People I want to punch in the throat

Lindy introduced me to a new favorite blog, peopleIwanttopunchinthethroat.blogspot.com. I love this woman. She is completely irreverent. I laughed so hard when reading her thoughts about my personal nemesis, Elf on Shelf, I snorted several times. I also did a reverse snort, but that's gross. She was my hero for several days last week. I even thought seriously about trying to become her.

This is nothing new for me. I have a long fascination with women who are brash, brazen, and don't give a flying flip what others think about them. It seems so liberating to just say what you aren't allowed to say and just go about your business of the moment. No guilt. No shame. If consequences are unpleasant, a shaking off  of the dust and tally ho!

I also really savor Ann Voskamp's blog: onethousandgifts.com. She inspires me to think, and contemplate on a daily basis.

These two blogs were bumped up against one another on my dashboard today. It says a lot about me, I'm sure, even without deep introspective thoughts. I opened my reader because I was going to write. Instead I read for a while.

I've been grumpy today for valid reasons. I got home from a short trip to Kingwood and one of my cats had diarrhea. Gross is an understatement. The outdoor Christmas lights that promptly blew out when plugged into the outlet still didn't work and still needed to be removed, fuses replaced, and stored for next year. (Next year I'll do it differently.) My child had just called for the first time in days and I was greeted with, "Momma you forgot....and ruined...." And the grumpiest part of all? The motion he filed just before Christmas for a new trial did not disappear during the most wonderful time of the year.

I don't enjoy being a grouch. Maybe I would get an idea of something to be grateful about by reading the guru of grateful? I was reading Ann and thinking,

 "Ann, I kind of want to punch you in the throat. Do you ever take the low road?"

 "Why can't you be Sue Sylvester for just one day, Lori?"
  Low road only. Give voice to all your internal snarky remarks and let life happen.

Why not? Because I'm not the lady who can write a hilarious blog about a silly elf and the extremes soccer moms go to to outdo themselves during the busiest, craziest time of the year for a parent. She writes in a way that offends as many people as it makes laugh. That woman got hate mail! Which makes me love her all the more. Keep writing.

I'm also not Sue Sylvester or Joyce, my Heavenly editor, or Ann Voskamp, the Mother Theresa of blogland.

I'm Lori. I have tried being who others want me to be and have failed at that. Being the authentic me made it impossible for me to remain in deep relationship with many people including my spouse. The only person I'm good at being is me. And sometimes being me sucks. I've given up many patterns that numbed my emotional inner world and gave me the illusion that life was better. I still care way too much about what others think of me and for so many wrong reasons. If I could get away with more hurtful behavior, I must admit, I'd take the low road more. A lot more.

All that said, I still want to make this next year a year of counting blessings over bullet pointing lists of wrongs done to me. I want to listen to stories and the heart of others and choose compassion over judgment. I want to love instead of shift shame. I want to stay focused on hope and not wallow in despair.

I love to laugh but never at the expense of another person's soul. I'll instead, just continue walking and breathing and being me. I can't do that without God's faithfulness, mercy, and grace. And I have discovered that gratefulness transforms grumpy.

Part of today's list:
#427 Disposable rubber gloves and plenty of paper towels.
#428 Garbage service.
#429 Ladders and easily replaceable fuses.
#430 An increasing ability to not assign blame to myself for what I am not responsible.
#431 Knowing that God will be in the consequences no matter what my future holds.
#432 I am never alone.

Who am I?

I get in a funk around Christmas every year. Different reasons every year, but it's most often because of the ridiculous expectations that are the cultural mandate. In an effort to focus on what's most important to me this morning, I opened up www.biblegateway.com. I wanted to search for a scripture in Lamentations that I love so.

As I was scanning the page I noticed an advertisement for a book about Tim Tebow. I thought, "I don't really know who that man is!" The only way I know of his fame is through Facebook posts--which sadly is often my primary source of news and information. He's a football player, I think. He must know Jesus or his face wouldn't sell anything on this website.

It started the wheels in my head.

Tim Tebow will never know of Lori Clark either. Tim Tebow will never drive down Big Sky Drive. If he drove by yesterday, it's highly likely he heard the squealing sound coming from the air vent on the top of my house. It's doubtful that he'd have stopped to offer his assistance with a can of some non-squeal solution. (BTW, if I learned anything at all from my sweet Daddy, it's that WD 40 is a staple in life.) It's even more doubtful that he'd been impressed that I climbed on the ladder and fixed that annoying sound this morning.

Even with the fame of being a football hero with some moral character to boot, it's likely that my grandchildren will not know who Tim Tebow is or was. Here's what I'm holding on to this morning--a morning where bad news still stings and the untangling of life just got more complicated. The God of the universe knows Tim Tebow. He also knows Lori Vae Hudgins Clark. My inability to run and throw a ball at the same time does not disqualify me from being a part of God's team. He knows my name. And He loves me.

He knows my name and my address and was aware of that shrill sound from my rooftop. He didn't offer to jump down from on high to fix my rooftop whirly thing. He did equip me with a mind and a ladder, good sturdy shoes and legs that still move well enough to propel themselves, with help from my voice giving a hearty grunt, up to the roof.

He and I had a lovely chat while I viewed my neighborhood with a view I've seen just a few times. I thanked Him for doing the work in the person of Christ so that I have hope and a home and a future. As much as I try, I'll never pull myself up to Heaven. Instead He came as one of us to offer me what I could never attain--a relationship with the greatest man who ever lived. One, who for generations people will shout His name and offer Him glory and honor. How could I refuse such an offer? I just can't and won't.

I certainly would never intentionally cast God in such common terms in order to place myself on par with Him. I'm just so simple, it's easier to imagine Him in ways that make sense to this creature. I chuckle when I think that God has my name tattooed on the palm of His hand.

And then, I'm comforted so that I can accept His new mercies today and offer him the vacancy of a wounded, healing heart.
Isaiah 49:16

¹⁶ See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; 

Distortions

I was in the attic the other night searching in vain for the box of white Christmas tree lights. I never did find them, much to my frustration. In that frustrating process two great things happened.
1. I discovered that the netted lights purchased for shrubs that no longer exist in my front yard can be draped nicely around a Christmas tree. In fact, I like it so much, I'm stickin' with that method.
2. I discovered pictures I'd tucked away in a box of college memorabilia.

