Internal Chatter

I just published this on Gay's blog.


December 30, 2012

Dear Friends,

Gay continues to steadily improve and will join us again in blog-world next week. In a conversation today, she referred to her time away from writing as a vacation. If a vacation is what she had, sign me up for something else! She, of course, was joking. She has worked harder than ever, in a different way, to ensure her return home. I'm grateful for the opportunity to share a bit of my life, learned primarily through Gay's investment in me, with each of you. 

Last week, I was fully aware of the raw emotion and the vulnerability on my part in posting such bare portions of my inner world. I wanted to illustrate something learned from years of knowing Gay. She has given me a great gift in this phrase, "Lori, you are not alone." It has generally been followed by, something like, "I cannot tell you how many women I've heard speak those same words...." 

When a negative emotion is involved, particularly shame, silence and isolation feed the flames of destruction. Words articulated, whether verbally or in writing, help lessen the power of shame. If empathy is introduced, seedlings of change are watered. 

One precious friend who read the post and took the time to comment on Facebook and in person noted how she cried as she read it. I was so grateful that she told me why she cried. I've learned that one can never assume why a person is crying. Tears are complicated-- sad, angry, confused, often unearthing buried events of old. She said, "Lori, I was crying because of the negative chatter in your head."

I intentionally shared that internal chatter. Unspoken conversations with ourselves can be highly destructive and confusing. When I met Gay 23 years ago, I was largely unaware of the ongoing negative chatter in my head. I was even more ignorant of what power those words had in my daily life. She helped me discover the sources of some of the consistent, destructive forces--my furies. 

Do I still struggle with internal chatter? CLEARLY, yes! That said, over time, I have learned to sift and sort through lies and truth, sources and fuel. Even better, I know how to find sources of life giving, affirming replacements. 

Looking back at my chatter just before the ugly cry breakdown in my kitchen last week, did I sob because I broke the head off of the cutest yoga man cookie I'd ever made? No.

I wouldn't have known that 23 years ago, though. By following the progression of thoughts, I was able to figure out what I was really feeling at that moment. 

I was frustrated by my efforts. My plan DID NOT include adding stress to the list of possible negative feelings. Did I think I was a failure, though? No. I know I am competent and highly creative. 

Did I make a colossal mess in the kitchen? Yes. 

Can I clean well? Yes. Do I want  to clean well? NO! 

Did my 8th grade teacher give great advice about not eating frosting as you work? Yes! Why? She knew, from experience that the result is awful.

Remembering my intention helped me hone in on the core issue: do something I enjoy that connects me with others during a lonely time. My project compounded an issue. Now I was a frustrated lonely person having to fight off furies of the past. Is anyone else exhausted? 

I had a choice for my next decision that night. Leave the kitchen a mess and wallow in self pity. Which, historically involve lots of butter cream frosting and  a combination of romantic comedies and tragic films. Or listen to a loving, kind voice within my Spirit that said, "Lori, it's time for church. Change your focus."

I recognize that voice as the spirit of God in my life. 

In the past I often ran from God or rebelled against Him in response to situations I didn't understand. More importantly, I confused that negative chatter in my mind and heart with His messages to me. 

Nothing could be further from the truth. 

God's voice never belittles or condemns. He loves me and his communication with me and to me is always based in love. Love is who He is, not simply what He does. 

By responding to His message to change my focus, I opened up my heart and mind to the supernatural. At that moment I had no real power to change my feelings of isolation and loneliness. Knowing answers didn't change my circumstances; but, because God loves perfectly and with such tenderness, I was able to enter into a place of security and comfort that only He could provide. 

The story got better as the week progressed. I am sincere when I say that I truly wasn't looking for pity or attention by writing of my frustrations and loneliness. My goal was to draw attention to the powerful combination of doing internal, emotional work and then offering your pain and concerns to God, whom I believe is more than able to meet us in that place of suffering. I knew I was only one of what surely amounts to millions of people who were alone and feeling sad during Christmas.

I'm blessed beyond measure with lots of dear friends. I know that I can invite myself into their homes and I am welcome. My plan was to be content with pretending that Christmas day was simply another Tuesday doing quiet things alone. Instead, I had two lovely, barely optional invitations for Christmas. One for lunch. One for dinner. My lunch was with a new friend and her extended family. My dinner was with friends and their extended family whom I've known for a decade. Both were filled with great stories and laughter that bonded us together in new ways. 

With fluffy white snowflakes falling outside my window that Christmas night, a rare event in Dallas, I kept thinking about this verse in scripture, 

Psalm 68:6 "God sets the lonely in families." 

Annie Beth arrived at noon on Friday and we drove to my parent's ranch just southwest of Fort Worth. The dogs and cousins all ran to greet us. We exchanged gifts, laughter, and enjoyed our feast of food. 

I will always remember my Christmas of 2012--all of it. I will, in the future keep my eyes and ears open to offer invitations to those who might, even with reluctance, need a dose of family togetherness.

As Gay would say, "Thinking with you about recognizing the difference between negative internal chatter and God's spirit of loving direction in your life. See you next week."

Blessings to each of you. ~lori

Wight Christmas

There are a few people that read my blog that are not on Facebook. I've been maintaining a friend's blog while she's been recuperating from illness. If you're interested, hop over to www.blog.gayhubbard.com. Anything I've ever learned, I got from Gay--pretty much.

I wrote this one yesterday and thought I'd share it. I'm copying it as is so that the context of what I'm talking about is intact.

December 23, 2012

Dear Friends,

I am pleased to report that Gay is home! Miss Annie is even more delighted to share her home with Gay again. It will be good for both of them to establish their regular routines and make adjustments with what might be new patterns. Your continued prayers are, as always, deeply appreciated. There will be transitions and changes for Gay over the course of the next few weeks.

I  regularly read a few blogs written by people who are well known. I often agree wholeheartedly with their words, but wonder, not so privately, "Does that person really practice this idea in his or her life?" That's one of the reasons I enjoy reading Gay's blog so much. I have the great privilege of knowing her well. Although admittedly imperfect, I know that she works on being authentic and genuine with her life and faith. 

I am neither famous nor quote worthy. My last two posts, though, have been about God's presence in our lives. That said, I'd like to share a few experiences of my life with Emmanuel--God with Us--this past week.

I was aware like tinfoil on a filled tooth that once I dropped my daughter at school on Thursday morning, I wouldn't see her again until her dad returned her to my house on December 28th at noon. I accept that my choice to divorce meant both freedom and profound loss for me, for my child, and many others. Even with my full acceptance comes the reality of being without her on Christmas every other year. It's painful. I get to choose, though, what I do with that pain.

As part of my survival strategy, I planned a baking project. Not just any baking project. NO. I'd found yoga posing gingerbread men that I HAD to give to my instructors. There was no way in the world I was gonna pay $9.99 per cutter. No descendant of a depression era generation would pay that! So, I decided to MAKE the cutters as well. I couldn't decide which pose was the cutest, so I made all ten poses. I started collecting the goods about a week ago.

My Saturday afternoon included 7 feet of one inch aluminum hobby siding, six batches of gingerbread, five baking sheets, four batches of white royal frosting (three ruined, one almost right), three bandaids,  two bulging trashbags, and sing along, "One extra trip to Wal-Mart." As I took my favorite and nearly perfect plow pose gingerbread man off the cooling rack, his head remained stuck to the edge of said rack. I'd beheaded my best one! I started bawling. 

It was the full out ugly cry. 

The chatter in my head sounded something like this...

"You can't do anything right!!!

Even in trying to distract yourself by doing something to give as gifts, you just make a HUGE mess!!! 

       and they don't even look good!!! 

