September 17th: the Good, the Bad and All that is Important

I was born September 17, 1972.

I have always liked being a September baby.

Well, for the most part I liked it.

Both of my siblings had summer birthdays. They never had to think about going to school, taking a test, or doing homework on their birthdays. I have to admit that sometimes I would feel a slight twinge of jealousy about this.

However, the truth is I generally didn’t mind going to school on my birthday. My elementary classmates sang The Birthday Song to me most years. Sometimes my friends brought me a gift to open on the playground. Other years, my mom would allow me to have a friend come home after school, especially if my birthday fell on a Friday.

There was another reason I loved having a September birthday. It just so happened that both of my grandfathers had September birthdays too. My birthday happen to fall between their respective celebrations.

Whether we were with my mom’s dad on September 5th or my with my father’s father on September 19th, I always got to be included in the birthday celebration. Everyone sang to me, and I got a set of candles to blow out.  And since I was the only cousin (on both sides) with a September birthday, I always felt extra special. Looking back, it seems like nearly every year of my childhood I got to share a birthday party with one or the other of my grandfathers, and some years I was lucky enough to get two extra parties out of the deal!

However, as much as I loved my birthday, the childhood version of me always wished for a September 16th or 18th birthday instead.

The reason behind this longing is really kind of silly. Somehow in my childish way of thinking, 16 and 18 were more desirable numbers than 17. But obviously you are born on the day you are born, so there is no changing it afterwards. I am forevermore stuck with a September 17th birthday.

Good thing that over the years I’ve learned to embrace it … mostly.

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

Do you love reading the “On This Date in History” posts you see on social media? Or looking back at the headlines from the year you were born?

I do!

September 17th has a fairly interesting history, at least I think it does for a date that seems sort of random.  For example, all of the following events happened on September 17th:

  • The city of Boston was founded in 1630
  • In 1683, Dutch scientist Antonie van Leeuwenhoek (known as the “Father of Microbiology”) first described what he called “animalcules”, or microscopic organisms that we now know as  protozoa
  • The Constitution of the United States was signed in 1787
  • Harriet Tubman escaped from slavery in 1849
  • In 1976, the first Space Shuttle (Enterprise) was unveiled by NASA
  • Vanessa Williams was crowned the first black Miss America in 1983

Lots of good things have occurred historically on September 17th.

Unfortunately, there have been plenty of bad things that happened on this date as well. Such as:

  • In 1862 the American Civil War Battle of Antietam was fought, which to this day remains the single bloodiest day in the entirety of American military history
  • Also in 1862, the Allegheny Arsenal Explosion, single largest civil disaster of the Civil War
  • The first airplane fatality occurred in 1908 when Orville Wright crashed his plane during a show, killing his passenger
  • And in 1928 the Okeechobee Hurricane struck Florida and killed more than 2,500 people

and, depending upon how you feel about it, there is also this:

  • Lord of the Flies was first published in 1954.

Personally, I really disliked Lord of the Flies, which is why I included it on the list of bad September 17th events as opposed to the good list. It’s extremely hard for me to imagine that anyone could possible like this book. However, if by some strange chance you consider yourself a fan of Lord of the Flies, and if you feel inclined to correct my lists, then by all means feel free to comment below. I promise not to judge your sanity based on you love for this strange and disturbing novel.

Back to my ramblings on the fascinating history of September 17th.

There are lots of supposedly important people who happen to share my birthday.

You know, like Charles the Simple, who was a Frankish King who ruled West Francia from 898-922. He was the third son of King Louis the Stammerer and a cousin of Emperor Charles the Fat.

You remember King Charles the Simple, right?

Yeah, me neither. There really isn’t much to say about Charles, other than the fact that he was apparently simple … although exactly how or why he was described as simple seems to be lost to history. Some historians actually prefer to call him Charles the Straightforward. No explanation for that either. No matter which name you prefer, old King Charles is relatively unheard of today … well, unless you are really into Frankish royalty.

No worries if you didn’t recognize my birthday buddy Charles, though. There are plenty of other September 17th babies of notable fame, including:

  • Two Chief Justices of the United States Supreme Court: John Rutledge (#2, 1739) and Warren Burger (#15, 1907) … and they are the only two Supreme Court Chief Justices in the entire history of the Supreme Court to share a birthdate
  • American outlaw, Billy the Kid (1859)
  • Country singer, Hank Williams (1923)
  • Author of Ella Enchanted, Gail Carson Levine (1947)
  • Actor John Ritter (1948), who starred in the late 1970’s TV comedy Three’s Company
  • Video game designer, Yuki Naka (1965) who created “Sonic the Hedgehog”

Sometimes famous people have died on September 17th:

  • Dred Scott, an American slave who sued for his freedom and his case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, died in 1858
  • U.S. Vice-President Spiro Agnew passed away in 1996
  • One of my favorite comedians, Red Skelton, died in 1997

And my daddy. He died on September 17th, too.

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

The death of a parent is a grief like no other. It’s a bit like being untethered. Like a newborn baby screams as it is forced to breath air for the first time, so our souls desperately cry when our parents leave this world. Like the final cut in the cord that has connected you in this world for as long as you have drawn breath is suddenly gone. How will we go on without them? It doesn’t matter if you are young or old. This is your parent. You’ve never known life without them, and now that they are gone everything you have known about this world seems to be unstable.

The unexpected death of my father coincided perfectly with my 42nd birthday.  I’ve spent the last 4 years trying to make sense of that.

I don’t want it to matter, but it does … at least for now.

Perhaps not as much as it mattered last year, and not nearly the same as it did on the two years prior. Yet the pain is still present. How do you celebrate on the same day that you lost a person you loved so deeply since before you were really even you? How do you embrace joy yet mix it with solemn remembrance when the sting of griefs rolls around each year?

I haven’t figured it out yet. Right now, September 17th is still a hard day for me. Grief anniversaries are real; my heart is just often sad around this time of year. And yet, his is my birthday. I want to celebrate … and, perhaps more importantly, people I love want to celebrate with me.

For now, in regards to September 17th, I work really hard on doing two things:

  • Finding ways to acknowledge my sadness, because the anniversary of my daddy’s death is still a sad day for me. I am grateful that I know he waits for me in heaven. I rejoice over his eternal reward. I look forward to seeing him again. And yet, I miss him being here and I still sometimes grieve because he is gone.
  • And then I am intentional about being creative as I plan ways to celebrate my birthday with my family and friends. This year, that included a trip to my favorite weekend Farmer’s Market, a little Saturday afternoon antiquing, and a small impromptu party.  My favorite person in the whole world is taking me to lunch today after I spend the morning training as a volunteer counselor at our local pro-life pregnancy center (something I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time).

I can honestly say it’s been a happy birthday so far. And I also know (thanks to God’s loving kindness and mercy) that whatever else today may hold, whether it is good or bad, I can trust that He will walk with me through it.

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

With every year that rolls around, there is a September 17th. Some years good things have happened. Other years, it’s been a bad day.

Life is like that.

Some days are good. Some days are bad. Occasionally, you get a day where the good and the bad are mingled together.

And that’s okay.

Because as wise King Solomon once wrote: “On a good day, enjoy yourself; On a bad day, examine your conscience. God arranges for both kinds of days …”  (Ecclesiastes 7:14, The Message Bible)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Proverbs 3:5

Life Lessons from a Toothbrush

Saturday morning there was a big dilemma in my bathroom, but I suppose it really started on Friday night.

You see, that’s when I found the toothbrush on the bathroom counter next to the sink.

 

966378a1e702c0e5d29cf8670a645d6c

It looked like my toothbrush, but I thought I had put mine away already. However, now that I am in my mid-40’s, my kids constantly point out that my old memory isn’t as sharp as their young brains. Therefore, I figured I must have only thought I put my toothbrush away.  So, I picked it up, threw it in the toothbrush drawer on my toiletry organizer, and went to bed.

