Slight identity crisis

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

“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

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 ...

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

Listening for the Voice

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

“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

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.