in a split-screen shot on TV. And smoke was billowing from both.
Confused, I turned up the volume in order to make some sense out of what I was viewing. That’s when I first learned of the hijackings of the commercial airliners and how the hijackers had flown the airplanes into both buildings. At the time I turned on my television, only one plane had hit the WTC, but soon after I began watching the news coverage, the second plane hit.

Watching this catastrophe unfold from my bed, I was numb. Although I realized it was a live news report from NBC, it just didn’t seem real. And when the towers began to fall, tears started to cascade down my face. Although I prayed that the thousands of people who worked in those two buildings had time to safely evacuate the area, I knew in my heart that many of them were being thrust into eternity at very moment. And my heart literally broke from that realization and the realization that even though the events were going on in Washington, DC and New York, every American was being attacked at that very moment. I took it personally because it was personal.

I am blessed to have friends who live in various areas across America and I quickly began to go through my mental Rolodex to determine who, if any of them, lived near or worked in the Twin Towers or the Pentagon. Although my brain was still a bit fuzzy from sleep, I decided that I didn’t really know anyone who worked there. Then I remembered an email I’d received from my friend Stacey Kunnari a few weeks before describing her daily trek from their apartment in New Jersey to New York University. I recalled something about a train and a station at the World Trade Center site and I wondered what time she would have gone to class on that Tuesday morning. How grateful I was later that evening when she was able to get a blanket email out to tell all her friends that she had opted not to go to class that morning.

Although Corinth is located far away from the site of the attacks, reporting the events became front page news. I even managed to get Stacy’s husband, Brian, to send me some digital photos of the New York skyline from their vantage point across the river. From where he stood, he could see the smoke billowing from the WTC rubble and his photos reflected that.

With Miss America competition beginning the next week, the contestants had been in Atlantic City for rehearsals and other events prior to September 11. Discussions began immediately about what to do with the contestants and about the pageant itself. Some of the contestants, naturally, wanted to go home. But with air travel suspended, that was almost impossible. Since the contestants were already there as a group and virtually safe, a decision was made early on to keep them in Atlantic City. After national leaders encouraged Americans to attempt to go on with life as usual as best they could, pageant officials decided to continue with plans to host the competition on a slightly scaled-down level.

My trip itinerary had me flying out of Memphis the following Tuesday and flying into Washington Dulles International Airport outside of Washington, DC, by way of Atlanta. Since air travel had been suspended indefinitely on September 11, I wondered at first if I would even be allowed to take the trip. By the end of the week, travel had slowly been started back up and flights were leaving Memphis International Airport.

With family members and friends questioning my sanity, I left Corinth early that next Tuesday morning. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit nervous about getting on that airplane one week after the September 11 attacks. Oddly enough, that wasn’t the first time I’d been to Atlantic City under a threat of sorts. The first one as in 1999 when Hurricane Floyd (or as I affectionately call it, Hurricane Elmer Fudd) was predicted to hit the shore. I opted to take that trip as well – adding a flashlight, transistor radio and plenty of snacks to my suitcase in the event we were forced out of the hotels and into some sort of emergency shelter during the duration.

During the drive to Memphis that September Tuesday, I kept asking God to give me a peace about the trip. The sun was just rising as I sped down Nonconnah Parkway toward I-240. Rounding a curve, I saw a flash of color on the horizon. It was the largest American flag I think I had ever seen.
The slight breeze was making the flag flap in the wind and the rising sun cast a light behind it that made the stars and stripes seem to glow in the early morning sky. In my head, I could hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s version of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and I suddenly found my peace.

There were only 27 people on board the 727 that I rode from Memphis to Atlanta that morning. The flight attendants were trying to calm nerves as much as possible and told us we could feel free to choose any seat we wanted for the short journey.

Changing planes in Atlanta revealed to me that air travel was not as sparse there. Although there were still a good many vacant seats, there were more passengers on the plane from Atlanta to Dulles.

My friend, Michelle Blake, picked me up at the airport. We had already had the “are we sure we want to do this” conversation the night before on the telephone. It was obvious I was committed to going on to Atlantic City since I was in Virginia. She wasn’t quite as convinced yet. But the next morning, as we drove toward the Jersey shore she would look at me every few miles and just shake her head.

Security around the Miss America Pageant was tighter that week than I had ever noticed it. I knew security was around during the three previous trips to Atlantic City, but they weren’t as obvious. All our bags were checked before we could enter Convention Hall, the site where the pageant had been held for decades, and we were even “wanded” by a security guard.

Although we were trying to get into a pageant sort of mode, we couldn’t overlook the proverbial elephant in the room. Many of us shared recollections of where we were and what we were doing when we heard the Pentagon and the World Trade Center had been attack. Since not all travel routes were up and running even a week after the event, some of our friends weren’t able to make the trip to Atlantic City so we talked about how we missed them, too. And some of our friends simply didn’t want to either deal with the heightened security or couldn’t make themselves travel so they opted out of the pageant for that year.

One morning I traipsed over to Convention Hall to watch rehearsals and found a group of people standing around tables near the stage. They were taking small dowels and stapling cardboard American flags to them. The idea was for everyone in attendance for the televised pageant on Saturday night to have a small American flag to wave in support of the country. Since, not surprisingly, the sales of American flags of all sizes had skyrocketed post-9/11, pageant officials couldn’t get a couple thousand small flags. Someone came up with the idea of getting a pattern from the Internet and making them with the help of the volunteers.

Instead of watching rehearsals that morning, I stood with my friend from New Hampshire and four women from Washington state and Massachusetts and stapled flags. For hours we did this. My back hurt and my thumbs hurt but I didn’t complain. It was a small contribution, but it was something I could actually do to give back a little.

The contestants noticed what we were doing and would cheer us on as they walked past the tables. My buddy Allison Hatcher, who was Miss Indiana that year, would either hug me or offer words of encouragement each time she walked by.

And remember my friend, Stacey, who I was worried about the morning of 9/11? She and her husband, Brian, came down for the pageant that weekend and I was able to hug my former Miss Arizona and tell her how grateful I was she was still around.

A rumor began to circulate on Friday morning that there had been a threat made on the Saturday night pageant. Some folks wanted to go home – even my friend, Michelle. I calmly told her to do what she felt was best, but I had been there all week and I wasn’t leaving. If it was my time to go, I told her, I might as well be doing something I enjoy. And if it was my time, there wasn’t much I could do about it anyway. Somewhat reluctantly, she agreed to stay.

Despite the fighter planes flying off the beach near the Convention Hall and the huge military helicopters flying over the building, the pageant went on without a hitch and Miss Oregon Katie Harman became the first contestant from her state to capture the national crown.

Although I am no longer a Miss America volunteer, I still remain close to many of the friends I made during that time. Looking back, do I regret boarding that plane a week after 9/11 and flying to the East Coast? Not one bit. I’m certain I would have eventually had to face the hesitancy of air travel eventually. I guess it was just as good a time as any to get back in that old saddle again. And I have such good memories of that week to show for it, too.

I don’t know why that particular event in my life came to mind today as I was beginning my personal celebration of Independence Day. I am so very grateful to live in a country that, despite all its imperfections, still allows me the freedom to choose, the freedom to be but most of all the freedom to worship God openly and freely. I often take my American citizenship and the rights and privileges that come with it so much for granted. It’s on days like this that I try to stop and realize just how truly blessed we are as Americans.

On September 11, 2001, and the days following, I saw a great revival of sorts beginning in this country. Out of frustration, desperation and deep-seeded pain, people began to truly seek Him with all their hearts.

My prayer is that those who have yet to find Him, will continue to look.

When might is right

2009-07-02T11:09:00.001-05:00

I’m very attracted to strength.

No, I’m not looking for a body builder type of man in my life. Although I wouldn’t turn that type of guy away if he happens to be the “one.”

What I really mean by that statement is I appreciate people who are strong emotionally. You know, the folks with intestinal fortitude who aren’t afraid to let said intestinal fortitude show most of the time.

If someone were to track my friendships through the years, they would find that the majority of the people I have intimately connected myself with possess that one characteristic in common. They’re all fairly strong in spirit.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Well, I always thought we were pretty good friends, but I’m really not that strong …” then odds are one of us was and/or is “fronting” the other one. (And you’re probably a lot stronger than you realize you are!).

Growing up, I never considered myself that strong really. I guess that statement is pretty funny coming from someone who was over six feet tall by the time they were 12 years old. Even though we equate strength and size, though, that’s not always how it generally works in reality. I’ve known some pretty big people who were, well, pretty much weak internally. And I’ve known some folks who are pretty small in stature that I hope literally have my back.

So in my immature mind, I decided that if I connected myself to strong people I would somehow become stronger by association or osmosis or some biological process that I didn’t quite get but believed or hoped could happen. And, retrospectively, I had a pretty good idea. I mean, what better way to become stronger than to plant yourself around strong people?

I could start naming names and telling tales, but I won’t. But I did have some great examples of courage and perseverance to follow growing up. In all honesty, I still do today. And I truly need you people around because, contrary to some belief (I can’t call it popular belief because I’m certain few folks would really agree), I have yet to arrive to that proverbial destination of being a card-carrying, full-fledged adult. Although I have already obtained some of the rights and privileges of said adult – like debt, sporadic hot flashes and being forced to make life-altering decisions alone.

There were times in my life when I wouldn’t have called myself strong. In all honesty, I wasn’t really. I wasn’t a parasite of sorts, but I was more like a barnacle. I seemed to find attaching myself to others and feeding off their lives and experiences was easier than attempting to live it on my own.

But situations came, as situations often do in life, where I found myself backed against a wall and forced to choose might or weakness. It was at those times I had to dig deep within me and determine exactly what I was made of. I had to, without much of a choice actually, stand on my own two feet and take care of myself.

I HAD to be strong.

And I did it. I became Beyonce (that’s a slight I was a SURVIVOR reference for those of you who totally missed it – with apologies to Michelle and Kelly, but it really made even less sense to state I became the three women of Destiny’s Child!) and grew even stronger from the experience.

Even today I’m still working on the strength area of my life – and still attempting to surround myself with positive examples of it as well. I’m becoming more comfortable with letting my strength show, too – as well as my weaknesses. I’m learning to step up more often when others need to lean on the strength I possess rather than wait on someone else to take the role instead. And, in turn, I’m learning to be weak and allow others to be stronger during the appropriate times of my life.

Why?

I’m gradually becoming more and more comfortable in my own skin because I’m becoming more and more comfortable with the source of my strength.

Nope, I’ve not yet arrived, but I’m not beating myself up about it either. I’m growing and growth is a truly positive and blessed thing. Hopefully it looks good on me, too!

Waiting for the rain

2009-06-24T16:20:00.002-05:00

“I will bless my people and their homes around my holy hill. And in the proper season I will send the showers they need. There will be showers of blessing.” Ez. 34:26 NLT

Remember when you were a small child and the anticipation of Christmas you would begin to feel as the season approached?

For me, it would begin not long after the last bits of trick-or-treat candy had been eaten. I would begin talking about Christmas on a weekly or bi-weekly basis until Thanksgiving. Once that holiday was celebrated and December started, the thought of Christmas would begin to consume me. I could not wait to see what Santa would bring me Christmas Eve and was so excited about spending the holiday with my loved ones there were nights when I could hardly sleep at night.

Christmas was all I thought about.

The other day I filled in for our receptionist at work. While seated at her desk, I noticed a calendar that contains a daily Bible verse. The verse for the particular day was Ez. 34:26. Reading it, I literally wanted to shout in the lobby of the Corinth School District Administrative Office building.

For months I have felt a real stirring of the Holy Spirit within me. It’s as if I knew He was working on my life although I couldn’t cite specific areas that were receiving His touch.

I had prayed months before that God would make my heart more pliable and teachable. As the old adage states, be careful what you pray for cause you just might get it. Well, I have gotten it in large doses. My heart has literally felt like it has been made of modeling clay lately. I have found myself crying at times for no seemingly particular reason. I have felt a longing in my heart for something yet I can’t put into words what exactly that “something” really is. And I’ve felt a literal shift going on within my life.

Is it complete? No. Has all this activity going on within me been frustrating to me? Yes. Do I totally understand what changes I may have to face in the future? No. But can I see God working on my life? Without a doubt!

God has been strategically placing people and situations in my life over the course of the past year or so. Some of them I have literally struggled with understanding their role in this ever changing canvas. A couple of them I have even tried to physically remove from my life. Thankfully they are wiser and a little more mature than I am and have patiently stood firm and refused to move – no matter how hard I have pushed.

Not only has God placed new people in my path to take my hand and guide me along or just to cheer me on, He has reunited me with people who haven’t had an active part in my life for decades. Some haven’t been around for like, well, eons. But they’re here now and filling important roles in my life.

Just llike we used to anticipate Christmas time’s arrival as a small child, we will now together await the proper season when God will send the shower we need.

I know it will truly be a shower of blessings.

Task clears mind, cleans dishes

2009-06-22T20:14:00.002-05:00

Washing dishes it therapeutic.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t enjoy sticking my hands into yucky water to scrub food particles and day-old Keurig brewed coffee off my dishes. But it has to be done from time to time.

I don’t think Mama thought it was therapeutic for me. It was just one thing that she found her youngest child could do domestically without messing it up too badly. Nevermind that her youngest child HATED washing dishes. But I hated sweeping and mopping more – and I could REALLY mess that up – so I opted to keep peace at least in this little corner of the world and wash the dishes after most every meal.