That was Friday night, when all was still well with the world.

Saturday morning, everything fell apart … sort of.

Jon couldn’t find his toothbrush. He looked high and low, but to no avail. His toothbrush could not be found. Several minutes into his desperate search, he asked me if I had seen his toothbrush. I hadn’t.

At least, I thought I hadn’t.

Then it hit me. Maybe that toothbrush by the sink wasn’t actually my toothbrush after all. What if it really belonged to Jon?

Sure enough, when I opened up my toothbrush drawer, there was one tube of toothpaste and two nearly identical toothbrushes.

Identical brands. Identical styles. Even the colors were oddly close. One was a sort of lime green and the other was a slightly darker, more tealish green.

Did I have lime green toothbrush? Or maybe mine was the teal blue one? I couldn’t remember.

Unfortunately, Jon couldn’t either.

He tried laying each toothbrush in his toiletries to see which one looked right. He couldn’t see any difference between the two.

I tried picking each one up and looking in the mirror to see if one appeared more correct than the other as I held it in my hand. I couldn’t tell. In fact, that little experiment only made me more confused about which toothbrush actually belonged to me.

It was no use trying to figure it out. Our toothbrushes were hopelessly mixed up.

But perhaps the biggest shocker for me was the realization that even after seven years of marriage … sharing drinks, tasting each other’s food (using the same utensil),  and kissing on a daily basis … there was no way on God’s green earth that I would even consider for a brief moment sharing a toothbrush with this man. Not even for one morning. That would definitely be taking germ-swapping too far!

Item #1 on Saturday’s to-do list:

Buy new toothbrushes!

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~

Oddly enough, this is not the first time I’ve had issues with toothbrush sharing. In fact, one of my mother favorite stories to tell involves me, my siblings, and a red toothbrush.

To really understand the story, you must first know that my mother staggered our bedtimes.

Give me a moment to take a rabbit trail here…

Why on earth would you stagger bedtimes? This just lengthens the amount of time it takes you to get everyone into bed. I used to think this was the way it had to be done, like it was some unwritten parenting rule. And then I had five children. Staggered bedtimes? Putting one child down every half hour? That lasted about two nights, and then everyone got the same bedtime. 

Anyway, back to my mother’s version of the toothbrush story …

One night she happened to be in the bathroom when my little sister brushed her teeth with a red toothbrush. Half an hour later, she noticed my brother brushing his teeth, also using the same red toothbrush. (You can guess where this is going, right?) Yep, half an hour later, I brushed my teeth … with a red toothbrush.

Apparently, we all liked red, so we all claimed the red toothbrush.

To hear my mother tell this tale, you would think we were quite old when this happened. But, I’m thinking it’s more likely to have happened when we were all rather young. Perhaps I was six years old, which would make Reid about four and Brooke around two. I guess I could have been as old as seven or eight. I realize that six years old is plenty big enough to know better than to share a toothbrush. But I am guessing that I didn’t know I was sharing a toothbrush with my siblings. After all, we had staggered bedtimes, w which meant staggered teeth brushing times as well.  Therefore, it’s safe to assume I had no idea which toothbrush my brother and my sister were using.  At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

(A little side note:  This is yet another good reason to send all children to bed at the same time. By doing so, you will ensure that your children will not be able to use the same toothbrush … or if they do, a fight will break out. Generally, children do not willingly share anything, including toothbrushes. Now, back to the story … )

Obviously, my mother was extremely appalled to discover her children were into toothbrush sharing. Being a good and conscientious mom, she couldn’t let this horrid habit continue. The next morning my mother went straight to the pharmacy and bought three brand-new toothbrushes. A blue one for Brooke. A red one for Reid. A purple one for me (Paige).

This was the start of the color system.

Eventually, the color system grew to include many areas of our life, from plastic drinking cups to school supplies. If my mother had to buy three of any item, and there was even the slightest chance we would fight over which item belonged to which person, she color-coded. Brooke always got blue. Reid always had red. Usually I had purple … but sometimes I ended up with pink, which caused me great grief because pink was about the last color I wanted associated with my name.  (Even back then, I was grateful I wasn’t a boy named Patrick.)

(Here’s a Parenting Tip: The color system only works if you name your children so that it is easy to match them with a color. I actually tried to implement it with my five children, but there aren’t any colors that match up with names starting with J, M, or N.  Still I was determined to use this idea, so I randomly assigned colors. Naturally, I forgot which child I assigned which color, and they fought over who got the “cooler” colors. Then there was a period of time when all of them wanted orange to be their color, and they fought over orange items daily. Oddly enough, no one’s name starts with O!  So while I might not see the brilliance of staggered bedtimes, my mother had a distinct advantage over me with her implementation of the color system.)

The color system worked wonderfully, and I am sure it simplified my mom’s life in many ways. Now if a blue cup was left on the kitchen counter, my mother instantly knew who forgot to put it in the dishwasher. Blue = Brooke. If there was a purple folder of schoolwork strewn across the dining table, she hollered my name because she knew Purple = Paige.

And it certainly solved the problem of the communal toothbrush!

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~

On Saturday, I went to the store and bought myself a new toothbrush. I decided ahead of time to purchase purple. It was safer to go with a color I could remember belonged to me.

As I stood there in the store, looking at all the toothbrushes, I felt a twinge of jealously. There are no colors starting with the letter J, which means Jon has far more color options than me.  Lime green. Teal blue. Bright red. Flashy orange. Why, I suppose he could pick a new color every single time he needs a new toothbrush!

Meanwhile, I’ve been using purple (or sometimes pink) toothbrushes most of my life. I would like a little variety from time to time. But experience has taught me the hard way, and right there on the toothbrush aisle of Walmart I realized the importance of sticking  with a system that actually works. So purple it is … because Purple = Paige.

As I reached out to pick out a purple toothbrush from the rack, I was struck with the thought that I have my mom to thank for teaching me this life lesson. She’s a wise woman who taught me many, many things  … but I bet that she never thought she would have to teach her children how to keep up with which toothbrush belonged to them!

Isn’t parenting odd like that?

You find yourself saying things to your children that you never imagined you would have to say out loud to another person.

“Of course, if you stick rocks up your nose you won’t be able to breath.”

“Plastic dishes are not oven-safe.”

“Quit brushing your hair with your toothbrush!”

As parents, we are constantly teaching our children. We train them in a myriad of ways, giving them daily lessons on a wide variety of topics, from the obviously big ones (how to manage money) to the insanely ridiculous ones (don’t share your toothbrush). We hope when our children leave us, they don’t forget the important lessons we’ve taught them over the years. It’s why I am so grateful for the assurance God gives us in the proverbs:

Train up a child in the way he should go;
Even when he is old he will not depart from it.

~Proverbs 22:6

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~  ~~~

My oldest biological child is turning 18 tomorrow. 

Eighteen.

My word.

He’s not nearly old enough to be eighteen. Yet somehow he is … and that boggles my mind!

Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of contemplating lately:  Have I taught my son everything he needs to know to be prepared for life? What did I forget to tell him that he absolutely has to know before he leaves for college in the fall? Does he know how to jump his car, change a flat tire, cook a fried egg, or sew on a button? Is he prepared for adulthood?

I’ve been seeing a lot on social media lately about how the millennial generation doesn’t have many of the basic life skills that previous generations had. “Adulting” classes are actually gaining popularity. It’s rather sad to me that this is a needed thing, and at the same time it causes me to stop and ponder how well I’ve done at teaching my son the skills he will need to live a successful life.

Deep down, I know the biggest life lessons I need to have taught my son are simple:

  1. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind.
  2. Seek first the kingdom of God.
  3. Let the Lord direct your paths.