The pictures I found were of the Miss Humble Pageant 1984. I am a member of a lost generation.  I willingly admit I am one of those little girls who thought being Miss America would be the pinnacle of living. I took Bert Parks to heart. Carol and I watched every September on a Saturday night, pink sponge rollers in our hair. There wasn't a set of curved stairs or a stage that I didn't practice holding my presentation bouquet of roses and waving the other hand to an adoring crowd. In my best moments, I'd hold my crown in place with the free hand and with exaggerated lips tell my fans and the judges, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Some people knew sports facts. I knew pageant facts. Although I had heard rumors about what was necessary to win titles, I, in my naïveté, entered my one and only local pageant. I was Miss Deerbrook Mall: "Lori Hudgins, a 19 year old sophomore at Baylor University studying social work."

Like all good pageant contestants, I starved myself silly through Christmas holidays, no less, to be as skinny as possible. I ran miles a day and hated every minute of the running. I can remember thinking that I wanted to be 10 pounds lighter and an inch taller. If I won. I'd lose the weight before the state pageant. The inch in height? Higher heels would create the illusion.

When we got together for the first rehearsal, I knew I wasn't going to win. It looked obvious to me who was being groomed for the crown. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my pageant experience. Even with such a different world view now, I have no regrets. I'm glad I made a leap at a dream. Pretty sure, even then, that when I answered the fill in the blank question, "A woman's place is...." "--in the home", that answer sealed the deal against me. I believed it with all my heart. At least I was true to my limited views, I guess. A better answer was on the back of my tongue, "Changing." And how relieved I am that the more thorough answer is true. Because now I'm glad we get to make a choice.

The pictures brought back memories of the event, my answers, Robby choreographing my movements while singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in my living room, and odd images of taped up boobs, glue on the backs of swimsuits, and vaseline on teeth. Much more, though, I was struck with what my body looked like in that red one piece swimsuit. How could I ever have thought I should lose another ten pounds? I had no idea what I looked like. It would have never occurred to me that I had a beautiful body. After all, Kim had bigger boobs, Ann's legs were longer and leaner, and I'd never have that long neck like Beth.

The photos were aging so I decided to scan them onto my computer. Once scanned, the photos made me lose what looked like about another inch in height and a gain of probably 10 pounds. I may have recovered from a terrible eating disorder, but I'm not crazy. No point in cataloging an image that was inaccurate. That's when my best thoughts started churning.

Maybe I do hang on to a little piece of crazy since I didn't want to archive an inaccurate image. And yet, haven't I held on to a life long inaccuracy of what I looked like? Who saw me accurately? It would probably be true that my ex-boyfriend and the one I had my eye on at that time could have chimed in easily that I looked pretty good. Maybe my parents, my roommates could see what I couldn't. I believe that GOD could see me with absolute accuracy. Even more, HE saw the insecurity, the judgmental spirit, the wounds within that I worked so feverishly to hide from everyone around me.


HE knew what the 46 year old Lori would look like and be like. HE knew I'd make choices that would require a pant size large enough that my whole freakin' 19 year old body would fit into one leg. HE knew the deep furrow that would settle between my eyebrows during my 40's, my divorce wrinkle. HE also knew I'd work diligently alongside Him to heal wounds, become more loving, less judgmental and insecure.

Here's the utterly astonishing truth, HE loved 19 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she was. He loves 46 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as I am. And most comforting to me is that HE will love 73 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she will be too. I can distort what I look like and who I am, both in the positive and the negative. God, however, sees truth at all times and loves anyway. HE went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I get to share life with Him. How grateful I am this Christmas for all HE did to make a way for "this little lamb, who's lost in the wood." HE is someone who, with perfection, has watched over me.

Can I admit two things? 

1. Even after my admission of a grain of crazy thinking, I almost didn't post these pictures.
2. When linking up the clip, I cried when I heard Bert Parks sing . (And practiced my wave--wrist, wrist, elbow, elbow.)

My friend Joyce

I posted on Facebook yesterday: Lori Hudgins Clark is experiencing that inexplicable grace that rejoices and mourns at the same time. Today I'm gonna try to explain.

I rejoice because Joyce Breckenridge is in Heaven. She is finally free. Whole. Fully loved and fully capable of expressing love perfectly. I mourn for her family, for their loss of a wife, mother, sister, friend. I mourn for what they wanted and didn't have. I mourn for what she wanted and didn't have, couldn't grasp or keep within her reach. I mourn for what they will no longer have without Joyce here on earth.

I'm intimidated to write a few paragraphs about a woman who was so complex, so predictably unpredictable. She was a walking conundrum. Energetic and lethagic. Faithful and heretical. Elegant and crass. Encouraging and biting. Complex and simple. Hilarious and solemn. Confident and terrified. I've got the equivalent of a ream of paper crumpled up on my virtual computer floor. In an effort to write a tribute that would both honor Joyce and be truthful, I finally invited the Joyce I know, and love deeply, to be my Heavenly editor. The first several copies I wrote I heard her saying, oh so clearly, "Lori Hudgins, that's crap and you know it!" So Joyce, with all my limitations, here are a few thoughts.

Joyce became my real friend through Facebook. Oh, I've known her since my days at Foster Elementary. Prior to spending countless hours with several of her children, I knew of her because, well, everyone knew Miss* Breckenridge. She was a stay at home mom and loved her kids with passion. We all knew her because she was the antithesis of Kingwood mothers. She had a paper route she drove before the kids got up each day. She hosted an annual back to school party for other moms called, "TGTG--Thank God They're Gone." I'm told people still talk of that fabulous event. She wore whatever she decided to put on each day or what she'd slept in the night before--which was most often a man's undershirt, overalls, and flip flops. Flip flops at that time were for showering in public places or for beach vacations. She had silky, long brown hair and was a natural beauty. She was unfiltered in every sense of the word. If the thought occurred to her, she said it. As a teenager I was terrifed and fascinated by her. She loved jewelry. So much so, that she would wear as much she could get around her neck, wrists, and fingers. We lovingly referred to her as "Mr. T". She knew it and didn't care one iota.