Weekday breakfast dishes during the school year bought me a reprieve. I’m glad cause she mighta made me check out and come home to wash dishes like she did that morning she called and made them send me home to make my bed. Talk about shame – yeah, shame on the school secretaries for calling over the intercom and announcing to my class that my mama wanted me to go home for that particular chore.

But I survived that day of high school just as I had survived many other similarly trying ones.

Although I let some chores go around my house, I don’t allow many days to pass by with a sink full of dirty dishes. I can’t stand the bugs they might breed and the stench radiating from the dishes eventually drags me into the kitchen to wash.

After fixing breakfast for dinner tonight, I decided nothing smells worse than a skillet with old sausage grease drying on it so I washed dishes. And contemplated life’s little dilemmas. Like Jon & Kate’s marriage problems. And Mary Winkler being in court again. You know, the things you want to think about when you don’t want to think about your things!

I did contemplate a few serious things. Thought about other topics I’d like to take time sometime in the near future to attempt to give my opinions about. Also thought about all the places I’d like to go – like the beach (OCRACOKE Beach, to be exact) – and things I’d like to do. Thought about things I need to say, things I should have said and a lot of the things I wish I hadn’t said.

Mostly I just thought – something I don’t often take a lot of time to do in my life. And it was honestly a nice period of mental exercise for me.

I didn’t solve any of the world’s problems Monday evening and honestly didn’t solve any of my dilemmas. But I made a concerted effort.

And now I have clean dishes.

Seizing the day

2009-06-13T12:22:00.003-05:00

Missed opportunities.

In my life, I’ve had a few.

Some I missed were intentional – things I decided I just didn’t want to do or couldn’t bear to do. Others weren't missed on purpose at all. I either waited too long and the window for the opportunity closed. Or someone else beat me to it.

Whatever the reason, it still kinda stings when reality sets in and you realize what you could’ve done or could’ve had. Or, even worse sometimes, both.

For months I have been talking about taking a certain photo in Corinth. It wasn’t a plan to capture a specific Kodak moment of time or even preserve some landmark that has meant a great deal to me growing up. It could have been, mind you. See, that’s the cool thing about growing up in a small Southern town where things rarely change or often change very slowly. You have personal landmarks – or tabernacles, as I call some of them – that remind you of where you’ve been or where you have evolved from. Hopefully most of them show the positive growth and maturity in your life.

This specific landmark I have talked about for months stood across from the city park for decades. The park plays a very significant role in my life. No, it isn’t a place of a “first” for me as some of my peers could probably claim. But the park marks a place where my family and I enjoyed years of outdoor fun. From playing on the swings to climbing on the old Air Force jet that once sat at the bottom of the playground hill to picnicking under the old oak trees, I have thousands of memories tucked away in my heart of that plot of city land.

My grandfather died when I was a small child and most of my memories of him are focused on the moments we would spend at the park looking at birds and chasing the squirrels. I never pass there that I don’t think about George Harlan Hughes.

I also have memories of summers spent in the dirt of the softball fields at the back of the park. That’s where I made some lifelong friends and learned various life lessons.

It was partly because of these memories that I kept stating I needed to take some photos of the water tank that stood across the street. I never tried to climb it to spray paint my name on it nor did I ever receive (or steal, for that matter) a kiss in the shadow of that metal monster. But the structure has long been a part of the fabric of the canvas of that block. I’ve seen rainbows behind it when I didn’t have a camera in my car. I’ve seen some of the bluest skies and puffiest clouds perched behind that tank that looked as if a large hand had literally painted there.

About three weeks ago, I was heading somewhere else to take some photos and almost stopped to snap a few pictures of the water tank. But there was an 18-wheeler parked in front of it and, being in a lazy mood, I didn’t want to have to Photoshop it out.

This morning I checked the Daily Corinthian website as I sometimes do and saw I’d missed yet another opportunity in my life. A company pulled the old water tank down about noon yesterday. Had I known that was happening, I would’ve gone over there on my lunch break and documented the event for myself instead of eaten a barbecue sandwich alone.

Some folks are probably glad to see the rusted dinosaur pulled down. I will kinda miss it being part of the area’s landscape.

But I’ve learned a lesson from this missed opportunity. From now on, when I have even the slightest urge to take a photo of something I will take the time to do just that.

Carpe diem, most definitely.

I think I need to adopt the philosophy with personal issues as well. Sometimes in life you get “do overs.” But most of the time, like the removal of the old rusted tank, the chance is forever gone.

Note: The photo above belongs to the Daily Corinthian and was posted on their website at www.dailycorinthian.com. It was taken by Jebb Johnston.

Fixing your focus

2009-06-12T10:37:00.000-05:00

How’s your focus?

Prior to being diagnosed with diabetes, I first knew something was physically wrong with me when my eyesight – which had been normally good – began to fail. It wasn’t a gradual thing, but literally overnight I went from being able to read fine print on labels and other items to not being able to see the words at all.

I laughed and chalked it up to yet another thing that happens once you turn 40. Nevermind I had been 40 for several months (OK, a couple of years, but what is age, really!?).

One of the first things Dr. Glisson asked me during my initial visit with him was about changes in my vision. I told him my focus had been off and that had really bothered me. Later he explained that one of the side effects of diabetes is blurry vision. Fortunately, I’ve visited Dr. Jennifer and she says that although I don’t have 20/20 vision, the diabetes hasn’t gotten into my eyes yet.

Reading glasses (which tend to stay on my face probably more than they should at work) have helped to rectify the problems I’ve been having with focus lately. But they haven’t totally fixed it. Even with glasses, I’ve found when my blood sugar levels are too low or too high, I have a problem focusing on what it is I am trying to see.

And it’s not just diabetes that causes me to lose focus in my life.

Just this morning as I was driving to work, a black cat crossed my path. There was a time in my life when I might have made a cross on my windshield or done some other activity associated with superstition to negate that cat’s movement. I laughed at myself for not being superstitious as I decided to turn left rather than continue through the intersection where I had been stopped at a stop sign.

Because I was more focused on that silly black cat and stupid superstitions, I almost pulled out in front of an SUV whose driver was turning left in front of me – and, for the record, had the right-of-way.

Taking my focus off the task at hand – driving safely – almost put me into a car crash that I really didn’t want to have on a beautiful Friday morning.

Once upon a time, there was someone who wanted something with all their heart. The entire focus of their being was fixed on this one thing and it was literally almost all that they could think about.

When it finally became part of their life, they were overjoyed. Here was the thing they had waited for, and it was good.

But in a short time, they realized - like a garment that was too small or a square peg trying to drop into a round hole - the thing simply didn’t fit into their life. It wasn’t as magical as they thought it would be and, instead, was a bit superficial.

The person realized their focus had been wrong and they had wasted precious time – time they would never regain – focusing on something they really didn’t need after all.

Instead the person began to set their sites, like Philippians 4:8 encourages, on “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute.”

And life suddenly seemed to have a bit more clarity when their focus returned to normal.

“Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.” – Phillipians 4:8

A dream is a wish your heart makes ...

2009-06-11T07:45:00.001-05:00

Dreams … we all have ‘em.

According to Erwin McManus, pastor of the Mosaic in Los Angeles, way too many of us dream better lives than we actually live.

There’s a black and white photo of me tucked in a frame in one of my bedrooms. When I worked at The Baldwyn News and later the Daily Corinthian, the photo sat on my desk. Why? Because the photo was one of a three-year-old me sitting in a small, rocking chair (even though the photo is black and white, I know it’s red cause I have the rocking chair in my living room today). My feet were propped up in another child-sized chair and in my tiny hands was a newspaper. Probably a Jackson Sun since we lived in Jackson, Tenn., at that time. It’s hard to decipher much about the newspaper from the photo since I’m holding it upside down. But I’m holding a newspaper as a newspaper should be held. In that photo, I’m looking away from the newspaper.

The pose makes it look as if I’m making some sort of editorial statement. From the look on my face, it was a positive one cause, well, because it was a look of sheer glee.

Of all the childhood photos I possess, that one has to be my favorite. Why? Because it is proof that the dream I carried into adulthood was birthed within me not long after I arrived on this planet. My mama used to tell me that while some children carried around security blankets, I almost always had a newspaper in my hand when I as a toddler. Some nights after I fell asleep, she would have to literally rip it from my grip often having to scrub my palm to get the black ink off the newspaper had imprinted there.

Although I think Daddy would have preferred I follow in his footsteps and become an educator, I never gave up the dream to become a writer. And not just any writer, though. The dream to be a newspaper journalist was always with me. In fact, I possessed that dream for so long that I don’t even know where it originated. It was as if it was instilled in me at conception and grew as I grew.

I wasn’t always totally faithful to my dream. There were times, as most children do, that I would explore other career opportunities in my mind and literally. Because my cousin Clara Lynn was a missionary in Brazil, I seriously thought about doing that. Being the biggest kid in my class (sometimes the biggest of the boys AND the girls), I was often took on the role of defending the underdog. From that experience, I considered becoming a social worker (even changed my major to social work one semester at Northeast until my advisor told me that even though my heart was in the right place, I needed to go back to journalism and right wrongs that way).

At one time in my life I really thought photography might become my profession of choice. I loved looking through the viewfinder of a camera – even if it was a 110 instamatic – and capturing a Kodak moment. Possessing the knack for getting just the right shot seemed inert to me even back then.

And since I spent a lot of time with Daddy at the various schools he was principal of throughout my lifetime, it was only natural for me to consider education as a career from time to time. I tended to play school more than I took it seriously, though.

Granny Hughes got me hooked on her “stories” at an early age and I seriously tossed around the idea of becoming a writer of a different sort when I was in high school. Soap operas were a huge passion of mine – somewhat funny now that I think about it all these decades later – and when I was a junior in high school, I began seriously talking about moving to New York and becoming a soap opera writer. I think my mama would have rather I joined the Sandanistas than move to New York. For some reason the big city scared her and Mama would discourage that plan every time I mentioned it.

Despite considering other career options, I never really totally lost sight of my dream to become a journalist. I’d like to say I worked hard in college to obtain a journalism degree. I did work hard in college but it wasn’t academically. I got by in the classroom, but I worked hard at being a “social butterfly.” Despite that, I graduated with a little over a 3.0 from Mississippi University for Women and hit the world wide open. My plan was to take what I considered a “learning job” in a small newspaper for a few years before hitting the streets of a big metropolitan area to become a paragraph producer.

I spent 3 ½ years in Baldwyn learning the newspaper business inside and out (as well as the business of life, but that’s another blog post I’m certain) before taking a job at the Daily Corinthian. That was literally part of my dream come true, in all honesty. In addition to stating I wanted to be a journalist, I would always add that I wanted to be editor of the DC. Funny that I would state that since I would also state I wanted to graduate from Corinth High School and never live in Corinth again (guess I thought I would live in the metropolitan meccas of Iuka, Kossuth or Walnut while I fulfilled that part of the dream, huh!?!?).

One year became five and five years became 10 while I worked at the DC as news editor. Although we were a small newspaper, I sometimes got to deal with some big city issues from my cubicle at work. I was able to meet a British prince, meet Hollywood celebrities and Washington, DC movers and shakers. I did stories on common people who did uncommon things and took hundreds of thousands of photographs. Eight days short of my 19th anniversary at the DC, I got to work early and sensed something was just not right. Of course, I’d kinda felt that for several months but this day seemed a bit lower on the “not right” spectrum. After I’d been there about 20 minutes, my boss called me into his office. I knew it wasn’t positive when I saw the publisher and the financial officer sitting in there as well.

Long story short, one of them read me a letter that thanked me for my service to the DC but informed me that because my position had been eliminated from the newspaper, my employment there was terminated immediately.

They could have shot me in the heart with a .357 magnum and it wouldn’t have hurt any less.
It was similar to those moments you see on movies, too. I temporarily went deaf – it was as if the world was void of sound for a moment. And a wave of shock coursed through my system. I almost hate to sound so dramatic, but it was that for me at that moment. For almost 19 years, I had lived and breathed the DC. I had often joked that I had BECOME the DC in a lot of ways – I didn’t know where my work life ended and my real life began. I think I had thrown myself into that job so much that it had become my world.

And my world was stripped away from me in those few minutes.

I quickly came to my senses and remembered that I was Betty Jane Hughes Jobe’s child. Where some folks might have caused a scene, I slowly stood up, attempted to smile and told them I would pack my own belongings. I felt they owed me that much respect as a faithful employee who had been a team player and a “company” person.

It took several hours to weed through almost 19 years of clippings and career souvenirs. Coworkers would come by my desk from time to time and attempt words of encouragement and support. Although I appreciated them, they didn’t really work as salve to heal the hurt.
Boxes packed, my best friend – who had left work in Oxford to be there for me at that moment – helped me carry them out to my car.

Although I’d forced back the tears at the DC, I couldn’t hold them in any longer. I felt huge, hot tears slowly drip off my chin as I headed for home.

Losing a job right before the holiday season is tough on many levels. It’s really tough on a person who wants to dive in and find another one. Most employers are trying to finish the year out and are more worried about getting in all the vacation time and personal time off that folks have saved up more than they are filling empty positions. So I spent the holidays with my family – something I’d not gotten to do consistently as a member of the media.

