BOO!!!

Soooo . . . Halloween.  Not a fan.  I realize we’ve already established this in some . . . actually ALL . . . previous posts about Halloween, but it’s the last day of October AGAIN, and I just wanted to clarify the obvious.  I officially hate Halloween.

I know.  I’m a party pooper.  Trust me, I’m perfectly okay with that title.  I’ve never been all that good at parties, especially Halloween ones.  I don’t like dressing up – spending money on clothes I’ll never wear again just ticks me off.  And the candy . . . the candy makes me want to hand out bags of fresh brussel sprouts to trick-or-treaters.  Seriously people, how many calories and fat grams and artificial colors and flavors and preservatives do our children need in a single twenty-four hour time period?  Shall we discuss the decorations and costumes next?  Because those are the things that really put me over the edge. 

As we’ve already established, I’m all about the pumpkins and mums and scarecrows and little girls wearing ladybug wings, but why does Party City have bloody limbs sitting on tables when you walk in their front door?  I apologize for my inability to find the thrill in a severed head, but I simply do not find such things scary or funny or festive or spooky.  I find them disturbing. Gravestones in my front yard?  No thanks.  Spider webs all over my bushes?  I pay a pest control service to make sure that doesn’t happen.  Ten year-old boys running around with foot-long plastic knives in their hands?  Have you seen the news recently?  Do we really need to encourage the young men of our country to carry weapons?  Twelve year-old girls in flapper outfits?  Ever read the definition of a flapper?  They are described as young women who drank, smoked, wore excessive make-up, and treated sex in a casual manner.  Pretty sure I don’t want my daughter in a flapper costume any time in the next, oh, fifty years.

I know Halloween is supposed to be fun, and my children will participate in it tonight with all the others.  There are ghost figurines on my kitchen counter and a “Boo Y’all!” linen towel in my powder room.  We’ve carved our pumpkin and roasted our pumpkin seeds.  We are meeting wonderful friends tonight for trick-or-treating and Charlie and Libby will eat far too much sugar before they go to bed way too late.  But let’s just get one thing straight . . . I. Hate. Halloween. 

Still, there are lessons in most things, even (especially?) in the things we like the least.  And sure enough, the holiday I never look forward to provided one for me this year.

She told me months ago what her costume would be.  I dismissed it.  Nodded my head, smiled knowingly, maybe even chuckled under my breath as I thought, you’ve got to be kidding. She mentioned it again, several times in fact, as the weeks of October flew by.  I’m sure my reaction was always about the same. 

“We’ll see.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You might change your mind.”

“There are lots of options.”

Strange how I continue to doubt her, when she’s proven over and over the type of person she is.  Decisive.  Confident.  Strong.  Independent.  Sure.

Not bad qualities, when used in the right ways.  Yet I push them aside as if they aren’t important enough to recognize.  As though I can’t see the good in them.  As though I would change her if I could. As if the character traits that make her exactly who God meant her to be aren’t worthy of acknowledging . . . of celebrating even.  

I compliment her when she’s kind.  I praise her when she’s thoughtful.  I encourage her to be sweet and caring and honest and helpful and loving.  And she is these things . . . sometimes.  And she will continue to be these things . . . sometimes. 

But what my daughter has always been, and what I truly hope she always will be, is decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

We walked in Party City, past the blood covered headless creature, and she immediately went to the wall of costumes, seeking the only one she wanted.  And I did what I’ve vowed time and time again not to do.  I indulged my own wants and needs at her expense. 

I spent a full five minutes trying to change my daughter’s mind.  I pointed out other costumes, the ones I wanted her to choose for Halloween.  I reminded her that she had never been a witch or a Native American or a doctor or an astronaut.  I forgot the fact that Libby has never been interested in the smocked dresses and big bows and gentle spirit I've always wanted for her, and I tried to persuade her to do . . . to be . . . what would make me happy.  Yes, I stood there in Party City and ignored everything that makes my daughter who she is in order to satisfy the mess in my heart.  I dismissed the character traits Libby already possesses, and which will serve her well in the future, and instead worried about what her current choices say about me.    