In December of 2008, my dear friend Lindy and I made a spontaneous trip to New York to see Joyce's second son, Robby star in a Broadway production. It was a spectacular surprise and we even managed to sneak in on Joyce and Tom in a restaurant. She was in a wheelchair and she was accurate when she said, "I'm diminished." She told me I looked, "exactly the same... just fatter!" (True. Darnnit!) She quickly told me that if she ever got to Heaven she knew that God would punish her by putting her in a pew between Scoggins and Griggs for an eternity. (They were two very conservative pastors at the church in Kingwood. One of the men told Joyce to leave a service and go put on a bra!) And in just minutes she was asking me with great concern about my family, particularly about my brother. Joyce and Scott shared some demons and she walked him through fiery times with brutal honesty and passionate love.

When Joyce found out I filed for divorce, she called me and we talked on the phone for over an hour. Even though she never quite got the hang of the whole Facebook thing, she posted regularly notes of love and encouragement. I never doubted for a millisecond that when she said she was praying for me, she was. It was also wickedly wonderful to hear a few of her more unfiltered thoughts about my ex husband. She was quick to tell me she loved me and was truly heartbroken for my pain. I will always remember that.

If you're reading this, my guess is that you know Joyce too. It would be easier to engrave the Old Testament on a grain of rice than to explain who and why Joyce was who she was. I invite you to offer your memories, your love, and your thoughts that would honor Joyce. Just remember that Joyce is editing and she will be obliged to tell you you're out of line if you make her into the saint she knew she wasn't. She's in Heaven warming the pew and waiting for Scoggins and Griggs to join her. Heaven will never, ever be the same.

*No real Southener says, "Mrs."

**The donate button to the right of this blog is what you can use to donate to the Joyce Breckenridge Memorial Fund. Whether it's five dollars or five hundred, Joyce would be both shocked and delighted that you would give to her memory. She has a rich legacy and she gave what she was able to give, plus a little more.

Hiding

I am a cat lover. If I was concerned with gaining a following on this Blog, I would never publicize that fact about me. I've always been amazed that it's socially acceptable to say in group settings, "I HATE cats." I've also noticed that there is rarely, if ever, any social backlash from this statement, "I HATE dogs!" I dare anyone in a group to say that and see what happens. I recommend doing this at the end of your time with this group if you plan on enjoying the rest of the event. (I learn be doing. Sigh.)

Back to cats. I like interesting names for my cats. I guess it's because growing up we had Frisky, Puff, Whiskers, and Alley to name a few. I've had Bartok, Dr. Livingston, Stumpelina, Hiss---short for histrionic, Elphaba, and Galinda. When we got our latest cat from a shelter he was pre-named, Studley. My seven year old loved the name and informed me, with great accuracy, that I had named all the other cats and this was her cat.

I was wrong about his name. He's aptly named for many reasons. Annie Beth wrote this recently in an essay at school, "Studley looks like an Oreo, but thinks he's a supermodel." She will often say to me in hushed tones, "Studley is b-m-u-d!" She knows he's not bright enough to spell backwards and fears damaging his fragile self esteem. Perhaps I'm partially to blame for that fragility because I tell him multiple times a day he is a beautiful cat and rarely affirm other traits.

Studley is quite large and has long, lush fur. Although, neutered, he still loves to be outside with full confidence  that some young feline will find him irresistible. Unless he's hungry, he does the same thing every single night when it's time to come indoors. It always ends with this routine: I'm chasing him. He's cornered. He crouches on the ground, ears pulled back and closes his eyes. I laugh, pick him up, and bring him inside.

I laugh because I think I'm a lot like Studley. When I'm asked to do something I don't want to do, don't I crouch down, close my ears, and shut my eyes? Surely if I am I still enough, quiet enough, and keep my eyes closed, the other person cannot see me. Sometimes that method works with people--to my misfortune, I think. But, I'm particularly amused when I think about how God must view this behavior. In my odd imagination I hear Him saying, "Well, Jesus, there she is again, thinking I can't see her. If she only knew."

I love Studley. I did not love what his claws were doing to every piece of fabric or leather in my house upon his adoption, so his front claws were removed. I know that we still have coyotes in our neighborhood at night. So, it's love that motivates me to bring him inside. My agenda is to protect him since I made the choice to limit his ability to defend himself. I'm not trying ruin his evening and ask him to come in because I distrust him. I just know a few more things than he will ever be capable of learning or completely understand. He's a creature with more limited abilities than I have. It will always be that way. And yet, it doesn't impact my love for him. I love him because he is a cat. I never expect him to be a human. I just want him to accept my love and have a relationship with me.

So tonight I'll thank Studley as I pick him up from his crouched position. I do love that cat!

Ordinary Courage

Just after I filed for divorce in April of 2009, we went as a family to Casa Manana to see the scheduled show on the season subscriber list. I was excited about seeing A Year with Frog and Toad because I was and always will be a fan of the Frog and Toad books. I credit Frog and Toad for keeping me grounded during a chaotic and dark period of time.

I was enraptured with the performance and the music. I downloaded the CD onto my phone on the drive home. (As I write that, I marvel, yet again, at technology. It's remarkable that I didn't have to wait more than the download time to hear the Broadway original score.) I also bought the CD because I had this feeling I'd be downloading it more than what iTunes would allow. I've burned countless copies to give out to both grateful and skeptical friends. I suspect that the CD player in my minivan broke because of the constant play of the CD. There are treasures within the lyrics and music: enduring friendship, problem solving, tenacity, adventure, sacrificial love, frustration with friends, transformation, and courage. The genius is that it's hilarious and great fun to sing along with whether you're 5 or 55.  

I've been thinking about courage so much lately. My wise friend, Gay has told me for years that I had courage. Mostly I just disagreed internally and said a polite, "Thank you," externally. I think I began understanding courage that Spring. Gay planted the seeds. Toad helped me harvest them. (which, by the way, would segue way nicely into the song, "Seeds")

Toad is hosting Christmas Eve at his home and Frog is late. He begins imagining all the horrific things that could have and most certainly did happen to cause Frog's delay. The scenes he conjures become increasingly more perilous. The fear in Toad's voice is apparent. The line that I found myself singing, quite badly, and with passion, so often, was, "I----- am not afraid!!   (long pause) ........ well I am, but I'll be BRAVE."

Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is the willingness to look straight into the face of something daunting and do it anyway. We so often get the image of massive firefighters or soldiers with guns when the word courage is mentioned. Courageous is used at funerals to describe a person's battle against cancer. Those are all acts of courage and I do not intend to minimize those. What I'm thinking about lately is ordinary courage. 

