it could have been me

My first thought was: "I am so insensitive; I am not going to cry. How awful of me." Next thing I knew, I was crying.

The fear and shock kept me rooted to the chair before tip-toeing upstairs for a supply of kleenex. Once there, I knew I needed to hear Mark's voice before he went to work. Risking the chance he could be in the shower, yet he answered the phone, and I couldn't speak.

Relief flooded through my eyes at having him at the other end of the phone. "Sorry..." was all I could say for a few minutes as he waited quietly, and perhaps a little upset at the other end. Finally I muttered through my weeping, "My co-worker was stabbed to death. I am so scared: IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME." Finally, he pulled enough of the details out of me to understand.

I have had trouble sleeping past six o'clock in the morning. That morning, I chose to respond to my natural clock, which meant I had time to spare before going to work. Instead of settling down to tea and a book in the sunroom that morning, I decided to treat myself to a small latte and lemon loaf from Starbuck's. I really wanted steamed milk with something sweet. Heading to the car, I felt I forgot something. Maybe it was just because I threw my routine off by twenty minutes, but then I remembered my book. Still, something was not right.

I drove by my office about the time the murder would have taken place. I thought about just grabbing a cup of coffee from the coffee pot and adding cold milk to it. But I continued a block further to Starbuck's.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I retraced my drive twenty minutes later and saw the two cop cars blocking our back entrance, the sheriff doing a u-turn past me to join them, and then seeing all the yellow tape at the far end of our parking lot. Surely, this was just a burglary? There are other businesses that line that part of the parking lot...

Susan greeted me at the door. "Go to the chapel. It's not good news." I knew I wanted my hands free, so I dropped my purse at my desk on the way. Bad news could mean a lot of things. No one is dead, I told myself, because I didn't want it to be so.

"Did you hear what happened?"

I shook my head.

"Kesha was stabbed to death."

After talking to Mark, I had enough sense about me to realize this was probably personal and nothing to be afraid of. A stabbing, a single woman, outside of her work building--it suggested someone familiar with her footsteps, hers alone. This turned out to be true.

So, that morning, it probably would not have been me. At some point, though, I could have become someone's target. It could have been me. In an instant, I was my mother receiving the news that I was gruesomely killed; I was me, at college, with my dad telling me Mom had been the victim of a murder, not the victim of her health; I was Kesha, in terror, confronting the man with one last hope he was a good man. I never, ever, want to be in the shoes of any one of those women; I never, ever, want the women in my family to be in those shoes either. So I tried to pray against that between my choking fear.

I almost felt hopeless as I imagined her daughters and mother taking the news. They know Christ though. They have hope, and rejoice beyond their own grief.

you are the branches

"I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." JESUS

Last week, the president of our mission shared that grape vines require significant pruning to produce good fruit. Vines produce branches in three stages. The final stage is worthless, so the branch must be cut back to nothing that it might begin the fruit-producing cycle again.

I understood how I could apply this gardening technique to my own spiritual growth. If nothing else, it could give me patience the next time God is improving upon my character. But this…

I knew the Bible said somewhere that all things are worked for His good; I had been working on resting God’s sovereignty in all things; and I wanted to see this immediately following Kesha’s murder. What good could possibly come from this?

The analogy of the vines returned to my mind. Did He mean to prune this branch to the point of death that others might produce good fruit for His glory? How? She was such a solid, private, behind-the-curtain character of our show. How could we respond, or what are we waiting for, that would glorify Him?

becoming big

I’ve reached that dreaded stage of the pregnancy. You raised the concern that there would be a point where I looked fat, not pregnant. You were right. That’s what I look like now.

Because of this, I hesitated to put on the outfit that I did. It was mixed feelings that I grinned and winced interchangeably at my co-worker’s enthusiasm. She is genuine as she exclaims, “You’re cute. You’re so cute!”

Her attitude is such a contrast from mine, and she reminds me that I should change my attitude. My internal monologue should echo hers. Instead, I tell myself, “Resist the urge to diet. Resist the urge to diet.” All the books say I should steadily gain wait, a pound a week, for the next three months.

Tomorrow morning I’ll try her approach! “How cute. How exciting. Mark, bring your stethoscope and let’s see what we can hear. Isn’t it beautiful?” It seems awkward to me, but it will be better than what I am doing now.

locks of love

To tell you the truth, it was a Beyond The Call story that did this to me. I inherited the script about a little girl who joyfully gives away her hair to Locks of Love. Her courage and selflessness touched me.

Several weeks later into the editing process it came again to my attention. I wanted to know more and visited the Locks of Love website. One page was filled with pictures from donors and recipients. Pictures, worth a thousand words, persuaded me to part with my dear possession.

I am one of those people who questions my uniqueness and contribution to the world. It is a question that has plagued me near twenty-two years. People have always commented that my hair is a gift. True, if I ever dwelt positively upon my looks it would start with my hair. That and my eyes are the only things I could be vain about. I needed to prevent that from happening.