When he was born, I started teaching him about the Lord, and over the years I have prayed daily for him to know these truths.  I know that if he has these lessons down, if his focus is on the right things, if his faith is intact … well, then everything will turn okay, even if he doesn’t know how to sew on a button.

Although, now that I think of it, maybe I would add just one more lesson to that list:

Never share your toothbrush.

 

Shine

green-star-md

Perhaps the biggest mystery of my childhood revolved around green stars.

Green stars meant something special to my parents. The mystery was that I never could figure out exactly what it meant.

Occasionally,  one of them would mention a green star in a passing comment. “Thanks for taking care of the dishes tonight! You deserve a green star,” my mother might say to my father.

Every so often, I’d find a green foil star stuck to a note. Maybe the author of the letter would have written something like “Here’s a green star, just for you! Have a good day!”

Once, my mother colored several small wooden stars with a green marker and put them on my father’s dresser. I asked her why she was doing it. She smiled and said simply, “Your father will understand.”

I guess he did, for several years later, I came across one in a box of my father’s old things … tie tacks with missing backs, lapel pins, random keys that had nothing to open, and that old wooded star now a rather faded shade of green.

As random and rare as seeing a shooting star in the sky, green stars wove in and out of my parents’ relationship.

Why were my parents always giving each other green stars?

How come I never got a green star?

All I really knew about the green star mystery is that it meant something good. 

And as a child, this drove me absolutely crazy.

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

Do you remember the gummed foil stars teachers used to stick to schoolwork?

vintage-dennison-gummed-star-stickers_1_2405814905caea5860aed0fa95a2d76f

I don’t think teachers give those out much anymore, but when I was in grade school every teacher had a box of star stickers in her desk drawer. The old kind you used to have to lick in order to stick.

I loved those stars. I really liked getting gold ones. You had to do something really good to get a gold star … make a perfect score, have the neatest handwriting, not have a single spelling mistake.

However, if I am honest, it wasn’t just the gold stickers I loved. Any color star stuck to the top of my paper made my type-A heart happy.

Sometimes today when I see packages of star stickers in an office supply store, I have an urge to buy myself some. They aren’t gummed anymore. No licking’ and sticking’ these days. You just plop ’em down like any old ordinary sticker. I don’t think that would be nearly as much fun. Furthermore, even if I bought myself some star stickers, I don’t know what I would do with them.

Stick them on top of the bills I paid each month?

Mark my favorite recipes in every cookbook I own?

Print out copies of my blog posts and give myself a star rating?

I’m not sure star stickers have a place in my life anymore … but I wish they did.

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

Last weekend, my mom handed me my father’s Bronze Star.

IMG_1250

I had gone up to help her for the day. We spent most of our time together,  unpacking boxes in the dining room of her new house, placing her wedding china into the new china cabinet she purchased and organizing some serving dishes into the matching hutch.

In the middle of all that unpacking, my father’s army medals came to light.

How the Bronze Star came to be packed with the wedding china, I don’t know. Yet there it was, along with a few other army medals and a tin box filled with 4-H pins and a few other random items.

In her nonchalant sort of way, my mother asked if I would like to take Dad’s old army medals for my boys. Naturally, I did. The truth is that I wanted them more for myself than I did for my boys.

Somehow, standing in that room where my father never stood, touching those old army medals and 4-H pins … well, in that moment, it gave some sort of significance to my father’s life. Three years after his death, I still struggle with feeling as if he will fade away from me. I am often aware that I am grasping for the bits and pieces of what he left behind, as if it can bring him back or make him more real. Grief is strange like that.

Anyway, it wasn’t until I got back to my home that I realized I didn’t know why my father received a Bronze Star. I knew enough from my days as a military wife to recall that Bronze Stars are a significant award not given to every soldier.

What had my father done to earn it?

All I could do was ask my mother. Maybe she would remember. So I sent her a text message, asking for any information she could share with me about my father’s Bronze Star.

Within minutes, my mom replied:

Yes, I know why your father got the Bronze Star. He distinguished himself during the war. He was never in trouble. He always did his job, going beyond the call of duty. He was diligent in doing his part to win the war. He got it for his meritous service in a foreign conflict.

I read her words slowly.

Two times. Three times. Over and over and over. So many times I actually lost count.

 

As I stood there that night, thinking about my dad, I remembered how proud he was of his military service. But I couldn’t remember ever actually seeing his Bronze Star medal.

Slowly I opened the worn black box containing the medal. And there it was, pinned to a piece of yellowed velvet.