I applied for several positions at newspapers throughout North Mississippi and had some serious “bites” at a few of them. But it literally made me sick to think about walking in another newsroom and attempting to put my byline on a story in another publication. It wasn’t that I was that loyal to the DC. That wasn’t the case. It was as if losing my job was more than losing a paycheck – something during the event killed that dream within me that I’d carried since childhood.

For the longest, I didn’t want to write anything. Even filing out job applications and signing my name became too much of a chore.

Long story shortened, I found out about the project director’s position at the Corinth School District and applied for it. Dr. Childress saw enough potential in me to give me a chance and I began working there on January 16, 2008. A little over a year later, I still love what I’m doing. I’m becoming more confident in the depth of knowledge that I have about education and have learned more about it than I ever knew I could absorb. I have an even heightened respect for the teaching profession and honestly care about every staff member of the CSD.

A lot of people will tell you that you should keep work relationships and personal relationships separate, but that’s almost impossible in education. It’s a team effort to make sure children are learning all they should be at the rate they should be. And you can’t work that hard on something that closely with people and not care about them.

My dream career-wise had changed now. Although I never say never, I don’t envision myself returning to a newsroom anytime soon. I’m not certain that I will retire with the CSD, either, but I’m in no hurry to leave there. I think I’m doing a good job and believe I am making a positive impact on the lives of those who work with and attend our district. And I know they’re making a positive impact on mine.

Oddly enough, when I was news editor of the DC, I was often asked to speak to students about the newspaper business. Almost every time during the question and answer portion, some student would always ask – what would you be if you couldn’t work in the newspaper business? I’d always laugh and utter something about never thinking I wouldn’t be a journalist and then I’d always pause (not for dramatics but to honestly think about my answer) and state I would be a history teacher. Although my answer was always that – even though I wanted to be witty and say a ballerina or something ridiculous like that – and it would almost surprise me every time I said it. Looking back now, I wonder if maybe God wasn’t somewhat asking my heart to stretch a little and consider another possibility for my life.

There are other possibilities He is working on within me. Some are what I call “Oprah-sized” dreams – the kinds I would have to have an Oprah-sized bank account to see happen. And others are small dreams that I see coming true on a daily basis as special people have begun to come into my life.

Erwin McManus also stated, on the video we watched at church Wednesday night, that “you can miss those moments in life never knowing what you missed or you can seize those moments.”

I’ve missed enough moments in my life, it seems, so I’m picking the latter choice.

I don’t have a clue what my future is exactly, but I’ve always known who holds my future. And I’m content with that. Just as I am content to continue to dare to dream.

Simply stated

2009-06-09T18:48:00.001-05:00

Simple.

That’s pretty much me. I don’t mean simple minded, now. I don’t know anything about quantum physics, can’t tell you much about what the old philosophers thought back in the day and can’t even balance my checkbook to save my life, but none of those things are really that important to me.

Even though those who know and love me best sometimes declare that I am very high-maintenance, I don’t think I am at all.

I’m basically … well, simple.

I prefer my cheeseburgers plain although I will sometimes add the pickles, mustard and onion to the meal. I could be content with a whole wardrobe of khaki pants, denim slacks and red, pink or Carolina blue solid colored shirts. I sometimes wear shirts with stuff printed on it, but I truthfully don’t feel comfortable in them.

My shoes aren’t Prada by any means. I may have a few name brands in my closet at home, but that’s only cause Shoe Carnival deeply discounted ‘em. I go more for comfort than designer name.

There’s no polish on my fingernails when I allow them to grow. I’m picky about my hair even if I just really wash it on a daily basis and allow the blow dryer to determine which measure of messy it looks. I wouldn’t get a frequent pedicure even if someone paid for it. I hate for anyone to touch my feet much less look at them.

I’m simple.

I don’t own a diamond. Much of the jewelry I have carries more sentimental value than monetary value. The necklace I never remove was a gift from my best friend shortly after I came to know her. I sometimes wear the ring I bought my mother the first Christmas I had my first job. She returned it to me the last Sunday of her life, uttering how she had always been proud of me and how much she loved me shortly before slipping into a coma from which she never returned.

I have simple dreams, hopes and desires. Some of them – like the fire engine red Mustang GTO, the 70-300mm Canon zoom lens or Tag Heuer watch – could be a little more easily obtained than others. Although I attempt to keep my life simple and worry-free, I sometimes have to think during the loneliest moments that there really has to be more to life than this and believe that eventually my shot at happiness and complete contentment will come my way.

Simple goals, yeah, but honorable ones.

I didn’t become simple on my own, really. My parents had a simple belief system that if you worked hard and remained honest that you would be respected. They also thought that a good name was more important than vast riches and instilled that in me as a child. They believed every person had good within them, that it was up to us to find it sometimes. They truly judged people by the content of their character and not the color of their skin and sought friends from literally all walks of life. True friendship was measured by them not in what people could provide for them but how people could make their lives more enjoyable and, in some instances, simpler.

Growing up, my parents simply insisted that I attend church and went with me. They didn’t indoctrinate me with lots of religion, but wanted to make sure that, instead, I was filled with lots of God. They truly believed the Word and lived the Micah 6:8 principle of life by doing justly, loving kindness and walking humbly with God. Not ignoring the New Testament, my parents loved God with all their heart, soul and mind and truly loved their neighbor as themselves.

I simply want to carry out that legacy above anything else.

For years, I found myself trying to be the complex person I thought the world wanted me to be. And I attempted to do various things to get God’s attention in an effort to become one of His favorites.

Often, I’d find myself frustrated with my attempts. And I felt my simpleness made me so unworthy of His love.

Several years ago, I began to become a bit more comfortable in my own skin. It was at a weekend women’s retreat when I finally figured out that God could – no, DID – love someone as simple as me. And that I truly am one of his favorites, as simple as I am.

I was no longer ashamed to be simple or to possess little when measured against the wealth of this world. Because of my simple faith in Him, that no longer mattered.

Nope, I haven’t “arrived” yet, though. I still struggle with acceptance and worth. I’m still attempting to surround myself with others who can accept someone who is simple – who maybe are even simple themselves.

Simply stated, I am who I am and what I am because of Who created me. Like it or not, simple enough.

Making the best one ever

2009-06-07T18:55:00.004-05:00

“I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cause you make the best ones ever.”

That was the response from a friend’s six-year-old son when she asked him what he wanted for lunch.

Nevermind that he had just declared to her that he was never,ever leaving home, even after he gets married. In his six-year-old mind, marriage meant just moving his new wife in with his mama.

I asked my friend how she could ever feel too down on herself when she had him around with such compliments. She never really commented, but she didn’t really have to say anything. It was one of those times when the smile on her face literally said it all.

Driving home from that conversation in the church parking lot today, I couldn’t help but think about how much different – and better – our world would be if we adopted that six-year-old’s attitude and were so open with our feelings or compliments about folks. Rather than solving issues by killing each other with a .9 mm, why can’t we simply sidestep the negatives by pointing out the positives about those living in the world around us.

I’m just as guilty. I judge someone harshly by a negative remark they make about me or a short or terse reply they give rather than attempting to figure out what it was that made their day so bad in the first place. Probably 99 percent of the time it wasn’t what I said that set them off yet I happen to have the shrapnel fired toward me anyway.Or I cut people down with a slight, sarcastic remark because I'm too afraid to build them up with a kinder word.

I think it’s truly all about thinking before you speak and weighing your words wisely – two life lessons various people have probably been attempting to instill within us since we were in elementary school or before.

How much nicer would this world be if we adopted the “you make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ever” attitude? If rather than cutting someone to the heart, we opted to pat them on the back. Or if we couldn’t think of anything positive to say to someone we simply chose to, as wiser people than me have often urged, say nothing at all.

Words are often sharp and cutting. But words can also be calming and soothing, literally the best medicine someone can take. Or give.

I don’t make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever, but I’d like to think there is something I can do for someone that makes them believe it’s the best ever. My earnest prayer is that I live my life trying to achieve that on a daily basis. That I learn to make the proverbial best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever for at least one person in this world.

Call me Pollyanna, I don’t care. It may not lead to world peace, but it certainly won't hurt to be kinder and gentler.

Marbled beauty

2009-06-07T15:14:00.003-05:00

“Mississippi had no art except in cemeteries. I like the tombstones showing children asleep in seashells. I love this sleeping child who is cracked from top to bottom. A broken chain and a hand removing one link – I like this kind of rope, a rope of years. And two joined hands, those are of parting, at least that’s how I interpret it. There were lots of baskets that spilled out their flowers. Look at the lambs and their kinky curls. I like this one, the willow tree that snapped off in two. I love the family beneath the willow tree. They’re grieving for their lost father and husband. Poor little things, they’re just knee high. All these little bitty things, weeping at her knee. On the gate at the Port Gibson cemetery the figures are in grief. They’re weeping for all the sadness within. People planted Easter lilies around their relatives. I suppose the choice of plantings was entirely up to the individual. A lot of hardy flowers that could withstand the freezes, and plenty of blubs in the springtime. These look like little roses.” -- Eudora Welty, Country Churchyards

Although I’d hardly say I write a miniscule amount as well as Eudora Welty, I was thrilled to find a book in our local library containing cemetery photos taken by Miss Welty herself. I admire her work greatly and it’s awesome that she and I had something in common other than writing.

My fascination with cemeteries began when I was a small child. I loved Granny Hughes, my mother’s mother, dearly and spent as much time with her as I possibly could short of moving into her house on Franklin Street.

Papaw Hughes died suddenly of a heart attack when I was barely five years old. Although I adored him, my grandmother was devastated at his death. Often when I would go to her house to visit her, she would often want to trek to Henry Cemetery to visit Papaw. I didn’t quite understand the visits, but I would attempt to make the best of the time we spent there. I would often walk around and read the grave markers in the vicinity of Papaw’s grave. Sometimes I would practice my math skills by figuring out how long the people buried nearby had lived before they died. When my neighbor died, I would sometimes sit on his stone and tell him what his widow had done since my last visit to the cemetery. I wasn’t certain if he could hear me, but I thought it was important for me to keep him informed about her.

As a child, I understood the significance of a cemetery, but I never really saw the beauty of it. It was probably my junior year of college at Mississippi University for Women when I discovered the beauty that often lies within the gates of cemeteries. I was encouraged to go to Friendship Cemetery in Columbus to obtain some magnolia leaves for a project I had undertaken. While there, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery grounds were. There were various forms of statuary and each one was quite unique. But it was one marker in particular that got my attention quickly. Sitting at the grave of a minister, the marker is a beautiful marble angel. There is no doubt when you see this angel that you can tell she is very grieved because it looks as if she is weeping.

It was the memory of that grave marker that led me to encourage my best friend, Mandi, to accompany me to the cemetery again to take photos one homecoming weekend at The W. We went for a few hours that Saturday evening and had such a wonderful time taking photos of the various markers that we decided to return the next day. We spent about six hours there.

We didn’t locate the weeping angel marker until the second day we visited Friendship Cemetery. But seeing her again was well worth the length of time it took to find her. The sky could not have been any bluer for the photographs even if we had polarizers on our lenses.

Because of this cemetery, we now spend lots of time haunting various other graveyards in North Mississippi. On a recent trip to the District of Columbia, I spent several evenings researching what cemetery in the area would be a good one to visit. We ended up choosing Congressional Cemetery and spent five hours scouring the grounds there seeking unusual markers as well as the final resting places for various famous Americans. I truly wish I had done a little more research as I found one of the people involved in the conspiracy to kidnap, and later kill, President Abraham Lincoln was buried there. It would have been a challenge to find his grave, as he has no marker, but it is supposedly near his sister’s grave.

Now Mandi and I spend spare time travelling backroads of various areas of North Mississippi in search of unusual cemeteries. Sometimes we have a destination in mind. Other times, we just pick an area and drive until we find a cemetery. One thing I have noticed. You may drive for miles down a rural county road with nothing but scrub trees and weeds along the right of way. But when we finally locate the cemetery, it’s always amazing to me how immaculate the grounds are.

Growing up, my mama always told me that there were two things belonging to people that you never “messed with” – their money and their dead. Viewing the beauty of some of the country cemeteries in this area, I truly know she was right on target with the latter part of her assessment.

Although we will continue to happen upon some of the old country cemeteries in this area, we have some actual trips planned to some larger ones in nearby areas. We want to tour a large cemetery in Memphis and another one in Huntsville, AL. We also plan a trip to Natchez this fall and have already begun planning which ones we will haunt on that trip. I guarantee a side trip to Port Gibson will be on the itinerary.

Some folks may think my cemetery photography hobby is a bit morbid. But I don’t consider it that at all. I find that there is beauty all around us – even in cemeteries – if we simply take the time to look for it.

Slight identity crisis

2009-05-03T21:48:00.002-05:00

6 6 2 2 8 6 5 2 7 1

Nope, that’s not part of my Social Security number. But those 10 numbers identify me more than the other nine ever could. Mostly because seven of the numbers have been a part of my life, well, most of my life.

When I was three years old, we moved to Corinth and 5271 became our phone number. Several years later, the phone company added the 6 to the number and before I was in high school, the 2 and 8 were added as well.

Throughout my life, I gave that number out quite often. In fact, I repeated that number so often that I honestly didn’t think too much about it when I stated it. Several years ago, I gave in and went wireless.