It took a full five minutes for me to realize my mistake.  A full five minutes for me to comprehend the error of my ways.  A full five minutes for me to understand that I was actually helping my daughter become a person who doubts her own decision making skills, instead of one who knows what she wants and goes after it, regardless of what others might think.

She walked out of the store with a huge grin on her face, and she spent the rest of the afternoon performing hilarious shows in our backyard in her black morph suit.  Yep.  Libby . . . the black morph. 

Not what I expected.  Not what I wanted.  But what she chose. 

When my daughter wears her black morph suit for Halloween tonight, I won’t be able to see her beautiful blond hair.  I won’t be able to see her big blue eyes.  But I will be able to see her spirit, and I will be grateful for who she is.  Decisive . . . confident . . . strong . . . independent . . . sure.

Happy Halloween!!!

EWWWWWW . . . Gross!!!

Can we chat about life for a minute?  Just the real, messy, normal stuff that happens every day?  I know that might sound somewhat ordinary, but here’s the deal . . .

I started this blog for several reasons.  One, I hoped God could use me to bless someone (anyone) else.  Okay, maybe trying to bless others was slightly ambitious for someone of my average standing and intelligence.  At the very least, however, I wanted to share my ramblings in the hopes that someone out there somewhere might find something in my writing that makes them smile, or relate, or let go of some of their guilt, or even for just a tiny little second think about Jesus and what he did for all of mankind when he died on the cross to provide the ultimate gift of grace.  Again . . . perhaps a bit lofty. 

The second reason I started this blog was because there is a circus that puts Ringling Brothers to shame going on inside my brain seven days a week, and I need to put all the clowns and acrobats and lions and tigers and bears, oh my, into some kind of organized rings.  You know, so I don’t end up jumping off a high wire one day.  

Reason number three is really two reasons, or more accurately, two people.  Their names are Charlie and Libby, and one day, after they have passed the season of listening to everything I say (that’s actually so far gone it’s barely worth mentioning) and the season of questioning everything I say and the season of resisting everything I say and the season of hating everything I say, they might come back around to being curious about what I have to say.  I realize we are decades from this, and the truth is, it might not ever happen, but a girl can dream, right?  A mom has to believe her children will, at some point, mature enough to understand their mother did the very best she could.   And since I quickly outgrew the art of scrapbooking after spending enough money to redo my kitchen (dammit) documenting every moment of my children’s first few years of life, I have resorted to blogging in the hopes that I am recording something of importance for Charlie and Libby to have in the future.

So, since this blog is supposed to be providing my offspring with proof that their mom didn’t only think about whatever it is they think I’m thinking about, we are going to talk about life today. And folks, God is very, very, VERY good, but sometimes, life is very, very VERY gross.  We’ve had some serious gross going on around here.

Not sure if you read the rambling I wrote a couple months back about Charlie’s first email?  As I’ve previously mentioned, the smart bloggers can insert a link for past blogs in a spot like this, but I have yet to learn how to do it, so if you haven’t read that particular rambling and would like to, it’s called ‘A First To Remember.’  Basically, it was about the jubilation my ten year-old child felt at the beginning of fifth grade when he sent his very first email – let’s just say it was unexpected.  I mean seriously, who knew sending emails could make a little boy giddy? 

Here’s the gross part.  Sit down if you don’t have any kids over the age of five, because this is heartbreaking and you will need the support of a very soft couch or chair of some sort when you realize this is where you are headed.  I have sent my sweet, precious, adorable son an email EVERY SINGLE MORNING since the day he squealed like a little girl after sending his first email.  That was on August 14^th.  Today is October 22.  That means I have sent Charlie a loving message (along with a Bible verse) for sixty-nine straight days.  Now, would you like to know how many emails I have received from him?  Go ahead . . . take a guess. 

ZERO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Zip.  Nada.  Nothing.  Zero emails from my only son.  He has not responded even ONCE in over two months.  No ‘Thanks, Mom’ or ‘Hope you have a good day too, Mom’ or ‘It’s so nice of you to think of me every single morning for sixty-nine straight days, MOM!!!’ 

That’s totally disgusting.

Ready for more gross? 

