Oh Say Have I Seen

My parents are not the examples upon which marriages should be modeled. Due to that, and that they split when I was a young teen, my memories of positive moments between them are rare. One day when Dad got home from work, he and Mother began doing this excited, monosyllabic grunt thing, gesturing to the kitchen window which looked over the front yard, words only happening sporadically – no complete sentences that I could discern. They obviously knew what they were talking about, but I was clueless. That NEVER happened.

I eventually got the story. It turns out that as Dad was backing out of the driveway that morning and Mother was watching out the window, they both noticed the flag at the same moment. It was Monday. Dad always put the flag out on Sunday. And they had forgotten to bring it in.

They were both mortified. And I noticed.

One day we were attending a concert in the park featuring our city orchestra. When they played the National Anthem, a couple near us sitting on a blanket stayed sitting and my normally super-cool father glared and looked like he was about to say something.

And I noticed.

There was a day that a “Special Announcement” interrupted my afternoon cartoon and I ran and got Mother, since I knew she was interested in stuff like that. She hurried out and I heard something about a former president having died, a name I didn’t recognize. I looked at her to see if she knew who they were talking about, and there stood my mom, hand on her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

And I noticed.

I knew Sousa marches before I knew Bobby Sherman. The Fourth of July celebration at our fairgrounds was the biggest event of the year for us. As an adult, the first home improvement we made on my new house was installing a flag holder on the porch rail.

Over the years, I’ve found myself despairing over whether people still feel that way, whether they’re still raising their children to respect the flag and patriotism.

Before Sept. 11, 2001, when flag flying regained its popularity, I was attending a high school football game in the district where I taught. One of my students came up to sit by me. He had on a well-worn cap and was gripping popcorn in one hand and hot chocolate in the other. He no sooner sat down then the band struck up the opening chords to the Star Spangled Banner. We stood and my little sixth grade fella looked nervously around. Finally, his eyes desperate, he held his popcorn out to me.

“Can you hold this?” he asked in a stage whisper.

Curious, I took it, then watched in wonder as he quickly used his free hand to whip his cap off his head and tuck it under his arm. Retrieving his popcorn, he smiled his thanks and turned back to the flag.

Somewhere along the way, this little guy had noticed too. When I told his parents the story, they looked at me like I had sprouted a second head. I mean, they smiled politely and nodded, but the obvious unspoken part was, “Well, duh. What did you expect him to do?” So yeah, he’d had opportunity to notice.

Just a few days ago, I had the privilege of taking my 14-year-old granddaughter to my church’s patriotic pre-Fourth service. It’s a small church which I suddenly found myself looking at through her teen eyes. The majority of our members have hair even more gray than mine. Nearly everyone was decked out in red, white, and blue. We stood as the color guard made up of Vietnam and maybe even Korean-era vets from the local VFW marched in carrying the flag, their faces intent, their march in sync. I was a little afraid to look at her.

Then the band played the National Anthem and the choir led us in singing the familiar words and I did what I almost always do – I got tears in my eyes and could barely sing the last few words. I looked over at her then, and she met my look with her own tear-filled eyes.

I should have known. She comes from a long line of noticers.


Sleeves are Not Where Hearts Belong

It’s a weird saying at best. “Wearing my heart on my sleeve” or its multiple variations seems to have originated with Shakespeare and probably has its meaning in a knight’s custom of wearing a token of his lady love tied to a part of his armor as he barrels toward another armed and armored man ready to skewer or be skewered.

Which is also weird now that I think of it, but an entirely different topic.

I’m in one of those type of moods today with my heart all gooey and drippy and showing. I feel the musty edges of depression moving in. So at work I’m staying holed up in my room and avoiding the coworkers who have hurt my tender little blood pumper, and at home I will bury my face in a book, maybe even with earbuds in to discourage questions.

I hate days like this. It doesn’t help that it’s getting cloudier and darker out there or that the consolation Snickers bar only brought my blood sugar up and my waistline out.

