The Bumper Sticker

It's just before 7 a.m. and I am driving to work.  The sun is peaking from behind the mountains.  My car stops behind a pick up truck at the intersection.  I wait to turn right.  I am third in line.

I read the bumper sticker on the back of the the tailgate -"Defeat DIPG".  It takes but a moment to realize I am behind my neighbor. 

How many people have followed behind him unaware of the meaning behind the bumper sticker?  How many have thought it was nothing more than a $1 purchase slapped onto the back of a tailgate?

Maybe it cost a dollar, but the adhesive in which it sticks to the tailgate came at the cost of his 6 1/2 year old daughter.  A bright, beautiful light snuffed out by an incurable and cruel disease.

It wasn't just a bumper sticker.
It was a proclamation of the wounds he bore.

I think about the wound losing a child brings.  A pain so sharp, the wound is that of a bleeding gash in which you do everything to stop the bleeding.  Eventually, slowly, the wound begins to heal.  The pain shows itself as a cut.  Yet a single word, a smell, a memory opens  the wound wide and once again all energy is devoted to stop the bleeding.

Those are the dark days.  The days you wonder if you'll ever see a sunrise again.

I glance to my left at the mountains and the still rising sun.  The sky is alive with color.

There were many days I had wondered if the sun was rising.
It was. I just couldn't see it.
The wounds from those days are scars now; never gone but a very near reminder. 

Not a single one of us doesn't have a cut in need of healing.  
Maybe it's a wound bleeding uncontrollably.
Maybe it's a scar.

But it's there.

You know what else is there?  The sunrise.
There may be days the clouds are so thick, you can't see it.
But it's there.

It just may be tomorrow before you can see the colors the sunrise brings.

Football Whistles

Despite the euphoria from running my trail race the week before, my motivation to get out and run was non-existent.  I drove to town, parked the car and began running the streets of my hometown.

The miles took me past my old high school.  A Saturday morning and the parking lot was filled with cars.  The familiar sound of a football whistle filled the air and tumbled me back into old memories.  Suddenly my boys were in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades and I was the cheering mom running up and down the sidelines with each play. 

The days of fundraisers, practices and football board meetings were no longer a whisper of yester-years but as real as the moment I was in.  I remember the parents I still call friends and the football coaches who taught our boys how to push harder.  I witnessed grown men pour love into all those boys and I watched those very boys grow stronger.  I remember chain gangs, bear crawls and constant encouragement from the parents and the coaches.

I don't remember the last whistle.
I walked off the sideline and didn't know football was finished in our home.  My boys didn't want to play anymore, and we supported them.

It is by God's grace sometimes that we don't know the lasts.  With my youngest becoming a senior this year, I've pondered "the lasts" a lot these last few days.

By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would pick up my boys into my arms.
By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would tuck them into bed for the night.
By God's grace I didn't know the last time I would read them a nighttime story.
By God's grace I didn't always know the lasts.

And I am so thankful for that.

Looking square in the eyes a year full of lasts, I find myself often these days with a tear or two rolling down my cheek.  Although a parents job is never finished, it sure feels like a big door is closing and sealing itself shut. 

Don't get me wrong, I look forward to the day my summer doesn't end with a school bell ringing or having my vacations dictated by a school calendar.  I look forward to the great big world that awaits my boys and the adventures they choose.  I look forward to the new chapters that await all of us.

But for right now, this mama is thinking about tiny bodies crawling into my lap, kissing the boo-boos away...and football whistles.

You Never Know

A festival brought thousands into my hometown.  The main road through town closed and hot rods of every make and color lined their way up and down the street.  Folks passionate about their cars, and restoring history, showcased their hard work for everyone to see.

My husband Dennis was wiping down our friend Dan's 1949 Chevy pick up truck which he had driven to the festival.  I make my way over to find the guys sitting in the camp chairs, chiding each other like all car guys do.

The band played in the background and played some of my favorite songs.  It was easy to sing along.  Talking with the guys about everything and nothing; Kevin made his way over to say hello.

The talk was light and we talked of his beautiful red 1967 GT 500 Mustang parked with the hood up.  We watched as others admired his car.

"It's been 3 years since I've taken that car out." He tells me.
 "You need to change that.  Toys are meant to be played with." 
I smile.  
He smiles.

"My brother committed suicide 4 months ago."
 
In an instant, we had dove into the deep end of the pool.  Truth be told, he was probably just as surprised at saying it as I was at hearing it.