We aren’t stomach bug people.  The last stomach bug to hit our family was almost six years ago on the Disney Cruise, where, let’s face it, the CDC would have a field day.  Have you ever been on a Disney Cruise?  There are a thousand kids with runny noses touching everything they see all contained within 300 yards.  Libby was the one to get the stomach bug on the last night of our Disney Cruise, and she was up all night utilizing a state room trash can held by her mother.  Still, she was only two years old at the time.  I may remember that night well, but as she clearly demonstrated last Friday at 3:30 am, she doesn’t. 

What I’m trying to say to you is this . . . you should include stomach bug protocol on your list of important items to routinely discuss with your children.  Put it right up there with fire safety and stranger danger, my friends.  If you don’t, you will end up with a child who has forgotten the appropriate places to vomit when she gets the stomach bug, and you will wind up cleaning every spindle and step on your staircase at four o’clock in the morning.  And then all over again for several hours the next day, because there are a lot of places you miss when it’s dark and you’re half-asleep.  Oh, and you will need to call a carpet cleaner too, for that brand new runner you just had installed. 

So gross.

There’s more grossness, if you dare.

Ever had a colonoscopy?  Good times, folks, really good times.  I don’t skip meals.  I rarely go more than a few hours without eating.  I consider it not only essential to good health, but also to my happiness and, as you’ll soon agree, my ability to parent.  When you are having a colonoscopy on Tuesday morning at 9:00 am, you have to stop eating after Sunday dinner.  You can have clear liquids on Monday, because apple juice and chicken broth are so incredibly appetizing when you are starving, but that’s it. 

Did I mention I don’t skip meals?

By 10:00 am on Monday, my head hurt.  By 3:00 pm, I had done every possible activity I could think of to keep my mind off my growling stomach.  By 6:00 pm, in the middle of the drink two entire liters of the most disgusting liquid ever created cleansing phase of the super fun colonoscopy prep work, I wanted to give up and vow to never ever have a colonoscopy.  EVER.  By 9:00 pm, I could barely walk, and sitting down?  NO.  NO. FREAKIN’. WAY.  By 7:00 this morning, I told my eight year-old daughter I was going to bop her in the head with her hairbrush if she didn’t stop fussing about the bump in her ponytail, and y’all, I wanted to do it so bad I’m not sure how I stopped myself. 

And that’s how a colonoscopy works people.  Trust me, the tube inserted in the hole not intended for such intrusions was the best part of the whole process.  I didn't mind that part a bit.  Heck, I was off in propofol dreamland with doctors watching over me who clearly knew much more about the stuff than those who gave it to Michael Jackson.  And when the probing was done and I woke up, I could eat. 

So that’s it.  That’s our latest gross, documented for my children to read when they decide their mother might have had something worth saying after all, even if it was just the normal, messy, gross stuff of life.  Because what this mama really wants her children to discover (if they ever do grow up and dive into her many ramblings), is that in the normal, messy, gross stuff of life, there is always goodness. 

There is the son who might one day remember how his mom sent him an email every morning reminding him she loves him. 

There is the daughter who got to spend the day in her pajamas watching movies on the couch, while her parents attended to her every need. 

There is the husband who drove four hours home from a work trip to be there to take his wife to the hospital for a simple procedure. 

Yes . . . there is always goodness . . . because there is ALWAYS a good God.

May you not have too much gross in your lives this month, friends, and may you always find the good in the gross when you need to.    

A River Runs Through It

So this precious woman who knows God way better than I do recently spoke at my weekly Bible study.  She shared the parable of the river, which was originally authored by Max Lucado.  Now, people have disputed this parable as having little relation to the scripture Lucado intended to explain (Romans 1), but I happened to find it incredibly interesting because, well, let’s just say I saw myself right smack in the middle of it.

In the parable of the river, there are five brothers who live with their father in a mountain castle.  The father warns his sons about the dangers of a nearby river, but, as expected, only the oldest one heeds the warning.  Hey, I totally get this guy.  Typical first born.  We know the rules, folks, and by golly we follow them.    

Of course, the other four brothers aren’t such people pleasers.  They just have to check that river out.  Sure enough, the river sweeps them all away and they end up miles downstream, far from the mountain castle they called home, and from their loving father.

The first brother isn’t too concerned with the migration his disobedience has forced upon him.  In fact, he decides to indulge himself and make friends with the natives in this new land.  They are sinful people, and he joins right in and settles down with them, laying roots in a place he never should have been. 