I started an online course two weeks ago with that title, "Ordinary Courage".  It has been an amazing study and my mind has been on overdrive thinking about courage. Brene Brown and Jen Lemmon are co facilitating this class. Brene defines ordinary courage as the willingness to "speak from our hearts--to tell our stories." Sounds so simple on the surface. It's easy to speak from our hearts when our story is admirable, brimming with optimism, and punctuated with flawless skin, size 6 jeans, and high SAT scores. But, what if, you're me? A 46 year old, divorced woman who wears a size 18? I color my hair, use wrinkle cream daily, speed up at yellow lights, and every once in while, wear Spanx--which inevitably leads to gas. Do I have the courage to be that?

Facebook reconnected me to a choir buddy from high school. We were great friends within the walls of the choir room at Kingwood High School. As adults we're forging a deeper and more intimate friendship because of that shared history. She came up from Houston to Dallas to attend a theatre production. Our planning conversation sounded like this, Me- "Hey! I'd LOVE for you to come up on Thursday night! Annie Beth will be with her Dad." C- "I WISH I could. I've got this mother/daughter cheer event on Thursday night at the JV football game. I dread it! We'll be out there with our darling little daughters the whole game--in front of everyone!"

When Christy got here Friday we went to get pedicures. The salon was full and we sat at the end in the last two chairs. She started telling me about the cheer event. It was part of a breast cancer awareness night. It was entirely possible that she would tell me she hated every minute of it. I knew that was not the story, though because I had seen three of the pictures on my Facebook news feed. I had commented and told her she MUST use one of them as her profile shot--pure joy on the faces of Mom and her mini-me. She pulled out her phone to show me the rest of the shots. When we got to pictures of she and her friends' herkies, we both were truly laughing our heads off. We cackled so much I had to pat my face to calm myself down. I commented on the shot and told her friend that I want to be her when I grow up! I really want that woman to use that picture as her profile shot. Shoot! I might use it as mine. 

How come? Because it explains ordinary courage better than all my words on this page. I can't even remember this brave woman's name. I can tell you a few things about her, though. She went to high school. She knows what adolescents say and do at that age. I'm guessing she was a cheerleader based on her perfect herkie. This is an educated guess based on cultural norms, but I'm guessing that she knows she's not Playboy centerfold material. She is mother to a gorgeous, talented, blonde cheerleader. She loves her daughter with great passion. She doesn't want to get breast cancer. She doesn't want her daughter to get breast cancer. She knows how to laugh, too. She is a woman of ordinary courage. 

I do know Christy well and this is what I can say about her ordinary courage. She knows herself. She knew beforehand she had anxiety about jumping around. She understands gravity and what happens with stomachs that aren't flat. But, just like her friend, she loves her daughter and wanted to make memories that would last a lifetime. So she loaded up the blue face paint and insisted on painting every mother's face and one very courageous father's. The one who only wanted it on her hand didn't get her wish. (Just another reason to love Christy.) She knows that laughter is a great equalizer. She uses that power to enable others, who have eyes to see it, do the same. She had the courage to push past the anxiety and enjoy every minute of being a 45 year old, overweight Mom who for one night was a cheerleader extraordinaire alongside her darling daughter.

PS How I wish I wasn't alone right now and I could take a picture of myself doing a herkie! I never, ever could do one. I'm convinced it would be worse than my best 6th grade effort. Darn.

In the meantime, Go Christy! Go Christy's friend! "We are the Cham-pions, my Fri-ends!" Here's to Ordinary Courage.

Last Times

This past week I finally took the time to move a wall full of junk in the garage so I could attend to a water leak. What was supposed to be an hour project ended up taking several days of clean up and the services of a plumber. It's not even over because an entire wall will need sheet rock. Looking on the bright side, it helped me begin the task of purging and reorganizing life.

The garbage collectors hauled away several industrial sized bags of mere trash. And, to my great sadness, four items I never intended to part with.

In 1996 I founded Giggles and Glamour. It was a dress up and tea party business. It combined everything I loved:  little girls, sewing, dress up clothes, sparkles, shopping, laughter, people, and serving others. I sold my creations at craft shows during the Fall. Year round, I loaded up my beat up blue suburban with tea party equipment and delivered and set up parties for little girls all over DFW. I was named by a dear friend who said, "You make little girls into Cinderella every weekend. You ARE the Fairy Godmother of DFW!"

My tea parties were exquisite. Everything, from the dresses to the name card holders, was child sized. I bought every child sized chair I ever found at a garage sale or thrift store. I fashioned chair slipcovers with giant tulle bows from a fabulous rose print fabric that was truly wrinkle free. Finding tables that were durable, portable, and large enough was vastly more challenging. I finally found some particle wood tables from a catalog. With the patient help of my Dad, I cut them down to size, painted them white so that they'd look better with the plastic Battenburg lace tablecloths I'd bought. (It sounds way tackier than it was. They are surprisingly plastic!) Those were the two primary tables that helped hundreds of little girls celebrate being female for many, many years. I'd venture to say that I've easily assembled those tables at least 350 times. I cannot even recall when I set up the table the last time.

When I rolled away the larger item covering the tea party table tops, I could instantly see that the tables were swollen with water and mildew. I'm rarely reduced to instant tears. This was an exception. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I rolled each one individually, an efficiency trick I'd learned a long time ago, out to the alley for Friday's garbage collection. The hoarder in me was tempted to keep the bases to the tables. They were unscathed. My inner sage simply said, "It's time to let go."

I began thinking about the garbage man or the dumpster diver that frequents my alley. They'd have no sense of the loss involved for me with their dutiful collection of my tables. They'd never know or care about the miles the tables have traversed or the importance of those tables to help pay bills and buy meals during a very lean period of life for the Clarks. They would never give thought to the last time the tables helped bring joy and laughter into the lives of little girls--so many of those little girls now in college, like Molly and Hayley. They would never know about beautiful Paige.

I'll never forget watching four year old Paige in her spectacular pink princess dress. I made it and gave it to her for that special party. It had yards and yards of tulle and a bodice of pink lame. She was royalty. Only the people attending would know that her body could not withstand the cancer within.  We pulled out all the stops to host a perfect party for her. We even talked about doing another one because it had been so spectacular. More importantly, Paige was so happy. Looking back now, I think we all knew something that we couldn't admit that day. Paige would never attend another tea party. Ever.

What held her family and friends together? Grace. What allowed us to laugh and smile and enjoy a perfect Spring afternoon? Grace.