You've done what your cake decorating teacher in 8th grade said NOT to do all day!  ---lick the frosting off your fingers. and now you're sick to your stomach to boot! You deserve it!! 

You'll NEVER learn!!  It will take hours to clean up the mess. and you stink at cleaning....Internal pause. 

And MOST of all 

YOU ARE ALONE!!" 

Thus the ugly cry.

I looked at the clock and it was 4:00 PM. There was enough time to put on a shirt, comb frosting out of my hair, slap on makeup, and head to church. Focused worship would be my best option. 

I attend a very large church in the Dallas area. In order to serve as many people as possible without needing a Cowboy stadium sized building, we have Saturday services. I attend regularly at 4:30. The parking lot was jammed packed. I'd forgotten until that moment that it was the Christmas Eve service. I sit by myself almost every week. It never bothers me. Christmas Eve service seems different, though. I quickly texted my dear friend to see if she and her husband and newborn would be there. Nope. 7:30 service. My heart sank and tears started clogging my ducts. I sucked them back and found one of only a few aisle seats that remained. I texted my friend again. "Should have planned better, I could just bawl. So alone.(sad face emoticon)"

The worship center was beautiful. The band included an upright bass, a cello, a viola, and a violin this week. They were playing and the large screens had moving visuals of stars and the night sky. Stunningly exquisite. I had all but stood up to sing the first Christmas carol when I could no longer hold back my tears. When the flood of tears escaped my squeezed shut eyelids, I felt slender fingers and a delicate touch on my shoulder. I turned to see a friend who had been in my small group back when Richard and I led the group together. She with such tenderness said, "Lori, we have an extra seat with our family, if you'd like to sit with us."

Emmanuel. 

I know His voice and I recognize His touch. He just used precious, sensitive Julie to communicate His message.

I am WITH you, Lori. 

I KNOW alone. 

I am here. 

Now.

Isaiah 53: 3

He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering.

He went to a great deal of trouble to make sure we are never alone, didn't He? He accepted responsibility for our sin, my sin so that He could make a way for us to be with Him forever. In the here and now, He also made provision for healing.

Isaiah 53:5

But he was pierced for our transgression,

he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was on him

and by his wounds we are healed.

Tears of joy flowed easily throughout the remainder of that hour. It's rare that children attend our service because of our wonderful children's ministry. I laughed as the bow headed little girl in her ruffled red and green striped outfit danced in the aisle. During the next song, I saw out of my peripheral, three year old Jonathon, whom I'd just met, raise his little hand to mimic his daddy. That reminded me to stop singing. I love to hear the voices of little people. I can know something of that child by the way he sings. It makes me realize how much God must love hearing each of us. I leaned in a little closer across the aisle to hear a little boy sing Silent Night in the loudest voice he could muster. I noticed  his 'r' sounded like a 'w'. Translation would be, 

"wound young viw-iwgin mothew and child." 

When we repeated the song I realized that little boy was not saying bright. He had omitted the ' b'. He thought the word was either white or right. 

"Silent Night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is wight."

Yes. All was right at that moment on my Christmas Eve because of God's choice to be with me.

As if God hadn't communicated His message enough, He sealed it with a real hug and kiss. My doorbell rang about 7:00 PM. It was Annie Beth on the way to her church. She'd forgotten some vital accessories for her Kit doll. It couldn't have been more than a minute. It was more than enough.

As Gay would say, "Thinking with you again about Emmanuel. Hoping that you too, will keep your eyes and heart open for His presence in your life. He is with us and delights in our presence as well. See you next week."

Merry Christmas friends. ~lori

PS. Here are the YogaMen that were gift worthy

Still a Baylor Girl

When you reach the stage that life is measured by significant year reunions, funerals, and weddings of close friend's children and the grandchildren that follow thereafter, I'm pretty sure it means you're old.

I went back to Baylor Homecoming for my 25th class reunion. Once on campus, I realized very quickly that aside from very polite greetings from students, I had become another irrelevant parent. I had actually planned my outfits for the big weekend--something I do once a decade at best. I'll be completely honest, I did consider that I might finally snag a "Baylor boy" after all these years. (I didn't run into any divorced Baylor boys. Divorce at Baylor doesn't happen; but, that's another post.)

The only people that noticed me, were of course other old Baylor alums--other geezers that recognized my face and were pulling all the RAM they could to crank out my name before we actually had to speak. I learned just about everything I know about social graces at Baylor and this one was the dead give away I was not alone... "Girl! How are you?" Guys say, "Man!" or if trying to keep up with their kids' vernacular, "Dude!" I chose the direct approach and said, "I should know your name. Given that I cannot remember my only child's name several times a week, will you remind me of yours?"

I love Baylor and have such fond memories of living life full tilt with so many others that shared my values and ideals. Despite my goals, I was even educated well. What I value most having gone back after 25 years is what I valued most then as well, relationships.

My dearest friends at Baylor still recognize my voice when I call. They still know that if they compliment me on something, I'll tell them how much it cost. In turn they will disregard or applaud my boast about the bargain. They also know that I'm prone to hyperbole-except when it comes to my bargains. I am fiercely truthful about sale items.

Although there have been long stretches of time where communication is sparse, my core group of friends have all been committed to one another. In the past 5 years we've been even more intentional with seeing one another. We've all discovered that life gets harder. We trade up for higher sets of problems. That's growth. We also know that growth hurts. There is nothing quite so comforting as an old friend to simply listen while I cry--to feel only comfort when she wipes the inevitable snot drop off the tip of my nose.

As in all places, Baylor has it's share of one-upmanship. It's a place where to be smart, beautiful, high achieving, and spiritual is the norm, not the exception. If I'd thought I was any of the above back in the day, I could find 10 people in 5 minutes who were exponentially more than I was. That's a lot of pressure.

I never believed I was naive or young then. I was, in my most humble estimation, wise beyond my years. The one thing I did well was choose good friends with whom I could simply be flawed. It was in the safety of friendships that I could feel almost right about being average. In time, and with growth these same people are ones that I feel completely comfortable revealing both my victories and epic failures.

The bonus now, a blessing that I could have only imagined back in the 80's, is having relationships with these friend's children, so many of them legal adults now. What a delight to see traces of their mother's smile, an expression their father made that still makes me laugh, or hear that child wryly comment about her mother's method of spreading mustard from edge to edge of the bread.

There is a South African word that speaks such truth: Ubuntu- I am because we are. I am Lori Hudgins Clark because of so many people at Baylor: professors, leaders, and students. I am particularly grateful for those people who invested their love and time in me to help me know that I am part of something larger than myself and that it matters. I matter. I know, in part out of success-- mostly through failure, that I am enough.

My dear friend Jenny went to Baylor a decade after I was there. She was appalled that I didn't own Baylor clothing or a car emblem. I now have a zippered hoody, a grey hoody, a t-shirt, and a sticker on the back of my mini-van in pink that says, "Baylor Girl" It's true. Once a Baylor girl.......always.

New life. Full life.

It had been seventeen days plus eleven years since I'd held a baby whose life on earth could still be measured in hours. It wasn't just any hospital, it was the same hospital, same floor, just doors down from bland room I'd cradled my first child. This afternoon, having picked up my 5th grader and purchased goodies, that same child and I were aflutter with anticipation of meeting this already beloved baby.

He was lying on the bed with his Mommy swaddled in a blanket I wish I'd invented. So simple. Just a tiny couple-a pieces of velcro and the constant need to re-wrap the little burrito is eliminated. His hat, the same hospital issued blue and pink striped one my baby wore covered all but his left ear that had been squished into a delicious, misshapen potato chip. 