Ever done that?  Washed yourself free of goodness to exist among a crowd?

I’m a first-born, a rule follower, a people pleaser.  Still, I can’t say ‘no’.  I’ve been swept away plenty of times.  I’ve been swept away by guilt and envy and gluttony and greed and the list goes on and on my friends.  That raging river is a constant in my life, tugging me from the shores of truth into a roaring flood, where the dark swirls all around me and I can’t find the surface to catch my breath.  I’m drowning in that river of worldly desires.  Every day, it threatens to pull me under.

The second brother watches his sinful sibling from afar, noticing every misstep, keeping track of all the things he’s doing wrong while priding himself for staying away from the potential pitfalls of their new surroundings.  

Been there?  Pointed fingers without ever pausing to glance in the mirror?

Once again, my answer isn’t the one I’d like it to be.  I’ve observed from a distance more times than I can count, smiling and nodding and comparing while refusing to engage in what I believe to be someone else’s poor choices.  I’ve stood back, silently watching another stumble as I counted myself more faithful, more loving, more loyal . . . better.  Better because I wasn’t speaking aloud what my head was thinking?  Better because my hands refused to act on the stirrings of my heart?  Better because I thought I belonged in the judge’s seat, when the truth is, we’re all on trial with the only Judge, and we’re all acquitted if we simply choose to stop issuing our own verdicts and listen to His decree instead.   I’ve held gavels when I should have been holding hands.

The third brother wants to go home.  He feels badly for ignoring his father’s warnings about the river, and begins laying rocks to make a path back to the mountain castle.  He labors and toils, exerting all his energy into advancing, moving forward, making progress.  He doesn’t let up, hauling his load and pushing himself to perform and working and working and working to reach his goal.

Ever do such a thing?  Going and doing and giving all for a gift that doesn’t require anything but one small step of faith?

I am trying to earn God’s grace.  I am trying to buy it with my words and pay for it with my actions and deserve it with my life.  And it’s free.  He never meant for redemption to have anything to do with me.  It’s always been about Him.  He came to the earth as a baby to find me.  He shared the truth to show me.  And he gave up his life to free me.  I can lay rocks all day long every day of my life, but they will never get me where I want to go.  My sweat and tears and efforts warrant nothing but exhaustion.  They won’t ever make me worthy.  They won’t ever win me merit.  Salvation is a gift.  It is the single greatest gift ever given.  And all I have to do to receive it . . . is receive Him.

The fourth brother does nothing.  He sits by the fire alone . . . waiting . . . certain his father will come for him despite the fact that he disobeyed.  Soon, the oldest brother arrives instead, embracing his younger sibling.

“I have come to take you home.”

The first-born son, there on behalf of the father, proposing forgiveness of sin, offering himself as the single solution.  And the brother by the fire does the only thing necessary to get back to his loving father . . . he allows the first-born son to carry him there.

Lord, how I want to be like that last brother, the one who sits patiently by the fire of your glory, filled with the warmth of faith in your goodness, certain that the one who says, “Follow me”, is the only one I need to hear.  I want to stop embracing sin and criticizing others and striving for salvation, and instead, I want to crawl into your arms . . . and lean my head on your shoulder . . . and fold myself into your boundless peace.  For only then will I find the grace I seek.  Only then will I find my way home. 

The Old Man Is Snoring

I need sunshine.  I didn't actually know this about myself until I spent the majority of June through August staring wide-eyed at the gray sky that stalled over my home state, providing Atlanta with the summer that wasn't.  I tried not to let the rain get me down.  I tried to focus on all the wrinkles I would never have because the summer of 2013 was mainly spent indoors.  Still, the seemingly endless gray skies leaked into my soul, and I found my entire life began to look a bit cloudy.  Even the brightest blessings had a darkened hue, and life felt soaked with dullness as the water continued to fall. 

The thing is, when I’m feeling a little down about life, which apparently happens to me if the sun refuses to shine as often as it refused to shine this summer, I begin to wonder where my allegiance truly lies.  I claim that I love God.  I announce that I love him.  I even believe that I love him.  But do I really love Him, or do I simply love His gifts?