Grace allows us to be fully present in the moment knowing we live with the very real possibility that this will be the last time. Endings remind us that it was grace that held us when we unknowingly made up a child's bed, cooked a meal for a spouse, hugged a beloved teacher, or stroked a pet's fur for the last time.

Grace is always present. She appears in the last times of things that might not seem meaningful or important to someone without our personal knowledge--even to us at times. I can't even remember the last time I loaded up those tea party tables and assembled them. I never considered it was my last time because my intent was to keep them, well, forever. My forever was interrupted.

Forever, is terrifying outside of grace. Grace is forever, and that in the midst of sadness brings me enduring hope--hope that can help me complete the most mundane of tasks. Hope that by washing the clothes and putting them away my child will have a good life. Hope that she will one day lovingly care for others despite the commitment to monotony that it requires. Hope of eternity helps me manage the knot that gets bundled up in my throat every time I hug my 98 year old Memo goodbye. I could choose fear. I've done so unsuccessfully so many times. I'll admit openly that I'll do it again too--maybe even tonight. For this moment, I choose grace. Only because of  grace do I get to make that choice. What a marvelous conundrum.

Today I'll cherish each moment for what it is. I'll be grateful for the gift of life and love. I"ll embrace the loss that comes with loving. Grace makes it all possible. I do long for the day when there are no more tears and no more sorrow. I welcome the last apology needed, the last divorce decree signed, the last buried pet, and the last load of laundry ever needing folding. Even so, Lord, come.

Being Watched

I'm staying at some friends' home this week. In addition to sleeping a little too late to walk in the heat, I had left my walking clothes from yesterday in the washing machine. I took advantage of swimming laps in their pool. (No. I did not swim in my wet walking clothes.)

I had not been swimming more than 15 minutes and I was aware of two things:

1. I could walk miles and miles and keep going. I am a walker. Swimming laps is hard.
2. The swimsuit I was wearing was not designed for efficiency. I kept having to put things back in that didn't want to stay. As the daughter of an engineer, I kept trying to adjust body parts and keep swimming. I developed a new stroke in the process, I'm quite sure. I've named it the Tuck Breast Freestyle stroke.

I began laughing out loud thinking about how ridiculous I must look. I was glad that no one was watching.

Or was I being watched and didn't know it? I often have that eerie feeling. Maybe it's because I've watched too much TV? Maybe it's the baggage that comes with large doses of shame in my life? Maybe it's pure self-absorbed narcissism?  I took a laugh break to tread water in the deep end. That feeling got stronger.

I AM being watched!

I looked up into the trees outside their property and staring down at me were TWO VULTURES! My first impulse was to jump out of the pool and run inside. I chose not to--not because of sheer bravery; but, because verbs like jump and run throw my body into cognitive dissonance. Besides, I knew full well what would happen to my upper body in this suit when swift, unexpected moves are made. Even a buzzard wouldn't enjoy a Lori Clark peep show.

The vultures were not shocking to me. I'd seen them yesterday and had taken pictures to post on Facebook. The birds were drinking from the pool. It was both creepy and fascinating to know that while I enjoyed the air conditioning indoors, I could watch three very large and thirsty meat eating birds enjoy the same water I swam in just hours earlier.

It felt quite different to know that those very buzzards were viewing me with scorn for using their water. Having made my decision to avoid unpleasant verb behavior, I watched the birds carefully for a few minutes.  At one point, they simply turned their bodies and eyes upon the road below, hoping, I suppose, for the demise of a panicked squirrel. 

I guess when they determined that I was unsuitable food and probably dangerous, given the sound alone I was capable of making, they ignored me. Their job for the day was not to learn new swimming strokes, or figure out why a woman swimming alone would laugh so loudly. Food and drink, those needs surpassed all.

With an ever present awareness of my company perched above me, I thought about all the other things and people around me that watch when I'm unaware. Maybe I feel as though I'm being watched because I am being watched! 

2 Chronicles 16:9

⁹ For the eyes of the LORD move to and fro throughout the whole earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.

I was most comforted to know that God knows all of His creation and watches us lovingly. He never grows weary of loving--which is His full time job.

Legacy

Mom called. "Lori, that concert at The Bass Hall? The one I've been telling you about is on July 9th. Would you like to go with us? I know how you love choir concerts." A quick scan of my limited schedule and I quickly said, "Sure, I'd love to go." I had no idea what I was in store for me, certainly not what I'd anticipated.

I speak with Mom several times a week and I hear details of her life and her friends' lives on a regular basis. The choir story of Joyce's son Carlton did pique my interest primarily because it resonated with some of my own experience with reuniting last summer with my high school choir. Still...how good could a choir be from Wichita Falls? Especially with old folks like Carlton? (who, to be fair, is just a few years older than me.) I can't really tell you how big Wichita Falls is. I just know that it's been wiped out several times by terrible tornadoes. It's probably not much bigger than Highland Village, and I'm pretty sure Tommy Tune escaped from that town to make his mark on Broadway. I also know that Michelle Davis got a lifetime Sonic sticker on her car for lifetime 1/2 price drinks from Wichita Falls. THAT is impressive. 

We agreed to meet in Fort Worth for dinner before the show. I had just spoken with Dad on the cell phone they now keep on during waking hours. I was walking from the parking garage and saw them a block ahead of me. 

No. 

They're too old. My parents are younger. Wait. 

Yes. 

It had to be them. 

And yet, it looked like Granddaddy and Memo, silver hair without a hint of the colors of youth. There was Dad, always the gentleman, street side walking slowly beside Mom. Even three years after her fall(s), she walks with a limp, particularly in the evenings after a full day of standing and moving around. 

When did they get old? 

I realized in that moment that regardless of how bad this concert was, the real value of the evening was time shared with aging parents whom I cherish. (Can I say that I finally consider that my Memo is old at 97? Mom and Dad are only in their 70's.)

I was reminded of the event title only when handed a most impressive all color 8 1/2 x 11 multi-page program: Legacy. Impressive.

As the night unfolded I learned something about legacy. Much more, I was drawn into the power of human connectedness, the power of shared lives, dreams, goals, and music.

I read parts of my program. Legacy Choir of Rider High School in Wichita Falls, Texas consisted of around 200 adults ages 34-60. Together with their beloved director, whom they still referred to as Mr. Cowan, these people gathered once a month for 15 months to learn and rehearse music. There was even a group that met on the East coast monthly to practice. Impressive.