He'd run out of space in his temporary home. His Mommy, whom I choose as family, had a very difficult time delivering his 9 lb 4 oz, 22 1/4 inch self. He may have smashed his little ear when he thought he'd come into the world sunny side up. Fully dilated, Mommy couldn't begin pushing until the steadfast staff positioned her in ways that convinced him flipping would be make his journey safer. That alone took hours. Then Mommy had to push for two more hours before he let out his first audible protest of his entry into a foreign land.

New Mommy, exhausted and euphoric, overjoyed and overwhelmed, unable to move off her throne of ice greeted me with a weary smile and a familiar, loving voice. I've loved her daily for over ten years now. I had a desire and need to pour my life, water and ashes into a younger woman. I'd prayed for months. The moment she invited me, a newcomer, to sit at her table, the "fun table" I knew it was her. When she asked me to coffee a few weeks later to ask if I'd pray about discipling her, I answered firmly, "No. I won't pray. I already have a yes!" 

With motherly tenderness, I lifted this perfect gift and cradled him in the crook of my arm. I'd been studying his features in thumbnail sized  iPhotos. I'd heard his voice in a video I'd watched several dozen times before our arrival. I was already jubilant about him and for his parents. I knew I loved him. I've loved him since before he was conceived, praying with his parents for the gift of his life. To feel the warmth of his head against my forearm and see the rise and fall of his full inhale and exhale ignited emotional embers I was not anticipating. 

Tears are complicated, prisms of emotions. I let them line my eyes and paused their release for another time.

I promised Mommy we'd leave soon. I wanted to hear the details that only she could provide about this first born birth. Although each birth is unique full of peaks and valleys, we form a circle of humanity that yearns to hear another story that validates and affirms our own pain and victory. We rejoice over new life and eagerly welcome new members to this universal birthing club. Yet. We want an easier story for our beloved to tell. Less pain than we had. Less healing and easier transitions into motherhood.

Even with texts of ten words or less, I knew her story to be filled with some agonizing moments and pain that  I'd hoped she could avoid. When I asked how her husband had been, she reported, to my sheer delight that he'd been, "AMAZING!!" He was constantly affirming her and telling her, "I'm so proud of you." He was full of encouraging words to help her find strength for the next round of pushing. He kissed her often and told her over and over how much he loved her.

Cherish the baby cradled in my arms, rejoice in his mother's victory and hold the space of pain within, Lori.

I had chosen not to hold another newborn in a hospital before this one because I didn't have the fortitude to stay in the moment with the mother whom I was visiting. I wasn't able to not make it about my loss and be fully present in her joy. 

I had a difficult delivery too. My pelvis was hindered from expansion by the Milwaukee brace I wore during critical growth years to help lessen the impact of scoliosis. I was unaware of this challenge until the labor/delivery nurse checked me and asked if I was having a c-section due to my narrow pelvis.

"uhhhh....no.?"

It was a Friday night and my doctor wasn't on call. The young, female doctor knew I wanted to deliver this baby without surgery. Tenacious and unwavering for hours of transitioning and over 3 hours of pushing, the doctor helped me deliver my beloved. She encouraged me, affirmed me, and assured me that I could do it. She even helped me laugh in between pushes. I remember being constantly concerned that my husband was uncomfortable with smells and pain. I checked in on him regularly while he stood silent bedside for the entire delivery.

My arms were so shaky that I couldn't hold my surprise girl. The nurse had just introduced us when I realized the doctor's tone had changed completely. Her encouraging playfulness was gone. She was all business. I kept hearing, "stat" this and "stat" that. She couldn't get the stitches in fast enough to control the bleeding. During the hour it took to stop the hemorrhaging, I never saw my husband. I could hear him talking to the baby, singing to her, and praying over her. I was alone.

During colicky months, endless to the point of utter despair, I was alone. That pattern would remain a constant.

I chose not to be a single, married parent to another child. I thought I'd grieved it in full--whatever that means. Management of that grief included not holding newborns in hospitals. Holding Jack stirred old embers into a new smolder. Once home, lying alone in bed with only the soft glow of my phone charger, tears were my best effort to extinguish the flames of sadness, anger, disappointment, and regret.

Tears dried, still awake as the sun trickled light into my room, I experienced a verse memorized long ago.


Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, But joy comes in the morning.

I had poured water and ash into Kara. By God's grace and mercy, Jack represented new life rising from the rubble of my life. Kara came to me in darkness with a spirit of sheer desperation. Over the years, I am confident that, although in small measure, I influenced her choice for a husband. Pouring my life into hers did not and will not change my birth experience. I didn't get the dream delivery and partner that I needed and wanted. My body was stripped of a residence for another child in 2008. I know at this moment I'm still grieving this loss.

Through the resurrection power of God, Kara got a dream delivery and a partner to raise her child. I rejoice in full with her and for her.

Euphoria is unsustainable. Joy that God offers is absolutely sustainable. The only way I know how to maintain that joy is to spend time with God and to be grateful each day for all his gifts. When I'm feeling despondent, I can most often point to a lack of gratitude and the discipline to pay attention to God's communication to me and with me each day.

Some days my only note of written gratitude reads: I'm grateful that God loves me. I don't run around barefooted in fields of butterflies and rainbows. I'm not sure that's ever happened, frankly. But, I have learned to notice rainbows and butterflies when it feels like I'm trodding through fields of stickers and thorns. Life is never free of pain and limitations. By God's grace, I get to choose how I respond. I choose life.

Regarding Relationships that Injure

Hi!

I've got four posts I'm working on. This post was for Gay Hubbard's blog as part of the dialogue we're having on her blog. She asked me to share some things I know about relationships that injure. Here's what I wrote:



Hello Gay's Friends,

This is Lori writing for Gay while she is in Kansas with Beth. I've been pondering since last week what I might have to say that would be true, helpful, and remotely interesting about my experience in relationships that injure. Much more, I've been very concerned about the integrity of both the people whom I have injured as well as those who have been hurtful to me. While Miss Annie provides compelling stories and such vivid examples of relational topics, she is safe from injured feelings. Although she is quite brilliant, reading is a skill she has not acquired to date.

I'd like to preface that I am fully aware that I have been and will be--to my dismay-- the perpetrator of injury in relationship. I have at times injured with full intention to hurt and harm. I take no pride in admitting this. There are other times when I wasn't even aware that I was causing pain to another person. There were also those times when I knew my behavior hurt another person, I just didn't know how to not behave in that particular way. There have been relationships where the tap root of the connection was based on mutually poor relational skills with one another. 

I'm feeling quite vulnerable writing because I have said aloud multiple times lately, "I'm FINALLY in first grade in relationship school!" If you consider yourself in college or graduate school, feel free to ignore me or be excited that there are grown-ups in the world who take seriously the business of learning and loving.

Before I could even begin to understand the dynamics of the important relationships in my life, I had to learn two things: 

1. Boundaries.

2. What made me who and what I was. I needed to understand my history so that I could make informed, deliberate decisions to do life in different ways.

When Gay Hubbard mentioned the idea of a boundary to me in 1990, I had a school book knowledge of what that meant. I knew boundaries in a professional social work context. I didn't know that a boundary was something I should apply to my life. I wish I could report that some 22 years later, I'm an expert in explaining and applying healthy boundaries. I've grown from infancy to, as mentioned before, first grade. When rested and intentional I can understand the significance of setting a boundary by saying no. I can even accept the consequences that may result in my saying no. I can let go of what is my responsibility and what is the other person's. 

However. 

