Hungry Anyone?

I was hungry today. That's not so unusual except I had just returned home with a car loaded down with groceries. In fact I had purchased so much stuff I needed a nap. (Yes, I shopped till I dropped.) As I lay down my tummy started rumbling to remind me I hadn't eaten lunch and it was after 2:00 pm. I tried to ignore it. And then I realized I couldn't. It seemed the harder I tried to tell myself I'd eat when I got up the louder the rumbles.

My hunger kept me from sleeping. And that got me thinking. How many people were experiencing the same predicament? Except how many had no idea where their next meal would come from. I didn't get up to eat. I lay there and wondered if I needed to embrace the moment and maybe even make it a regular thing. How else will I know what it feels like to go hungry? How quickly would I overlook hunger after living it if only for a few hours? I don't know what I would do if I wasn't able to get up and have that peanut butter sandwich and banana. Would I steal for food? Would I sell my belongings or, God forbid, my own flesh for a meal? Would I be able to hold my head up as I walked into the soup kitchen or would I hang my head in shame and humiliation?

The word "hunger" means something to me now. No one should go without in a land where there is plenty. I realize this is a bummer of a post on Thanksgiving Eve, but it's timely. Let us give thanks by sharing out of our abundance. Even a meager cupboard is extravagant to the one who has absolutely nothing.

If there had been even a piece of bread on my bedside table, I would have gladly eaten it. I would have welcomed a cup of water to assuage the rumblings in my tummy for a bit. Now, I pray I will be more compassionate, more open, less judgmental, less apathetic. I pray for a spirit of generosity and understanding. I pray for a heart like Jesus who gave His very last drop of blood to fill the greatest hunger one could ever know-the hunger of knowing God.

He loves, He cares, He gives. And as His child I should do no less.

Photo-Op and Bad Tights

You see this picture? It's a memory I'll not soon forget. A sunny, beautiful autumn day full of playtime potential with my siblings and our seven cousins at Grandmother's house. Oh, and the picture? It was planned well in advance. My mom and her sisters had the great idea that it was time to update the photo album. We were instructed on what to where, how to stand, and when the sun would be in just the right position so that this would be the perfect portrait for posterity.

Let's start with the "what to wear" part. Suffice it to say that the clothing chosen was not condusive to playing at Grandma's. Especially for the ones who liked to run and romp around the yard and in the woods. Have you ever tried running in Dalmation-spotted tights roughly two sizes too small? It's not fun nor cute, let me tell you. Playing tag while constantly stopping to do the ballerina squat is not a pretty sight. It was quite detrimental to my mental health as I was perpetually "it." How many times can you call "time out" to go to the restroom to fix your tights and continue to find favor with your adolescent cousins? Once or twice but after that you get left out of the game.

And the shoes? Black patent leather. Oh, yeah, try running in those over stumps! I got blisters the size of a quarter on each heel. My tights may have been too small but you can bet my shoes were too big. I have always had narrow feet and the slip-on kind look good in the box but they remain on my do-not-purchase list.

Then there was the loud sound of Grandmama's shrill voice calling us all to attention. It was time. After roughly seventeen hundred hours and fifty-six minutes, Mother and her two sisters had us lined up for our photo shoot. I tried. Lord knows, I tried. But, with everyone suddenly becoming a comedian we all got a helpless case of the giggles. What we thought was funny, our parents considered treason. Even when I couldn't look at the camera because of a lifelong case of photosensitivity, they continued to threaten to hang us till death from the closest moss-covered oak tree.

It was enough to make this six-year-old "Little Miss Perfect" want to cuss. Just take the durn picture! I wanted to holler. (Maybe not those exact words but you get it.) My tights needed a good yank and bandages on my heels would have been nice. But, no! The time to take the warm and fuzzy family photo had arrived and only the return of Jesus Christ would have stopped the torture.