When the sky turns so blue it makes my heart leap inside my chest, I look up and say, “Thank you God for this perfect day.”  When Charlie runs off the baseball field with a wide grin on his face after striking out two batters in a row, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my healthy, happy son.”  When Libby snuggles up next to me in her bed and reads aloud, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my bright, capable daughter.”  When Adam folds me into his chest and makes me feel safe and secure and treasured, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my amazing, loyal husband.”

Every single day, I express my gratitude to God for the blessings he has bestowed upon me.  Thank you God for my home, for food, for friends and family and fun.  

But when do I just say . . .

Thank you, God. 

When do I watch the raindrops streak across the window for the third straight day and thank Him?

When do I feel the knot in my throat after being deeply hurt and thank Him?

When do I watch my children struggle and doubt and fail and thank Him?

The truth is . . . I don’t.

I love Him for the gifts, the blessings, the good things.  I love Him when life is going well, when I feel happy, when everything seems to be working out according to my plans.  And I’m supposed to love Him for all of it.  For the sorrow and the fear and the anxiety and the OCD and the pain and the loss and the misery. 

The rain requires thanks.  The sadness requires thanks.  The son who shrugs his shoulders because he’s past the point of believing his parents know best requires thanks.  The daughter who takes a tone you’ve never heard and never want to hear again requires thanks. The husband who doesn’t always want the same things his wife wants requires thanks. Because the gifts of God aren’t what makes God good. 

HE.  IS.  GOOD.

No matter what.  Despite everything.  All the time.

It’s hard to give thanks for circumstances we wouldn’t choose.  It’s hard to give thanks when exactly what we don’t want to happen, does.  Yet it’s in those moments that we truly live out our faith.  If we can be grateful for the tough times, the valleys, we show others what we truly believe.  We show that our trust and our hope are in God.  And if we can look up and say, “Thank you, God” when it’s the last thing in the world we want to do, we show Him what we really believe.  That He is in control.  That His timing is perfect.  That He is all we need.

It’s raining again today.

Thank you, God.  

Psalm 34 

I will always thank the Lord; I will never stop praising him.

I will praise him for what he has done; May all who are oppressed listen and be glad!

Proclaim with me the Lord’s greatness; Let us praise his name together!

Writing 101

I love stories.  Always have.  Give me a good story and I’ll lose track of time, reading voraciously to see what will happen next, who winds up where, how it all ends.  When I pick up a book, my husband grins at me over the cover and says, “See you when it’s over.” 

I’m ashamed to admit it because I consider myself a fairly intelligent adult, but I read the entire Twilight series in less than a week.  I was furious when my book club chose the first installment as one of our monthly reads.  Even told the woman checking me out at Barnes and Noble how irritated I was about spending my husband’s hard earned money on a book for high school kids about vampires.  Seriously . . . vampires?  I was a mother with two children.  I had important duties to tend to.  There were people counting on me to wipe their bottoms and cut their grapes and teach them the alphabet and I certainly did not have time in my life to read about vampires.   I was pissed.  The woman told me I’d be back within a week for number two.  I smirked.  I scoffed.  I sneered.

I went back the next day for number two.

I’m not saying Twilight is quality literature, people.  It didn’t change my life or impact my future or improve my soul - the Bible is where I go for that kind of stuff.  I’m not even saying it was quality writing, although you gotta hand it to a lady who is creative enough to come up with a vampire/werewolf/human love triangle and make it a worldwide sensation.  Jane Austen was never a bazillionaire. 

What I am saying is that Twilight was a good story because it created in its readers a need to see how it was going to end.  I HAD TO KNOW – is Bella going to become a vampire or not?????

Thankfully, if you were team Edward, which I was (how could anyone in their right mind not be), Twilight had a happy ending.  Because what I am not ashamed to admit, is I have always been a happy ending kind of girl.  I will never be a fan of books that don’t wrap things up in a neat little package with a bright, shiny bow on top.  If a book ends badly, or not at all – you know the kind - one that leaves you hanging so you must decide for yourself what happened next.  Damn those authors with commitment issues.  We count on them to finish their flipping books.  That’s what you do when you write a book – YOU. FINISH. IT.  Sorry – clearly, I have my own issues.  So like I was saying, if a book doesn’t provide an ending or has a tragic one, I likely won’t recommend it.  Life is tragic enough.  My escape mechanisms need to be all rainbows and butterflies.