I start three text messages, recognize early how grossly pitiful they are and delete them. I write righteous indignation speeches in my head which I will never deliver. I get on here and do what the writing coaches tell me: USE your pain! WRITE your anger!


Finally, I pray. (Why do so many of my sentences about prayer start with the word “finally”?)

“I’m sorry, Father, for being such a poop head.” (Yes, I do say that. I doubt He’s shocked.) “I have no reason to be so sad and glum and angry.”

And you know what I hear?

“Sure you do.”

She DID offend me. And that one WAS unfair. And when those waves hit the sea of icky stuff already in my life, it all swelled up and washed over me. But, to continue the maritime metaphor, the only way for that wave to hit me twice is if I run into it from behind.

The only sin in my doldrums is to live in it, to run after and embrace it.

So I accept my Abba hug, forgive, straighten up, and head back into battle, this time with a token of my True Love on my armor. And with HIS heart on my sleeve, the day can hold nothing but victory.

Fourth Floor is Wonderful Unless the Elevator’s Broke

My body, substantial though it may be, was practically obscured by the rolling bag, loaded backpack, and two large totes as all of me waited for the elevator to take me to the fourth floor – the highest floor of the hotel. Perfect. I would take this stuff up, dump it in the room, then go back to the car for the remaining rolling bag and the last tote.

I waited. And waited.

After awhile, a man came by and said, “Oh, is it working?” Then he bent over the silver button I had pushed several times, and announced, “Nope. It’s broke.”

Too stunned to respond, I could only stare as he walked through the glass door to the lobby to report the problem to the woman on duty. I stood there, just staring. He looked over at me and gave me a thumbs up. I took inordinate pleasure in that and continued to wait. It wasn’t until he frowned slightly and opened the door, saying, “She’s calling somebody to fix it,” that reality truly hit and I realized I was about to have to walk up four flights of stairs. Twice.

I’m quite proud of myself every day at work when I make it up one flight of stairs with a lighter backpack, a lunch bag, and a Starbucks cup in my hand.

I looked down at my load. Nuh-uh.

This is my spiritual retreat, I thought as I trudged nearly the entire length of the hallway to the stairs. Now I’m going to start it exhausted, sweating, out of breath, and  probably repenting for inappropriate language.

Then I got to the stairs. Nuh-uh. Narrow, concrete. I wouldn’t even be able to bounce the wheeled bag up these stairs.

The nice man had followed me down, his small basket of laundry under his arm. I encouraged him to go ahead of me since this would “take me awhile.” He smiled and passed and I wished for chivalry as I pushed the handle on the rolling bag down and hefted it up.

Besides your run-of-the-mill out-of-shapeness that is me, there is also a knee and ankle issue that makes stairs even more fun. I made it up two of the narrow concrete steps and my mind went to that la-la-land of “maybes.”

Maybe the elevator is working now. I should go back and check.

Maybe Mr. Nice Guy will come back and help me.

Maybe nobody will take my stuff if I leave it here and carry up one item at a time.

Maybe I could get a room on the first floor. (She’d told me they were full but maybe she didn’t mean it.)

Maybe God will just lift me up and teleport me to the fourth floor because it’s apparent even now that I’M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT UP THERE.

And then I was at the first landing. Which sounds better than it was since that’s just halfway to the second floor. Terrified someone would come along and see my hacking and wheezing self and call 9-1-1, I kept listening for doors and footsteps, prepared to step out of the way and fake a phone call.

Second landing. Second floor.

By the time I got to the fourth landing – third floor – I was having to stop every couple of steps and put the bag down. I felt like those Biggest Loser guys who get thrown into a huge workout their first day. They whine and cry and throw up . So far I was two for three.

Sixth landing. Fourth floor.  I practically sobbed.

My room, of course, was all the way down the length of the hall. I made it inside, dropping bags as I walked in, and stood, hands on my back, gasping for breath and staring out the window at the world below. Four floors below.