Catch me when I'm exhausted, or cranky and I might say yes just because it's easier in the short term than setting a boundary. I also know that my healthy boundary can be perceived and felt as intentional harm to another person. That's very, very hard for me to accept. It's even harder for me to accept that some of my boundaries will permanently change a relationship. Some relationships cannot survive healthy boundaries. 

I'm still learning. Sometimes, I'm still "learnin' the hard way", as my Memo often says. 

Learning about boundaries while trying to understand my own wounded-ness was a powerful combination. I began understanding why I am drawn to certain kinds of people. In turn, I could see why they were attracted to me. I learned that there are other options of relating than the ones modeled for me, intentionally or by proxy, in my family of origin. Over time I have found that I am far more gracious and willing to be merciful when I realize that so many that I love are ignorant of their own internal history and how it impacts their relationship with me. This knowledge also informs how deeply I am involved with those people. I learned from Gay that not everyone is helpful in the journey. Her voice resonates, "Choose wisely."

I am so grateful that Gay has chosen to invest in my life. It's my heart's desire to shower her with the fruit my life produces based on her work with a seedling. I may be a young tree; but, through her investment in teaching and training me, I am beginning to see stability and grounded-ness that will, I hope produce fruit.

Gay will be back next week. Thanks for reading the scribbles of a first grader. ~lori

Vanity turned to better focus

I'm guessing it was 90 degrees at 9:30 AM that August day. Nothing remarkable about that in Dallas, Texas. I was out jogging during boot camp trying earnestly to focus on something besides the heat and my flagging energy. I starting watching my shadow. Shadow watching is still a source of glee and wonder in my world.

I had my hair smushed up into a quasi-Pebbles/I Dream of Jeanne do. It took all of 4 seconds to create. There was enough hair sticking up and around the back of my head that it was flopping in rhythm to my consistent, but slowing pace. I was amused, almost to the point of audible laughter, when I realized I could see the frizzy ends of my hair in my shadow. Although shadows can be deceptive, I made a snap decision that a trim was in my future.

I was staying at my sister's house due to the kitchen remodel. She just happened to be at her hair stylist's salon that day. Kim, Carol's forthright stylist duty bound by an oath for truth to clients was able to work me in that same day. "Just a trim and a bang even-ing job, please." Kim her eyes not and pursed lips communicating the true message said,  "I do free bang trims whenever you want to stop by."

That is Kim's polite way of saying, "Lori, quit hackin' at your own hair with whatever pair of scissors or sharp tool you can locate."

When she dried my hair, she began explaining how to achieve the style she chose for me. I noticed, without concern, that my bangs looked very different. In one mindless, habitual action, I reached for the right part of my bang and pulled towards the back of my head. Snapping to attention, Kim blurted out, "NO!" I must have looked like the wide eyed, confused toddler that I felt like at that second. Backing down from her stance, she pulled my hair further back, revealing more of my scalp and forehead.
K- "What do you see?"

Shoulders frozen. Spine rigid. Holding my breath, I sheepishly asked, "Wrinkles?"

K- With a chuckle and a slight, but fleeting affirmation that yes, there were wrinkles said, "No. This bald spot."

WHAT?

With bionic eye focus I saw it for the very first time. A bald spot. A BALD spot!! My bald spot. I remarked internally, with a taste of scorn, "Well thanks alot, Kim. Now I've got something else to worry about!" Strike the mental part. I'm pretty sure I said it aloud.

I couldn't even focus on the deliciously even ends of my salon styled hair. (My hair looks this way several times a year. That's it.)

A dog with a new bone.

I logged more miles to a mirror in a week, than I have since age 15. She was right. I have a bald spot. Me! I'll admit, I even looked at pictures from childhood to see if that was a lifelong, unnoticed flaw, or yet another unwanted perk of aging.

I'm guessing I'm not the only one who doesn't want bald spots. Even more, I'll bet there are a few people who enjoy blind spots either, especially those of us who are ancestor-ed in shame.

There is a place and time when negative, unpleasant things can and need to be verbalized, I'm sure. Blind spots are tricky business when they are mishandled, I think. I've noticed most people can blurt out a list of flaws; but, the positive sides are more difficult to articulate. More than a little sad to me.

What happens when wonderful and uplifting attributes are highlighted by another person?

When I went into therapy in my early twenties, I expected, in effect, to get the list of flaws on a spreadsheet with solutions listed in the following columns. Gay, without my understanding, turned that paradigm on it's faulty head and started over.

She began pointing out positive truths about Lori Clark. Not smoke. No mirrors. Truth, as she saw it. I discovered quickly that positive blind spots are more difficult to internalize as truth. It's particularly tough when others have used positive affirmations as a form of manipulation for self gain. That said, in time, with trust and health, I began accepting that Gay, a whole and healthy person was speaking truth about me.

So, I've learned to stand on my head, so to speak because of a built relationship with Gay. My foundation is vastly stronger internally because of what she helped me see. Some stones were chipped away slowly while new ones were being shored into place. Others were blown up through various events, welcomed or not. There are charred stones that are part of who I am in my internal foundation, usable and tested. What I trust more than anything or anyone, Gay included, is that The Cornerstone is perfectly dependable, without flaw, and eager to make me more like Him.

Just for today, give thought to another's ever changing world and speak words of character affirmation into her/his life.

Philippians 2

The Message (MSG)

2 ^1-4 If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care— then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

^5-8 Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.
^9-11 Because of that obedience, God lifted him high and honored him far beyond anyone or anything, ever, so that all created beings in heaven and on earth—even those long ago dead and buried—will bow in worship before this Jesus Christ, and call out in praise that he is the Master of all, to the glorious honor of God the Father.

P. S.  Rogaine is as effective as they claim.

What a Difference a Year Makes.....

I'm guessing I'm not the only one who has days where I feel edgy, even to the point of being frantic for no apparent reason. It's an over-arching anxiety that makes even the smallest, most mundane tasks barely manageable.

Today I woke up with that pit in my stomach and generalized dread about simply getting dressed and eating breakfast. It came as a surprise because yesterday was a wonderful day and the day before that was great and the day before that fun filled, etc.  I vaguely remember feeling scared each morning most of my life---like every day of my life before my mid-twenties. I ignored it and masked it with hyper-activity. I pushed it away and tried to smother it. I tried eating it too.

None of those approaches were effective. So I sought help. What I learned over time was that for me, knowing what I'm fearful about helps me tremendously.

Why the dread for today?

Before my feet hit the floor, I determined I had two tasks that must be crossed off the list today:
1. Get Annie Beth ready for her first day of 5th grade.
2. Write and post a blog for Gay.

Both of those events produced some anxiety.
1.  I've always had jitters before new school years, as a student and now as a mother. I can easily talk my way out of the anxious feelings because of truths and experience, though. Annie Beth doesn't want summer to end. However, she loves school and she adores her teacher. She had the same teacher in second grade. For me? I know that the first hour of school days can be rough; but, I'm on my own until 2:50 each day. No anxiety in that for me. Nope school jitters wasn't the problem.

2. Writing a post on Gay's blog? Aside from wondering if I could do justice to articulating what being in a healthy friendship/relationship is like? No worries.

Only because of help from Gay and others.....I've learned that if that free-floating anxiety isn't about this day or an impending day ahead, I best look backwards. I'm a firm believer that our history informs our future.

I've been aware the last month of certain markers of how stressful this period was last year. I've been jarred by pictures on my phone-pictures of me in suits that would be forwarded to a jury consultant for purchase approval. Last week I was driving past the family courthouse en route to another place in Denton. Without thought, I pulled into the parking lot and parked my van. I was sweating and felt nauseous. Realizing my mistake, relief couldn't possibly scratch the surface of my core feeling. I've noticed also that I'm spending far too much time on Pinterest. I credit Pinterest for helping me maintain some moments of sanity during the trial last year.