My hair was exactly the length I dreamed it would be for my wedding and wedding night. Then it decided to grow like a weed. Just as it was nearly long enough to part with, it decided to get scraggly. Now or never. I called my hair dresser.

Apparently when she changed her name after the divorce, she also changed jobs. So I went to Super Cuts to get my hair off my head before it was no longer suitable to donate. When I walked in, I knew I should walk out.

The two girls were as immature and unprofessional as they come. When it came to cutting hair they had no pride in their work. One, the one cutting my hair, joked about how she would have to be God to remember her customers, and if she did get fired that week, she'd be happy. Fired! What did she do to deserve that?

In the end, my hair was cute. The experience was so traumatic that I was nervous when
Mark came home. He loves it. Once all the attention dies down at work--it is a startling change--I'll be able to enjoy it too.

san isabel lake

Soft, lush grass piled beneath shimmering aspens. How could you not relax in a place like this?

Highway 36 was busy. At least half the traffic were rumbling Harleys. Because they, their passengers, and everyone around us spelled vacation, there was nothing disrupting about them.

We had a rough start to our camping expedition when we couldn't find a camping spot in the park I selected. A few miles down the road we found a lovely hodge-podge of a recreation park. This idyllic hill boasted everything from full hook-ups to a honeymoon cabin. They gave us a sloped spot away from the road beneath the aspens. We made it work even though I rolled into Mark every two hours all night long.

With every giggle, shriek, and howl at the moon from the kids camping below us came a pang of anticipation. We talked about how much more fun it will be when our kids are old enough to run. Then I visited the bathroom in the morning. One mother complained how she had been awake since 5:30 that morning mentally packing the trailer to go home that morning. We talked again about how much more work it will be when we have kids. I'll have to be organized so I can still enjoy camping!

The Nintendo chairs I have scoffed at for months finally proved their worth. We were able to snuggle comfortably close to our fire. Then, in the morning, I propped mine up in the shade and read from Valley of Vision. It was a perfect time of prayer until it got way too hot.

After a lovely breakfast we headed to San Isabel Lake. It had been two years since I saw it last, just a couple months before meeting Mark. I was in pursuit of Bishop's Castle, enjoying my drive through a new mountain range, when I came around the bend astonished. The sunlight was pure so the little lake nestled beneath the mountain tops glistened bright blue. There were few boats lazy on its surface. A few families fished from the shores. Other families and couples meandered on the path that encircled one side of the lake. I remember being dazzled by the bright colors and the calm that touched every living thing. Could it be real? It would cost me to drive around and look, so I moved on until some day that I could return.

As we drove near, I wondered how it would appear to me a second time. It was the same, but not a surprise. Eagerly, I helped clear camp so we could take the raft into the midst of this blue magic. I had never been on a raft, and was pleasantly surprised with how comfortable it was. I was nearly lulled to sleep. We drifted along for nearly three hours. Despite a hat and sunscreen I got my first real burn in years.

Wish you had been there.

what pregnant women do

We have too much going on all at once right now. It is probably time to take inventory of all the projects and decide what is important and what can wait.

All it took was a discouraging week at work, and I was fighting the blues. Usually, I cure this with good company or an early night to bed. But this is not PMS, this is pregnancy. This calls for a new strategy.

What I needed was a project. My first attempt at a project was a needlepoint for baby’s room. Two flowers later I was crying. Even though my stitches were accurate, they came loose and looked awful. Mark pulled it out of the trashcan and gently suggested I start over another time.

The next thing to do was start hauling rocks off the hill so we can start to reshape our hill and build retaining walls. The sun happened to feel good on my back when I got home one evening, so I changed into work clothes and tore up a section of the hill. Not exactly effective or conclusive, but it gives me a little workout for my arms on nice evenings. Lately, as it did the first night, the sky clouded over with rain.

Then I needed something to do indoors,after dark and after my house chores were done. Happening across an idea web-page hosted by Lowes I decided to refinish a table. For suggestions and to build confidence, I discussed the project with a co-worker in our communications department. At Hobby Lobby, I selected stencils, paint, brushes, paper, and decoupage.

Back home I pulled out the sander and all the sand paper I could find. I made a mess, a real mess. At some point, I knew, I would have to call upon Mark's expertise. I called upon it too late.

He didn’t laugh when I showed him because I had just created hard work for him. "It's going to take a lot of elbow grease to reshape the legs." Ooops! Later he said, "If you are going to paint wood, you only need to rough up the finish." Double ooops.

Instead of being done by now, I walk into the table every morning on my way to work. While I wait for the time Mark can pay attention to the table legs, I continue to leave a wake of projects around the house. Now there is a huge planter that is waiting for soil and herbs, the one sunny patch in our garden waiting for tomatoes and peppers, one guest bed is covered with pictures waiting to be hung or framed, and the table in the sun room is covered in thank you notes.

So that, and dragging your husband down to McDonalds for an extra large serving of fries just before bed time, that is what a pregnant woman does.