I was right off the highway, but I don’t mind that – moving traffic fascinates me. There was an unused parking lot just below me, a large cluster of trees and bushes beside it, each species in different stages of budding, a couple of them full of white flowers. Two sparrows chased each other out of the trees and flew past my window on their way to the roof. The sound of the constantly moving traffic was dulled by the closed window, the muted sounds soothing and steady. I watched the cars and wondered who was in them and where they were going. The sky above it all was a huge expanse of cloudless, late afternoon blue. Perfect.

My breathing gradually calmed down and I realized that, although the memory of the difficult path was not gone, the pain of it was already abating. I thought about standing at the bottom of those stairs and looking at impossibility. And then, one step at a time, possible happened. I grinned at God’s mysterious methods of teleportation.

Then I left the room to get the second load.



In Praise of Absolutely Nothing

There is an art to doing nothing and I’m trying to perfect it. I have attempted in my exploration of nothingness to expand it to a blank mind, but that’s a lost cause. When I pray, God gets a lot of chatter because the body may be still but the brain just keeps on ticking.

But the act of physical nothingness is a blissful thing.

I learned on my first cruise the value of nothingness and on my second cruise put it into practice. The ship made three stops. From the moment we got on in Galveston the crew and passengers were all abuzz about venues and excursions. Alarms were set, money paid, lines formed. Me? I was practically alone in the buffet area eating breakfast, drinking coffee, watching the water, and reading.

Then I was practically alone in lounge chairs on the deck while drinking tea, watching the water, and reading.

Then when it got too hot, I was practically alone in cushy chairs inside while drinking more tea, watching the water out the window, and reading.

Then everybody got back on the boat and I retreated to my cabin and my balcony and … well, I suppose you get the picture now.

I never once got off that boat. And I have zero regrets about it. When they forced me off at the end of the week, I was rested, relaxed, well hydrated, and well read.

I just returned home from a vacation in the mountains of Tennessee. A cousin from another part of the country whom I have known all my life almost exclusively through letters, email, and more recently long text messages, met me at a rented cabin. There were two hanging hammock-type chairs on a screened-in porch overlooking the TN hills. There were no houses within view, but easy access to touristy-type stuff.

We chose the chairs.

We left the house exactly twice. Once to get groceries, once to get souvenirs for the folks we left at home. We found a nearby shop, determined to do one-stop shopping, then let someone else cook supper before heading back to the cabin and the chairs. There was a big screen TV in the cabin. I’m assuming it had a nice picture, but I wouldn’t know. We never even picked up the remote.

What I did was swing in that chair, drinking coffee, watching the mountains, talking, and reading.

Some would call me lazy and I doubt I’d argue. Some would call me uninspired and I’d probably shrug half in agreement. Some would say I had wasted my time and that’s when the argument would start.

I have no issue with excursions and touristy stuff and no judgment toward those who take part in such activities. Yet I have no anxiety or worry about missing anything because I missed nothing.

I watched the distance. I marveled as the evening mists snaked mysteriously up and out of the trees to cover the mountains before me, then in the morning watched it slowly burn away revealing infinite shades of green. I watched what was probably a hawk but what I hoped was an eagle sore over at least once a day. A bumblebee the size of a peach pit buzzed around the summer flowers outside the porch every morning. A hummingbird came once and I regretted the empty feeder when it didn’t return. At night, fireflies appeared, dotting the darkness and transporting me back to when those blinking stars lit up the nighttime lawn of my childhood.

I talked and talked and talked with a woman who has been a lifetime friend and whose expression and I can now picture and whose voice I can finally hear in my head. The richness of our relationship grew beyond measure. I’ve known her forever, but I KNOW her now.

And I talked to God. A lot. But mostly (and to His tremendous relief, I’m sure) I found myself in a quiet place of listening. I was less chatty and more reflective, more receptive. And He had things to say.