The choir entered Bass Hall from the rear and filled the gaps in the auditorium aisles. Matching tuxes. Matching dresses. Black. (No blue tuxes or giant blue velvet bow ties. Improvement noted.) They all dropped some coinage. Impressive.

The line of men standing in front of me were all holding hands before they began singing. Hmmmm....Texas? Carlton? Former goat roper, now airline executive, holds hands with his peers? Because of Texas, I was impressed. 

I was shocked and delighted when I heard their first few notes soar throughout that magnificent hall. I could hear individual voices because of proximity during that first song. I took note that, like my choir, there were a few "stars". For the most part, they were just people with average voices that when trained well have the ability together to transcend their individual talent.It was a choir, not individual voices. Impressive.

In various ways we learned about their director. A choir director who insisted that everyone in that room was an equal? Who referred to the choir as a family in High School? One who would require members to hold hands during concerts? The WHOLE concert? Impressive. That the kids complied? Very impressive.

I was so glad to be a part of the multiple ovations. Most of all I was honored to stand witness to legacy. I was delighted to honor a man who believed that making music is more than just singing or playing correct notes. Stetsons off to a man who dared in the 60's and 70's in Texas to make boys hold hands?! He is but one of many directors in Texas who carved out a place, a room  where creativity, music, and acceptance were safe havens for so many who might otherwise have lost their way during adolescent years. Choir rooms or band halls were places where even those of us who may have appeared confident on the outside felt better, at home.

I knew, without prompting from the director, that what happened for this Legacy choir was extraordinary. When these adults sang lyrics they memorized long ago-- life and experience, pain and mortgages, children and loss all contributed to their sense of knowing. The collective support and love felt both now and then combined with music, talent, and hard work was visceral to those of us who were merely spectators.

I plan on purchasing the CD once it's available. I will also keep watch for the documentary that someone is producing as well. Will I listen to it and marvel at the professional quality? Probably not. What I will listen for and remember is what it means to be a legacy. Will anyone in Minnesota, or Washington, or even Kenya ever know or care about Mr. Cowan or Carlton or Lori? It's doubtful, most improbable. However, does it matter that Mr. Cowan spent endless hours teaching, researching music, listening to the endless, weekly love stories gone badly, year after year after year? Does it matter that Carlton, a goat-ropin' cowboy wanted to sing and learn more? Did it matter that Anne Goetsch said, "Of course you're going to be the accompanist!"?  I know it matters. The hundreds of people in Bass Hall that night resoundingly said, with thunderous applause, it matters. 

Mr. Cowan has his thousands who have experienced his legacy of life and love of music. Carlton made the trip from DC every month for rehearsal. I met his college aged son, an award winning filmmaker already. The arts are part of his legacy as well. Me? I was aware of the legacy of my parents--the legacy of sacrifice for family. Dad driving half way across Houston everyday, so I could continue to attend KHS. They were willing to pay for voice lessons and piano lessons, so that I could do what I enjoyed. Was I ever going to be a diva on stage or a broadway star? Nope. Not even close. They hear me now singing along with the radio, or while I set the table for Thanksgiving dinner. They cried along with me as I tried but couldn't finish singing at Dado's funeral. They contributed profoundly to my passion for music and beauty. Their support then and now matters immensely. 

Do the arts matter in school today? Anyone at Bass Hall on July 9, 2011 would shout out, "YES!" What else would motivate such commitment from busy-addicted people to slow down enough to perform a concert once? They remembered and experienced again that being accepted matters. They experienced that learning to be family did matter and is a transferable skill. They remembered what it's like to work together to make one chord, one phrase, even better. Perfect. They had the chance to say the things they wished they'd said to the director that never even crossed the mind of a self-absorbed teenager. Life was hard then. It's hard now. The performers and their audience experienced beautiful music. Music transports us to places where life is better, if even for a moment. Always has. Always will.

Heavenly Patterns

I was focused on getting her pool shoes to the house before ABC left with her Dad for their annual July trip to Boerne. Driving past my neighbor's home, my eyes and my heart were quickened by a sight I've never seen before.

My neighbors are elderly. I often see their grandson, probably in his 30's mowing their very large lawn and the larger, adjacent empty lot. He was in shorts and shirtless. Certainly not newsworthy. What caught my eye was his son, probably 4, also in shorts and shirtless. He was pushing the fertilizer spreader. His face was a portrait of fierce determination. His hair was soaked in sweat and he had the same crinkled line between his brow as his father. How I wanted to pull out my camera and capture this father/son dual effort of service. Lest, I earn a crazy stalker, paparazzi reputation in my hood, I refrained.

My restraint was mostly because I wouldn't have been able to capture the most charming aspect of my snippet of life this morning. The little boy was trotting along in the most haphazard pattern. So much so, that I wondered at first if he was being chased. I slowed and watched. No. He was just pushing, with wild abandon and without any thought to what might happen after his work was complete.

I immediately admired the father. How wonderful for him to say, "Yes, son, I'd love for you to push the fertilizer spreader." Wheels. Gears. Noises. Awful smells. Perfect little boy toy. I was grinning ear to ear on my drop off at the mailbox with Annie Beth. She had brought out some of her art to show me and gain deserved accolades. We share a love for creating and for praise.

I pulled into Peggy and Jack's drive to turn around and see the progress of my young laboring friend. I began to visualize my elderly neighbor's yard after watering. I wondered if, perhaps, Dad had not loaded the spreader with fertilizer. I slowed once again and noticed, that, yes, fertilizer was making it's way in rapid fire patterns across the pale, green landscape. I loved the father at that instant. He knew exactly what his son was doing and allowed him to be absolutely lost in the joy of four year old work.

A series of pictures is nestled inside my own brain right now.
1. Little shirtless boy pushing his big boy spreader complete with fertilizer in streaks and circles and lightening bolt patterns across his great grandparent's lawn.
2. The knowing grin I shared with the Dad as I passed the second time.
3. The possibility of taking a picture of the lawn after rain and without fear of being arrested for stalking.
4. The possible, inevitable pattern seen only from above and afar by a select few, for a brief time.

My best guess is that only a few of us could know what that lawn would look like next week without the inevitable intervention from a loving father and responsible grandson, who understands the value of work and the joy of laboring alongside loved ones.