Recently, I’ve found myself encouraging some friends in tough seasons to remember that the very best stories in life are written by the author of life Himself.  

“God is writing your story this way for a purpose.”

“I can’t wait to see what your next chapter is like.”

“Just think what God might have in store for you soon.”

Yep.  Said all those things to people who are important to me.  They smiled and nodded and thanked me, and then probably walked away cursing my name under their breath because who does she think she is claiming to know anything about God’s writing skills.

Here’s the thing.  We would probably ALL write our stories differently.  I certainly would.  If I were writing my own life story, trust me, there would be some major plot changes, not to mention totally different main characters.  If I were writing my own story, I would be smarter, funnier, taller, thinner, prettier, more successful, and let’s not kid ourselves, a whole lot wealthier. I would live in a perfect country with no social or economic issues, a perfect community with no traffic or crime, a perfect house with every room furnished exactly the way I want it.  My car would always have a full tank, the sun would shine every day, and the laundry would do itself.  I would never put my foot in my mouth or show up late or fail so colossally I want to stay in bed for days.  I would give and serve and love from sunrise until sunset without ever growing weary or resentful.  I would find forgiveness easy.  

If I was writing my own life story, my family would never turn their back on me, my neighbors would be my best friends, my best friends would never let me down, complete strangers would make me smile each day.  My children would use their manners at all times and dress in the clothes I want them to wear and obey the first time I asked.  They would be thoughtful and helpful and grateful and joyful and make perfect grades.  And they would never track mud in the house. 

If I could write my life story, my husband would agree with everything I said.  He would keep his hair and his muscles and (just thinking ahead here) his libido.  We would parent as a team no matter what and fall more in love each day and retire early to a tropical island with a housekeeper and a chef and a masseuse at our beck and call.   

If I were writing my own story, there would be no sorrow.  There would be no illness.  There would be no sin.  There would be no death.  Which really means . . .

There would be no need for Jesus. 

You see, THAT is why God is writing our stories.  He wants us to know Jesus, because without Jesus, our stories can never end well.  Without Jesus, there are no happy endings.       

The best stories aren’t the perfect ones.  Those aren’t the page-turners that keep us up at night.  The best stories are the ones that take us on a wild journey we could never have predicted and might never have chosen – the ones that truly lead us somewhere important.  Somewhere we might not have planned to go.

The best stories have interesting characters.  The kind you can relate to and share life with because their imperfections are as glaring as your own – the husbands with receding hair lines who make you laugh so hard you cry, the children who forget to brush their teeth but remember you promised to bake cookies after school, the friends who reach out to help before you can even ask.   

The best stories come with unexpected twists and turns that leave you wondering what in the world the outcome could possibly be.  They have flawed people and bad timing and more mistakes than you can count.  They have selfishness and greed and envy and cancer.  Sometimes they have abuse.  Sometimes they have divorce.   Sometimes they have violence and corruption and war.  And they always have death.  They are hard.  They are messy.  They are ugly.  They are filled with pain.

And they are our stories . . . written by Him to point the way to our happy ending.  We simply have to keep reading, one chapter at a time, and remember that there is no better author for our life than the Author Of Life. 

God is not writing a story of perfection for me.  He is writing a story of purpose.  He wants my story to mean something.  He wants it to change me . . . to take me to the places He alone knows I need to go.  Most importantly, He wants it to lead to a happy ending . . . to Jesus.  Because God wants my story, and yours, to last for eternity. 

Appreciating Georgia (Both of Them)

Dog ownership gets more educational with each passing day. Georgia is not even nine months old, but she's like this nutty professor who shows up to class thirty minutes late with broken glasses, a crooked bowtie, and plaid pants four inches too short, yet somehow leaves you with a nugget of wisdom you'll treasure for the rest of time.

I wouldn't say our doodle puppy has a whole lot of common sense.  Georgia isn't brilliant in any obvious ways.  She plays with bumblebees on the back deck, thinks she's capable of running at top speed on hardwood floors and then stopping on a dime (you really should see that trick), and believes everyone on the face of the planet wants her to lick them.   One of her most interesting habits though, is her ability to play follow the leader. 