As always, God was in the small stuff. But when I sat at that cabin, looking over the valley and up at the wall of trees of those Tennessee mountains, there was no question that this was big stuff. And God was definitely in it.

So I spent a week in Tennessee and did nothing. And my life is all the richer for it.





Luciano Pavarotti Makes Me Cry Every Morning

When I make the next-to-the-last turn on my drive to work, just as I pass out of the next-to-the-last school zone, I push play on my phone playlist. I’ve already set up the song and I know it will take me right up to the turn into the school drive.

“Nessun Dorma.”

Unfamiliar with opera, I looked up the story (Giacomo Puccini’s opera Turandot) and the meaning of the words of the song. Great story, but that’s beside the point.

Nessun Dorma.

I watched a video of Pavarotti performing it once. It was “just” a concert, not a performance of the opera. Pavarotti was standing at a mic, the orchestra behind him, so the visual wasn’t very dramatic or moving. Until the last line.

“”Vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò!” (“I will win! I will win! I will win!”)

The look on his face… a desperation, his eyes at once massively determined yet terrified.

But the real treasure is the last two notes. That last “-cerò!” Even by tenor standards, these are high notes, the first higher than the second, held long and clear before dropping down to the powerful finish.

I have yet to hear that transition from one note to the last without closing my eyes. Hence the careful planning of the timing of the song since closing my eyes while driving does not allow for optimum safety. But the beauty and the power of it just doesn’t allow for normal, open-eyed listening.

And then I picture his face and I hear the translation: “I will win!” and I feel it coming and once again I’m crying.

I’m fairly certain Puccini didn’t anticipate a middle-aged woman finding heart-wrenching spiritual implications in his aria. But there is great God Stuff to be had in this piece.

It’s been a tough week. A tough tough week. I’m tired. For the last two nights, I didn’t even make it to the pillows and fell asleep sitting up with the light on. My bum foot hurts, my blood sugar has dropped scary low a few times, and the stress level is so high I practically ran screaming from a business call yesterday and I swear if Neil Diamond himself called me, I’d let it go to voicemail.

This week, Nessun Dorma has been a medicinal necessity.

I let Pavarotti sing me in each day, the opening lines mellow and almost haunting, the interval of women’s voices in the distance signaling the big finish. And I prepare myself.


I will win. The first word starts the build-up of intensity and I feel a rush starting in my spirit – that mysteriously delicious Christmas morning feeling of knowing what’s coming and yet being almost nervous with anticipation as if it was first-time new.


I realize on the second word that he’s singing for me too. I will win. Or rather, I have already won – by depending on the One Who has won for me. And yet, I have to actually and really, physically and emotionally, get through this day. I have to muck through this depression, rise above this stress, face the physical difficulties.


The last word explodes… with Those Notes… and all his anguish and hope is translated in my soul and my heart as faith and assurance and I rise with him above everything else and in my mind I hear, “I will win! I will win!”

And I start to cry. Because I know it’s true.

I pull into my parking space, wipe my eyes, and step out into my day, already victorious.

Bravo, Pavarotti, and bravissimo, Abba.



The Only Grammy I’ll Ever Have was My Daddy’s Mama

I like to sing. Adele need not be afraid, but I’ve got a pretty strong alto going. I’m a fairly good addition to a choir and have held my own with a church solo or two. For some reason (probably nerves), I can’t “hear” it, though. I can never tell on my own whether it worked, so to speak. I have to rely on my trusty sidekicks (aka my kids) to give me a thumbs up or a sympathetic grin to let me know how I actually did. Mind you, I haven’t performed in a church of much more than a hundred members, and they are easy to please, appreciating any “joyful noise.”

But once I was asked by a church member to perform the solo at her junior college nursing graduation. It was a small gathering, but very formal. She asked me to sing the then-popular “Wind Beneath My Wings,” accompanied by a pianist. I’d only sung to recorded tracks, so this unnerved me a bit. When my turn came in the program, my pounding heart and I stood on the stage channeling my inner Bette Midler as I tried to keep up with the pro at the keyboard.