I said aloud, "Lord, thanks for a reminder."

I wonder what the patterns of my wild, often erratic, sometimes lethargic work look like from above? I'm grateful for a Father who invites me to work alongside Him, even when He knows I'll make a big ol' mess in the process. Then. He takes my messes and uses Living Water for growth and life, transforming them into beauty.

Being Found

I'm still skeptical of blogging. It's an odd medium, really. I remember going to great lengths to hide my thoughts in my yellow,velvet book, appropriately titled, "My Diary". It had that great little lock and key--which was no hindrance to an ornery older brother with a bobby pin snatched from my bathroom! Hiding it proved ineffective as well. Two reasons: 1. It leaves a lump under the pillow 2. User memory deficits.

I worked so hard to hide the realities of my 8 year old world. There was the utter humiliation of hearing my poetry recited down the hallway, "Roses are red. Violets are blue. Cameron Schetter, I love you." Each post thereafter, carefully embedded in unsuspecting sentences were his special greetings, "Scott stinks." "Scott is a PIG!!!!!!!" My favorite, "Scott bites his toenails!!!!!!!" Whether my ninja defensive tactics were successful, or he quit out of sheer boredom, who can ever tell? Because, by the time I actually wrote anything of substance worthy of amateur extortion, both he and my sister, who didn't cop to her habits until adulthood, had quit reading my spiral notebook journals. Carol Hudgins is MEAN and wears glasses!!!!! that are ugly!!!!!!!

Justice is important to me.

So, why in the world, would anyone be marginally interested in my thoughts now? Isn't blogging just a publishing of my journal? I get that my mother would want to finally have full permission to read and discuss my issues openly now. Did anyone else figure out that when you were setting the table for dinner and your mom sheepishly asked,  "Sweetie, is there anything you want to talk about? " It wasn't because she was clairvoyant? I understand why my friends from out of town might want to see what color my hair isn't or is-depending on perspective. But why would I even want a stranger to read my thoughts and mock or interrogate me? And so I had no real plans of joining the bandwagon.

What I did discover was that my handwriting, abysmal, even in the graded years is no longer discernible, especially by me. I began using the computer several years ago to journal. I found that keeping the files readily available, organized, and accessible was a challenge. Not enough to lose sleep over; yet, I do go back and read my thoughts, my bad poems. The stones of  my life. Markers of where I've been and where I want to be.

Late to the party, I had started reading a few blogs and noticed that the format was logical and easy to follow. "I will use this format for my writing/journaling ideas." Feeling quite pleased with myself, I set up my blogspot. Ignorant about most settings, and with no need or desire to explore the parameters, I simply started. It was liberating to know that when I couldn't figure out how in the ham sandwich to fix the font back after I'd pasted in another one from Biblegateway, it didn't really matter. This was for me alone. I've learned to be more comfortable with my limitations and the realities of learning--mistakes are part of learning. I am not anonymous about being a recovering perfectionist.

As is always my pattern, I had a couple of weeks of jotting and scratching on paper/phone and nothing on the blog. Who cares? It's mine alone.

My dear friends Ryan and Lindy are here from Houston to see Next to Normal. (scratch to self...blog about N2N) We were all comfortably doing our own thing on our laptops in the coziness of Ebby. (my apartment..worth a post as well.) The soundtrack was playing on Lindy's laptop. Ryan was watching a movie at the dining room table with his headphones on. In my ritual spot on the peeling, leather loveseat, I had just hung up the phone with Gay. I'd called her to appropriately scold her for asking a complicated question in her post and not providing an answer. I decided to open up my blog and think out loud about the question she posed. "How do we guard our hearts?"

Whatever the landing spot is called popped up on my screen and I was confused to see that it looked different.
                                    And how in the world did Lindy get her picture on my blog?
Wait.
           She's following me.???
                         I haven't told Lindy I had a blog.
                                                                           Screeeeech moment.
And in a flash, my old tapes started running. "Was there bad poetry?"
          "Was my punctuation correct?"
"Blast! I wish I'd fixed that font problem."
"Why didn't I research and follow through with hiding it from others???!"

I'd been found.

"Lindy, how in the world did you find my blog?" L-"You posted a comment on Gay's blog and there is a link to your blog on your comment. I have quietly been reading your posts while sitting across from you. I tried to comment, but it never would allow that. You must have set it up that way?" Me- cackling first, "Who knows what I did, I just started filling in boxes and started!!"

I'm smiling now because in the conversation that followed, I realized that being found by my thoughtful, intelligent, loving friend was not frightening or threatening. Her blog, a highlight in my day now when I get the message there is a new one, is a favorite. Why? It's a reflection from the mind and soul of a person whom I treasure. We share life in a consistent and intimate way through keystrokes anyway. Her reading this was simply a more organized way of telling her what I'd say to her anyway.

I could figure out how to change the setting for privacy. I'll leave it as is. Being found by a beloved confidante and affirmed is a mingling of our lives in another way that helps her know me and I her. Keys are gone. Hiding isn't necessary. And ninja techniques aren't required. Lindy, I love and I adore you. Thank you for finding me.

Safety is a new frontier for me.

How odd. Maybe I learned something about guarding my heart without setting out to do so in this post?

Anger

It took me almost 30 years to really be comfortable thinking about anger as anything but wrong and bad. It seems slightly unfair because I got a double dose of genetic predisposition towards anger. So I've got a temper and I'm strong-willed, as Mr. Dobson would say. My daughter got a double dose too. In my life, anger and shame become synonymous. The Bible was increasingly valued in my family as I was growing up. Here's the verse that this mind questioned so very often....


Ephesians 4:26
“In your anger do not sin” 

It seemed so obvious to me, even as an adolescent that there was something important here. Few people were ever willing to really discuss this with me. Easy answers or dismissive responses were mostly what I got. Until Gay Hubbard. There was something so freeing to me to hear her value my question and then help me grapple with the complex issue. "Well. Let's look at this head on and see what we can learn."

That was 20 years ago and I'm finally in a place where I can, like Gay, say the same thing. Like most things it's because I've screwed up so many times that I've tried just about every bad solution there is. More, I know  God in a way that helps me understand grace in a way that I am finally amazed by it. I am beginning to study kenotics and the way in which Christ emptied Himself to become human and dwell among us. I have great faith that Jesus knows the limitations of being human and fully understands why anger can be so valuable, when applied well.