IMG_1251

The star had tarnished green.

~~~  ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

My dad got a Bronze Star because he was a good soldier who strove for excellence. His hard work and diligent efforts were noticed. He stood out from the rest of the troops.  And because of his good work, he was rewarded with a star.

Just like I got those foil stickers pasted to the tops of my best schoolwork … the ones I worked the hardest on and gave my best efforts. Lots of gold stars added up to being on the Honor Roll.

Even as a young child, I knew stars were a very good reward. Stars, whether the gummed sort given out by teachers or the bronze ones handed out by military generals, are reserved for those who excel.

Nobody gets a star for mediocre work.

In the Bible, the Apostle Paul encourages us to strive to do our best. He writes: “I urge you to walk worthy of the calling you have received.” (Ephesians 4:1)

When our time on earth is done, God will welcome us home with, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  (Matthew 25:21)  These are the words every Christ-follower longs to hear.

More than that, we are promised a crown. “And when the Chief Shepherd appears, you will receive the unfading crown of glory.” (1 Peter 5:4)  Crowns we will cast at the Savior’s feet.

Some days I think of my father in heaven… glorified body, worshipping the Savior, bowing before the throne.

Maybe it’s silly, but I almost hope his crown was embellished with a big green star.

It doesn’t matter though. My dad’s not wearing it.

He’s already laid it at the Savior’s feet.

Julia and the Cadaver

One week ago today, Julia had knee surgery. 

knee-clipart-1208889-Clipart-Of-A-Vintage-Black-And-White-Bandaged-Knee-Royalty-Free-Vector-Illustration

Unfortunately, this wasn’t her first.

Julia had her first knee surgery at the tender age of 12, thanks to bad genetics and a knee injury that resulted from running in the house.  (There is a reason mothers tell their children not to run inside the house.)

Two years later, my daughter has gone through months of physical therapy, as well as acquired an extensive collection of knee braces. Some are full-leg braces; some simply support only the knee area. She has two different hinge braces that allow a range of motions. Her current brace has a steel rod in the back to completely immobilize the knee. (If you know of someone who needs a knee brace, give me a call. We probably have one in stock that will work!)

Julia and I have been through quite a bit with her right knee.

Still, being told she needed a second knee surgery wasn’t something I felt prepared for. I felt even less prepared when the doctor informed me that during this surgery, he would be giving my girl new tendons. Repairing an injured knee is totally different than reconstructing a knee.  Somehow it all felt so much more invasive.

Actually, the point I began to grow truly concerned happened at the very moment Julia’s orthopedic surgeon mentioned that the new tendons would come from a donor. Specifically a cadaver donor. At the word cadaver,  I stiffened (pun intended!) … not so much because the idea of using tendons from a cadaver bothered me, but rather because I feared what my teenage daughter’s reaction might be.

Julia either didn’t notice or didn’t care or just didn’t know what the word cadaver meant. She had no response or reaction whatsoever. Rather than try to figure out the reason behind her non-chalant attitude, I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to risk drawing attention to it by asking her questions. And so for the next two months, no one said anything at all about the use of cadaver tendons in regards to Julia’s upcoming knee reconstruction.

In fact, nothing else was said about tendons at all until the very morning of the surgery when the doctor came by to see Julia right about the time she was getting ready to have her initial dose of “happy” meds.

“Looks like you are nearly ready to do this thing.  We’ll get those new tendons grafted on in no time, and…”

Wait!” Julia interrupted.  “What do you mean ‘graft on new tendons?’ Where are you getting them?”

The doctor paused and looked at Julia for several long seconds before answering, “Well, we have these tendon grafts that we will put in your knee. They will soon attach to the other muscles and ligaments and bones, so that your knee will be properly supported.  It’s really pretty simple and before long you’ll have a brand-new knee.”

“But where are you getting these grafts?”  Julia persisted.

“I ordered them from a medical supply company,”  he answered with a smile. And with that, Julia’s wise doctor quickly moved on to discussing her care after surgery.

I thought that would be the end of the discussion.

It wasn’t.

Within two hours of coming out of surgery, Julia was not only awake, but also asking questions. “Mom, where are my old tendons? Did he take them out of my body? And I still don’t know where the new ones came from.” Thankfully, she was still in a rather groggy state, so it was easy to distract her.

But soon the anesthesia wore off. As Julia’s mind grew more alert, she continued to pepper me with questions about her tendons, both the new ones and the old ones.  The more time passed by, the more intense her questioning became. My tactic of being vague wasn’t working as well, and yet I couldn’t imagine telling Julia the entire truth either.

After we got home from the hospital, I told Jon my fears of her reaction if she ever discovered exactly where those new tendons came from. “She might well cry for hours once she finds out! ” I fretted.

Jon reassured me. “Eventually, she will stop asking questions and life will move on. Until then, it’s okay to give her vague answers. I don’t think you should tell her lies, but you shouldn’t feel pressured to lay out the full truth about exactly where those tendons came from until you think she is ready to handle that information.”

I felt only slightly comforted at my husband’s words. The pressure continue to build. I knew my daughter well enough to know that as soon as she could, she would ask me about her new tendons again … and again and again.

Not very many hours passed until my prediction came true. As the rest of the family left for church and other Wednesday night activities, Julia was left alone with me. The door had barely shut behind the last person when the questions started.

“So mom … did I trade tendons with someone?”

I smiled (sort of a weak smile) and said, “You are really curious about your new tendons.”

“I guess. I just want to know about them.”

“Well, Julia … trading with someone wasn’t an option. The doctor said your tendons were in bad shape. They were stretched out and floppy. He even described them as being frayed. No one can use a tendon like that.”

“Yeah … I see your point. I figured that wasn’t right. But where did they come from? Tell me … please … come on.  I mean, they had to come from somewhere. You just can’t make a tendon out of plastic.”

“You are right about that. Tendons aren’t made from plastic.”

“So, did the doctor take my tendons out of someone’s leg who had an amputation?”

There was a long pause as I waited, unsure of what to say next.

Then, almost as if talking to herself, Julia continued. “No, that wouldn’t make sense. If their leg was amputated, then probably their tendons would be in bad shape too … maybe even in worse shape than my leg.”

Again, there was another long pause. I looked down, unable to watch Julia’s face for fear of giving something away. I could tell her mind was racing and whirring with ideas. Part of me was fearful she would figure out the answer, and yet I was fascinated to see how she worked through various ideas logically.

“Or maybe they took my new tendons out of a dead person … WAIT … that’s it, isn’t it? I must have dead person tendons! Oh, my gosh! I think I have figured it out! Mom, tell me! Am I right? Do I really have dead person tendons?”

I glanced up, still not able to really speak. But that’s all it took for Julia to know with 100% certainty that she had stumbled upon the truth.

“Oh, I am right! I figured it out all by myself!  Just think … I have dead body parts inside of me. That means … oh … oh … wait, this is almost too weird to think about, but you know what that means, Mom? It means I am both dead and alive at the same time! Now that’s crazy!” 

I watched as her shock turned to giggles and finally to full-blown laughter. This child wasn’t upset about having cadaver tendons; she was delighted about it!

It wasn’t long before her siblings came home, and Julia wasted no time letting them in on her amazing news.

“Nathan! Come here! I gotta tell you something you will never guess! Get this … I am DEAD on the inside! No … really, it’s true. The surgeon put dead person tendon’s in my legs, so while I am alive on the outside, part of me is dead too!  Isn’t that the coolest thing ever?!  It’s the weirdest thing to think that I have some random dead person’s tendons!”

Actually, that wasn’t the weirdest thing.  

The weirdest thing was the next question my daughter asked … 

“Hey mom … do you think you can find out the name of the dead person who gave me my tendons? I mean, if we found out, then I could go to their grave to say thank you. It’s the least I can do.”

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

Julia isn’t the only one who is dead, and yet also alive.

You see, I am also dead in my sins, yet my spirit is alive in Christ.  Let me explain …

Over in the New Testament of the Bible, there is a verse that says the wages of sin is death. (Romans 6:23)

But actually, you can find that lesson right at the very beginning of the Bible … smack in the middle of the Garden of Eden, right about the time when Adam and Eve first sinned and brought forth a world filled with all sorts of woes.

Before sin, Eden was perfect. Not only was it a beautiful paradise, but there was no death, no animosity between creatures, no heartaches or sorrows or sickness. Life was perfect for Adam and Eve.

Perhaps best of all, there was but just one rule for them to keep:

And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, “You may surely eat of every tree of the garden,  but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” ~Genesis 2:16-17 (ESV)

But read Genesis chapter 3 and you discover that Adam and Eve didn’t obey God’s one simple rule. They allowed themselves to be tempted by the snake. The snake asked Eve, “Did God really say, ‘You can’t eat from any tree in the garden’?”  

