Careful with Words

bravery, courage, Trust, Vulnerability

Today, someone told me something I never expected to hear.

Nor could she know I’d been nagged by the same possibility, the same thought.

I’m sure she’d no idea I had abandoned one thing for another.

This first, it’s attainable, not scary.

I’d been detailing dissertation like understandings of truth and mostly they’d been falling on eyes and ears not receptive or just a handful of those who had treasured them.

And I do have a few, the ones who aren’t derailed by my truths.

They love my honesty, raw they say.

Avoidance, it seems; no,

it is.

Disengagement from the calling, the scary brave thing, sidelined and benched by my doubts and intentional delays.

Little hints of what I might say were I brave enough to write.

Everyday I think of it and I make sense of it, the story, its chronology, its flow.

The one I felt should be called “treasure”,

The Colors of my Bible…

Yet, I’ve not done what now two have suggested…give less time to the blog and write the manuscript…write without reservation.

Manuscript, not just blog or Instagram or Lord, help me…


Products, politics and pitiful stories, oh my goodness, Facebook, I love you, but won’t you please stop getting all promotional!

Here I am, now deciding to read the Proverb, 25 on the day, 25th.

Needing another reminder, an assurance of better day tomorrow.

And I’m certain. I’m convinced.

After reading the words on aged pages highlighted in pink.

No more avoiding the manuscript.

No more throwing my pearls to swine.

I’ll be more careful with my words, my words, mine to share.

Feelin’ melancholy, Sis?



Something about Sunday had me wanting to go home.

To the country, a big white house, grandma’s house.

It was a sneaky kind of longing all around a breakfast choice, wishing for breakfast at my grandma’s…doors wide open to the wrap around the front screened-in porch.

I always loved the narrow little side porch, a good place to be tucked away.

Last Sunday morning, I found myself wanting what couldn’t be again.

That kind of floating around in your mind of all things changing.

The knowledge of not being able to be in that place, with those people again, not a cumbersome sadness dragging around all Eyoreish….

Just an almost sweet ache. I had written about the look on my son’s face at graduation, and my sister-in-law commented:

“Feeling melancholy, sis?” Dianne

And it stuck.  Why yes, I believe I am and by the way, Thank you for putting a name to my longing, my wistful thinking

Also,  thank you for calling me “sis”.

That made me smile in the simplest and sweetest of ways.

Melancholy feelings on a Sunday morning,

Wishing for, what back then I thought silly, odd old people ways.

I opened the refrigerator for milk, thinking I’ll have cereal and banana for a change.

Instead of protein boredom and sameness,  I immediately thought corn flakes in the big white, bright rooster box and I went for the closest we had in the cabinet.

Remembered the wilted,  golden floating, softened flakes… me, at Bama’s tipping the bowl to get every last drop of milk flavored with thick sweetness of cream.

I was thinking about my grandma’s sweet milk, tiny pancakes and coffee with cream from a can, poured into the saucer of a cup to cool so I could then sip along with her.

So, instead of two percent,  I grabbed the pint of light cream purchased earlier for something, can’t even recall.

I poured it over my flakes and bananas, its creaminess settling amongst the fruit and flakes, finding its way into the ridges of the flakes and sinkin’ into the bananas.

I tasted home, sweet country dirt road, playing  baseball with my cousins on the clay front yard home.

The sweetness of simple, of sparseness, of sameness…of small things that happened with spontaneity.

Again on Wednesday, I thought of Bama, my grandma.  I moved into my morning, the lingering melancholy of accepting change, difference, good and worthy transitions…blue, nonetheless.

Waking up feeling complacent, doubtful…needing to surrender but not really feeling hopeful or too thrilled with letting go…


I journaled in the quiet marking my little notes to self. Remembering my grandma in the dim tiny light, her Bible in her lap. I made more notes on prayer.

Lately, God has called my heart and beckoned my attention towards prayer. That morning, empty house except a snuggled down beagle and lab puppy (like a toddler)  waiting beside the door, I sang in the shower;  free, confident and joyously affirming  “Tell it to Jesus”  Lisa.

Are you weary, are you heavy hearted?
Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus.
Are you grieving over joys departed?
Tell it to Jesus alone.


Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus,
He is a friend that’s well known.
You’ve no other such a friend or brother,
Tell it to Jesus alone.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am thankful for a chance to Tell My Story, His story.

Are you here yet?


Everything started moving really quickly.  May felt like two days, not a month. Your birthday, on the 29th and I thought,   “Didn’t we just get done with Christmas and your first car and making the AllStar team with your buddies, all lined up, gangly legs swinging along the side of the pool?”

Seriously, wasn’t it just a little while ago that bedtime meant Spot stories and afternoons were Tellie Tubbies and Clifford the Big Red Dog?  I feel like it was just yesterday, on a Sunday just like today…warm outside, summer time waiting for us to get home from church…that you caught me off guard, stepping from our pew and down the aisle to open your heart and life to Jesus.  And I cried, not big showy tears, sweet soul-filled tears.