The trial.

Of course. Today marks the one year anniversary of the beginning of the most stressful week of my life to date. My divorce trial began on Monday a year ago. A jury would be selected to decide the custody of my only child. By the end of the trial, I'd have information that would impact the remainder of many people's lives. Most of that outcome I had very little, if any control over.

I wish I could tell you that once I recognized the significance, the panic and anxiety subsided--washed away with the epiphany. The truth is that I am still filled with dread and fear. I'm writing mostly to remind myself of what I know today that I didn't know last year or at least I know in a more powerful way this year.

I know that the trial was last year and it's over. This is now. I am contentedly divorced and living in a new reality.

Breathing better.

I know that God  loves me. When He promised that He would never leave me or forsake me, He wasn't lying. I've never experienced more of His presence than during that week last year. Many actual moments are a hazy blur and some I don't even remember when reminded. But, I will never forget knowing that I was being loved and upheld by God Almighty. He made Himself evident in so many ways. Some because His people on earth were constantly reminding me that I was not alone and that they were praying for me and with me.

I know that God is faithful. When He promised that He would take care of me and of my child, He wasn't lying. I know also that Annie Beth has a relationship with her father that she did not have prior to my filing for divorce in 2009. I believe God's faithfulness is heavily involved here. Annie Beth has a mother and a father that love her.

I know that I am strong. I did not lie or offer deceit as part of my story. I maintained dignity and did not pander to the lowest common denominator in my marriage or in my divorce process.

I know today that my internal strength can be channeled to my physical body. My physical body is stronger now that it has ever been. I've been working out faithfully for over six months and I am transforming how my body looks and functions. I can have a healthy body and not resort to crazy eating disordered living of the past.

I know that my life has purpose and meaning beyond being a wife and a mother. I am no longer a wife and I have value and worth. Today, I'm more aware of my this than I ever was as a wife. I am still a mother. I know that I can be very sad and miss my child's daily presence in my world, even on Christmas and birthdays. The sun will rise again in the East. Communication is easier and there are methods to fill in lonely gaps for both parent and child. I also am learning early that I cannot possibly control the outcome of her life. I am learning that her choices and many, if not most circumstances will be beyond my control. I know that I can have very good days without her presence. I am delighted that she has many, many wonderful days when I am not there to see or hear about them.

I am blessed beyond measure to have parents that love me unconditionally and friends that I claim as family. I treasure and nurture relationships with those I love because it matters. People live for eternity and I want to invest heavily in this side of that endless time.

I know that God will be faithful to me in my new adventures. He won't saw off the limb and watch me fall for sport. I may feel afraid and doubt; but to mark God's faithfulness by my feelings is a poor measuring method.

Is my anxiety gone now? No. It's there. It is, however, being crowded out by the good things I know.  I'm making a choice, even at day's end to say, Life is far too important to sit frozen by fear. I choose life today. Even though I may not know what tomorrow may bring, I know that I'm loved and that I can offer love fully and freely to others. That is enough. I am enough.

Hubbard's Response

I heard from several of y'all to post the conversation between me and Gay. Here it is below. I wasn't quite sure how she would respond. I knew it would be humble, funny, and grace-filled. How blessed I am to be loved by Gay. 

PS. I have no idea how to reformat this and my hair is covered with #5 natural brown foam color and I'm not gonna take the time to remind myself that I'm old and not as savvy as I wish. Isn't the fact that I'm re-coloring every 4 weeks enough punishment for aging? 

I'm behind on my blog too....Have several ideas churning in my mind. My kitchen remodel has been a source of ideas and LOTS of interruptions. 

Life is good and I'm blessed beyond measure. ~lori

SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 2012

Ah, Schucks

August 12, 2012

Dear friends,

H-m-m. Now what to say?

After reading Lori’s guest blog, I was, as she anticipated, embarrassed. More seriously, in this culture of political bombast and calculated exaggeration, I was concerned that you might view this exchange writing as an obvious bid on my part to elicit kind things from Lori so that I might do an artful “Ah, shucks,” and further burnish my ‘humble’ image.

However, my sense of humor promptly rescued me from any serious worry about the issue. Anyone who knows me personally and has risked relationship with me knows all too well the limitations with which I live. The ashes of my mistakes and failures, to borrow Lori’s fine phrase, have blown all too frequently into everyone’s eyes for anyone to have illusions of anything other than the flawed ordinary humanness that lies at the core of my unspectacular life.

But the way in which Lori reports the good things that have emerged from our years-long relationship raises an important question. How is it that the plain ordinary practice of simple relational skills has yielded such rich dividends?

I never tire of the story of the little boy who brought his lunch to Jesus—five little barley loaves and two small fish. Such an ordinary lunch—barley loaves paired with two ordinary fish.

In “Just a Housewife” the boy’s mother wonders about that lunch:

           I packed five cakes of bread and two small fishes,
           Sent him off, my youngest lad,
          To take his father’s dinner to the field.

          Came back alone he did, all goggle-eyed.

          My fresh-baked bread that varmint gave away
          To some young travelling preacher out of Galilee.

          It fed five thousand people.
          What a tale!

         It can’t be true. . . but if it is,
        What kind of dough did these hands knead
        This morning?

                                         -Cordelia Baker-Pearce

It was, of course, plain ordinary dough, no magic yeast.

But—and this is the point, that, like the boy’s mother, we often confuse—plain dough placed in His hands was more than enough—five thousand fed, and a great amount left over.

I am deeply blessed, friend Lori, to know that our relationship over the years has blessed you. It has, and continues, to bless me deeply as well.

But I am thinking tonight about the quiet miracle we share. We each bring plain bread that is transformed into more than enough by something other than human skill.

See you next week.

Gay

Remind Me Not to Marry Tom Cruise

I wish I could say I wrote this. I did not. I subscribe to this blog about life during and after divorce through Hopeful World Publishing. It's fantastic. Not just because of great information; but, both women are expert writers with hearts that are full and open to change. I'm re-posting one of the meditations from this week that resonated so deeply with me. Even if you're not on this page, you know at least one person, maybe many, many persons who might like to read this. Enjoy.

Whether you're happily nestled in a budding new relationship or disentangling from your marriage, claiming your power and perhaps more importantly your wholeness is a critical element in a hopeful divorce. I bought my first People magazine ever when I saw Katie Holmes' escape from Tom Cruise plastered across the cover. This marriage had always been symbolic to me of that precipice where the fairy tale leaves off and Happily Ever After is a free fall. While I'll never know and am not too concerned about what actually happened between those two people, I found their public trajectory representative of one of the most primary themes (for women) that gets played out in a romantic relationship--moving from enchantment to entrapment to escape. We think a man is going to give us something necessary to complete us or even save us. We don't understand the kind of helplessness and hopelessness this agreement establishes. We don't understand that we actually already have what we're looking to the man to give us. It takes walking in heels for a decade to get over his idea of beauty and our willingness to sacrifice to achieve it. It takes leaving him to find that we had the damn glass slipper in the back of the closet all along. When I learned of Katie's secret plot, her secret phone, her secret little pilot light of a self still flickering deep within her--despite the light that had gone out of her eyes--I felt fierce. For all of us women who literally had to kill ourselves off in our marriages to get ourselves back, wizened, tattered, in divorce. I'm sorry Tom Cruise, but my answer is no. You can jump on Oprah's couch till the cows come home. You can stun the world with your exponential romantic gesture. My cup is full. I've arrived with both feet on the ground at Happily Ever After. I'm not buying what you're selling. Where did you buy into the myth of Happily Ever After? Where can you take back a little part of yourself that you've put in the hands of another? You'll need that glass slipper for your own magnificent dance. No prince charming necessary. Sage Cohen is the author of Writing the Life Poetic and The Productive Writer, both from Writer's Digest Books, and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World. Awarded first place in the Ghost Road Press poetry contest and nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Sage teaches and lectures at writing conferences throughout the country. She offers information and inspiration about the writing life on her blog www.pathofpossibility.com.