Eve, who knew the truth, answered back that they indeed could eat freely from any tree in the Garden except for one. And she added, “God said, ‘You must not eat it or touch it or you will die.'”

And the snake … oh that cunning snake … he replied, “No! You will not die. In fact, God knows that when you eat it your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

Pride. It’s the downfall of nearly every human on this planet. We think that we know as much or better than God Himself. We get ourselves into all sorts of trouble because we refuse to do what God has shown us is right, believing our own way to be better than His.

So Eve, wanting to be like God, ate the fruit. And death entered the world.

Or did it?

When I was a child, I used to think, “But Adam and Eve didn’t die! They just got kicked out of the Garden of Eden, and God made them some clothes to wear. The snake was right. They didn’t die!”

But they did die … eventually. And that’s the thing my childish brain didn’t grasp. The truth is that had Adam and Eve never sinned, then they would have never ever died physically. They would have lived right there in that garden paradise forever.

But they did sin, and death entered the world on that awful day.

In fact, even though the physical death didn’t come in that moment to Adam and Eve, the world’s first death actually did happen on that day.  God Himself killed animals in order to make clothes for Adam and Eve. In this way, the very first death was also an act of love.

Yet all of it happened because of the sin of human pride and willful disobedience.

The root of all sin is found in the very words of the serpent.  “You will be like God!” And right there is the core of it all … we humans think we should be like God.

The Bible tells us this can never be. We are unable to be like God.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.  “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55: 8-9)

God is God and we are not. How simple it sounds! Yet it is incredibly hard to lay down our arrogance and pride. We want more than anything to do things our way, to believe that our finite minds comprehend things better than God.

But the truth is, we have very little ability to keep ourselves from sinning, no matter how hard we might try. Have you tried not telling a lie? Not judging someone else? Not listening to gossip? Just as Adam and Eve managed to sin when there was only just one rule, we are prone to sinning too.

Unfortunately, all sin comes with a cost … death.

Remember Romans 8:10? For the wages of sin is death.

One sin. Not multiple sins repeated over and over. Not a lifetime of sinning. Not when your sins outweigh the good things you did during your life.

No, the Bible is clear. Sin (singular) brings about death. And not just physical death, but also a spiritual death.

God, who is holy and righteous and perfect, cannot be in the presence of sin. So, if you are a sinner (raise your hand here), then you are doomed to be separated from God eternally.

But God is not only a God of justice. He is also full of mercy.

Think back on Genesis and the Garden of Eden. Imagine those moments just after Adam and Eve ate the fruit. Emotions they didn’t know immediately flood their souls … recognition of their nakedness, shame, fear of God finding out, trying to find a way out of their current situation, the sting of failure.  None of these emotions had ever been felt in the perfect world of Eden before sin.

The Bible tells us that God finds Adam and Eve hiding in the bushes. He talks to them and they confess what they have done. God would have been completely right had he killed them on the spot. After all, He told them that eating the fruit would cause them to die.

Instead God clothes them. 

Love. Mercy. Compassion. It’s all there in that one moment.

The Bible tells us something else about God. He never changes. Ever.  (Don’t believe me? Read Numbers 23:19, Hebrews 13:8, and James 1:17.)  If God never changes, then just as He had love, mercy, and compassion for Adam and Eve, so He does for us.

Adam and Eve still had many consequences as a result of their sinful disobedience. There was a price to pay, as well as an eventual physical death that they should have never had to experience. But they also got to experience God’s mercy.

The good news is that there is still mercy for us today.

God doesn’t want any of us to die and be separated from Him and His love for eternity. So He sent His son Jesus to live a perfect life (in an imperfect world) without sinning a single time. And then Jesus took the punishment for our sins … and though he died on the cross, Jesus was not defeated by death. He conquered it by rising from the dead.  And because of that, all we have to do is surrender our pride and our hearts to Him. To admit our sin and our need for a perfect God. To lay down doing things our way (because we think our way is better), and live instead doing things God’s way.

And then, even though we all will eventually die physically, our souls will spend eternity in the presence of God. In other words, even though our bodies are dying day by day, our soul is full of the life found in the Holy Spirit of God.

So just like Julia said … I might be dead in my sins, but I am alive in Christ Jesus!

But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. ~Romans 8:10 (ESV)

~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~   ~~~

My daughter Julia had some really bad knees, but thankfully she was able to get a new set of tendons that came from a cadaver donor. At the end of her recovery, she’ll have knees that work better than ever. That’s a wonderful gift, and we are so grateful!

I don’t need new tendons in my knees. Chances are, you don’t either. But every single one of us is dead on the inside, trapped in our sins, desperately in need of the gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ. The good news is that God is waiting to give you this amazing gift … and trust me,

It’s the best gift you could ever receive!

 

 

What Matters Most

Today is my birthday. Happy 44th to me.

Sort of.

SadPartygoer
Photo Credit: http://www.specialevents.com

You see, today also marks two years since my father passed away …  rather unexpectedly.  On that Wednesday morning, I had only been awake for about 20 minutes or so when the phone rang, my brother calling to tell me that my dad had died. He just didn’t wake up that morning.

I don’t want it to matter that my father died on my birthday.

Honestly, I don’t.

Even on the dreadful day he died, I didn’t want it to matter that he passed away on my birthday. After all, my father would have never wanted me to experience any sort of emotional pain over him being called to his eternal home. Getting to meet Jesus face-to-face is a good thing … right?

But even good things hurt sometimes.

My dad used to tell me that after the first week of basketball practice back when I was in junior high.

He was right. A lot of good things hurt … having a baby, getting shots when you are sick, sore muscles after working out, going through physical therapy to recover from an injury, and so on and so forth.

Saying goodbye can be painful too. Especially if it is someone you love. Even if that person gets to go somewhere great. It still hurts the heart.

This gets me right back to where I started: Not wanting it to matter that my dad died on my birthday.

Only right now …  today … on this birthday … it still matters.

Jon and I talked a lot this past week about how I feel regarding my birthday. After the second or third such conversation, Jon said, in his matter-of-fact way, “Paige, it is clear to me that you just aren’t done grieving yet. That’s okay. Grief takes time, especially if you love someone. I suggest you should be as gracious to yourself as you would to someone else in your situation.”

Be gracious to myself.

In my grief.

With my hurting heart.

On this birthday when it still matters so very much.

I pondered that Jon’s suggestion and wondered what that would look like.

Last night, Jon and I were  talking about my birthday, making details and plans for the day. I have carefully orchestrated my day to ensure I won’t have much time to sit around and dwell on missing my father. Who wants to play the pity party game on their birthday?! Not me!

So we have planned a day trip to visit with my mom and sister in a nearby city. We’ll grab some lunch at a Mexican restaurant (because I am craving guacamole) and then do some shopping (mostly the window variety). I’ve got a little birthday cash, so I am thinking of looking for a new purse … or I might save it so that I can buy the pendant and earrings to match the opal ring Jon bought me for my birthday this year.

I think it’s going to be a good day.

Yet, like I told Jon, I am still struggling inside. I have hard questions that my human heart can’t answer.

Why did my dad have to die so relatively young?

Why didn’t God allow him to see his grandchildren graduate high school, get married and have children?

Why did God let him die on my birthday?

And then I confessed this other thought that has persisted in the back of my mind all week long:

What if something else terrible happens on my birthday?

Allow me a moment to push pause right here and said that I married a great guy. One of the many things I love about Jon is that he doesn’t get upset when I share my thoughts. He just listens and lets me talk through all the emotion. That’s exactly what he did last night.

But when I asked that last question out loud, Jon said, “Sure. You can ask that question, but it is an awful way to think. And it will certainly  make you miserable.”

He was quiet for a moment, allowing the heaviness of what he said and the weight of my own emotions to sink in deep.

“Paige, let’s remember what the Bible says about our thinking and how important it is to our own well-being.

What does God want us to think about? Well, He tells us. He said whatever is pure, honorable , just, pure, lovely, commendable, or excellent, we should think on these things.

And why is our thinking so important? Because it is through our thinking that we have our minds renewed. And the renewing of our minds enables us to more fully experience God, to know His will, to see more of His heart.