I could go on and on, but I realize there is a time to let go. I think I just let go. Are you ready to let go? Just put it down, proof read your blog to avoid slander, and press enter. Tell me I'm not the only one with childhood trauma over something so trivial as a photo-op at Grandma's! Please!

Life Ain't Fair

So, this is the deal. It's taken me a while to work through this blog. I've tried to be discreet enough to protect the parties involved yet clear enough to enable someone out there to relate to what I believe was the first and most painful wake-up calls of my life. It was a moment like no other when reality kicked down the door and I was forced to admit that I lived in a broken world whether I liked it or not. It was the shattered glass slipper of a little princess standing with her hands on her hips and tears in her eyes as a wedge was forced between her and the elusive"happily ever after" life of her dreams.


Until around the age of six, my fairy tale life was filled with pretty dresses for school, pretty blond curls (most of the time-see second post) and childhood games with neighborhood friends until twilight. No worries consumed me. No fears invaded my childhood dreams in the night (except for the impending dread of wetting the bed...again.) No darkness threatened my high hopes of a bright future. May I suggest that ignorance is bliss...until we meet our enemy and take note of its strength over us.


Which brings me to the story of this one particular evening when Mama and Daddy got all "gussied up" for a night on the town. Our mother looked like a movie star in her sequined gown and satin shoes. The smell of aftershave lingered in the air as our dad closed the door behind them. I remember thinking we must be pretty important people for our parents to go out looking that good! Somehow that brought with it a phony sense of security. Does that make sense?


Our older sister had the very grownup job of babysitting my brother and me. Oh, but the fun to be had in our parents' absence! Walking on furniture, running throughout the house with scissors in hand, playing with matches, candles and fireworks, and running outside in our bare feet. Okay, so we didn't do all that but don't think we didn't consider it! But we did take a walk on the wild side performing balancing acts on every stick of furniture in the living room proclaiming that whoever touched the floor first was a rotten egg. We thought we were so bad.


The silly bedlam continued well into the night until we noticed it was time for our parents to return home. Giggling and running around cleaning and wiping our footprints off the furniture, we practiced the innocent look while sitting in front of the television set practically begging it to produce something of interest. (It was the sixties, okay? Think about it.) The clock ticked and tocked...on and on. We shared a giddy moment of celebration when we realized Mama and Daddy were going to be late until unexpected boredom set in. We watched the American flag flapping in the breeze as the National Anthem played on TV until all that was left was the static of white noise. Even the telly had gone nighty-night! We had reached the point where we were all sincerely and genuinely tired and ready for bed. No one said it out loud for fear of ridicule but it was growing more obvious by the minute.


It was well after midnight when we heard a ruckus going on outside. Frightened and startled, we took a quick vote that sent the oldest to look out the back window. Bravely, our sister peaked through the curtains cupping her hands around her face as she pressed against the pane to get a clearer look. Releasing her breath with a sigh, she informed us it was Mama and Daddy although the tone of her voice sent another message conveying something was wrong. Our sister was as bold and brave as them come so the look of uncertainty on her face was unsettling.

The minutes passed slowly until the back door flew wide open as black fury blew its hot breath into our home. (Anger can be such a beast.) Caught in the crossfire of their volatile accusations, the three of us sat in silence as our parents broke every high and lofty idea of what it means to have the "perfect" family. Sitting with my knees pulled tightly to my chest, bug-eyed and frightened, I knew this night would change everything about life as I knew it. Seeing our parents argue for the first time was beyond scary. Everything seemed so out of control. I was familiar with childhood spats and boyhood fistfights, but this was a whole nutha level! I hated all of it. I was a timid, sensitive child easily frightened and intimidated by any and all confrontation, so this explosion frazzled my fragile nerves. (Don't laugh, it's true.)

Once the storm calmed down, I was introduced to the fine art of "taking sides." It seemed that was the only way to finalize the chaos so we could return to some "new kind of normal." No one actually said it but the assumption hung in the air like nooses over our heads. I couldn't do it. I refused to do it. Cowering in the shadows, I watched and learned how the process works. It begins as an insidious idea in the mind and ends as a consuming desire in the heart to get even.