Four phones later, I’m still not totally comfortable with the number I was assigned. It still seems foreign every time I give it out as mine and I always second-guess myself and worry I transposed some of the digits when repeating it to others.

Like it or not, though, I now have to get used to my cell phone number since my home phone is no longer working. I’d been saying for months that I should disconnect my home phone number since I didn’t use it that often. But, for many sentimental reasons, I couldn’t bring myself to actually call and tell AT&T to turn it off.

Finally doing the math, though I realized that a little over $400 a year was a fairly high price to pay for sentimentality. So the person who rages against change called up and made a pretty major change in her life.

As silly as it sounds, I really wanted to cry after I made that call. In time I will appreciate the extra funds in my bank account, but right now I feel a little raw about it.

Most likely, that sentimental feeling about something that’s seemingly trivial as a telephone number probably is enhanced by the time of year I chose to disconnect my service. Having telephone service was very important to my mother. She called herself a “homebody” and I honestly think she enjoyed that role. Besides going to church each Sunday and Wednesday night, going grocery shopping from time to time and random visits to Wal-Mart, Mama rarely left the house. Her telephone was her link to those she cared most about. She was most comfortable sitting at her kitchen table and talking with friends and family members for hours. It would sometimes frustrate me when I needed to make a telephone call and she was in the throes of one of her many conversations. But I grew to accept that the communication link was way too important to her for me to attempt to interfere with.

And I still miss seeing her sitting at the table, laughing with one of her friends or family members on the other end of the line.

Last week, though, common sense overcame sentimentality. I finally remembered to unplug my answering machine a couple of days later. Maybe, in time, I will quit listening for that familiar ring.

Like it or not, things change

2009-03-05T21:02:00.005-06:00

“The only thing constant in life is change.”

At least that’s what French classical author Françoisde la Rochefoucauld first stated and many of us have come to believe. That statement came to mind a few nights ago as I was having dinner with my best friend and she was talking about future plans and possibilities.

Although I’m trying not to be so resistant to change,I’m not a big fan of it. I’m the type personality that likes to know things - and people - will be consistent. Yet the older I get, the more I realizethat people change just as things do. Often they change more than things do. I’m not really stuck in a routine, per se, but I do seem to be a bit more comfortable with the way things in my life are going lately.

Life is pretty good for me despite some of the crazy twists it has taken recently. And though I’m still hoping 2009 will be ahappier year personally, I do realize there could be events during the coming days that will possibly rock my world just as some seemed to do in 2008. Hopefully I’m better prepared for them now, though. And better prepared for change as well.

I’m also looking forward to the possibilities 2009 will bring. A bit of personal growth and maturity could be on tap as well, something I won’t be quite as resistant to as change. Although I’ve seen lots of growth within this year, I certainly know I haven’tarrived yet.

Probably the thing that concerns me most about changes in the future deal s with those nearest and dearest tome. I don’t relish the thought of time, distance or other means potentially separating us. I try not to fear it, since I honestly can’t control it. But I still don’t like the prospects.

I guess that’s where faith comes to play in relationships. And possibly another de la Rochefoucauld quote does, too: “It’s more shameful to mistrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them.”

Maybe I need a bit more confidence in myself in order to have even more trust in those around me.

(I wrote this several years ago in my other life. It's still as pertinent and relevant today. I was thinking about it earlier this afternoon and decided to reuse it. Hope you glean some nuggets from it!)

Taking my medicine

2009-03-01T18:17:00.003-06:00

I cried the other night and, well, it stunned me.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against crying. It’s just that I hadn’t cried in so long I was afraid something was wrong – emotionally, of course – with my tear ducts. And my heart. I was a little concerned that I was becoming hardened to situations around me.

In all honesty, my heart that had once been pliable and tender seemed a bit toughened. And it worried me since I’d always considered that one of my best qualities.

It’s impossible for me to reveal where the tears originated or what spawned them. I do not know exactly. I have some ideas, but to credit one occurrence with the deluge of tears is not something I can do. It was really a mixture of numerous things including emotional exhaustion.

The tears scared me at first. Not that they were falling, mind you, but the fact that I was not just softly crying. I was wailing. Sometimes wailing to a point that I couldn’t get my breath. I cried so hard at one time that my head pounded as if my heart was beating there.

And maybe it was to get my attention.

The tears lasted for 30 minutes or so before subsiding to slow, hot trickles down my cheeks. I was somewhat dazed and confused after the incident, but felt as if I’d been walking on the treadmill at cardiac rehab for numerous hours. I was empty yet I, surprisingly, felt full.

I felt refreshed and revived. I didn’t have any more answers to some of the questions that I had prior to the outburst, but I had something more important than that. I had hope which is something I hadn’t felt in several months either. And it was a very cathartic experience. That’s a big word for a not-so-pretty event. To put it nicely, it was a cleansing experience for me.

Still thinking about the event today, though, I began looking for references in the Bible for tears. Using an Internet search engine (because I’m told “Googling” isn’t a verb), I found, instead, another blog that helped make a little more sense of my experience. In “Radical Living in a Comfortable World,” blogger Seth Barnes quoted a report by Mary Beth Swan:

The Bible (Strong’s Concordance) provides 697 references for verses associated with crying (weep, cry, tears).

One of the first Bible references for tears is in the book of Genesis when Abraham wept over the death of Sarah. Hannah wept before the Lord in her barren state. Esau wept over his father Isaac, asking for a blessing. King David writes prolifically in the Psalms of his tears before the Lord, even saying they were his portion day and night.

The Bible provides accounts of tears of grief (as above, also David weeping over the death of Absolom, Jairus’s daughter and the death of Jesus Christ). Others wept tears of repentance and sin-sorrow (Israel as they stood to hear the scriptures read and were broken over not following the Lord their God and His law, David as Nathan confronts him, Ninevah when Jonah finally goes there to pronounce God’s judgment, Peter after the rooster crowed for the third time). Jeremiah was called the Weeping Prophet, authoring the book of Jeremiah and the Lamentations of Jeremiah. Jeremiah wept for the pride of Judah. Israel cried to God in affliction. Professional mourners attended the deaths in New Testament times. Jairus’s daughter’s death may have been one instance of this. The commentaries vary.

God is called “Comforter” (Jeremiah, for example) and the God of all comfort. God’s law and His love are described as comfort-givers. The body of believers is called to comfort, also. II Corinthians 1:3-5. “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our tribulation that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. For the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds by Christ.”

Now that it seems I’ve had a breakthrough of sorts, I’m ready once again to be a comfort to those around me again. Maybe the tears were also a rejuvenation of sorts for me to gain strength to return to the tasks at hand. Tears are like medicine and wash the weary heart and soul.

I’m now claiming Luke 6:21 where Jesus says, “Blessed are ye that weep now; for ye shall laugh.” i’m ready for 45 minutes of rib hurting laughter. I’m certain that will be medicinal as well.

Snowfall in the Crossroads area ...

2009-03-01T09:34:00.005-06:00

Or at least on my street there. Just wanted to share a little of God's handiwork!

Listening for the Voice

2009-02-22T17:32:00.005-06:00

My friend Melissa and I communicate quite often, technically.

Or really that “technically” should be technologically.

Rarely a week goes by lately that we don’t text one another via cell phone at least a half dozen or more times. And we’ve been fairly consistent about sending emails since we first became friends during my Walk to Emmaus almost two years ago.

But, until last Friday, we haven’t actually talked since we left Tombigbee State Park that warm Sunday afternoon in June 2007. That’s why I wasn’t really offended when she didn’t recognize my voice at first when I called her up. I mean, it HAD been almost two years since she had heard it and I really didn’t give her a clue to my identity with my warm and emotionally moving conversation of “Hey! What are you doin’?”

When Melissa did figure out who she was talking to, the seemingly sound of joy in her voice made me feel really good and glad that I had taken a quick moment to call to tell her something I felt she needed to hear at the time. Although I enjoy the messages we share from time to time, no method of communication can really replace hearing the voice of someone whom you know cares a lot about you. And there are times when you really just need to hear the voice of someone you know who loves you for one reason or another.

That brief conversation reminded me of one I had experienced about 16 or so years ago. I don’t talk about that conversation very often because it’s basically hard for me to verbalize exactly what happened. And I’ve tried on numerous occasions to write about it, too, but finding the exact words for it has been difficult. Even for someone who once made a living by stringing together words to make stories to inform or entertain.

This conversation happened in another friend’s kitchen. It was a spring afternoon; a rare Saturday I had off from work with no out-of-town plans. I’d eaten lunch with this friend and we were going to bake cookies and a few other desserts for a reception at church the next day.

While looking at the recipes, my friend realized she was missing some ingredients so she went to the store and left me at her house to wash up the lunch dishes.

Sylvia’s kitchen sink sits below a window that allows you to overlook her oak tree-shaded back yard. I was standing there washing dishes and gazing across the yard, watching a slight breeze move the daffodils and thinking about how beautiful the world was at that time. That’s when I heard a voice say, “Your mother is going to die, but I am in control.”

For a brief moment of time, it seemed that the world stopped turning on its axis. And I seemed to stop breathing for a few minutes as well.

See, I was the only person in the house – or so I thought – and I hadn’t spoken. And I knew I didn’t make up what was said because I literally heard it with my ears. It wasn’t a thought or something that came from within me. It was someone who spoke those words directly to me.

And I recognized the voice immediately although I’d never heard it with my physical ears before. I’d heard it numerous times within my heart and soul, where you normally hear the voice of God speak. But this was the first time I’d ever actually HEARD Him. Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t afraid nor was I confused. God had spoken and I knew it was Him. There was no doubt that it was God.

I’ve thought about it hundreds of times since and have tried to figure out exactly how to describe what the voice of God sounded like. It wasn’t similar to the roaring of the sea or the howling of stormy winds as others who have heard Him speak have described it. There was no obvious accent or dialect in the few words He said. It wasn’t a booming statement He delivered; instead it was a calm, almost reassuring one. Basically, I guess the best way to describe the voice was that it was simply God’s voice.

When I finally caught my breath and the world seemed to start revolving again, my first reaction was to laugh although the words He had spoken weren’t funny. It wasn’t the laughter of nervous reactions or hilarity that I used, though. It was a somewhat spiritual laugh of unbelief. That what the God of the universe had chosen to speak to me on that warm spring day was so utterly ridiculous to me that I had to laugh about it. Why? Because my mother wasn’t even sick. So how could she be about to die?

Sylvia finally returned home and I calmly told her about the experience. A Christian herself, she asked what my response to it was and I said, “I don’t really know if it’s true, but let’s just wait and see what happens.”

Several months later, my mother began complaining of some pain in her neck. A doctor ordered an MRI for her and she had the test done. My sister, my nephew and I were able to find out the results of my mother’s MRI before she did. It was not a ruptured disc as Mama had thought it might be but it was, instead, a diagnosis none of us really expected: cancer.

Since we didn’t feel it was our place to tell Mama about the results, we opted to wait until the weekend was over and she returned to the doctor to have him tell her. That was the most difficult weekend I think I’ve ever had. I mean, Mama was the person in my family who I went to when I had troubles or trials to discuss but this was one time when I couldn’t do that. And I was miserable.

Late that Saturday night as I lay in my bed with hot, silent tears sliding slowly down my face, I felt more alone than I have ever felt. I began praying and asking God – no, begging Him – to help me. All of the sudden, a warmth came over my body and I felt as if someone had just picked me up and placed me in my lap. And a peace that can only be compared to the one Paul wrote about in Philippians 4, that peace that “passeth all understanding,” came over me.

I won’t say the next six months were easy. I have described it many times as a never-ending roller coaster ride. For you see, I didn’t understand why my mother had to be diagnosed with cancer. Why someone I loved had to suffer such a cruel and debilitating illness. But every time life seemed to get the worst for my family, that peace would wash over me again.

It was that same peace that I held onto during Mama’s last moments on Earth. It was that same peace that helped me hold it together as I stood by Mama’s bed side with her thin hand grasping mine as she told me that she knew where she was going and how proud she was of the woman I was becoming. It was that same peace that helped me recall weeks after her death the last words she spoke as she looked up at me and said, “I have always loved you.” It was that peace that helped me get through Mama’s death at 11:41 p.m. December 15, 1992, and that same peace kicked in throughout the visitation and funeral a few days later.

I was strong because I knew who was in control despite the fact that it seemed life as I knew it was suddenly out of control.

And it’s that same peace that comforts me on those random days almost 17 years later when I miss Mama more than I sometimes think I can bear it and more than I can attempt to verbalize.

Although I haven’t heard God’s voice with my physical ears since that spring day in 1992, I still remember how it sounded. I continually hear Him speak to me on a daily basis, and I’m trying to learn to discern His will and become more obedient to what it is that He will have me do.

Yep, 17 years later, I still believe in the One who guides my life and still trust that peace that passeth all understanding. I still don’t understand it or even fully comprehend it, but I’m holding onto it day by day by day.

Trying to get off the island

2009-01-28T18:48:00.002-06:00

“No man is an island, no man stands alone
Each man’s joy is joy to me; each man’s grief my own
We need one another, so I will defend.
Each man as my brother, each man as my friend.”

As a freshman in high school, I learned that no man is an island. Literally. As an assignment for English, we had to find a quote that we would apply to our lives and memorize it.