So, if you change your thinking and quit asking questions that you will never find the answers to, eventually there will be a renewing of your mind and it won’t matter so much anymore. Maybe not this birthday. Perhaps not even the next birthday or two. But trust me, one year it won’t matter nearly as much. Instead, you’ll be able to think about the things that really did matter regarding your father.”

Think on these things.

Experience the renewing of my mind.

Ask what really matters most.

Jon didn’t realize it last night (or maybe he did), but he gave me a place to start, a way to climb out of the hole of self-pity, a little bit of hope that maybe not all my future birthdays will feel so hard.

This is a gift that is better than any opal ring.

giftinhand

So what is it that mattered most about my dad?

Well, he honored and cherished my mother. He adored his children and grandchildren. My dad placed high importance on maintaining good relationships with people. He had a strong work ethic. My father loved to laugh. He enjoyed life and lived right up until the day he died. My dad was my friend as much as he was my father.

All of these things mattered far more than the day he died.

Yet there is one more thing that mattered most of all:

My father loved and knew Jesus Christ.

In the end, this is why I know I can grieve with hope. Because my dad had a relationship with God, the day of his death on earth was also his birthday into heaven. I know that for him, the end was really just the beginning.

So does it really matter that my dad died on my birthday?

Well, sure it matters … but it’s definitely not what matters most.

And today, I am especially grateful for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you like, you can watch this YouTube video I made of some memories of my father.

The music is the Theme from Rudy (The O’Neill Brothers). My dad was a sucker for sentimental movies, and Rudy was one of his favorites.

My Father’s Voice

Father’s Day is Sunday.

It’s my second without having my dad to celebrate. I miss him terribly, but feel so blessed to have had him as my father. Perhaps I am biased, but there wasn’t a better Daddy in the world.

So in his honor (and in honor of good dads everywhere), I’m sharing one of my favorite stories about my father.

Scan
Me and my wonderful Daddy, Easter Sunday 1973

Throughout my childhood, my family kept a tiny flock of sheep in the backyard, as part of a 4-H project.  It was not uncommon for the sheep to find a way of escape from the small pen in our backyard.  It seemed we only become aware of their fugitive state whenever some neighbor telephoned to let us know our wooly pets were out wandering along the roadsides.

Whenever our lambs went for one of their strolls, my father always insisted we immediately  go track down those sheep, and return them as soon as possible to the safety of the pen in our backyard. It didn’t matter if it was day or night. As luck would have it, our  lambs were infamous for taking moonlit walks, the deeper into the night the better … or so it seemed.

I could tell many tales about these sheep-chasing escapades, but one time in particular always stands out in my memory.  It happened on a humid night the fall I turned sixteen.

The ringing of our phone roused me slightly from my deep sleep.  It was soon followed by my dad’s hard knock on the door of the bedroom I shared with my sister.   “Paige,” he said, “get up! The sheep are out along the highway, somewhere toward the high school. Your brother and I are heading out now.  You follow along just as soon as you get dressed. Meet us on the other side of the bridge.”

I heard the front door shut as they walked out of the house, and then their voices carrying softly as they walked across the front yard, headed toward the highway that stretched out in front of our brick home.  A wave of jealousy swept over me as I looked over at my younger sister, snugly tucked into dreams instead of being forced to go on a midnight  goose (er … sheep) hunt for a bunch of wayward lambs.

Five or six minutes later I was dressed and walking out of the house.  The night sky was dark.  No moon or stars lit the ground. The street light shone dimly on the other side of the highway, providing me with just enough light to dodge a puddle of water at the edge of our driveway.

Walking down the center of the highway, I suddenly felt very alone in the deep darkness. At shortly after 2 am, the roads in our rural town were quiet.  The only sounds I could hear were the sounds of tree frogs, crickets and the occasional hooting of an owl. I walked along, the fear in my throat growing thicker and sharper with each step that took me away from the safety of my home.  I quickened my pace, taking hurried steps as my shoes pounding against the dark pavement in my efforts to reach my father as soon as possible.

Soon I approached the bridge.  It was darker there. The trees overhung across the road, creating deep shadows.  The intense darkness blocked out even the reflective yellow stripes dividing the two-lane road. I hesitated before stepping onto the bridge. In order to reach the safety of my father I had to cross the bridge to get to the other side. But there was a loud voice in my head that screamed for me to turn around and high-tail it back home instead of crossing over that deep, dark bridge.

Breathing a prayer, I put my foot forward and started across.  Toward the midpoint of the bridge, I heard a noise, a sort of rustling that didn’t sound like the leaves on the trees. I paused, but didn’t hear anything other than the pounding of my own heart.  I started walking again, but after another step I stopped. I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t alone on the bridge.  Unable to see or hear anything, I shook off my fear and picked up my foot, determined to get to the other side.

At that exact moment,  a voice boomed out of the darkness:

“Paige!  Go back and get the truck!”

Immediately, I turned on my heels and began to run, faster than I had ever run in my entire life.  (Honestly, this wasn’t a huge feat. I was never a fast runner to begin with, and so it wouldn’t have taken much more than a steady jog to beat my all-time fastest run. Still, I rather like to recall this run as if I made it back home in record time.)

I ran straight for my dad’s truck, the beat-up old Ford that he drove back and forth to his job at our family hardware store.  Yanking open the door, I dove behind the steering wheel, slamming myself inside the truck. I took several deep, long breaths. My heart thumped wildly in my chest, though I wasn’t sure if it was due to the running, the fear coursing through my body or the realization that I had just heard the voice of God in the night.

The keys were in the truck’s ignition, just where I expected them to be, for in rural Louisiana during the mid-80’s, most people never bothered to take their car keys into the house. I turned the key and the truck rumbled to life. Three minutes later, I pulled over to the side of the road.  Ahead was my father and brother, herding our small flock of sheep toward me.  I quickly hopped out, leaving the headlights on and the engine idling.

As my father approached, he said, “Thanks for bringing the truck! You got here just at the right time.”

I nodded.  “No problem, Dad. I’m just glad God told me to do it … and that I obeyed even though I was really scared.”

My father looked up from his task of calmly guiding the bleating lambs to give me a brief confused look … And then he started to laugh, deep and hard until it seemed as if he might never stop.  He finally caught his breath.  “Paige,” he said between chuckles, “that was me.  I told you to go back for the truck.  Didn’t you recognize my voice?!”

“That was you?  You were on the bridge with me?” It was my turn to be confused.

Obviously still tickled over my confusion, my dad gave me a hug and said, “Yes, Paige.  I hate to disappoint you, but voice you heard was mine …  not the voice of God. But I’m glad you brought the truck anyway. Now, help us load these sheep.”

IMG_3450
Me (in pink) showing my 4-H sheep at the Louisiana State Fair, October 1982

It’s been nearly 27 years since that deep, dark night when I thought I heard God in the sound of my father’s voice.  Yet each time I recall that bridge and the voice that boomed from the darkness, I reminded of two ways that my earthly father taught me important truths about my Heavenly Father.

Almost any Christian will tell you that hearing and recognizing the voice of God can be difficult. Many Christians go through life without ever really learning how to listen for God’s voice.  I was fortunate.  My dad taught me to listen for God’s voice by placing a great importance on studying the scriptures, daily prayer, attending weekly worship services, and by expecting me to learn and obey the teachings of Jesus Christ. Jesus once said, “My sheep hear my voice … and they follow me.” (John 10:27)  I am grateful for my daddy who taught me how to hear the voice of the Good Shepherd.

The second truth is a reminder that in this life we will have troubles.  Jesus Himself said, “You will have suffering in this world.”  (John 16:33).  But He also said, “I am with you always.” (Matthew 28:20)  Just like my dad was with me on that dark bridge so many nights ago, my Heavenly Father is also with me whatever my circumstances.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him.  ~Psalm 103:13

Celebration Time

Today is February 2nd, and I’m celebrating.

Perhaps you are wondering why Groundhog Day has me so excited. Actually, it’s something more important than Groundhog Day … though Groundhog Day has always been a sort of oddly fun holiday to mark. Would he see his shadow? Will there be six more weeks of winter or is spring on the way? Every Feb. 2nd, I take a walk outside to see if there are shadows on the ground, but the groundhog and his prediction are not what has me in a celebratory mood.

I’m celebrating for a much more personal reason.

Today marks five years since my husband Jon received his mechanical heart valve. Five years of listening to the steady ticking at night as I fall asleep. Five years since he nearly died from a raging heart infection, but God miraculously allowed him to live. Five years of being grateful my marriage didn’t end just as it was beginning.

IMG_0282
My husband Jon one day after his second open-heart surgery … originally taken on Feb. 3, 2011 at his insistence and posted today with his blessing.