Needless to say, there was no one to tuck us in that evening as was the usual ritual. (You may want to skim my first blog.) With quivering lips and tears sliding down my cheeks, I prayed alone in the cold silence. Despite all the broken dreams and the shattered sense of security, I sought the Lord with all my heart and He was there to comfort me. I knew He could make everything "right" again. After all, if "God is great and God is good" then there was nothing He could not do, right? Dismal doubt began to form in the back of my mind telling me that if I was wrong and what I had witnessed that night was any indication of what lay ahead, we were all doomed. Although it was difficult to shake that horrible feeling, I kept praying. While praying I came to the conclusion that God alone could and would save us. I would learn later there is a name for that and it is called faith. Faith and hope combined make for mighty fine bed fellows, let me tell you!


Two life lessons learned that night. One-bad things happen but God is still good. Two-life is subject to change but God remains the same.

Whatever changed my perspective on the world around me and whatever changed yours is not the point. The point is there is a point when we want to scream at somebody or something that LIFE AIN'T FAIR! I happen to believe we all have one thing in common. A need to be saved from the threat of no hope. No hope of change. No hope of real love. I also believe God has taken care of that by taking care of us. His watchful eye sees it all. Mostly, He sees us and He loves us no matter what has happened along the way. How do I know this? Because I'm still here to tell of His grace, mercy, and unfailing love. You've got to know my history to fully grasp the depth of that statement.


What was it for you? When did you first say or think to yourself "life ain't fair?" You may have something funny and light-hearted to share that would serve as welcomed comedic relief. It may be something as earth-shattering as the death of a loved one. Whatever it may be, all I ask is that we be honest and respectful in our descriptions. It is only by the grace of God I stand...with no stones to throw.

What Happened to Your Hair?

DISCLAIMER: Before I begin my sad story, please understand I mean my well-intentioned mother no harm. She did what she thought was best at the time. Little did she know I would be scarred for life. However, I don't blame her for any issues I have with curlers, bobby pins, or hairspray. I realize now there is life before, during and even after a bad hair day.

Is it just me or does everyone have a school picture that they wish had never been shot? Am I the only one that looks at the picture now and screams inside Why didn't they just shoot me instead???

It was the beginning of my second year of grade school when mama got the notion to take me to her beautician for a perm. I was a little nervous about the whole thing but my mama was an awful pretty woman so I trusted her instincts.

After my hair was fully processed and permed, we all took a gander at the finished product. I do not exaggerate when I tell you I wanted to weep. My fine blond hair was fried and curled kind of like those curly fries you get at the fast food restaurant but at least with those you get what you pay for. I wanted Mama to get a refund. I felt like a curse- a walking and but, no, not-talking curse. I couldn't say a word without choking up. In my silence all I could think about was starting a new school year with that head of hair.

It was endless torture. Every night Mama rolled my hair with pink foam rollers. And in the morning I would stand at attention in front of the bathroom mirror while she worked her "magic" on my head. She was not above teasing, pulling, prodding, and spraying so much hairspray on my tiny head that I thought I would die from lack of pure oxygen. Not one to be deterred, she would add insult to injury by strategically placing a color-coordinated bow smack-dab in the middle of my bouffant. (Much thanks to my hairstylist, Christy Berry, or I would have never known how to spell that word!) Pleased with her creation and unaware of my despair, she looked at her baby girl, smiled and said, "Now don't you look purty!" I tried to smile. Honestly, I did.

Can you imagine me with that hair at recess? First of all, everyone knows you can't trust just anyone at the other end of a seesaw. It's a case of whiplash waiting to happen, I tell you! I think that was where I always lost my hair bows.