My Newest Friends

This story came as quite a surprise to me. I walked away grinning from ear to ear. My hope is you will smile too. Friends are a treasure.

For lots of reasons, some valid and some not, I don't cook a whole lot anymore. That said, when  the new Chinese restaurant opened right down the street, I was one of their first customers. It's less than a minute from the house. Foodies aren't the customers here. It's more the Panda Express/Taco Bell crowd.  I go at least once a week. I can eat for less there than at Wendy's. On days when I'm feeling particularly bad about being a loser mom who feeds her child fast food too much, we get take out at my new restaurant  Sadly, I cannot even tell you the name. I think it might be The Lucky Panda. Then again it might be Oriental Gardens. It doesn't matter. I know where it is.

I admire the owners so much. They are lovely people and I want their efforts to risk what I'm assuming would be everything plus  to open this place be rewarded. For the life of me, I cannot imagine going to China and thinking, "Hey, let me open an American Diner! I don't really speak Chinese; but, I'm bright, I can cook, and I can smile." I truly admire their tenacity and courage. They know that I appreciate their efforts because I'm a regular who tips generously. I strongly believe in rewarding the under appreciated and the risk takers. If I've got money and time, I always brake for lemonade stands.

Last Thursday, Annie Beth and I stopped by to order take out. Efficiency was the goal. Place order. Go to Wal-Mart Market. Buy two items. Get food. Go home. Eat.

Except the sweet woman who is normally standing alone at the check-out area was joined by two adorable little boys. They were sitting at a Thomas the Train table nestled within the confines of that small space. Children are game changers for me, especially cute little boys with shaved heads of coarse black hair. Their backs were facing me. I noticed that their heads were almost identical. If standing up against the wall, their heads could almost be flush with the drywall. I knew immediately they belonged to the owner because he has the same head.

Whether I started my conversation with the boys first or placed my order, I cannot be sure. I can tell you, for sure, that when they turned their heads I was utterly charmed that the fronts of their adorable faces could also lie flush with a wall  and they could breathe easily. I am continually amazed at God's creativity and how beautifully different human beings are.

I learned quickly that the boys were ages 5 and 6. Both, with the nodding approval of their parents, spoke to me. Before we left, with promise to return within 10 minutes, Annie Beth and I learned that they were practicing Chinese characters, loved trains, especially Thomas, and that the older one's favorite crayon was, "All of them!!"

Upon our return, Annie Beth and I were greeted by the whole family in the diminutive cash register area. The boys' black eyes were hidden inside almond shaped slivers forced into place because of their toothy grins. I praised the boys once again and purposely told the parents what a great job they were doing in raising such fine boys. As I turned to give Annie Beth the bag of food, I noticed the little one getting up from his tiny blue folding chair. I reached over the counter to touch him on the shoulder or head. Before I could do so, he, with great five year old authority, put out his right hand. He shook my hand with great firmness. He looked directly into my eyes. And with rhythmic shaking and perfectly enunciated words he said with all earnest sincerity,

"I am going to be your friend."

I am thrilled beyond belief with my newly formed friendships. I am alone today and felt the need for a lesson in Chinese character writing. Much more, I wanted to experience the unabashed enthusiasm of a two little boys who are delighted to share their world with a lady who talks with a crazy accent and pays money to have watermelons painted on her toes.

Before I left, while looking for approval from their proud, but ever watchful mother, I asked the boys if they would join me at my table the next time I'm their guest at the restaurant. With her approval, they solemnly said, "Yes." As I left I heard giggles from below the counter top.

Chicken and snow peas sounds like a great lunch tomorrow.

An Edgy Example of Sacrificial Love

I have an ever increasing love and appreciation for my dad. I'm so excited that this event happened right before a day when I can honor him by telling others about who he is. This time his actions illuminate his very core.

In the Hudgins' home men did the lawn. Women took care of inside duties. I probably would have carried on that tradition into marriage; but, my spouse was terribly allergic to grass. I'm no stranger to hard work and having helped my brother and Dad from time to time, I willingly took on the role of Lawn Girl. (To be clear, helping Dad and Scott meant money was involved. Besides, driving a lawnmower was fun.)

Lawn Girl discovered the thrill of starting a cold lawnmower engine. It was empowering to change the oil and spark plugs. Had Facebook existed the first time I was able to cut a perfectly straight line with my weed eater, I'd have been incredibly obnoxious and posted multiple pictures. 

And deeply disappointed if people did not pump me full of positive comments and likes.

My neighbors can attest that I have a temper and often spew awful phrases when my machines don't cooperate. I did NOT learn that from my dad. He is steadfast, methodical, and ever the gentleman. 

A few weeks ago I decided that I really needed an old school edger--the one with three wheels. I didn't plan on using it every week. Just a couple of times each season to get a nice, clean edge. I've got Bermuda grass and it just eats up weed eater line when the trench isn't quite deep enough. I was shocked that those edgers are far more expensive than a lawnmower. I decided to buy one off of Craig's List. I wanted to pay 50 bucks. I found one within days. Upon pick up, the man, with one decisive pull started it right up. It worked.

Until I tried to start it a week later. I remembered that at the beginning of each season, Dad would always change the spark plug and the air filter. I also had a can of something to spray in the carburetor if the engine still wouldn't start. I followed his example. I even watched some YouTube videos on starting an old pull-cord edger. Even after what had been hours of time, I still couldn't get that blasted edger started. I was hoping one of my neighbors would hear me grumbling and rescue me. 

Didn't happen.

Mom and Dad were coming over the following Monday. Dad made a special call and said, "Lori, I'll work on your new edger and see if I can get it started for you." I knew also that he'd edge my yard, even if I insisted that I'd do it later. 

That morning he called and said, "Lori, I decided to go ahead and bring my edger so that if I can't get yours started, I can still get a nice edge for your yard." He thinks of everything.

My schedule was a little busy that morning and so I told him to be sure and wait for me to work on my edger. I learned the hard way as a spoiled, entitled teenage girl that there are some skills my Dad was offering to teach me that I would need to know someday. I always ask to watch what he's doing now and I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty. Even if I was never planning on changing a tire or a battery, or jump starting a car, I would do it more times than I can count since I left home. Most of those times I was being directed via phone by Dad. There was even that time when he was in The Hague and I was in McMinnville, Oregon on a payphone!

Without fanfare or any fuss, Dad, in his work Stetson, belted khaki pants, plaid short sleeved shirt, and work boots, edged my grass. His edger is probably about a year old, if that. It has a brand new blade. It also has one of those easy pull cords. One pull and you're off! He used the weedeater next and then edged one more time for a pristine finish. Did I mention that my yard is about a third of an acre? Big for my area.

He'd worked on my edger before I got home. Once home I helped him sweep up and do the final touches.

As Mom and Dad were leaving, this is what he said, "Lori, I decided to trade edgers with you. I think you'll like mine a lot better. I've got several of this old kind in the barn from ones Scott has given me over the years. (My brother ran a lawn service.) I can use those for spare parts when I need them."

And that's exactly what my sacrificially generous father will do. He'll use my second hand Craftsman edger and the frustrations that may accompany it. Meanwhile, I'll be enjoying the top of the line edger he left in my shed.