Ironically enough, I had lived most of my life as an island. Believe it or not, I was a loner. And I enjoyed it.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a few good friends. Some of them I even opted to stay overnight at their homes. There was Michelle whose mama would always fix us scrambled eggs and brains for breakfast. That was a good meal for two girls who had stayed up in the wee hours of the morning swooning over Donny Osmond and singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” over and over. There
was also my friend, Lisa. She was also distantly related to me so visiting her house was being with family which was a plus. Although she was my closest friend growing up, Lisa also had a big material plus for me. Her family owned an entire set of World Book encyclopedias and current
Childcraft books to go along with them. We would spend hours learning about exotic destinations we wanted to visit, people from history we had never heard of or explanations of words we were also learning how to pronounce. I can’t recall every actually making anything from any of the
Childcraft books, but the possibilities were limitless and oh, so exciting to me.

Although I don’t really think they did it intentionally, my parents were the root cause of my almost hermit-like life. As best they could and with the limited resources we had, Mama and Daddy made our home a castle. I had my own TV in my room from almost birth, hooked up with what we considered cable at that time (which was probably 13 or so channels). I always had
some sort of snacks available – Hostess cakes and Moon pies were constants – which I blame for my problems with blood sugar as an adult. Mama loved to play board games and cards with me. I was probably one of the only kids at East Corinth Elementary School who could play a mean game of canasta.

Almost every Friday afternoon after school, Mama would take me to the Corinth Library and allow me to bring home every book I could carry. With her, no subject was taboo. I would often read all day long on Saturday and after both Sunday church services as well as when homework was done during the week.

Although they would allow me to stay at Michelle’s house or Lisa’s house overnight, they really preferred when I would opt to spend most of my time at home in my room. They really didn’t mind me having friends over, either, but would like it better if I would choose to spend the weekends with them. We weren’t a mushy family who said “I love you” very often, but
I honestly grew up knowing they cared very much for me and were concerned about my whereabouts. I guess it was their way of keeping a slight control on what entered – or didn’t enter – my environment.

There are times in my life now when I could still become a hermit. Given the fact that those I feel closest to (and care most about) and I are somewhat geographically challenged, it often makes spending quality time on the Internet and cell phone my reality. I know that I need personal contact from time to time and try to make sure I get it. But it’s still difficult.

I guess that’s why the sermon during Sunday Night Live at my church this week spoke so much to me. Dr. Andrew J. Willis from Houston, Texas, talked about the power of U2. Not the rock band, mind you, but U-squared! (I didn’t take time to search through my keystrokes to find the shortcut for that mathematical item!). Here are the highlights I wrote down from his sermon – some things, I thought, went hand-in-hand with the last blog item I had posted. Ironically I’d written it that very afternoon.

· Some add to and take away. Others come into your life and multiply their positive affects on your life.

· As a believer, you need a Paul pouring into your life and a Timothy into which you are pouring. (I’m almost certain who my Timothy is. I’m just a bit hazy on the Paul. I have an idea; I’m just waiting to see if they figure it out!).

· You are called to be the salt of the Earth, to sprinkle all you touch. If you’re too full of the thing you’re supposed to be releasing, it’s backfiring on you.

· You were made to be connected to the God who created you and you will never be complete until you make that connection. (I made the connection a long time ago and keep attempting to make it stronger and stronger).

· It’s not nearly as transformative to connect with people who understand you as it is with people who challenge you. Nothing will work like being accessible to your peers. Anyone can understand you, but not anyone can withstand you. (I have recently reconnected with a few folks who I truly believe, in time, are going to challenge me for the good. Not to mention the folks who have been around and are going to step up into this role eventually I just hope they can stand it – and withstand me!!)

· Accountability doesn’t work vertically. It only works horizontally. You have to find someone you can be honest with because if you’re not, you’re not honest with yourself. But don’t be transparent with everybody. You have to find someone you can be honest with without fear of being judged. Find someone who will demand accountability from you and demand you keep your integrity. (My best friend, Mandi, does a great job of keeping me accountable. But it’s a huge task and she probably needs some help from time to time. I can think of a couple of other people in my life who I think will someday soon fill that role as well. A couple of them, I have no doubt, won’t harshly judge me either. I do have the problem, though, of being way too transparent! I’m trying to learn that even though there are folks in my life who need to know I care about them, not everyone needs to know my personal business. And if I keep freely giving away so much of my heart, I’m not gonna have much left).

· Resistance is what makes you stronger. Don’t keep praying hell out of your life – stand up and take it! (This one kind of scares me. Having a little hell in my life scares me. But I do need to learn to be stronger and not back down or give into pressure so easily. Seven of Nine on Star Trek Voyager – yep, I’m a slight geek at times – said resistance was futile. I guess it’s all in what you’re resisting, though!).

· Who do you answer to? Accountability is the good kind of resistance that makes you stronger. (Being more accountable for my words and actions are two things I intend to work on for now. Those folks who are supposed to step up can start working any time!).

Listen to me

2009-01-25T15:51:00.001-06:00

It took me years to find my voice. Literally.

Growing up, my parents used to tell me stories about how they were concerned about my development because I never talked. According to them, I didn’t say much if anything at all. I didn’t do the usual cooing or chattering that only babies can understand. And I didn’t utter the early words of “mama,” “daddy,” “uh-oh” and the like.

After awhile, my parents became more worried about me and had decided that I had some developmental problem. They guessed it stemmed from the fact that I was a premature baby. So they decided to make an appointment to take me to a specialist.

A few nights before taking me to the doctor, my daddy came home telling some sort of community gossip he had picked up outside his office at school that day. After repeating it, he cautioned my mother and older sister not to repeat it. Jokingly, he pointed his finger at me - while I was contentedly sitting in my high chair – and said, “You don’t repeat it either” to which I quickly replied, “Me t’aint talk!”

From then on my communications skills improved greatly. But even though I had seemingly found my ability to talk, it took me many years to learn the skill to share the words (feelings) I had tucked deep within the folds of my heart. Actually, sometimes I wonder if I ever learned that skill since I struggle with it so much. I often could find the words from my heart in my mind, but when I would try to speak them, my voice couldn’t – or maybe wouldn’t – work. So I learned to use the written word to try to explain myself. Many people accepted this; others railed against it and would often scream at me to just talk to them.

Little did they know, I felt I really couldn’t do it. Hearing the words with my voice seemed to strip the feelings away. And I never truly felt I was saying what my heart really felt in a way they could understand. Even now I’m having a difficult time putting those feelings into writing.

I was 18 years old before I finally grasped the concept that I mattered to someone outside my immediate family – that I had value and importance, significance. To this person, my existence on this planet at that moment in time was of utmost importance.

Over the years, I have learned that you have lifetime friendships and you have seasonal friendships. Unfortunately for me, I’m afraid, the most significant friendship in my young life ended up being the latter type. After time, it seemed, life took us on two different paths and we went our separate ways. My distance – both emotional and geographic for a time - didn’t mean that I cared any less for her, but my lack of communication led her to believe differently.

Sadly, I still know that person today. Although I’ve tried hard to make amends and include her in my life today, she has pretty much made it clear that I no longer have a place in her life – pretty much that she could care less now whether or not I exist. That’s a difficult thing to accept when you don’t feel the same

But I still remember that for that person, for that time in my life, I was important. Ironically, that still makes a difference today.

For the past few years, I have been diligently seeking God’s divine destiny for my life. Some may not totally understand that, wondering why I’ve been seeking God’s perfect plan for my life for years and still haven’t figured it out. First of all, I believe God has been revealing it to me in tiny glimpses – almost like jigsaw puzzle pieces. In an effort to put together the jigsaw puzzle called my life, I’ve not been able to look at the box top to see the big picture. Instead, it’s as if God allows me to put together a portion of it before that proverbial “a-ha” moment comes.

Unlike a traditional jigsaw puzzle where you have one completed product, it seems my big picture keeps changing with time. It’s not that God is trying to keep me confused by my destiny. Instead, He seems to be increasing the breadth of my big picture as the depth of my obedience to Him increases.

Recently, God has been dealing with me about being bolder with communication. Quite frankly, God has been revealing to me a list of people who I need to share some very personal information with.

That’s a difficult task for most of us. We can talk about politics, the weather and what happened on “As the World Turns,” for hours. But when it comes to matters of the heart, well, we act as if it doesn’t matter or we act as if we are afraid to face it.

It’s a risky thing to reveal to folks how we really feel. It’s almost like going to war with a Red Rider BB gun. You’re not protected after opening your heart up to others, but it’s a difficult and sometimes necessary act.

While mulling over this revelation recently, I realized that there probably are people who were like me at 18 – who desperately need to know they matter, that they have significance to someone else. And that really makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. As much as I would like to feel like someone needs me, though, I also realize that I just need to reconfirm within my own self how much I truly need many of the folks who I have to open my heart up to in time.

I know it’s a task I need to get to work on and an effort I need to complete. Even as I write this, I’m not totally certain who I need to talk to about their roles in my life. I have a few names in mind, but I don’t have a complete list. I’m hoping those who I approach will be patient and understanding with me and realize that I am truly on a mission. Likewise, I hope those I don’t approach already know their importance in my life and don’t need to be told.

Once my mission is complete, if it ever is, I may get to finally see the big picture. Or I may simply move into another mission. I don’t know which direction it will lead. I just know I intend to follow.

And the person I feel who doesn’t care if I exist or not? I pray for her on a daily basis. It’s the only way, for now, that I know to keep her active in my life. All these years later, she is still important to me. She remains significant.

Even if she won’t listen to me tell her.

Taking that second chance

2009-01-22T17:51:00.005-06:00

Life is funny. I don’t mean funny - ha ha - but more funny as in bizarre at times.

Even with the most routine lives, you don’t sometimes know what twists and turns you will be offered from time to time. Or second chances.

Throughout my relatively short life thus far, I have had some times that I would considered very successful. And, like Ol’ Blue Eyes crooned, I’ve had a few regrets, too. Most of my regrets seem
to fall into two categories: things I failed to do or simply just missed out on and people I failed to get to know.

Sue falls into that latter category. We met on the campus of Mississippi University for Women. I was a junior transfer student, she was a sophomore I met at one of those early social club rush parties that I attended for the sole purpose of getting the chance to meet a good portion
of the MUW enrollment. Of course, I ended up pledging a social club but I guess that’s a story for another blog. Or not.

Anyway, I liked Sue instantly. She had this warmth and depth to her that you rarely found in college coeds. She simply oozed of self-confidence, too. Something I desperately was seeking at that time in my life. Despite the fact that Sue had most all the qualities I was seeking for my new circle of friends at my new university, I never allowed Sue into the circle.

In retrospect, I’m not certain that she tried that hard to get in, but I’m not equally certain I tried too hard to let her in either. So I spent two years at The W, graduated with big dreams to make a huge mark on the world of journalism and life, well, proverbially went on.

From time to time I often find myself reminiscing about those two years I spent at The W. Although I still keep in contact with a handful of folks I met there, and I’m grateful for their constant and supportive friendship, I sometimes find myself wondering what happened to several of the people I
genuinely believed would be lifelong friends, too. On several occasions I have tried to get in contact with some of them. Many I’ve located and have attempted to get them more active in my life today; others I think are just content to not have me in their lives now. And I’m learning to deal with both scenarios. Even believing that, though, doesn’t keep me from the desire to simply reconnect with some of those special folks from that very significant time of my life and have them become a significant part of my little corner of the world today.

Recently, I’ve reconnected with two people thanks to the magic of the “social utility that connects people with friends and others who work, study and live around them.”

One of these people now lives in North Georgia. Hilary entered The W shortly after I had graduated from there and became a member of my social club, the Dixie Belles. I’d be lying if I said I totally remembered her when I first received her friend request on Facebook. There had been a lot of that proverbial water travel under that proverbial bridge and, well, my memory sometime isn’t what it used to be. I knew I was supposed to know her, really I did. I was just having a bit of trouble placing her. After a couple of messages between me and my little sister, Dawn, I totally remembered Hilary and was even more glad she had contacted me.

For the past few weeks we have been able to catch up on our lives now and get to know one another even better. It truly feels like a blessing to be given this opportunity and it’s one I am truly thankful for receiving.

The other person I’ve reconnected with during the last few weeks? You guessed it, Sue. A couple of days ago, I was checking my Facebook account and noticed I had a new friend request. Clicking on that link, I was ecstatic to see it was from Sue. For an entire day, I attempted to find the time and the words to send her an email and let her know how much reconnecting with her means to me.

Later that afternoon, I got the opportunity to just tell her in person. Well, as much “in person” as you can be using the chat module on Facebook (yet another thing that makes reconnecting with folks via the Internet a unique and special thing). The more I began trying to tell her what was in my heart, the more I seemed to stumble over my words. Eventually, though, I was able to share with her some things that I’d waited more than several decades to let her know.

And I have to believe some of what I said meant as much to her to hear as it did to me to be able to let her know.

I’ve been given a special gift via what some folks consider an unorthodoxed manner – a second chance to get to know someone. This time I don’t intend to blow the opportunity.

God the healer, God the provider, God the magician

2008-10-11T08:47:00.003-05:00

Those who know me well know that I am a very sentimental person. Growing up, I would treasure any item someone gave me – even from the most minute one – as if it were gold. Since childhood, I have collected what my mama always termed “dust collectors.” They are small items – such as ceramic figurines or tiny trinkets. I kept most of my collection on three small wooden shelves in my hallway.