"Oh Kevin, I am so sorry.  I am so, so sorry."
"Yea.  It's fine.  I'm over it."
"No you're not."
"You're probably right.  I yelled at everyone in the office the other day."
"That's grief," I say.
"My wife said the exact same thing."

He recounts the time leading up to the day his brother took his life.  He shares details, worries; concerns.  I listen. 

"I had no idea he was struggling." He turns and looks at me, "I just didn't know."

"You're a man and you are wired to fix things.  If I could be so bold as to guess, I would guess your biggest struggle with your brother's death is you can't fix it.  You didn't know what led to what he did. Now, because he's gone, you'll never know.  You can't fix it and that difficulty is overwhelming."
He nods.  
He studies the people around us.  "Sometimes you just never know."

"Yea, sometimes you just never know."  I share my own story.  I share losing mom to cancer and dad to a car accident within a year of each other; both at Christmas.  I share how the doctors didn't know what caused dad to lose consciousness and veer off the road.  I share watching them work fervently on dad 48 hours later as his blood pressure dropped once again and they fought to keep him alive.  I share I watched them cry as he succumbed to what they fought so hard against.

"We'll never know why dad lost blood pressure.  The brightest minds couldn't figure it out that day.  Sometimes, you just never know."

He nods in agreement, "Sometimes you just never know."

Our conversation had been a better part of an hour.
"Why don't we go get ourselves some raspberries and ice cream?" I suggest.  

Somehow it just seemed appropriate.  Raspberries were the reason for the festival and Dad always felt better after ice cream.

We eat the ice cream and berries.  Laughter once again fills the conversation.  

The truth is, you never know the day God will use your story and your struggling climb up to the mountain top as a beacon into the valley below.  

You just never know.

A Gift of Pebbles

A beautiful summer day, and the park was sparse with people.  The path I was running twisted into a clearing.  A young family lazily walked toward me while I ran.

Their 3 year old daughter walked about 20 paces ahead of them.

She watched me.  Soon her little feet began to run.

Without warning, she made a 90 degree turn immediately into my path. 
"NO JAYCE NO!  Honey, noooo!!! 
Both parents shouting and trying to stop their daughter.
I stopped as quickly as I could and avoided the 2 of us colliding.

Grateful I avoided an unfortunate incident, I knelt down to look into her eyes.
I offered my hand for a high five.
"Nice running you were doing there.  Can I have a high five?"

She immediately knelt into the same position I was in.
 
"Can I have a high five?" again offering my hand.

She looks at my hand, reaches down to the only thing she can find, and gifts me a tiny fist full of pebbles.
Her face could not contain the enormity of her smile.
My smile matches hers.
"This is the best gift I have received all day.  Thank you."

Her parents smile, take her hand and continue on their way.
I do the same.

My heart full, I thought about Jayce and her gift of pebbles.

Jayce saw an empty hand.
Without hesitation, she filled it with the only thing she could, a fist full of pebbles.
I saw someone reaching out to help me.
I did the only thing I could do, and opened my hand.
And we both walked away smiling.

Thank you Jayce for reminding me to give what I can with simply what is within my reach.
This runner had no idea a gift of pebbles could feel so good.

He Restores My Soul

It was the mid-90s when I walked into my parent's house and Mom told me Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.  With tears streaming down my cheeks, I found my father sitting in his chair.  His eyes were red from tears, his Bible lay on his lap.  It was open to Psalm 23.

In the darkness of the diagnosis, he found comfort in the words of David.  Words no doubt read hundreds of times, yet in the bitterness of an unwanted reality the words breathed new life.

How often it happens - words we've heard over and over, that they've lost their impact.  Words read so often, we quickly pass over them barely paying attention.  Until one day it sticks.  

The words become powerful once again.

This past week I struggled. I beat myself up.  I made wrong choices, said ungrace-filled things.   I got tired.  I began to read the words my Dad found comfort in so many years ago.  

...He makes me lie down in green pastures...
God, I could really use some green pastures about now.  Things are feeling a little barren and brown.

...He leads me beside still waters....
Still waters sound peaceful.  I could use some peaceful.  Life has been hectic, could you still the waters for me Jesus?

...He restores my soul...
The blinders came off, and the words laid like a weight on my heart.

He restores my soul.
He does not fix it.
He does not transform it.
He does not make it like new.
He restores it.