Each time I relive that story I think of Christ. It's about as literal a retelling of the Gospel there is in my life. Like Christ, Dad took my junk and gave me the best he had to offer. All I had to do was accept the gift. And why? Because he loves me. How could I respond with anything else but love and gratitude?

How grateful I am for a dad who loves me in tangible ways that point me straight towards my Heavenly Father. 

I continually learn what it means to be generous in spirit and resources from Dad. I also know that Dad will finish every task he is asked to do. His yes means yes. His no means no. As a parent, I now appreciate that the no was for my benefit, not my demise. I also know that when he signed me and Carol up for those auto-mechanic for girls classes at the junior college, we BOTH should have gone. (I won't be so nice to Annie Beth. She'll hate me until she breaks down on the highway. She'll have a cell phone, though...oh, the things these kids don't appreciate. wink) 

Dad has modeled for me what kind of grandparent I want to be. I never imagined that Dad could put together a great Barbie outfit and know what to say when told by another Barbie that his Barbie was "the bomb". He delights in every opportunity to love and be loved by his beloved.

Most of all, I know that my dad loves me and would give up his last breath if it meant mine would continue. It's what Christ did and continues to do through the life message of my dad.

John 15:13

The Message (MSG)

This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.

What a privilege that I get to call Rex Hudgins, "Dad".

I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day!!!

Lesson from my Lesser Self

My lesser self is always present. Sometimes her voice is louder than others and most often, the darkest thoughts never get aired to anyone. This time, because there was a valuable lesson I learned midstream (with help of a gut-punch from God), it's worth sharing.

I'd bought box seats for the Kristin Chenoweth concert. She's such a tiny little 'thang that I wanted to make sure someone's head wasn't obscuring our view. Once seated, I was pleased.. I was concerned about how to get Patty quickly down to the stage and took the time to discover a speedy way downstairs. (See previous blog if you don't understand what I just said.) I was more than just excited about a wonderful show. I was nervous about the potential of having a sold out crowd stare directly at me while I sold my star to Kristin at the appropriate moment. (Again. see previous blog.)

It's important to point out that I have three serious peeves during indoor performances:

1. People who smack their gum. To be really honest, that bugs me all the time. A lot.

2. People who talk loudly and often.

3. People that sing along with the soloist or group. I've been known to turn around and with a smile say, "If I'd wanted to hear you sing, I'd have bought tickets to your concert."

The lights were down, the intro video had aired and Kristin was onstage in all her tiny glory. Even with her Dolly sized wig, she couldn't have weighed more than 85 pounds. Darling. I was in awe of the power of the voice blasting out of that body when I heard loud talking. 

#2!

#2 can be forgivable if it happens early and just once. Patty noticed too and we shared concerned frowns. The next few times I gave the "over the shoulder slight grimaced look" to the offender. 

When #3 peeve began, I was only slightly relieved that Patty couldn't hear the voice. It was monotone and consistent.

I did my best to focus so fully on the good things of the concert, that I'd "rise above" the uncivilized person behind me. 

I was more than annoyed before intermission and I told Patty I was ready to "pummel the person behind me." Not kidding.

There were two particularly moving songs that I was focusing on when I heard in my heart, "Lori, consider the other person's story before you open your mouth." Just after, I heard an elderly woman's voice say, "Don't sing so loudly." The voice was loving, yet firm. I had that aha moment. "There is something wrong there, Lori. Stop judging and acting like an idiot."

As we were getting up for intermission, I told Patty my suspicion. I bent down to get my 20 pound purse and glanced over to see a grey haired woman with a worn face and the sweetest eyes smiling at me. My guess was she was in her late 70's or early 80's. Sitting next to her was a young man, probably 20-something. His eyes had the familiar double folds of a person with Down Syndrome. 

The young man was abeam with joy. I heard him say, "Momma, thanks for bringing me to see April." I remembered at once that I'd heard that same voice say during an ovation, "Way to go April." I won't air my thought at the time because it's too snarky and rude, especially in light of my new information.

April is a character that Kristin Chenoweth plays intermittently on Glee. Based on his comment, it's possible that Glee may have been this man's introduction to the talent of Kristin.

I'm sure the mother is no stranger to rude people and their inappropriate behavior to her child--even those who can look at him and recognize by sight that he has limitations. If I'd have been that mother, I'd have flashed a "go to Hades look" my way at intermission. She smiled at me, though.

I'm so grateful that I listened to God's instruction. Not simply because it altered my negative attitude; but, because knowing something of this woman and man's story enhanced the remainder of the show. Instead of feeling angry and annoyed, I was teary eyed with joy and tenderness. 

I listened as he sang with joy and intensity. His volume would be adjusted after I heard a quick "shhh" from his mother. He couldn't contain his excitement. I understood. 

I'd posted numerous times on Facebook about my evening. I'd told everyone who'd listen. I was downright giddy. In addition, before even considering whom I would be seated beside, I fully intended to do whatever was necessary to get Patty on the stage. Would this have been any less annoying to my fellow box seat patrons? Would I have been #2 on someone else's peeve list? I didn't want to contain my excitement about seeing my friend sing with a legend. I wanted to be a part of the story-telling that would get bolder and funnier over the years.

We're all limited. This young man's physical characteristics helped me understand something of his limitations. Yet, what about those who do not have tell-tale signs of a physical or mental issue? My limitations may not be so obvious to those seated around me in a public arena. But in a quiet place in my heart that night, I realized that I'm limited by myopic expectation for others to enhance my life experiences. I'm limited by my poor choices. I'm also limited because of my humanness. We all are. We can never know the full story of others, even those we know intimately. 

My lesser self taught me that grace is always the best response. I give God the credit for pulling me out of a shameful event if I hadn't listened. I'm so very grateful for a God who understand limitations like none other.

Philippians 2

Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

5 Make your own attitude that of Christ Jesus,

6 who, existing in the form of God,

did not consider equality with God 

as something to be used for His own advantage.

7 Instead He emptied Himself 

by assuming the form of a slave, 

taking on the likeness of men. 

And when He had come as a man

in His external form,

8 He humbled Himself by becoming obedient

to the point of death—

even to death on a cross.

The part I can never wrap my head around is that He did that for a woman who, without thought, would be willing to pummel an unseen, unknown stranger for potentially ruining her night out at the theater. On top of that He offers me a chance to become more like Him and less like the lesser me. That's astounding. 

With an eye towards lavishing more grace and more love to those around me, scattering dust that will be everlasting. ~lori

A Lesson from a Non-Diva

For some reason, my muse is writing several blogs at once....(no, I do not believe in literal muses.)

Just for fun, though, let me update you on my sugar ants. They have been GONE for two months! I tried Keila's suggestion about a sugar solution mixed with Borax. It works so well and very quickly. Such relief.

It's very possible they've just moved next door to my neighbor's house. Maybe I should slip the recipe for sugar ant destruction in her mailbox?

Here's what I've been composing in my heart and head since last night. A little background is necessary-- especially for the other blog that the muse is writing.

I've been a fan of musical theater my whole life. If I could live my life as a musical, I would. Sometimes there is a pause in conversation that simply begs for a musical cue and melody. I'm quite positive that my life would have been without blemish if during the darkest of moments dancers had simply appeared and lifted me without effort. I would belt out my tune and simultaneously solve my momentary dilemma.

As a season subscriber to a Dallas theater company, I received advance opportunity back in March to purchase Kristin Chenoweth tickets. Kristin is a Jedi Master in musical theater. Without hesitation I bought the best seats available. (Yes, Mom, they were very expensive.) I immediately texted my dear friend Patty Breckenridge and invited her.