From time to time I would move them to dust or move the items around, grouping them in a way that made sense to me. Included in my collection were very sentimental things like a statue of a Japanese fisherman, the last birthday present my godfather had given me as a teenager; a patchwork duck from Amsterdam that my friend, Helen, had sent from a trip there; a ceramic baby cardinal that I had bought for my mama the first Christmas I had a “real” job; and a ceramic statue of a girl dancing in a long white skirt, the only item that I have, other than three or four letters, that Papaw Hughes had given me.

Also on the shelves was a collection of shot glasses from various Planet Hollywood and Hard Rock Café restaurants I have visited throughout the years and other knickknacks that most folks would consider worthless, but I treasured.

Folks familiar with my home had learned to walk around the shelves. From time to time someone would bump into it or knock an item off onto the floor with little damage resulting from the accident. Needing some sprucing up, I’d hired a guy I attend church with to do some minor repairs and improvements to my home. He started Monday and although I moved a few things around for him, I pretty much left things that weren’t in the rooms he was working in the way they are.

Wednesday night I got home from work and noticed the shelves were no longer hanging on my hallway wall. That concerned me a little, especially when I began looking for the items that sat on the shelves. Finally I located a small box with items in it. Emptying the box, I began to realize that many of my most treasured items were missing. Investigating further, I found them … in the trashcan, smashed to small pieces.

To say I was upset was an understatement. Although I know in my heart the man working on my house would never have damaged anything on purpose, it hurt that he didn’t call me to tell me what had happened. Or even leave a note, for that matter. He just swept up the destruction and tossed it in the trashcan. I sobbed while looking at that mess of broken treasures. All that was left of the Japanese figurine was his head. The cardinal was unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know it ever sat on one of the shelves. All but one of the shot glasses was shattered.

Mandi called me on her way home from church and I was not consolable over the phone. I kept naming to her all the stuff that was lost and it would make me cry harder. In an effort to stop the tears, she finally got me started talking about something else. Since I didn’t see pieces of the little girl in the white dress in the trash, I began thinking that I had moved her from the shelves and forgotten about it. I walked from room to room looking at every possible spot I would of put her. But the little glass doll wasn’t there.

As a step of precaution, I moved some irreplaceable items to the extra bedroom where the door was remaining closed during the renovation work. Deciding to take one final sweep of my house in search of my treasured doll, I found nothing. So I sat down, attempted to watch TV and mourned the loss of my stuff. I realize stuff is simply that … stuff. But it was my stuff. And I was heartbroken. Even “Criminal Minds” couldn’t hold my attention away from the loss.

So I gave up and got ready for bed. After brushing my teeth, I realized I had left the light on in the living room. Walking through the door, a glint of white caught my eye. There, perched precariously on a table, was that little white doll. Although most folks would say I had just overlooked her, I can say honestly that she hadn’t been there five minutes before. I know this because I looked on that table twice. And the manner in which she was placed was too temporary.

My conclusion is obvious. God put that object there just for me. He, in His infinite wisdom, knew I didn’t need to end the day in restless, mournful sleep. So, instead I went to sleep knowing that the God who keeps the universe in motion took a moment out of time to give me back a treasure. Although it truly impresses me to know He can do major things like part a sea to allow people to cross on dry land, it’s those smaller, more personal things God does that get my attention the most.

me, me, me

2008-07-24T08:31:00.005-05:00

I don't do memes very often. I really didn't know they were called that until a few minutes ago. But this one was pretty cool and not too challenging. So, JMom, this is for you!

What were you doing 10 years ago? Not a whole lot, really. I was working for the "Daily Corinthian" both night and day and wishing that I had a life and friends to go places with. That's basically it.

Favorite Snacks: It used to be most anything Little Debbie but since I've been having blood sugar issues of late, she and I have taken a slight respite. I really enjoy anything that includes dipping - salsas, chips and dip or fruit dips. I love kettle corn, peanut butter, pretzels, bananas, most any nut, Pecan Sandies and tangerines. Not all at one time cause that is a weird combo pack.

To Do List: I keep mental lists of all sorts in my head - even a "to do" one. Course it hurts when I attempt to cross something off!

Jobs I Have Had: Babysitter, editor of an alumni newspaper, editor of a weekly newspaper, news editor of a daily newspaper, part time desk clerk at city library, noon cashier at diner, substitute teacher, project director for a school district.

Places I Have Lived (counting college): Jackson, TN, Kirkville, MO, Somewhere else in TN where my dad was principal briefly, Corinth, MS, Booneville, MS, Columbus, MS, Baldwyn, MS, Corinth MS again and still. Bad Habits: Biting my fingernails, worrying (most of the time over nothing), jumping to conclusions before I have all the facts, talking to other drivers when I'm on the road, and, I'm sure, many, many more things!

Random Things People May Not Know

* I once had a drum set in my kitchen.
* One of my ancestors founded (and funded) a Quaker church in Maryland. My grandparents and great-grandparents founded the Methodist church my parents attended. I've never been a member of either denomination. Another ancestor worked closely with William Penn during the founding of the Pennsylvania Colony.
* I'm technically a farmer. My sister and I rent out the land we own in Jobetown. I am the one who deals with all the business of this proposition so I consider that farming.
* My great-great grandfather had 21 children so I am related to most all of the Jobes from Alcorn County.
* My middle name is spelled Anne to match the spelling of my last name. Although my parents were being clever, though, they didn't remember this fact until I had to get my birth certificate out to get my driver's license. Needless to say, we had been spelling my first and middle names incorrectly for years.
* I used to be a HUGE Lawrence Welk Show fan. I had a HUGE crush on Guy Hovis and told him that when I met him once. It probably wasn't quite so endearing coming from a 2o-something as it would've been from a four year old!
I'm sure there are even more less fascinating things that I can't think of right now.

CDs I would want if stranded on an island: anything by Audio Adrenaline, Mercy Me, Casting Crowns, Nicole C. Mullen. Specifics: Pure Country CD, Pure Disco CD, 80s Hits CD, B52s Greatest Hits, Earth, Wind and Fire's Greatest Hits, John Cougar Mellancamp's Greatest Hits, Martina McBride's Greatest Hits and the "Wicked" soundtrack. Yep, my tastes vary. I'd really like to have a satellite radio system if stranded anywhere (I REALLY wish I had one now!)

What I'd Do if I Were a Billionaire: I would first get out of debt and help those closest to me do the same. Then I would build the respite camp for families with special needs kids on my land in Jobetown and have it equipped to the max - including lots of farm animals for them! I would buy a new vehicle - probably a convertible of some sort (Mustang, I'm sure - fire engine red). I would renovate my house here in Corinth FINALLY buying the leather couch, recliner and queen-sized bed I've been wanting. Plus I would build a large theatre-type room on the back of my house with a huge flat screen TV, arcade style games and a soda fountain. I would subscribe to satellite radio for life. I would buy a house on the Outer Banks, either in Buxton or Ocracoke, and get an apartment in New York City, too. I'd probably go ahead and get a cabin in the Smokies as well. I would put some money in savings for McCartney, Taylor and any other nieces or nephews I have at that time to go to college. I would get them all a vehicle when they graduated from high school. I wouldn't live extravagantly really, but it would be nice to have more money at the end of the month rather than more month than money!

Anybody else want to play?

Finding comfort from a genius

2008-07-23T19:50:00.004-05:00

It's been a difficult past few days for me since my daddy died. I've received such wonderful love and comfort from those around me and I feel so blessed to have such caring people in my life. I honestly don't think I could've gotten through the weekend without my best friend, Mandi, here to keep me centered and make sure I got to the funeral home on time. She even put up with my bouts of insomnia and didn't complain when I watched Tom & Jerry cartoons at 4 a.m. on Saturday. I know the volume was probably louder than it needed to be at that time.

Perhaps the most unusual source of comfort came from someone others might think incapable of offering it. Tonight, my friend, Julie, called to check on me and her six-year-old son, McCartney, got on the phone. Here is some of our conversation:

Me - Hey, McCartney! How are you?

Mc - I'm sorry to hear about your daddy dying.

Me - Thank you! That means alot!

Mc - I wanted to come to the funeral.

Me - I know. Your daddy and Nana told me. It was OK, though, that you didn't come.

Mc - Did you see your daddy dead?

Me - Yes.

Mc - Was there blood?

Me - No, he just went to sleep and then went to Heaven.

Mc - I don't see him (I'm guessing he was looking up cause I know he was outside; I heard a train whistle blow).

Me - Well, you probably can't see him. But he is up there with the angels and God.

Mc - Did the angels come get him?

Me - Yeah, they did.

Mc - When?

Me - Friday morning.

Mc - Hmmm ... hey .... do God and Jesus sleep?

Me - I don't think so, but what do you think?

Mc - I think they are WAYYYYYY too busy to sleep.

This was all from a kid who will enter first grade soon and already reads at a third-grade level and who declared, at 2, that "I IS a genius!" All of the folks eating at Dixie Castle that night thought his declaration was hilarious. I knew it was simply the truth.

And I still think so.

Remembering 'Wild Bill'

2008-07-14T17:43:00.001-05:00

“Crusty” would most likely be the adjective William Sorrels would’ve used to describe himself if asked.

Not surprising to those who knew him best, I would’ve chosen the word “tenderhearted” to describe him instead. For within that skin, thickened by years of newspapering, beat the heart of one of the most caring individuals ever to cross my path thus far in life.

Mr. Sorrels’ booming voice often sounded gruff as he would bark orders down the hallways of the Cromwell Communications building on The W campus. Most of us figured out early on, though, that the roar was pretty much for show and slight intimidation; that even when he was at his sternest moment, you could still see that caring sparkle in his eyes.

We lovingly referred to Mr. Sorrels as “Wild Bill.” The name just kind of somehow fit the laid-back man who truly believed that each one of us could become a viable member of the newspaper community.

“There’s a feature in everyone,” Mr. Sorrels proclaimed during the first day of our feature writing class. “It’s just up to you to find it.”

And the search was on. Although I truly wanted to use his class to hone my journalistic skills, I also highly sought his approval of my writing. Most of the time, I received it. When I got off on a tangent of two or three word leads, though, he told me that maybe I should consider putting a little more thought – and wording – into my starting paragraph.

During the times I felt the least confident about my career path choice, “Wild Bill” would come up with some adage or words of encouragement to cheer me on.

“Jobe, it’s not rocket science,” he would often say to me as a large grin covered his wrinkling face.

Although I received my degree and was thrust out into the cold, cruel world, I wasn’t ever totally alone. From time to time I would answer the phone at work and a familiar voice on the other end would boom, “Jobe, what’s your lead story today?”

Being a firm believer in giving folks their accolades while they’re still around, I once got the opportunity to tell Mr. Sorrels how much his guidance meant to me both personally and professionally. Although I had a father, I told him how he was truly a father-figure in my life. He paused as if trying to come up with the exact response, and simply replied, “That means more to me than you will ever know.”

Although I never rose higher than a news editor for a community paper, Mr. Sorrels was as proud of me as if I were a member of some major metropolitan newspaper staff. Often he would read one of my “Impatience of Jobe” columns, photocopy it and send a personal note in the margins.

When we would get the opportunity from time to time to actually visit, Mr. Sorrels always wanted to “talk shop” first, but he never missed an opportunity to ask about my family and, specifically, how my personal life was going. He knew that being content with life made a writer even better and wanted to make sure I was content with mine.

Mr. Sorrels truly taught me how to view the world in a way no other person had before. Because of him, I took pride in writing even the most mundane stories because, like he taught us, every person deserves the opportunity to have their story told. To him, a life was worth more than just an obituary when it was over.

And I adopted that form of respect for others during my 23-year newspaper career.

Encouraging us to dream and do, Mr. Sorrels often made us believe we could do things others felt we could never achieve.

“Jobe, you really need to write a book,” Wild Bill would often say. I would just brush off the comment, stating that my column and the newspaper articles I wrote from time to time were fulfilling enough for me. If I ever do follow through and write a book, though, I have always known in my mind how the dedication will read.

Although he is no longer in this world, I can’t imagine Wild Bill ever at total rest. I’m sure by now he has interviewed almost everyone who has entered those gates of pearl since his arrival there Saturday. And I’m certain Mr. Sorrels has patted St. Peter on the back at least once, encouraging him to take his job – and his life - a bit easier.

“It’s not rocket science, St. Pete,” he’s said.

And I’m sure St. Peter simply smiled as he ushered Wild Bill into eternity.

You've gotta be kidding me!!

2008-06-27T18:48:00.002-05:00

I've never wanted to be a celebrity! I don't think I could stand living life in a fishbowl like that. But I enjoy keeping up with the likes of Laura Linney, Kristin Chenoweth, Alec Baldwin ... yep, I like my celebrities a little less controversial.

In order to keep up with the Pitts and other famous folks, I tend to read People magazine and tune in to "Entertainment Tonight" from time to time. Sometimes I literally laugh out loud when I read or see some crazy antic a celebrity, pseudo-celebrity or wannabe pulls. A segment on tonight's ET, though, made me scream - YOU GOTTA BE KDDING ME! - after hearing it. It seems little Suri Cruise is celebrating her second birthday and her parents threw a little shindig for it. ET reported that the price tag was reportedly $100,000. Get outta here! What did they do, hire Barnum & Bailey to bring the big top to their backyard? Geez, the kid is two! Two! She hasn't been eating solid food for very long and they're spending that kind of money on a birthday party. Sadly, one that she won't even remember!! At this rate, will they drop a cool mil on her Sweet 16?