The claw marks left from sin grabbing at my soul will be gone.
The black paint my wrong choices have smeared all over my soul, will be no more.
The chips and dings marked on my soul by my brokenness, will disappear.

Jesus restores my soul.  With the pain-staking perfection of the Artist who created the original, He will restore it.  The vivid colors He always intended me - us - to have, will once again shine through in all their vibrancy.

At the still waters, the chaos strips away.
At the still waters, I lay it all open.
At the still waters, I whisper for help.
At the still waters, He hears me.
At the still waters, He begins.

He leads me besides still waters.
He restores my soul.

The Cross in The Middle

"When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left."  Luke 23:33

Two men deemed worthy to die by Roman torture and crucifixion.   Why are they here in the Easter story?  What had they done to be placed on the right and left of Jesus? 

Two men and a single choice.  Their lives were over, this is without a doubt and they knew it.  Romans had mastered crucifixion and they would all die that day.  Their final 6 hours on earth and they were granted the right and left of Jesus.  And they were faced with a choice - what were they going to do with the cross in the middle?

Two men watched the people of the crowd.  Some from the crowd looking at Jesus in disgust; some crying.  Some were angry; some were weeping.  They watched the people, they watched the cross in the middle.

Two men heard the words spewed from the crowd.  In the life they led, they would have been no strangers to hateful speech.  Yet today, the crowd was angry and vengeful and Jesus remained silent.  Jesus held no anger at their hate.  Instead they heard Jesus plea, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." Luke 23:34  


Two men watching the cross in the middle.  

They each made their choice.

One hurled insults, the other rebuked.
One spewed hate, the other sought love.
One was lost, the other found.
One was blind, the other saw.
One wretched, the other grace.
One rejected, the other asked for acceptance.
 
And Jesus was in the middle.

The bridge between insults and rebuke.
The bridge between hate and love.
The bridge between the lost and the found.
The bridge between blindness and sight.
The bridge between rejection and acceptance.

The cross in the middle is the bridge between hell and heaven.

Easter is about the cross in the middle.  You and I are about the cross on the right and the left.  Those are our stories.  Those are our choices.

Two men.
One choice.
What are you going to do with the cross in the middle?

Salted With Fire

"For everyone will be salted with fire." Mark 9:49, NASB

Jesus continues in verse 50 " Salt is good: but if the salt becomes unsalty, with what will you make it salty again?  Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another."

Salt.  A preservative and a flavor enhancer.

​These verses have been in my forethought lately.  Words ruminating in my mind; specifically the word "everyone". 

For EVERYONE will be salted with fire.  It doesn't matter if you're a Christian or not, you will be tested with fire and it will produce salt in your life.  The key is Who do you turn to while in the fire?

As my mind swims in this verse I think back to Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah.  3 men kidnapped from their homes and forced to live another world.  A world where their beliefs were made fun of, their God ridiculed and everything was thrown at them to get them to conform.  They were even forced to change their names to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

​Yet they stood firm in their belief in God.  One would think being kidnapped and forced into a different life would be their testimony; their salt with fire.  It wasn't.

Refusing to bow and worship the king of the land, they were thrown into the fire.  Literally.  A fire burning so hot those stoking the fire died from it's exposure.

Stop and think about what Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were thinking at that moment standing outside the fire.  Their life was over.  They were about to be thrown into a fire that killed those near it.  There would be no escaping this.  How would you feel standing there?

Maybe they still thought God would save them.  That single thought giving immense power to a small flicker of hope.  But then they are thrown into the fire and they find themselves air born and falling. 

They knew it was over.

Until it wasn't.

Jesus showed up.

When the despair had taken all the hope - as they stood IN the fire - Jesus showed up.  In the midst of the flames, Jesus was there with them.  Did they look around at the flames with faith?  Did they become fearful like Peter did when walking on the stormy water? 

I don't know.  But what I do know is Jesus didn't put out the fire.  He stood in it.

As the king knew 3 men were thrown in the fire and now could see 4 men walking around, he called them to come out of the fire.  Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego came out.

Jesus did not.

You see, the men had been salted with fire and it was their story to share.  Jesus left it to them to tell others how He showed up in their most desperate moment.

Most of us won't find ourselves in a literal fire.  But pain and trials and testing may lay a fire to us unlike one we've ever known.  For everyone will be salted with fire.  Everyone. 

So when you feel those hot flames licking at your soul, look around.  You'll find Jesus standing in the flames with you.