Patty was my instant choice because she is truly a star in her own right, not only as an accomplished, award winning actor and singer; more, as a stellar human being. I knew that she would match or surpass my enthusiasm--that's a task.

I've known Patty since she was in elementary school. I cherish time with her. My face and abs will often hurt after I've been with her because I've laughed so hard at her spot on impersonations of her family, even me. I'll often have learned an important life lesson or have something profound to chew on based on a comment she has made.

Another dear friend who knows Patty well saw Kristin in Houston the night before us. She texted and said, "Tell Patty to brush up on Elphaba's part in "For Good" for a duet with Kristin. They had four people near the front and Kristen picked the one who answered with confidence that she knew the part!" That text was copied and sent to Patty post haste.

I made up my mind that I would do whatever necessary to get Patty on that stage. That would include losing all sense of dignity and squandering meager self esteem to be noticed, loud, and oddly charming enough to convince Kristin that Patty was her girl.

I only needed to convince Patty. Much more, I wanted to make sure she really wanted me to risk my public humiliation to sing with Kristin.

Tunnel vision and creativity are both my friends and enemies. I chose to employ every method possible to convince Patty. These included, but were not limited to manipulation and strong arming. Although I had no input on her wardrobe choice, we both laughed aloud when I let her know I was glad she was Dallas snappy casual. L- "You won't look like you were planning to be on stage." (Which, of course she wasn't.)

True Kristin fans always have Wicked downloaded on their phones ready for car sing alongs. Patty humored me and "warmed up" in the car. At one point, I got to be Glinda and she was Elphaba. That, folks was the highlight of my night. Really.

Just as we'd been apprised, after intermission, Kristin asked for a volunteer to sing with her. Before Kristin had completed her invitation, a young girl catapulted herself from her seat to her sandals. Patty, ever so gently, but firmly, grabbed my right arm and shook her head with a firm "no". With hesitation, but the heart of a mother, I relented.

Kristin, with her arm wrapped tightly around the girl sang the first verse, offering support and confidence to a girl whose knees were trembling slightly. When the duet partner opened her mouth, we were all stunned. She had real talent. Jackie was so talented that Kristin felt compelled to tell the audience that her duet partner wasn't a "plant". At the end, while Kristin was smothering Jackie with a motherly bear hug, the audience rose to its feet and erupted with thunderous applause. It was easy to see that Kristin remembered what it was like to be a dreaming 14 year old. In darling diva fashion after having told the audience to remember Jackie's name she said, "Now. Get off the stage." Perfect.

Assuming I'd been successful--which frankly, I WOULD HAVE BEEN! Patty gave Jackie, the 14 year old Broadway wannabe the pinnacle experience of her life. Patty also offered her old friend Lori a gift in return. I was able to relish the moments of watching a dream come true for a little girl--a little girl with this memory and only dreams ahead of her. I also witnessed the stars in Patty's eyes twinkle as she leapt to her feet with a loud whoop. Patty remembered too.

See, this is a perfect Life is a Musical moment. Cue strings.

 "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

What happens before a Scar?

I'm sitting in carpool line. If I time it just right, I can park directly in front of my daughter's classroom door. We are most often the first ones out of the gauntlet. I won't waste your time explaining the illogical rationale for this daily frenzy at 2:50. I will say only that I must arrive at least 40 minutes early to get my spot.

I told you it was illogical.

I spend that time reading, writing, or napping. The only blog I read daily is http://www.aholyexperience.com/. It arrives about the time I pull into my elite spot. If I'm not too cranky or tired, I read it. Some days I don't want to hear or think about pure or holy things. I can never grasp everything she is saying. Ever. I try to contemplate just one idea.

Anne is talking about scars today. As always, it's lyrical, lovely, and profound. After reading this, I have the odd desire to have more scars.

I have scars. There's the one on my bottom lip that juts out and makes a fabulous pout which I'm still inclined to use. This is my first lasting scar occurring just before my first birthday. It's a reminder that I've always, always been clumsy. Then there's the large one on my shin. The summer before 6th grade I was absolutely DONE with dark, long hairs on my legs. Dressed in jeans --in Houston, no less--to conceal my gash, I asked Mom if I could shave the day after my introduction to razors. She replied in no uncertain terms, "NO!" That scar is a reminder that my uninformed, impulsive behavior can cause injury. As a seamstress, I was mad as a hornet when a C-section was performed during my hysterectomy. Any self respecting sewer knows what happens when a straight line seam is sewn below an area with a curve. I didn't need a stitch to create a band for the excess to fold over, thank you. I cannot see that large scar, so it doesn't count.

For about a year after I took off the wedding band I'd worn perpetually for over 22 years, I had a white, atrophied circle on my left finger. I called it my scar. It was the only physical evidence of a gaping wound within.

Aside from my ring finger, I can touch any of the scars I've mentioned and I have no sensation whatsoever. They are painless.

If you are a visual reader and are grossed out easily, just click the red box and be done now.

Right now I'm pondering what happens before a scar forms a monument to a past wound. Obviously there is a wound first. The depth of the wound and the source of the wounding are critical to the care administered. If things go awry, bad stuff happens. Garden variety cuts and scrapes form a scab. That scab, when ready, will simply fall away revealing a white or pink layer of new skin. Sometimes there are accidents and the scab is ripped off before it's ready. Ouch. Then there are people like me, who, bless my stupid heart will pick that scab away. Mom still keeps band-aids at the ready. (Apparently there is a "picker" gene.) I cannot imagine how much worse I'd been if Hello Kitty and Micky Mouse band-aids had been in every cabinet in our home in the 70's. Even with the knowledge gained that picked scabs delay healing, I still did it. I will, in mindless moments, still pick at a scab. (I'm pondering that on an emotional level too, now. Hmmmm.)

I'm astonished at the mystery of watching something jagged, with dimension transform itself into new skin. New life. I'm even more fascinated by emotional healing.

This week I had this thought, "I think I'm recovering." Instead of being mired with impatience, anger, and worry, my days are filled with daily minutiae, joy, possibilities, and the normal frustrations of living in a broken world. My potty mouth has even improved. I considered, quite briefly, if I'm forming scar tissue.

Until one email from my ex-husband ripped the scab off the wound and I was oozing with rage, disbelief, even shame. That's why I'm thinking about scabs.

I'm wondering aloud if some wounds never heal completely in this life? Particularly ones involving loss and children. Ask anyone who has buried a child or someone who lives with a disability. I truly don't know.

I've been mad for several days that my scab was ripped off. I'm mad that I have an enemy. I hate that I have to keep an attorney on retainer. I'm incensed that co-parenting is not possible for me.

In the past, I would have directed that fear and anger inwardly and sat down like a bunny--blinded and scared by an oncoming car. That was then. This is now.

I'm directing my anger and frustration into the power that can thrust 30 pounds of steel weight over my head for the fourth set of 10. I'm using my electric sander on chairs bought at thrift stores and garage sales that will give my house a face lift. More importantly, I'm asking God to continue the work He started in me. I long for wholeness-which for me will include lots of scars. No doubt, more to come.

I love the passages of scripture that speak of Christ's resurrected body. Even that perfect new body had scars. It's because of His scars I know that, one day, I will be complete. For the time being, I find comfort that as Anne says, "He knows. He knows."

And so this afternoon I offer back my wounds and my scars and ask, "Lord, make me more like you."

**Full disclosure- I feel compelled to correct the idea that if available in the 70's I'd had smiley faces or Mighty Mouse adorning my body. My mother, in a million years would NEVER have bought those. If hidden cameras were available at the Cleburne Kroger, I'd bet the farm that EDaddy buys the fun band-aids available at Star Ranch. If I'm wrong, I'll agree to never to pick a scab again.