Georgia follows me.  If I walk into the bathroom, so does she.  If I sit down at the kitchen table, she sits beside my chair.  When I go upstairs to put laundry away, Georgia simply must come along. 

Georgia knows her people.  And her greatest desire is to stay close to them.  Which, as usual, got me thinking . . .

For almost forty years, my entire world has centered on a tiny patch of earth in suburban Atlanta. I have actually resided within a ten square mile radius of Gwinnett County since the day I was born.  I did go to college seventy-five miles away, but I’m not sure that counts.  When you add it up, I was only in Athens for about thirty months of my life, and sadly, I spent most weekends coming home to do laundry instead of enjoying the purple “punch” being served out of fraternity house trashcans all over campus.   

Most of the time, I consider my native status to be unique.  I enjoy the label of homegrown girl, and I love seeing people I know almost everywhere I go because I’ve never lived anywhere but Atlanta, Georgia.  When I was at Northside Hospital preparing to give birth to our first child, I informed our labor and delivery nurse that I had been born in the same hospital.  She was astonished.  Moments like that make me feel pride in my roots. 

Occasionally, however, my pride is replaced with disgust. 

Sometimes, it doesn’t seem at all special that I’ve lived in the same location all my life.  It seems pathetic and short-sided and entirely uninteresting.  Sometimes, I go online to look up real estate in Manhattan simply for the thrill of thinking about life in a place that doesn’t have over seventy streets with the name “Peachtree” in them. 

I realize Atlanta has a lot to offer.  It's a fantastic city in many ways and a wonderful place to raise a family.  The housing prices are among the lowest in the country, there are opportunities to experience a variety of cultural and sporting events all over the city, and even with the recent blip of a floundering economy, the job market has been booming for decades. 

Atlanta has convenient proximity to a multitude of interesting adventures.  In ten minutes, I can be at any number of local parks where my children can play, ride bikes, or go fishing.  I can drive twenty minutes south to shop in boutiques bearing the names of designers whose clothing has graced fashion runways for years.  (Notice I didn’t say I do.  I said I could, if my income bracket went up a few notches.)  In half an hour, I can be lounging on the back of a boat on Lake Lanier.  Never mind that on the boat next to me, there is a sunburned woman wearing a bikini two sizes too small dirty dancing with her boyfriend while funneling a beer.  If I drive an hour north, I can go hiking and camping in the Great Smoky Mountains, and in less than five hours by car, I can frolic in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.  

There are other reasons to love Atlanta.  The city is full of jogging trails, playgrounds, golf courses, ice-skating rinks, bowling alleys, frozen yogurt establishments, malls, movie theatres, beautifully landscaped subdivisions where every road ends in a cul-de-sac, and twenty million ALTA teams. There are hundreds of restaurants featuring food from all over the planet and you rarely have to drive more than a few minutes to find the motherland Target.  True, traffic can occasionally wreak havoc on your plans and you have to know where to look to find the truly “charming” areas of the city, but most of the time, I am aware of how lucky I am to make my home in Atlanta.  There are people in the world who live without running water and paved roads and democracy.  I live in a great city.  Still, although my husband would never agree to the idea of packing up the family and moving to Soho, sometimes, I’m completely open to the idea. 

Sometimes, I think I need a change of scenery, a change of pace, a change of perspective.  I wonder if it would be good for me to spend a little time missing a few of the conveniences of which I’ve grown so accustomed.  Perhaps if I had a chance to depart from the only home I’ve ever known, I could one day return to it with a greater sense of appreciation for all it has to offer.

Maybe, if I had to squeeze my family into a four-hundred square foot apartment with a kitchen the size of a closet, I would stop wishing for marble countertops and new appliances in my current kitchen.  Maybe, if I had to walk ten blocks to find a patch of grass, I would enjoy the half-acre lot I live on now instead of coveting the house down the street on three acres.  You know, the one with the marble countertops and new appliances.  And the hand scraped hickory floors.  And the mudroom.   And the . . .

Okay, that’s enough of sharing the whole “where my treasure is there my heart will be also.”  Clearly, my heart has up and relocated to a fabulous new address, and is now unable to pay even a small percentage of the mortgage.

