Saved from Myself by the Golf Cart Man

Seated on a fancy, cloth covered bench, waiting to meet with an editor, I realized my sheer outer layer shirt was on in-side-out.  Skipping morning coffee had proved a dire mistake. After looking both ways, I remedied the situation. But I knew I was in trouble. 

Nestled on a hillside outside of Asheville, NC, the Ridgecrest Conference Center hosts the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian WritersConference every May. After a seven year hiatus from attending, I packed my bags - and my shiny red Rollator walker - and drove north.  

Mr. Lawson (aka: the golf cart man) stood from a rocker on the front porch of the registration building and met me as I piled my luggage onto the seat of my walker. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. 

My body stiffened. "Oh, I'm OK," I replied with a sweet southern smile, disguising my angst.

"Are you sure?" he insisted.

Tangled with emotion but knowing I'd face another round trip without his aid, I acquiesced. 

"Well, no," I admitted. 

As he followed behind with my bags I learned that he and his wife drove from Florida to volunteer at the conference. They were there to help people like me if I could just let go of my pride.

But as I explained to a few conferees, at home I disguise my limitations well. Or at least I like to think so. I avoid grocery and Wall-Mart sized stores as much as possible. I maintain a schedule that allows for rest and quiet. And I take naps when I can and cook and clean less than is optimal. 

When I live within my limits and my hair is curled, I look like a normal 45 year old mom just living life. But when I leave town and my walker becomes a necessity, my insides twirl. Facing my disability head on stirs a feeling of vulnerability I dislike.

But as I left dinner that first night and headed towards the group meeting, I learned that our twice daily gatherings took place in a new building up the hill, farther away than expected. I honestly didn't think I'd make it through the week. Yet when Mr. Lawson found me after the meeting and offered a ride to my room, I brushed him off, "No, I'm OK. Thanks anyway."

Why? Who knows.

I definitely have an independent streak. But more than that, I just wanted to walk through the evening breeze back to my room like everyone else. I wanted to be normal.

But I'm not.

The reality hit home the next morning when I realized my shirt was on inside out. 

I located the coffee shop soon after and took two naps before the days end. And in time I succumbed to the sincere offers from Mr. Lawson and his wife who found me after every group meeting and offered me ride back to my room. My willful spirit melted and we even set times for them to pick me and drive me to classes and meals. 

Their kind persistence saved me from myself.

Me and Mr. Larson after my last golf cart escort.

My son and his wife were staying with us when I got home. Knowing how big the week had been, Courtney commented, "You're not nearly as tired as I thought you would be."

"It's because of the golf cart man," I replied. "He and his wife saved me the last two days and made me realize I'll function better if I ask for help from day one next time."

So while I met some great authors last week that have encouraged me on many levels, I'm mostly grateful for Mr. and Mrs. Lawson.

For while it's true that in our weakness the Almighty is very strong, when I admit that weakness and lean on equipment and others for help, I'm stronger still. 

He, the Almighty, strengthens my spirit. His helpers on earth help keep my body strong. No doubt, I need a combination of both.

 photo credit: Lost-in-kop illustration via photopin (license)

6

Overflowing with a Childlike Heart

When I don't have an early morning appointment, I slip onto the edge of our kitchen table and sip coffee with my nose only inches from our picture window. My child's heart wakens with wonder as birds perch on our feeder and squirrels eat seed dropped on the porch floor. While I'd rather the squirrels were bunnies with long ears and whiskers, their constant flitting amuses me as I emerge from sleep.

Today was no different. In need of a shower and aware of dishes and laundry piled behind me, I sat barefoot on the table's edge and took in our yard of green. Every now and then I'm certain the trees talk, especially when their leaves blow in rhythmic conformity, tossed effortlessly by the wind.

At times I've questioned my tendency towards child like wonder. But not any more.

My friend, Antje, sent me a CD series about two weeks ago. We met over 20 years ago when she lived nearby. Friends for a time, we lost touch after she moved (with her new husband) to her homeland, Australia. Like many of you, we connected on Facebook in recent years and stay in touch via the internet. Still, I was surprised when she asked for my address to send something my way.