And then there was the merry-go-round. Did you ever have one of those moments when you saw your life flash before your very eyes when some mean boy (or girl) would send that thing spinning as fast as God would give him (or her) the strength and then wouldn't stop for no thing or no body. (It was at this point I would promptly change my mind and give the devil credit for his (or her) strength.) Never mind Susie just tossed her PB&J or that Johnny's head is caught between the bars and his legs are flying parallel to the ground! I used to hate that. I feel resentment rising up in me as I type...let's move on.

Okay, let's talk about the monkey bars for a moment. Remember that picture of my bouffant hairdo (or should I say hair don't?) while we reminisce about all the fun that was to be had on the monkey bars. After the blisters formed, popped, bled and healed to form callouses, there were all sorts of ways to show off on the bars- swinging upside down hanging by the legs, climbing on top, or if you were afraid of heights like I was (and still am-I start to gag!), crawling on top, or just standing in line to get your turn to grab one bar after another until you finally made it to the other end victoriously...unless you lost your grip and fell and then, well, you were humiliated until you got up and at it again, this time skipping bars to prove your athleticism (only I didn't know that's what you called it at the time. I detest myself when I act like a show-off!)

Yes, there was a wonderful plethora of fun activities to be had on our elementary school playground. And there is never enough time to tell of all the foot races, games of tag, hopscotch, and so on.

At that grade level we got two, count them, two recesses. A short one in the morning and a longer one after lunch. Do you recall the point of why I am telling you all of this? Would you look at the picture again? Now, imagine what I looked like when I stepped back in front of that same bathroom mirror after school. Not a pretty sight, people. Ain't no child in the world cute enough to pull something like that off! I made the bride of Frankenstein look like a beauty queen! And this was a daily thing until that glorious day when the curls fell flat. The only bright spot I can find in this period of my life is that the perm didn't last long. My hair was very fine so the curls were short lived.

So one might think a mother would just let it go at that point, right? Oh, no! We moved on to the bobby pin curls. What this required was sitting patient and still while Mama took one thin strand of hair at the time, sprayed it with water, rolled it up into a tiny little curl, and then crisscrossed bobby pins over it to hold it all in place. But to be honest with you, I liked the bobby pin look the best. It worked for me. The only problem with that was I didn't like spending my time getting cute when I wanted to be outside getting dirty!

Well, I'm done now and I feel a whole heap of a lot better. What about you? Got any hairdo or hairdon't tales to tell? Or was it something else your mama or daddy made you endure for the sake of looking sporty? Be nice now. Remember we're to honor our mamas and our papas.

Looking forward to reading your comments. You know this can be rather therapeutic when expressed appropriately. I do hope I've been appropriate. If not, please tell me. I've got this thing about offending people. It makes me feel like I'm on top of the monkey bars...excuse me...I'm starting to gag here...

Whadda Ya Think?

It seems I was born with a sense that God is real. My mama reinforced that belief system by saying good-night prayers with each of her three children. Every night she made the rounds saying the same prayer with my older brother and sister and me, one young'n at a time. It was one you might be familiar with-

"Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take."

We would then proceed to ask God to bless "Mama & Daddy; Gary, Pam, & Debbie; Grandmama & Granddaddy Ard, and Grandmama & Granddaddy Hanna...Amen!" It was a bit awkward when I prayed to God about myself in the third person. However, it worked as the most convenient way for Mama to cover all of her children without showing partiality.

As I recall, the part "if I die before I wake" freaked me out a little. With fear and trepidation I repeated the prayer as a simple act of faith and trust in Mama's words, "God is good." After all, that was included in the blessing we took turns praying before each and every meal-

"God is great, God is good
Let us thank Him for this food
By His hands we all are fed
Give us, Lord, our daily bread. Amen"

My heart's desire was that these prayers wonuldn't fall under the category of rote repetition. I wanted to believe that God knew me better than that. At an even deeper level, I wanted to know without a shadow of a doubt that God was the real deal, so at the age of five I attempted to put Him to the test. (Don't say you've never done that!)