Many of my readers know the story well … prayed for Jon’s healing, walked alongside us through that awful time, kept our children, sent cards, shared our need with prayer warriors across the nation. We were grateful for you then; we are grateful for you still.

Some of you might not be familiar with this tale of sickness and health. Here are a couple of links in case you want to read our story:

Cats: A True Story About How My Favorite Animal Nearly Killed the Man I Love

Death Cubed

I love February 2nd! Today, I am looking back in time, remembering vividly how God intervened in a desperate situation.

There is not better reason to celebrate.

I will remember the works of the Lord;
Surely I will remember Your wonders of old.
I will also meditate on all Your work,
And talk of Your deeds.

~Psalm 77:11-12

 

 

The Day I Became a Writer

It’s been 30 years since my 8th grade year of school.

I was probably a lot like any other 13 year old girl, growing up in rural north Louisiana, concerned mostly with things happening at school (such as which girl liked which boy) and homework than I was about anything else that might be happening in the world. Whitney Houston’s latest song or the most recent episode of The Cosby Show were far more interesting than what was being reported on the evening news.  While I knew enough to recognize the names of important world leaders such as President Ronald Reagan, the United Kingdom’s Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher or Russia’s Mikhail Gorbachev, I didn’t really see how what they did affected me or why I should be concerned with events on a grander scale than my small hometown.

But all of that changed one late January day in 1986. Looking back, I realize now, I was never the same again.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Challenger_Launch

January 28, 1986.

Millions of Americans, including thousands of school children, watched the Space Shuttle Challenger lift-off, carrying with it America’s first civilian teach into space.

Seventy-three seconds later, the shuttle exploded.

Those who watched, whether in Florida or elsewhere via TV screens, stared, transfixed by the plumes of white smoke mixed with traces of red against the backdrop of beautiful blue sky.

Seconds passed by. News announcers stuttered. Disbelief and shock slowly turned to horror.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where were you when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded?

I don’t know with exact certainty. School, no doubt, but as to which class or teacher I guess I’ve long forgotten. Honestly, though, if people were talking about it at school I didn’t listen or know.

I do recall after school that day feeling mildly annoyed that there was nothing on TV except breaking news reports about a space shuttle, but I snapped it off without ever sitting down to listen.

Minutes later, the phone rang. I answered and heard my friend’s voice on the other end:

Paige, have you heard? The space shuttle exploded! All of the astronauts were killed!

challenger

The news hit me as if a bombshell had detonated right there in my bedroom. Surely not! I couldn’t believe her words … and yet, as I slowly switched the TV back on, I could see for myself that my friend was right. As the images replayed again and again, I stared at the TV screen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Seven astronauts smiling and waving to the small group of family and friends as they walked toward their waiting spacecraft. The giant white shuttle, pointed heavenward. The gradual lifting of the shuttle. The white trail of smoke against the brilliant blue winter sky. The explosion. One trail of smoke turned into two, before fading completely into the atmosphere.

I felt sick to my stomach, yet I was unable to turn my face away from the TV. All I wanted was for the story to be false, for it all to be a big mistake, for the newscasters to announce that somehow all the  astronauts survived.

But it was true. The shuttle exploded, leaving nothing behind but the shock and grief.  The entire nation mourned.

I was 13 years old …  and it was the first time I can ever recall being emotionally affected by a national tragedy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 29, 1986

Class, today’s writing assignment is to write about yesterday’s tragedy with the Space Shuttle Challenger. You can choose whether to write a factual record of the event factually or write down your emotional reaction to what happened.

My 8th grade English teacher gave out the assignment, and for a long time the only sound to be heard was that of pencils scratching across loose leaf paper. I don’t recall whether or not these essays were turned in that day or if we spent several days editing those first drafts. Perhaps this was a bigger graded assignment, or maybe it was just counted as a daily activity and checked for completion. Some of the details of that school morning are now lost to me.

But I do remember the time I spent writing, how it felt to put all of my emotions down on that white sheet of paper. I wrote about being able to see a tiny bit of every American on board that shuttle … whites, blacks, Asians, men and women, a teacher, even a man with the last name Smith.

As I wrote about the sorrow of the tragedy, I came to realize that as Americans we all lost something on that awful morning.

I also realized something I never knew before. Writing can be cathartic to the soul.

A week or so later, my English teacher, Mrs. Swayze, announced that a small number of the essays written about the Challenger tragedy would be published in our tiny school’s newspaper. Mine was one of those essays chosen. It was the first time when something I wrote was published and read by others. I recall the comments I received from friends and even other teachers at the school, telling me how they felt comforted by the words I had written.

Another realization occurred for until then I never knew how gratifying it was to have others identify and relate to my own thoughts just by reading my words. Writing, I realized, was a way to connect with others.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere, among all the boxes where I’ve packed up the scraps and pieces of my childhood, there remains a copy of that old school newspaper. Every five or six years, I will happen across it as I search for something else I know must be tossed in with the boxes of school yearbooks and 4-H ribbons and other items that tell the story of who I was before I grew into an adult.

Whenever I do, I always take a moment to pause and reread that essay. Tears well up in my eyes as I am transported back to that January so long ago, remembering the hours I sat watching the tragedy replayed on the TV screen and the scribbling of my pencil as I tried to write about that deep, sorrowful pain and what it meant to me and to my nation.

January 28, 1986 was a day of national tragedy. It was a day when I grew up just a little bit more, realizing for the first time that world events affected me as an individual and as an American citizen.

IT ALSO HAPPENED TO BE THE DAY BEFORE THE DAY WHEN I BECAME A WRITER.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And He who sits on the Throne said … “Write, for these words are faithful and true.”     ~Revelation 21:5

Introducing …

Please allow me a moment to introduce my new blog!

Hormonally Speaking

Now before you get worried and start to fret about whether or not you’ll still get updates whenever I randomly post something new or will need to go follow me at some new internet address, please understand my new blog is completely separate from this one. They are very different.

Tales from the Laundry Room is my personal blog, where I write about my marriage, my adventures in raising five teens and tweens, my experiences as a foster mom to two rambunctious toddlers, my dreams and goals and aspirations. Basically, I write about my life … and usually I connect it back to what God is teaching me through it. Naturally, I hope you’ll stay right here with me as I continue to randomly write about whatever happens to be on my mind.

Hormonally Speaking is not a random blog.  In fact, it is a blog where I write for a  specific audience (women) about a determined topic (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome).

Perhaps you have a few questions you’d like to ask. Maybe the first one is:

What is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome anyway?

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, shortened PCOS, is a hormonal disorder.  (Now you know where I got the name for my blog!) It’s the leading cause of infertility among women, but also comes with a host of other symptoms.  Here’s a rather short list:

  • weight-gain/inability to lose weight
  • absence of ovulation
  • irregular menstrual cycles
  • miscarriage
  • problems with breast feeding
  • male pattern hair growth
  • male pattern baldness
  • skin issues (severe acne, psoriasis, skin tags, etc)
  • higher risk for heart disease, Type II diabetes, and certain cancers

There is no cure for PCOS, and in general the medical community tends to treat individual symptoms rather than the whole patient.

Which leads me to question #2 …

Why do you need a whole blog dedicated to PCOS? Why not just write about it here on this blog?

The short answer is that I’m writing a book about my personal experiences  with PCOS, and I want to be able to engage with my audience and get to know them in a way that might not happen here with a wider audience.

The longer answer is that women who have PCOS deal with a lot of issues. Many of the symptoms chip away at a woman’s femininity.

For example, a woman with PCOS might have a difficult time getting pregnant. If she does, she might have a problem with maintaining that pregnancy. Hopefully that won’t happen and she will give birth. However, then she might discover that she cannot breastfeed her baby. It’s a real struggle many women face.

Another example might be a  woman with enough hair on her upper lip to grow a fuller mustache than her husband, yet she also has a receding hairline. How embarrassing! Yet there are many women who spend tons of money just on trying to hide the fact that they are going bald and have hair growing in places it shouldn’t.