Not long after, a package arrived from Brilliant Book House. When I opened it, I held the CD set, Growing Up in God. Since Antje had gone to so much trouble to send it, I was grateful for a long drive the next day, during which I soaked in Graham Cooke's teaching. As a result, I'm living with new perspective... or rather an old perspective now validated and made real again.

For one of the most poignant lessons I learned during my first husband's illness came to me while we sat in the pediatric neuro-oncology department at Duke University Hospital. As chemotherapy dripped into Jason's veins, I read the following:

"At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me." (Matthew 18: 1-5 NIV)

The words rushed into my soul like living water. We were to be like children. To think like children. To trust like children. To awake with wonder like my bright eyed boys who entered the day unscathed by life's complexity.  The Holy Spirit whispered, "I want you to trust me like your boys trust you. I want you to wake with joy instead of worry simply because you know I'm going to take care of you."

"Seriously?" I countered, "There's a brain tumor growing in Jason's head. He's already been deemed terminal. I may lose the father of my children and my best friend and you want me to trust with childlike wonder?"
 

My grandson, Adam!

Adam and Penny!

My toddlers rarely woke without a smile, ready to embrace the day. When I nurtured that joy, our day went well. But when stress and worry left me with heavy steps that longed for an escape, we often melted down by nap time. 


Child like joy. It's not easy to maintain.

But Jesus said, "Whoever welcomes one such child, welcomes me."

Would I really find freedom by simply welcoming my children every day? By relaxing into my father's care and overwhelming love for me?

Mr. Cooke's teaching is a seven part series about nurturing your child's heart; about truly trusting as a much loved child of God. As I listened to his words, the lesson came back in full force and awakened that place of wonder with renewed tenacity.

So I'll swing my feet on the edge of our kitchen table and listen for talking trees. And hope that in the process my soul stretches wide to where calm overrides worry and peace surpasses fear. 

He really has it all under control. My child heart knows this well.

 

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photo credit: Butterfly_DSC0641 via photopin (license)

3

Living Your Legacy; What will you Leave Behind?

I barely had time to indulge in a cup of coffee last Thursday before running out the door. By 10am I was seated in a choir loft with members of the funeral choir at St. Joseph Catholic Church. While I didn't know the man being memorialized, I knew others who did. Like Sue. 

When six-year-old Henry finished his piano lesson last Tuesday, his grandmother, Sue, was waiting on my covered porch. For the last several years, I've taught Sue voice lessons (along with other St. Joe's choir members) on Thursday mornings. Since we often talk as much as we sing it was quite natural to ask, "Are you having a good week?"

"Yes," Sue replied, "But there's a funeral Thursday morning that has me nervous. The man who died had a stroke fourteen years ago and his family is very special to a lot of people. I want it to go well and they're bringing in a guest organist, named Ari."

"I know Ari!" I interrupted, "She played for Jason's service. I love her. She's fabulous. There's no need to worry. She'll be great."

"But she's not Catholic," Sue countered, "And I'm supposed to cue her during the service. Plus, we never know who will show up to sing." 

She paused and then continued, "Could you come sing with us? The funeral is right before our Thursday lesson."

Hmmm... 

Right before my first husband's memorial service began, I was led through basement rooms and up a flight of stairs to the large doors in the back of the sanctuary. Only then did I realize I was expected to process down the very long middle aisle of the large Methodist church with my boys. Emotions paralyzed me. But right before I fell apart Ari started an upbeat, southern gospel version of Victory in Jesus on the massive organ. My. Heart. Soared. Dressed in a bright purple skirt and black heels, friends later said I looked like Ms. America walking the aisle. 

Little did they know, I've always owed Ari. 

Knowing Ari was offering her services to her grief stricken neighbors I battled the notion I should help out. But I'd been sick all week and wasn't sure I was up for the 9:30 call time. So as Sue left with Henry trailing behind, I allowed reason to dictate and declined her invitation.

Five minutes later, my other kindergarten student (and granddaughter) arrived for her lesson. Having invited them for dinner, when Hazel and I finished studying quarter notes, she ran off with her sister while I chatted with Misty. 

"So what's been going on with you guys?" I asked as chicken nuggets warmed in my oven.