The thing about home though, is that it really isn’t about a house, or a yard, or even an apartment overlooking Central Park.  And when I contemplate the idea of moving away, there are anchors around my soul that keep me rooted right where I am.  Their faces fill my mind when I think about starting over in a new place, and I realize . . . my place is with them. 

My place is with my family.  My place is with my friends.  My place . . .  is with my people.  The people who know me and care for me and love me in spite of the fact that my heart is so flawed it spends more time longing for Carrera marble countertops than it spends longing for world peace. 

Home. 

It’s where your people are, and as Georgia well knows, you should always stay close to your people.   My people are in Atlanta, and for now, a brownstone in Soho will just have to wait.  


***  After reading this, I suggest you cue up "Home" by Phillip Phillips and dance around your kitchen without spending even one millisecond thinking about Carerra marble countertops.  Oh, and stay as far away from Lake Lanier as possible.

Have you ever been so shocked by a person’s behavior that you are completely unclear about how to behave in response?  Have you ever cut someone out of your life?  Has someone ever cut you out of theirs?   It’s unfathomable to me that a person you care for, and believed cared about you, could decide they no longer want you at all. 

It’s happening in my life right now - the cutting out by another - and it hurts.  I know I did not do anything wrong, yet I feel guilty.  I also feel angry and confused and frightened and . . . the emotions are too tangled in the story to name. You see, this person is important.  This person who no longer cares to know me - she is someone I planned to be in touch with until the end – someone I would have worked it out with at all costs, despite our many differences.  And I think what hurts more than anything else isn’t the fact that she’s cut me out of her life.  It’s that in doing so she’s made it clear my children mean nothing to her.  Not only is that unfathomable to me, it actually feels . . . unforgiveable.

And so, I keep asking myself how to behave.  And I keep promising myself I’ll take the high road, although, when I’m honest, it’s not the route I want to take.  I know precisely what Jesus would do in this situation. And the reason I know I need Him?  What he would do is exactly the opposite of what I would like to do.

Love your neighbor as yourself. 

That’s what he said and it sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?

But loving others as we love ourselves . . . that’s a big command.  HUGE. 

Let’s face it people – we love ourselves.  If there was ever a time and place in the existence of the universe that people have loved themselves, it is right now in the United States of America.  We are so in love with ourselves we spend outrageous amounts of money to have the right clothes, purses, and shoes while others mothers in other countries sell their blood to feed their babies.  We are so in love with ourselves we pay people to do our nails, lighten our hair, massage our bodies, build our muscles, perfect our skin.  We are so in love with ourselves we share our thoughts and feelings with anyone who will listen via Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and meaningless blogs that allow us to think we’re sorting out the messes of our lives in front of an audience who only roots for our success.

Love yourself?  Yep. I’d say we’ve got that covered.  I certainly do.

It’s the love others part we struggle with. 

When Jesus said love your neighbor as you love yourself, he meant love the stranger in front of you at the store who lingers too long.  He meant love the driver who cut in front of you in the parking lot.  He meant love the teacher who grades unfairly.  He meant love the teenager who plays loud music in the house down the street, and the old friend who makes choices you don't agree with, and the mother at your children’s school who does things differently from you.  When Jesus said love your neighbor as you love yourself, he meant love the child who frustrates you and the business partner who does nothing but complain and the husband who sleeps next to you in bed each night but has never made you feel more alone.  And although I’d like to convince myself there’s an exception to Jesus’ command to love others . . . deep down . . . beyond the black and the dark and the sin in my heart . . . I know I will NEVER find one.

Because when Jesus said love your neighbor as yourself, he meant love everyone in that way, including the one who has chosen to make you an enemy.  Love her despite her anger and accusations.  Love her even though she has made you question the past and doubt the future.  Love her after her words and actions sting so intensely you fear the burn won’t end.  Love her even when you are certain she will never love you back, when she has stated that, in fact, she never loved you back.  Love her when she has verbally attacked you in such a way you can’t stop thinking about it, because you realize that after more than a decade of trying to follow Jesus, there is someone on earth who doesn’t see even a hint of Him in you at all. 

Love her.

And so she won’t.  And yet I will.

I will love because He loves me.  And with Him . . . love always wins.