It was Valentine's Day and all the children were exchanging cute little cards at Mother Goose's kindergarten. I figured if God was truly God with a capital "G" then He was the best candidate to receive the nicest valentine in my collection. Tucking His special card away until later, I began the task of signing valentines to everyone in my class with the kind of excitement and anticipation that can only come from the hope of an insecure little girl doing her best to make sure everyone knew that I liked them. (Many received cards from "Map" since I was prone to write my name backwards in those days.) But, the fact was I did like them. But I loved God.

After putting away all the neatly stuffed envelopes and checking and re-checking to make sure I hadn't left anyone out, I put my plan of action into motion that very night. When no one was looking, I snuck into my mama and daddy's half bathroom (sink, toilet and shower) and quietly placed God's valentine inside the shower stall. I knew no one would go in there since we all used the bathtub that was in the other bathroom. Showers were a new way of thinking for most people back then.

No one had to rouse me the next morning. The moment my eyes popped open I thought about the card. Would it still be there? Surely God had taken it to Heaven where He resided in splendor...or maybe He didn't notice? So many questions ran through my mind as I tippy-toed into the bathroom, eased the shower door open, and peeked inside. To my utter disappointment and despair, there lay my favorite valentine just as I had left it.

What do you think went through my young mind? Well, I'll tell you. I figured it could only mean one of two things- either God wasn't real at all or God didn't like to play games. In order to keep the faith, I chose to believe the latter of the two. Deep down inside I knew I was not so much telling God how much I loved Him as I was asking Him to prove Himself to me. Oh, but the very thought of seeing the look on all the children's faces as I told them how God had snatched that valentine I gave him right on up to Heaven in the middle of the night was a thrill to my soul! I had promised God I wouldn't tell anyone- that we could keep it between the two of us- but I don't think I could have restrained myself. In fact, I'm pretty doggone sure I would have told everyone I knew!

Despite my broken heart, I continued to believe with childlike faith. Many years have passed since that February day, forty-three to be exact. And with the passing of years, I've become more confident than ever that God is real. I'm saying this- if I'm still alive, trust me, God is real and God is good. I have seen Him work miracles not only in my life but in the lives of many others. Not quite as dramatic as disappearing acts, but certainly more glorious and exceptionally sublime.

God doesn't have to prove Himself to me any longer. I've learned what it's like to walk by faith and not by sight. I know He loves me. I know He saw me put that valentine in the shower stall but He also knew it wouldn't be enough to merely make it disappear into the heavenlies. He knew that what I really needed was to know Him as one who would love me enough to walk with me through the valleys, pull me out of the pits I kept jumping into, and carry me through the rain instead of a God who would make an appearance every now and then and only on special occasions.

This I know, I have the ultimate valentine, Jesus Christ, who proved His immeasurable love on Calvary's cross to save a wretch like me. He proved His power over sin and death when He rose from the dead with the promise of everlasting life. I no longer fear "if I should die before I wake" because I know a greater glory awaits me when He decides "my soul to take." How I long for the day when I will see Him face to face! I imagined just yesterday what that would be like and do you want to know what came to me through the very follicles of my gray hair and broken down brain cells? I got the sense that when I was finally done loving on Jesus, He would proceed to present to me a gift that He had kept hidden behind His back. I pictured Him grinning from ear to ear as He handed me a Valentine's Day card. Not just any one, mind you, but the very one He picked up from the shower stall and replaced with another one just like it! Now, I ask you, wouldn't that be cool!?

What about you? When you were younger, did you ever do something just as far out or was there a moment when God actually did pick up your "valentine", so to speak, and blew your ever-loving mind? Maybe you never gave Him a second thought. Or was He a distant figure to you like some kind of fairy tale or ghostlike creature? Looking back over your life, has it been easy or difficult to believe that God is great and God is good? This very day, do you know at the very core of your being, that, yes, Jesus loves you? The Bible tells us so. That's proof enough for me.