As is my habit, I wrote in my head, first, before typing. I've had this marvelous conversation with myself that ended in a belly laugh. I'm fully aware that I'm odd. I've embraced it at this point.  I started listing all of these great organizations that were founded. I asked the question, "why?" Anger.

 M.A.D.D. Why? Anger      

Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Why? Anger     

Suicide prevention groups? Anger     

I heard my self saying, "Anger" with great authority. Suddenly, I saw myself in a lion's suit substituting the word, Courage. That's my favorite part of Wizard of Oz. 

It's true though, anger used appropriately can propel us from horrific loss into new places. I'm thinking about a friend's adult brother who is an alcoholic and codependent on his family. Anger is the best way for them to propel themselves into loving him enough to not allow himself to destroy himself and them. Anger, along with the directions from above, was the motivation that helped me leave a marriage that was destructive to my soul and life.

That's the simple version. I wish it was that easy. It's harder than anything one could ever even manage to be angry and not sin. I know that Jesus understood that. I think that verse is an open invitation to seek His help. I cannot describe how that works because I haven't the foggiest idea. I just know that when I give God a microscopic place to dwell within and have reign in that space, He fills it and does the impossible. If I would just remember and allow Him.

A June Breeze

Every once in a while, I actually remember my previous failures and purpose to do things differently. Strike that. No, that's usually true. What is not true, sadly, is that I'm rarely successful in the follow through. I've got all kinds of excuses and rationales--even some reasons that make me sound wise and wonderful when I've failed in the same way for the 17th time. That's what made today remarkable. I actually remembered how to avoid the failure and followed through. And my egg still broke.

I was so focused on protecting my newly found bird's egg from destruction by my hand, that I did not factor in any other variables. I was contemplating that profound truth that my choices and my actions did matter to this fragile egg. I had the power to protect it or destroy it. I was pleased with this lesson, feeling fed by the Spirit.

And yet, that was only part of the story this morning. The same lovely breeze that was cooling my sweaty body was also the breeze that carried my treasure away. I was shocked when it flew out of my cupped hand. How could I have missed that? Even breezes can carry an empty shell away! Old tapes instantly screamed, "You're so stupid, Lori! How could you have forgotten about the other dangers? You are a failure."

Did I fail? From the standpoint of bringing home an abandoned bird's egg, I guess I could say, if pushed, "Yes, that was a failure." But in the larger scheme of things, does that prove anything about my ability to succeed? No, of course it doesn't. In His ever gentle and loving way, God was teaching me something new today.

Yes, Love, do things differently when you're able. That's such a wise thing to do. Just understand that wind blows and holes are hidden in luscious fields of green grass. People make mistakes and sometimes deliberately break things that you treasure. Trust that no matter the outcome, I am present in the consequences.


Help me remember. And believe.

Fractured Eggs

A few weeks ago as I was stepping out of the van onto the grass just beside my carport and underneath the tree, I noticed a beautiful bird's egg. It was almost blue with tiny brown speckles all over it. I bent down for a closer view. What I loved most was that it was still slightly hinged. I carefully picked up the egg and the final synapse that held the egg together gave way. I marveled at it's size and fragility. I said aloud, "My word, I've got rhinestones on my shoes bigger than you are, Little Egg!"

I looked up in the tree. I could hear the squawks of the bird who no longer needed that home. I found myself transported into a child's world instantly. I wanted to show. And tell. And I did. I took it to lunch and showed it to my daughter and my 9 year old friends and their teachers. (Sidebar: There's always a germ phobic teacher who is just convinced that this one small, something will kill her students! I wasn't gonna let HER look smother my enthusiasm.)  It lost a few more pieces, but once home I carefully placed my treasure in a fake nest I had bought at some warehouse sale months ago. The fake eggs, hot glued to the nest, that originally looked quite authentic, were poor imposters when resting against the real egg, cracked as it was.

I placed it as the centerpiece on my dining room table. I have enjoyed knowing I was paying attention and got to participate in one small part of God's creation. Much more it was a reminder of God's goodness and His tender mercies.

I heard God's voice that day, so clearly. "How much more do I care about you, Love?" (Matthew 6:26)

Fast forward to this past Saturday. Annie Beth, Emma, and I were sitting down with our late dinner sacks of Sonic at the dining room table. Emma, a lover of small things too, assumed the eggs were all fake. She enthusiastically grabbed the tiny egg. With that rather innocent move, she crushed my treasure into hundreds of pieces--the speckles no longer even discernible.

"OOOOOOO Emma!!! You ruined my egg. I loved that egg!", I whined.  It was too late to correct the edge in my voice and the shame I'd shoved into her lap. I tried, nevertheless, to adjust my response and try to pick up the more important shattered pieces of my niece's esteem and heart. She waited until she sensed her "grown aunt" was over her pouting and apologized. I apologized as well for my terrible response.

Today as I walked along a favorite portion of my path, I noticed another broken bird's egg. Same variety. "How great! I'll carry this home and place it in my nest! I'll call Emma and tell her that I found the perfect replacement. This will be a teachable moment." I was still 30 minutes away from home.

I was aware of the fragility of that egg--all too aware of what the wrong move of even a loving, small hand can do to that shell. My focus was on not jarring my large hand. When I crossed a rather busy street I was concentrating on the safety of my egg. The same hand that protected my egg, could also destroy it. All at once the rare June breeze, which I'd thanked God for so many times already, carried that egg out of my hand and it landed on the hot pavement. Because of traffic, I was unable a mere attempt at saving it. It was gone.

I hadn't considered the other risks to my egg. I let it go and asked God to teach me.

He reminded me that the context of His Word spoken to me all those weeks ago was about daily needs: Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Matthew 6:26. 


There was nothing particularly sacred about that first fragile remnant of a former life I found last Spring. It was a sacred moment, though, because God spoke to me and fed me with it that day. He let me know that I am loved and valued and treasured by Him in ways that I cannot fathom. It's a great thing to be reminded of His daily blessings and the food He used to nourish my soul. My little altar on my black dining room table was not a pagan offering. When I shamed a child that I love so dearly because she ruined my treasure, it had become a form of idolatry--unintentionally. How grateful I am that God pointed that out to me. And today, I know that the lesson of the today's fragile egg is an entirely different message than the first. (AND another blog entry.) 


Give us our Daily bread.....Thanks for the reminder, Lord.