And it seems not so very long ago that you’d fall asleep in my bed.  Not long ago that I’d pick you up from daycare to find you usually on the playground. I’d walk towards the window after gathering your things and I’d watch for just a bit. Mamas do that.  Sometimes you’d be sitting in the sand and I’d smile because I knew your sharp little blue Keds and socks would need to be emptied first thing.

Sometimes, it seems I’d find you in thinking mode. You’ve always been my thinking child.  And I could see you watching the other little boys and girls, content to sit and gaze.  I can see so clearly your little elbows on your knees, your chin cupped in your little hands. Or sometimes running around, laughing as you toddled on cute, chubby little tan legs, blonde hair glistening from the sun.

But most of all, I saw you waiting, your face intently focused and your little mind’s clock anticipating my arrival,  waiting to hear my voice, your name…”Austin I’m here.”

Are you here yet?

Are you here yet?

And this is why I can’t take my eyes off this one shot.

My daughter, making allowances for my lack of discretion,  captured this gem.   I told her…”Catch him looking, he’s scaninng the room.  Hurry, get that shot!”

 My son, looking to see if I had arrived.  Waiting to see me there. On the day of his graduation, knowing I was there, but looking for me in the crowd. Until finally a barely noticeable, understated nod and just a hint of a reassured smile.

Because he had been waiting to know, I was there.

Be assured,  “Austin, I’m here.”


Faith, Prayer, Trust, Uncategorized


Rest, solitude, surrender, acceptance, contentment and trust mean peace.

See this tattered and faded ball?  A confident, serene hue, slowly lingering yet deflating; but, confidently balanced on the water’s surface? It stays afloat because of what’s inside.

That’s trust in deep waters…assurance,deeply personal, invisible even…but it’s there and God sees it. Our surrender, our solace, our prayer of refuge, our reserve of hope in Him. Psalm 142:5

Peace is in the Center of God’s will.

Fortunate ones


0bf3c5016fc0301f1f8fa9b0db68f55bYears ago, I was responsible for a camp outing for boys and girls.  These children were handpicked based on the probability they would not be able to go to camp…this cool, adventurous camp made up of children of engineers, doctors, attorneys and such. We decided to bring in speakers who could share how they became a leader.

My guest arrived and I prepped him, suggesting, “Recall a time in your life of struggle or challenge and simply share how you got through and why you are stronger for the struggle.”

He replied, ” I don’t have anything to share.  I have not experienced struggle.” So, he stood, towering over a group of children sitting “criss-cross applesauce” and talked about himself and his accomplishments.

I have often pondered this. Is it possible to never experience misfortune? Is it possible to have been so fortunate that things were easy, no struggle, no yearning, no valleys…all peaks?

The fortunate ones, the ones without struggle, without challenge or sorrow…the ones who insist they’ve had no challenge…”it ain’t me, I’m not the fortunate one”.

I’m the one who thinks too much. Who laughs at herself, who embraces her imperfections, who smiles when a bird sings its morning song. Who shares her story, raw, real and true.

I’m the fortunate one who knows everyone has struggles…but only a few of us are courageous enough to use our stories for good…for God.

Proud Mom, Gracious God, Humble children


345ea6c284102bb4a26e444127277298Lord, May these words fall on the eyes of those who are not offended by honesty and soul-searching seeking of You. May I realize the sufficiency of Your grace.

I am not looking forward to the baseball game. In fact, I am dreading it. My son has been on the bench. If I am honest, I’m sad and worried. I am stopping now to grab a jacket or blanket and prepare to leave for the field. I procrastinate knowing this ridiculous anxiety will make me into a mean mom. One of those parents people avoid.

I have spent my day pondering “the root of bitterness” (Hebrews 12:15) that has formed in my heart and after an epiphany of sorts, I have sufficiently labeled this root as pride.

So, here I sit in my chair, opening the word of God to begin to understand the damaging effects of pride. Pride seeks to exalt, to self-promote, to dull the light of others. Pride is not good, moms. Pride says “look how amazing I am”. Pride acts as if God has no hand in our success, their accomplishments. Pride moves God to the background because Pride says  “Notice me” or “Notice my daughter, my son. I did that!”

Pride ignores all perfectly logical reasons for your situation. It matters not that I clearly understand and accept this season. None of that matters because pride is ugly and miserable and selfish. Pride tells your mind and heart that there is no reason why you are not the “one and only best”. Pride messes with your head and switches on the “I’ll fix this, I can’t make it through this” button.

Pride says, “Don’t trust God, trust your circumstances.”

Two identical verses:  scattered in separate books, not my plan to read either places…but obviously God’s.

God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. James 4:5


Lord, I surrender this root of bitterness. Give your grace to my humble soul.