Although I totally realize it's really none of my business what someone spends on their child for their birthday, some things just seem, well, a bit excessive. Craziness, just craziness!

And I had to comment on it publically!

Lemme know what you spent on your kid's 2nd birthday! Or lay some memories on my that you have of your own second birthday party! I'm sure I had a cake and that it was chocolate (had I been old enough, I woulda asked for white cake and chocolate icing!!).

Time for a summertime dip

2008-06-26T09:31:00.006-05:00

I'm a huge fan of the Big Mama blog. In her post today, she asked for summer recipes. Since my friends all KNOW I'm quite the Rachel Ray of Corinth .... yeah, right ... I decided to share some DIP recipes. Ya know, food is more fun if you dip it in something before you eat it! I can't take credit for either of these except for the fact I've consumed lots of both. Shellie is a co-worker of mine who likes to cook and is good at it. She likes to share with us, too, which is also good!

Shellie's "You're Gonna Fight Over It" Fruit Dip

1/2 cup of regular sugar

1/2 cup of light brown sugar

1 teaspoon of vanilla

1 block of cream cheese( let it get room temp)

Heath cookie chips( just like choc. chips)

Mix well.

This should be refrigerated, but put it out 15-20 minutes before you're gonna serve it.

This is served best with sliced apples. If you dunk them in Sprite, they won't turn brown so quickly.

Mississippi Caviar (from Shellie, too)

2 cans Rotel

2 cans blackeyed peas (drained)

2 cans shoepeg corn (drained)

1 large bottle Wishbone Italian Dresssing (don't substitute)

Chopped bell pepper

Stir together and serve with tortilla chips.

Truths from fuzzy-tailed friends

2008-06-23T21:30:00.004-05:00

(I am going to try to NOT share many of my writing from my "past life," but there are a few things I want to either redo or simply share in their raw form. Staying with the animal theme here, I had to share this one! Hope that's OK! It's from 2005, if that matters.)

Squirrels are funny creatures.

Seriously, they are.

Some folks think squirrels are just oversized rats
with big, fluffy tails. I simply give them a bit more
credit than that even though my computer’s dictionary
defines them as “arboreal bushy-tailed rodents.” So I
guess that means they are first-cousins to a rat aka
“long-tailed rodent.”

As a child, I was fascinated with them. So much so
that my grandfather, George Hughes, would take
afternoons off from selling insurance and take me to
watch them play in the trees at the city park.

Not long after our ritual began, Papaw nicknamed me
after the furry animals. No one has called me that
since his death, but I often think of him as I watch
one scamper across my back yard looking for pecans.

Of course, I don’t have such warm feelings about the
squirrel (or more than one fuzzy-tailed monster) that
continuously jumps from tree to roof and sprints along
the top of my house above where I’m trying to sleep
late on the Saturday mornings I can.

It seems a friend of mine has had a similar
fascination with the furry ones. Or so she told me the
other night as she was looking through an old journal
she found at her house. It seems that while in
college, she was asked to give a devotional for the
Wesley Foundation. Her talk was inspired, apparently,
by a stint watching a squirrel play in her backyard.

From this observation, she gleaned three squirrel
facts that can aptly be applied to our lives as human
beings.

The first one? Sometimes you just have to jump.

While watching the squirrel stand on one limb and look
longingly at the branch of a nearby tree, she asked
herself what the squirrel might be thinking. He could
be, she penned, thinking that the branch was simply
too far away and he couldn’t possibly jump that far.
Or what if he jumped and missed? The failure could be
fairly costly to the little fella.

Perhaps, she surmised, that the squirrel would
determine in his little squirrel brain that the risk
was far too great and wouldn’t jump at all. Instead,
he would remain content in the safe confines of the
tree that he knew would hold him.

The second truth of sorts determined from the squirrel
watching was discovered after the animal actually
jumped. “Hang in there!” was the outcome. Leaping from
the safety of the branch that held him, the squirrel
found himself swaying toward the sky and toward the
ground on a much smaller and flexible limb. It would
bend a lot but not break.

From that observation, an object lessons was formed.
God never said doing his work would be easy, she
wrote. Many times taking that first leap and doing
what God calls us to do is the hardest. We think the
limb is going to break and we will fall. Things may
not go the way we think they should but we have got to
hold onto his words and his promises, know he is in
control and we can do it with his help.

How about the third point?

It seems that once the squirrel got his bearings and
realized the limb was gonna hold, he decided to keep
climbing toward the original destination. He kept
climbing higher and higher. We, too, should keep going
higher because there is always room to grow closer to
God, my friend concluded. What is God calling you to
do today?

After hearing this devotional read again five years
later, I felt very uplifted and encouraged. And I’m
certain I will treat squirrels with a bit higher
regard now.

Even those evil ones that love to stomp across my roof.

Catching magic

2008-06-20T22:57:00.000-05:00

Summer started a little early at my humble abode this year.
I stopped during a brief moment – VERY brief moment, mind you – of housework Thursday night to take some garbage out to the poly cart near the street. The wonderful waste engineers (what we called garbage men when I was a kid) were coming by on Friday to pick up my trash. It was long overdue, too, since I hadn’t been at home to roll the cart to the street in several weeks.
It was just about dusk as I trekked out to the curb, plastic bag in hand. Stepping off the porch, I caught a glimpse of a tiny spark of light in front of me.
“They’re here!” I thought to myself! “It’s officially summer!”
Exactly who was ushering in the sunny season? Lightning bugs, of course. Mother Nature’s little LEDs.
Growing up, it was not unusual for a group of us kids in the neighborhood to spend hours chasing lightning bugs with mayonnaise jars. Prior to our hunt, we would use an ice pick – or a knife from some mama’s kitchen if it could be safely snuck out – to poke holes in the jar lids. Sometimes we would pick blades of grass to drop inside the jars for the bugs to have for sustenance even though we didn’t plan to keep them that long.
Catching the little critters took quite a technique. We had to watch for the tiny yellow light to flash and follow it until the bug was either enticed into the jar or flew into the jar. Then we had to snap the metal lid on and twist it in almost one motion. We honed this skill by catching bumble bees during the daytime hours; something you had to get right the first time or possibly face the stinger in the end.
Even when I got too old to chase the flying flashers, they still became my sign of summer’s arrival each year.
Not too long ago, I was visiting my longtime friend, Tusha, at her Long Island home. Tusha’s only daughter at the time, her nephew and I were in the backyard playing kickball. Without us really noticing, the sun set and it began getting dark. Right in the middle of a kick, I saw Cassidy point at something and say, “ooooohhhhh!”
Checking out what she had found, I noted a familiar sight. “You’ve spotted a lightnin’ bug!” I exclaimed.
“That’s not a lightnin’ bug,” her mother said, mocking my Southern accent. “It’s a firefly!”
“Well, I guess you’re right,” I told Tusha. “Cause no respectable lightnin’ bug would fly this far north of the Mason-Dixon Line!”
Agreeing to disagree on the name, I asked the two little kids if they had ever caught a lightning bug. Both of them continued to stare at the flashing lights floating around them and pretty much ignored me. Since I didn’t have a mayonnaise jar handy, I just reached up and grabbed a bug out of the air. Carefully cupping both hands together, I slightly held my fingers apart to let the light shine between them as the lightning bug blinked and crawled within my hands. The looks on those toddlers’ faces was a MasterCard moment (and, unfortunately, my camera was in the house so it couldn’t be a Kodak moment, too). Their eyes got as big as saucers when I let the bug lift heavenward off the palm of my hand.
“Do it again!” she whispered.
For hours, we ran around their backyard catching fireflies and letting them go until the two little ones were exhausted.
Although I’m not certain the little girl even remembers our game of catch-and-release, I just hope that when she sees a lightning bug firefly now she will at least notice their flicker. I know I won’t ever forget the evening I briefly held magic in my hands for two little toddlers.

Temporary roomies

2008-06-19T17:08:00.001-05:00

Just had to put a couple of photos up of one of the baby birds that was born and lived briefly in my geranium. He wouldn't look directly at the camera cause, well, he was a little mad at me. I gave the siblings a bath accidentally when I watered the geranium. I couldn't see them and had no clue they were there until I heard a bunch of squawking going on in the flowerpot! Obviously it didn't kill them cause they flew away a day or two later!

National treasure

2008-06-18T16:56:00.000-05:00

Out of all the creatures God created, I think birds fascinate me the most. I’m not a card-carrying member of the Audubon Society, mind you, but I do enjoy sitting and watching those feathered folks who fly around me from time to time.
I have learned to identify some of the more common birds who hang around my home. Grackles, robins,sparrows, blue jays, mockingbirds and mourning doves often hang out in and around my oak tree and look for food in my front yard. A pair of cardinals must have had a nest somewhere near my house because I saw them flying around for weeks. The male was the most vivid shade of crimson that I have ever seen. He was almost friendly and would stare intensely at me whenever I would talk to him. It gave me great comfort to have them around because my mother and grandmother both loved those birds. Their appreciation for them came from the fact that my grandfather was such a huge fan of the St. Louis Cardinals that they adopted the bird because of him.
This spring, I’ve even had a little finch lay eggs in the red geranium that hangs on my front porch. I have photos of the two little offspring shortly before they took flight and left my ‘hood.
It sometimes annoys my friends because I gather up scraps of bread or any other foods that I think birds will eat and throw it out on my lawn for the little feathered creatures. To them, a little piece of moldy bread is caviar. The squirrels – who gnawed up my feeders that were hanging from trees in the backyard – get to enjoy the handouts as well.
As much as I enjoy watching the birds that cross my path at home, none of them can top the four I had the opportunity to observe recently, though. Seeking something fun to “shoot” during Memorial Day weekend, my best friend, Mandi, and I ventured up to Shiloh National Military Park. We had gone one time before but the battery on her camera had played out long before the tour was over.
I couldn’t talk her into watching “Shiloh: Portrait of a Battle,” the antique movie that not trip up there is truly complete without viewing. But I did con talk her into walking down the Sunken Road in search of my favorite monument that we never did locate. I need to put that on my “things to ask my favorite Park Ranger Ashley Ball the next time I see her” list.
We got out of the car at almost every tour stop along the way and found something interesting to take photos of each time. We spent the most time at the old cabin and the Bloody Pond. We snapped photos of the cabin with the split rail fence in the foreground and some without the fence at all. I even got a close up shot of the door just because I thought it would make a unique enlargement some day.
At the Bloody Pond we got landscape perspectives as well as lots of reflection shots of the nearby trees. There was a black and white horsefly that eluded my attempts to get a photo of him in flight. While taking photos, I thought of all the soldiers who supposedly used this pond to wash the horrors of war from their bodies and couldn’t imagine the carnage that area witnessed during those bloody two days in April. I thought of it until I overheard a re-enactor tell his wife that most likely the pond didn’t even exist during the actual Battle of Shiloh and the story of it was made up by the first park superintendent. Dude was dressed in blue so I don’t know that I believe his tale and plan to add that to the infamous Ashley Ball list.
Nearing the end of our tour we drove up to an area of the park that had been roped off and noticed several people sitting in lawn chairs looking skyward. I couldn’t imagine what they were doing until a recent article in the Daily Corinthian came to mind.
“Eagles,” I whispered.
“What did you say?” Mandi asked.
“There are baby eagles in that tree!” I exclaimed.
Noticing a nearby no parking sign, Mandi drove to an area where other cars were parked and we hiked back to the site. Looking up into a pine tree, I spotted the ugliest two animals I think I’ve ever seen. They were poised on two different branches around this huge nest that looked like something out of a dinosaur movie. Another bird watcher explained that the two creatures were the eaglets and one of the parents was sitting in a tree way across the open field in front of us.
Pretending that I could see the adult eagle, I stood there silently wishing it would fly toward us. Almost as soon as I made the internal wish, I heard a slight “whooshing” sound and quietly said to Mandi, “EAGLE!!!!”
Anyone watching would’ve thought we were being attacked by killer bees or something by the way we were moving around trying to get photos of the regal bald eagle in flight. And the eagle must have sensed we wanted some good pictures cause he (or she, we still can’t tell ‘em apart) slowly glided over our heads and circled around before landing ever so gently on a branch near the babies.
Although I couldn’t see my face, I’m certain my mouth was open as wide as my eyes at that point. I’ve seen eagles flying on TV and in movies and have even seen the majestic creatures at zoos and wildlife reserves. But nothing that I’ve seen before that Memorial Day weekend Saturday was as awesome as that bird in flight.
Thanks to the joy of digital photography, we stayed there until nearly dusk and shot hundreds of pictures of the babies and parents. We got to see both adult eagles fly a couple of times each and every time they did, it seemed just as magical as the time before.
Taking the long trek back to the car, Mandi said, “What are we doing tomorrow afternoon?” to which I quickly replied, “Coming back to see the eagles!”
Deciding that eagles are probably creatures of habit, we timed our second visit to the nesting site with the first one. We hadn’t been up there 10 minutes when one of the eagles flew up to the nest. Even though each flight was exciting, this one was even more of an event to watch when we noticed the adult was carrying dinner in their talons. Since Mandi has a zoom lens on her camera and could get more up-close-and-personal views of the birds, we were able to determine that the menu for Sunday night included catfish.
An observer who had apparently made several trips to view the nesting area said that various cuisine including a baby pig and small red fox had been brought in for the treetop picnics. While we were talking, someone in the nest tossed out a turtle shell and, as it hit the ground, I added that to the running list of snacks the birds had devoured.
It’s still odd to me that those eagles – a national symbol, you know – picked a national park to build a nest. And of all the trees In that park, they chose a pine tree standing near the roadway pretty much in a solitary area. It’s almost as if the birds wanted to give us simple minded humans a special glimpse into their world.
As of yet, I’ve not become an eagle expert. But I have been doing a little research. I’ve found that eagles tend to return to the same nests each year. So odds are there will be more little eaglets hatched there next spring. Odds are, Mandi and I will return to visit them, too (odds are, also, that I will have a zoom lens by then).
Watching those birds take flight on that Memorial Day weekend, I couldn’t help but think of Isaiah 40:31, of course: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint.” (KJV)
Seeing the birds so closely not only renewed my strength, it also rejuvenated my faith.
And for that, I’m grateful to my four new feathered friends.