Those are issues I want to address, openly and frankly, with my readers. But if I tried to write about those topics here at Tales from the Laundry Room, I might be tempted to hold back my thoughts and feelings on these issues. Emotionally, it’s very hard to discuss these issues. I already feel insecure and embarrassed talking about it in this post, much less if I wanted to go more in-depth on these issues. However, if I were writing to a targeted group of women who are likely to have had many of the same thoughts and feelings and emotions I have experienced, then it will be easier for me to open up and share my personal story.

And my story is important. It’s the reason I believe God called me to write a book about PCOS. You see, I don’t have a medical degree or special insider information about treating PCOS. But I do know the Creator personally, the very One who fashioned each one of us in the womb. And I know that knowing Him is the only way to find true self-worth. So you can see, being able to truly open up and share my heart is essential if I want to be an encourager to other women with PCOS.

The more I thought about trying to mesh the two purposes, the more I realized I simply needed two separate blogs, which is why I decided to make a brand-new blog dedicated to the topic of PCOS. Two blogs; two purposes. I’ll certainly continue to write on both.

The third question you might wish to ask me is perhaps this:

Well, if your new blog isn’t going to interfere with your writing on this blog, then why should I care?

Well, I mentioned earlier that PCOS is the leading cause of infertility for women. In fact, it’s so common that anywhere from 1-3 out of every 10 women has it, and many are undiagnosed.

Stop and think about that statistic for a moment.

Anywhere from 10% to 30% of women child-bearing age or older, suffer from this hormonal disorder.

That’s a lot of women! And what that means is that chances are extremely likely that you know a lady with PCOS. Perhaps it is your sister, your aunt, your next-door neighbor.

Here’s how you can help, both the lady you know with PCOS and me. Introduce them to my new blog. It’s so easy to share the links on Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. I would appreciate it so very much!

I love this blog and my readers here. Tales from the Laundry Room has taught me quite a bit about the art of writing, the fun of engaging with my readers, and the importance of knowing my audience. I do not plan to abandon this blog at all. Rather, I hope each of my blogs will help me continue to grow as a professional author, and I’m looking forward to a long future of blogging at Tales from the Laundry Room.

Again, thanks for being a faithful reader … and thanks in advance for sharing Hormonally Speaking with your friends and family!

 

A Trio of New Year’s Eves

New Year’s Eve 2008.

It wasn’t the first time I had ever had a fore-telling conversation with God, but it certainly was one of the most memorable.

 

I’ll never forget it. I was alone. My three kids gone to be with their father. I had been to visit friends in VA and had returned home earlier that day to a quiet, still house. Only the cat was there to greet me … and he seemed mostly perturbed that I interrupted his nap.

I felt bone-cold in the chilly house as I waited for the heater to make my house warm. But mostly, I just felt lonely.

It was my second New Year’s Eve as a single mother. The year before I was still shell-shocked from the events that had rocked my world. I barely noticed an old year passed away and a new one started.

Now, as I scrummaged through the cabinets looking for something quick and easy to fix for my dinner, I thought about how I was ending the year in a better place than I started it. Initially, 2008 found me a broken woman, but now after months of personal counseling and learning to live life again as a single mom, I felt more confident … not in myself so much, but in the Lord and in His promises to use all things for my good.

As I ate my supper, and counted down the hours left in 2008, I sensed that 2009 would be the beginning of something new. I realized I had new goals for the coming year. New hopes and dreams for my life.

And in those quiet hours, I came to a realization. I didn’t want to be single forever.

In the days after my first husband left me, I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to love another man. But now, in these quiet moments, I realized what I really wanted was a person to share my life with … and I wondered if that would ever happen.

As it happens so often in situations like this, I started to talk internally to God about my thoughts and ideas and wishes. Not so much a typical prayer as much a chatter in my head. Jumbled thoughts poured out in a rapid, random fashion, some sort of strange cross between monologue and unwritten journal entry.

As I rambled to God about my future, whether or not it would include another marriage, I felt a strange peace wash over me. And then it came … as a small whisper, so soft I wasn’t even sure if I heard what I thought I heard.

You will marry again, Paige … and it will be a New Year’s Eve wedding.

I shook my head in a sort of disbelief. To begin with, New Year’s Eve was not really a holiday I had ever enjoyed. Fear of the future had been a personal, life-long struggle for me, and though since my divorce I had been focused on learning to overcome that fear, I still couldn’t imagine wanting to celebrate a wedding on a holiday all about celebrating the unknown year ahead.

Yet the more I thought about it, the more I saw how New Year’s Eve was the perfect day to marry. After all, it’s a day focused on endings and beginnings. A marriage is the end of a period of singleness and the beginning of a new life together as husband and wife.

It was then I knew I wouldn’t be single forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Year’s Eve, 2009

 

I had met Jon in April. We started dating in October. Here we were at the holiday season, and we still hadn’t even held hands or shared our first kiss.  Despite the slow pace at which our relationship progressed, I already knew this was the man God had chosen.

When Jon learned  I didn’t have any plans for New Year’s Eve, he was appalled. “No one should be alone on New Year’s Eve!

Well, my kids are off visiting their dad. I haven’t been invited to anyone else’s home. My church isn’t doing an activity that night. I’ll probably just watch a few movies or maybe work on a sewing project.

The next morning, Jon called me back.  “I’ve been talking to my girls, and we’d like to invite you to join us today. We aren’t going to do anything special. We’ll just hang around the house. But the girls would love to have you come visit … well, that is, as long as we promise to keep them included. Megan is very concerned about that.

How about if I bring a few activities for us to do with them … some crafts, perhaps?

And so, it was agreed. I made the long two hour drive to Jon’s house to spend, bringing along with me a big box of craft supplies. The girls and I crafted the afternoon away, while Jon dozed on his sofa and watched a little football. I made a couple of snacks for us to enjoy. Quiet, laid-back and completely natural.

Later that evening, we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant. As Jon paid for our meal, the waitress made a comment about his beautiful family. Not quite knowing how to respond, both of us smiled and wished her a happy new year.

But I already knew. This was the man I was going to marry.

Driving along the dark roads back to my house, I watched the flickering of fireworks light the sky … and wondered how many more New Year’s Eves there would be until Jon and I were married.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Year’s Eve, 2010

Jon asked me to marry him in October. I said yes.

But Jon was deathly ill. Even as we planned for our wedding ceremony, honeymoon and marriage, I watched the man I love slowly grow sicker and sicker. As a dear friend told me, “Paige, I’m afraid you’ll either have a New Year’s Eve wedding or funeral.

The diagnosis came on December 22nd. A severe heart infection nearly took his life. But thankfully, God allowed him to live. Two days before our wedding, Jon came home from the hospital, a PICC line still in his arm.

The next 48 hours, we raced to get everything ready for the wedding we weren’t sure would ever happen. Somehow, the reception room at the church was decorated, a friend made us a beautiful red velvet cake, and one by one the details fell into place.

165079_165677986810846_100001059362771_370100_3972675_n
December 31, 2010

December 31st was sticky and humid.

Jon was weak from his ongoing healthy issues. Rumor had it he slept on the sofa in the pastor’s office until time for the ceremony.

Guests started to arrive.

And then … the music started and our beautiful girls made their way down the aisle.

I felt no nerves. Only the most amazing sense of joy that I have ever known.

We said our vows, and our guests laughed with us as we pledged to love in sickness and in health.

The pastor asked those in the audience to come surround us and offer up prayers on our behalf. My dad, an uncle, a family friend … each of them offered up a prayer and my soul swelled with indescribable peace.

As we walked out of the sanctuary, somehow an unplanned receiving line formed so that Jon and I were hugged and blessed over and over as our guests walked to the small reception.

And that night, as we drove to our New Orleans honeymoon, fireworks lit the night sky … and I thanked the good Lord for a trio of New Year’s Eves that had brought me to a new life He had planned for me before I ever took my first breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Year’s Eve … a time to celebrate what is ending and what is yet to be. Every year I’m grateful to God for what He has done in my past and what He has planned for my future. No more fear because (as cliche’ as it might be), I know I may not know exactly what my future holds, but I certainly know the One who does know and who holds my future.

“Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.  Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles, and the judgments he pronounced…”  ~ 1 Chronicles 16:11-12

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”  ~ Jeremiah 29:11

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can read more about our wedding story and Jon’s illness at the following link:

The Wedding that Almost Didn’t Happen