"Well," she started, "I went on a woman's retreat this weekend, which was fun, but while I was gone I found out a friend's dad died on Saturday. He had a stroke fourteen years ago..."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, "I know this story. Sue just filled me in."

Misty went on to explain that her husband's best friend is married to one of the deceased man's daughters. Did you follow that? My step-son, Kelly, is good friends with Matt who is married to Rachel. And Rachel's father was the man who had died after living with severe disabilities for over fourteen years. 

When I knew Kelly and Misty would attend the funeral, it didn't take long to cave to the inner nudge.So after a quick cup of coffee Thursday morning and two handfuls of morning medicines, I entered the choir room to rehearse. 

In case you don't know, Catholics sing a lot during funerals. I sipped my power juice, trying to ramp up. But my legs still got shaky after I sang a few descants and stood through song after song. But it was worth the effort because we're only alive for about ten minutes. Or that's what Beth Moore asserted on a video I watched last night. 

Ten minutes. In light of eternity, we're a blip on the radar. A speck of pollen on a high count day.

"He brings princes to naught and reduces the rulers of this world to nothing. No sooner are they planted, no sooner are they sown, no sooner do they take root in the ground, than he blows on them and they whither, and a whirlwind sweeps them away like chaff." (Isaiah 40: 24)

There were many things I could have done that morning but sitting through Ron Lamb's funeral enriched my soul. When his daughter spoke, it was clear how much he impacted his family's life, even from a wheel chair. While his speech may have been slurred, his heart spoke volumes. 

After the Baltimore riots, the loss of nursing students in South Georgia, and the news that ISIS slaughtered another round of Christians, celebrating a life well lived in difficult circumstances calmed me. It's not about how fast I walk or how many days I survive without a nap. It's about maneuvering the day to day grind with integrity and grit, making the simple difference my life is intended to make.

So I didn't get much writing done last week. I relished family, made some good memories, and took a few much needed naps. 

The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra premiered a commissioned work by Christopher Theofanidis titled, Creation / Creator. Nathan and Mom sang with the chorus while Dad and I tried to make sense of the artistry. When the applause began, Dad leaned over and said, "It was not a night for the left brained."

 

The following morning, Sam ran his first Triathlon at West Point Lake. While he placed 62nd out of 272 entrants, his knees swelled and turned red during the bike ride. His knees have never tracked well due to muscle imbalance, but he didn't quit. He rode 26 miles through pain and then ran a 10K. 

There are times I accuse him of being a bit crazy. But deep down, he inspires me.

 

 

Having placed 62nd in the overall competition, he doesn't cherish is very cool trophy as much as I do. But since he placed first in his age division, it now sits on a shelf in his room. Combine that with his 4.0 at the end of his junior year at Tech, and all I can say is, I'm really proud of my boy who pushes through, rallies in a crisis, and doesn't give in to pain.

 

 

Sam and Courtney leave for Washington, DC in a few weeks. So I spent time last weekend helping them pack. Sam will be training to run an Ironman in the fall while Courtney works with Wycliffe Bible Translators in their DC office. I love how their figuring out life together.

After packing, I drove north and attended Nathan's chorus show. Tradition dictates the choral directors join in one of their class performances, so Nathan shaved at intermission, put on a crazy wig, and blended right in with his women's ensemble. Watch the transition below!

 

When I drove in my driveway after the funeral, these flowers were in full bloom. When they blossom every spring, I think of Donna, my husband's first wife. She planted them. She's the reason flowers still grow in our yard. I can't weed or handle the heat enough to maintain the natural beauty she once cultivated. 

So when the flowers bloom in spite of my limitations, a wave of thankfulness washes over me. And I think about the color she left in this world. Not just in our yard, but in the hearts of her friends and family. 

Do you get that? Right now, this very minute, you're planting seeds that will be left when your time is up. Donna's flowers grow in spite of neglect. Ron Lamb's legacy reaches far beyond his wheelchair. My heart bursts with the simple possibilities.

A piano student arrived early so I'll finish what's taken me days to craft. Cause leaving a little music behind is not such a bad thing.

What's your legacy? What will you leave behind?


photo credit: Costa Coffee 450 by Richard Carl Pearson via photopin (license)

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