Giving my regards

2008-06-17T21:35:00.000-05:00

I fell in love with the stage at an early age. Even though I don’t remember the exact date, I remember the show explicitly.
It was during Daddy’s first stint of employment at what was then Northeast Mississippi Junior College. Most likely I was around 5 because my sister wasn’t married yet. Daddy had gotten a couple of free tickets to the spring musical and he and Mama allowed my sister to drive me to Booneville. Something they rarely ever did – much less let us go alone on fairly lengthy journeys at night. At that age, 20 miles seemed to be a fairly lengthy journey.
But the show made the trip very worthwhile to me. It was Rodgers & Hammerstein’s “South Pacific.” Although it was a simple community college adaptation of the Broadway hit, I was hooked at the first note. Back then I had an odd talent of being able to sing almost the entire lyrics of a song after hearing it only one time. I wore my family down with my continual renditions of “Happy Talk,” “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair,” and “Bloody Mary.” My mama would later recall that the funniest part of that whole time was hearing me croon “Some Enchanted Evening” while trying to make my voice sound like a baritone singer.
Probably hoping I would learn some different lyrics, Daddy found the “South Pacific” soundtrack on an album at Big K and made my infatuation with the musical even greater. I listened to the album so many times it finally refused to play again without skipping.
Even though I was a child before cable television, I managed to find Broadway-ish shows on educational TV from time to time. As I watched them, I dreamed of what it must be like to sit in a darkened theatre in New York City and watch the actors hone their craft before me. I wanted to travel to the Great White Way even before I really understood the geographic distance between Mississippi and the Empire State.
I was in middle school before the chance to see another stage play came around again for me. Our high school presented a version of “Up the Down Staircase” and I sat alone in a metal folding chair near the stage soaking it in like a sponge. Although I didn’t want to be up on the stage, it certainly made me want to see more and more productions.
My high school “crush” was a French horn player who joined the orchestra for a musical our local theatre was producing. Since they needed a chime player and I had played marching xylophone several years in band, he asked me to join them for “Camelot.” Even though the chimes weren’t really similar to what I had played, I agreed because he offered to transport me to rehearsals which sealed the deal for me to get to see him more often for at least a month.
Although my part was a minute one in the overall score, it gave me the opportunity to see the behind-the-scenes portion of play production. And getting to see my French horn player more often (even though that absolutely didn‘t do anything to help that relationship flourish) didn‘t hurt either.
I was over 21 before the chance to see my first Broadway show happened, and wouldn’t you know it, my first show featured frolicking felines. Yep, a group trip to NYC got me to the Winter Garden Theatre to see “Cats.” Believe it or not, I was mesmerized. And when we were offered the opportunity to go up on stage during intermission and look at the set - and Old Deuteronomy - I was one of the first ones up there.
Trying hard not to fall down on the very shiny and overly-buffed stage, I quietly sang a bit of “Happy Birthday” and did a Cabbage Patch move or two. It gave me the opportunity to legally place that I had “sung and danced on Broadway” on my resume.
Even though I spent a weekend in the Big Apple, I didn’t darken the door of another theatre that trip. I had too many landmarks to see and lunch with my friend, Marcia. The next year, though, I not only saw the long-running, mucho award winning “Phantom of the Opera” at the Majestic, I went down the the famous Village to see “Steel Magnolias.” There were six of us in our group and we were the only six Southerners in the entire theatre. It showed but we didn’t care. Afterwards we stopped to get ice cream at a nearby shop and ran into Maeve Kindcaid who played Shelby’s mama in the show. It was fun getting to talk with one of the actors and have her quiz us about our reactions to a very Southern show.
Not content to wait until I could go return to NYC, a friend and I began buying season tickets for the Broadway tours that hit the Orpheum for a few years. I can’t afford the season tickets anymore, but my best friend, Mandi, and I try to see some of the shows that stop there now. She wants to see “The Lion King” if it ever makes a return visit to Memphis; I desperately want to see “Wicked” despite the fact I’d rather have seen it with Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel cast as the leads.
Who knows if I will ever get on the old boards myself. I’ve always had this secret dream to sing on stage at the Corinth Coliseum-Civic Center (of course, I’m still dreaming of getting married there, too, one day) so it might happen. And I’ve always felt there was a little bit of “Ouiser” trapped within me for a “Steel Magnolias” production one day, too.
Until that happens, Sunday night’s Tony award broadcast made me want to head back to the old “City That Never Sleeps” for some serious theatre time. Six years has been way too long and I’m ready to snag some front row seating from TKTS again!
Plus it’s been way too long since I’ve seen my friends Marcia and Sarah. I’m betting at least one of them owes me lunch!

Still learning from Daddy

2008-06-16T21:09:00.000-05:00

Daddy didn’t even know it was Father’s Day Sunday. Actually, he didn’t know it was Sunday. He did know my sister. And finally came up with my name. Although he knew his name, he couldn’t recall his date of birth.
In his reality, Daddy still isn’t sure where he lives either. The last time he talked about it, Daddy thought he lived in a castle - and it was the best castle he had ever lived in. According to Daddy’s story, the castle was owned by Tishy, the woman who lived down the road from Papaw and Granny and helped rear him. He also believed that Tishy’s children and grandchildren helped “run” the castle.
In actuality, Daddy lives in a nursing home and has for almost four Christmases. That’s how my sister and I remember how long he has lived there. Despite the fact that we asked her to wait until after the holiday, my stepmother put him in a nursing home right before Christmas three years. She also placed him in a nursing home 50 miles from us.
But that really has no part in this story.
Visiting Daddy at the nursing home is difficult at best anyway. Going there on Father’s Day, his birthday, Christmas or any other significant day during the year just seems to escalate the emotions of the time. My sister always quietly cries when we get to her SUV; I just pack the feelings further down into my heart.
The last time we had visited Daddy was perhaps the most difficult and frustrating visit of them all thus far. He didn’t know who I was at all and I honestly don’t think he was certain who my sister was either. So it was an understatement that I was dreading our visit this time. But since it was Father’s Day, there was no way we were not going to make the trip up there even if we didn’t visit for very long.
We found Daddy still sitting at his place in the dining room. Someone nearby was still eating lunch and it looked and smelled, honestly, good enough to eat. When I asked him if lunch was good, Daddy simply said “uh-huh” but I knew he had enjoyed it, too.
Generally we sit on one side of the dining room to visit. It contains a couch where we can sit and plenty of room for his wheelchair. Since we were early this trip, though, our visit began out front by the entrance. Daddy would watch the door and comment when a child would walk up to the door. “Look!” he would softly say. “There’s a pretty little girl coming in the door!”
The dialogue pretty much consisted of questions from us to him that Daddy could answer with an affirmative or negative. Apparently he hadn’t had any visitors since the last time we were there, according to him. He isn’t watching TV and he has a new room complete with a new roommate (we, of course, had gotten attached to the old roommate and REALLY liked the old room cause there was lots of room for us to visit there if we wanted to do that).
Very little else was said by him or us. He seemed content for us to sit there with him and we felt the same. Still not comprehending what the day was all about, Daddy looked with apprehension at his new shirts and pjs that we got him for Father’s Day.
In time, though, he got “antsy” so my sister and I convinced him to show us his new room. It wasn’t really a new one, per se, since he had been there before with the same roommate. That one, we don’t really care for to be honest. And since it was about as hot as the back side of the sun in there - yep, the roommate had the heater turned on full blast on a hot mid-June day - we talked Daddy into going to get him a Dr. Pepper.
Usually he wants a Milky Way or Snickers chaser to go with his DP. Not Sunday, though, since he had just had lunch. Instead he drank the soda from a cup as we continued our visit. As soon as the last drop of his drink was gone, Daddy was, too. Literally. He pointed the wheelchair toward the door as a cue for us to get ready to go home. We rolled him back to the lobby and said our “goodbyes.” My sister hugged him first and told him she loved him. He responded with a whispered, “I love you, too.” I followed suit and got no response. I tried not to take it personally as difficult as it was.
Walking toward the SUV, I glanced back over my shoulder hoping that Daddy would slightly resemble the man I’ve known, well, all my life. Instead, I saw my Daddy sitting there with his head bowed, studying his hands.
Dementia - or whatever you want to term it - is a difficult thing. It’s frustrating for the person afflicted with it. It robs them of not only their everyday existence, but steals away memories to share at the golden times of their lives. .
For my daddy, it has stolen one of the best storytellers I’ve ever met. Daddy could spin a yarn verbally better than any sentence I’ve ever written from the very depths of my heart. I will forever regret that we didn’t force him to use a Christmas gift from long ago since no audiotapes of family stories exist.
Although I’m getting used to the crew cut-style haircut Daddy now sports, it’s hard to see it on the man who took more time with his hair in the mornings than most Miss America contestants I’ve ever known.
Despite the fact that Daddy and I have had a complicated relationship at best, it simply hurts to watch as time and an unpredictable mental disease slowly ensnares him and threatens to shut him away from us forever.
A longtime educator, Daddy didn't turn off the teaching when he left work. Although it was Mama who helped make sure I did my schoolwork and learned my lessons in life, it was Daddy who would often quiz me about both areas. I miss the political debates, spiritual discussions and historical recollections we used to share.
As we drove away Sunday, though, I silently prayed that God would continue to bless me with good mental health. I also prayed that God would continue to bless all the residents of Daddy’s castle and the hands that care for them there. I also asked God to continue to give me the patience, the courage and the strength to continue visiting Daddy there - no matter how difficult it may get in the future to make the trip.For as hard as it may be to understand, I believe I still have a lot to learn from my daddy.

Precious Memories

2008-06-10T17:04:00.001-05:00

Although I never met my great-grandmother, Ada Jobe, I'd like to think that I am alot like her in lots of ways. I own the 30 acres where her home used to live and there are daylillies growing there each spring, offspring of the original ones my great-grandfather planted for her.

Several years ago, desiring to have a bit of the "homeplace" at our home, Daddy transplanted some there. I love coming home from work and finding them growing in the jungle that I now call MY yard. So much so that I HAD to share a photo of one here!

The next chapter

2008-06-06T08:27:00.001-05:00

I seem to have gotten a bit too proverbially "long winded" for the About Me section of the blog. I posted a bit of what I wrote, but decided to use the rest of it as my first post here so you can understand why I have created this.
Here goes:
I am a Tennessean by birth but I grew up in Northeast Mississippi. Educated by the Corinth School District, Northeast Mississippi Junior College (now NEMCC), and Mississippi University for Women, I spent almost 22 years in the newspaper business. Last November, because of budget cuts, my job of 19 years was eliminated and my employment was terminated. For two months I did a lot of literal soul-searching, trying to determine exactly what path God wanted me to take next.
Feeling a real need to get out of the newspaper business, I found myself entering the world of education (an obvious path for someone whose father was a career educator). Since January, I have been working as Project Director for the Corinth School District. I oversee a Teaching American History Grant and do special projects for the District. So far I've written and designed a tabloid and helped get our recent $12.8 million bond issue passed. I love my new job and the folks I work with very much! When not at work, I enjoy photography.
Since I recently acquired a Canon Rebel XTI, you will be seeing some of my work here, I'm certain.
As for other hobbies, I also enjoy movies, TV and basically life itself. I love, love, love to travel and will do more as I can afford it. Although I've enjoyed my various trips to DC and NYC, I have to say the trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina that Mandi and I took several years ago ranks at the very top of the best place visited list! I wanna go back sometime, take a box of books and just sit on Ocracoke and surrounding beaches and read (and pick up seashells, too. I had to pay American Airlines an additional $25 to get home since my suitcases were filled with shells! The Outer Banks has some of the most beautiful shell beds in the U.S., I believe!!)
The most important aspect of my life, though, is my relationship with God. Lately I have wanted to know more and more about Him and draw closer and closer to Him. I honestly believe He still has things for me to accomplish for His kingdom and I am diligently seeking His will for my life. And looking forward to accomplishing those things He has planned and purposed for me!
As an editor at two newspapers in North Mississippi, I had a personal column called the "Impatience of Jobe." I not only shared my thoughts with the newspaper readers, but for the past few years I've also shared my columns with my friends. Since losing my job in November, I haven't written a column. Many of my friends have encouraged me to write them again. To be honest, I've missed that therapy of sorts. Although this blog won't be exactly like the Friday columns, I hope it will fill the void folks seem to have been missing. I truly believe it will fill that writing void I have felt lately!