Neither of my trusty sidekicks were with me that day, but the church member who had invited me was smiling, so I sat down confident that I had at least not detracted from the program. Afterward, I congratulated her on her graduation and she introduced me to her family.

Her father, a tall, striking man, shook my hand and uttered the words that would set me on a new course as a vocal soloist.

“Don’t quit your day job.”


Let’s just say it put things in perspective.

The way I look at it is this: I sing, but I’m not a singer.

That would be true for several areas of my life. I can, for instance, hold my own in the kitchen and nobody has turned up a nose at any of my pies, but I’m not giving the Pioneer Woman a run for her money. I bake, but I’m not a baker.

A singER and a bakER are identified by those skills. It’s who they are. Mandisa  = singer. Duff Goldman = baker.

That’s why I bristle when good Christian people refer to themselves or to me as a sinner.

Um, no.

Do I sin? Oh good grief, yes. But am I a sinner? Not since I put the weight of that identity on Christ and let Him bear that burden for me. I do sin and repent and sin and repent and sin and…. ad infinitum, I’m afraid. But, by miraculous grace, I am NOT identified by that.

Some will then change their identity and mine to “sinner saved by grace.” I WAS that once, but only once. Now, I am just those last three words. Christ paid too high a price for me to ignore and to accept the very identity from which He died to rescue me.

I am no longer aligned with the wrong team. I am identified by my relationship with Christ. I not only believe, I am a believER. THAT’S who I am.

So I sing in the car on the way to my day job as a teachER, belting it out loud and somewhat clear. And my Audience hears me through the ears of Grace and fancies me quite good.

And that is quite good enough for me.


Superman’s Mommy Made His Cape and His Daddy Taught Him to Tie It

The first time I met him he had a dozen lines, wires, probes, or tubes sticking out of that tiny little eight pound body. I had anticipated this day for almost nine months and was eagerly awaiting my opportunity to gently (and repeatedly) kiss that soft spot on the top of his head.

Instead, I had to settle for gently stroking the clearest spot I could find with one finger of my freshly and thoroughly scrubbed hand.

We were concerned when it took his daddy so long to text us from the operating room where the scheduled cesarean section was happening. But delays happen in hospitals. Our fears increased, however, when his text finally came through: “He’s out.” (He’s out?) And then: “Problem with breathing. Pray.”

My heart stopped. I swear it truly did for a moment.

Nothing was supposed to be wrong. Nothing is EVER supposed to be wrong.

But a lot was wrong. His little heart was mis-wired. A whole series of miracles ensured his survival in those first few hours.

I saw his daddy, once alone, go from anguish to anger and then rapidly right back to a fierce faith from which I never saw him waver. I saw his mama set aside her own surgical pain to minister to her boy, commandeering a wheelchair so she could be wherever he was.

It was the scariest thing this family has ever been through. Our faith was tried, our strength and endurance put to the test. I saw both families of this little guy heroically rally and pray and trust and persevere.

But the true hero of all this was the little fellow I started calling Superman.

It was a lot that was asked of him. He had to endure one surgery at just a few hours old. Then four days later, he had to undergo a surgery more serious than most of us will ever face. And he’ll have a long, vertical scar down the center of his chest the rest of his life to show for it. Weeks in the ICU, months and years following up with specialists.

But we have had those weeks and months and years. Because little Superman soaked in all that faith and strength of his parents, as well as the diligent prayers of grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncle, the prayingest cousin you could imagine, and a big sister at just two years old, confused but praying. And Superman persevered. Gradually the tubes and wires came out, the monitors – no longer necessary – turned off one by one, the noise of machinery gradually abating.

He got to sleep snuggled in their arms.

I finally got to kiss that soft spot.

Little Superman turns three today.  He is an active, rambunctious, fearless little tow-headed boy who gave me a new name (“Nannie” became “Mimi”). Like his, my heart has been forever changed.

*I take nothing for granted. There is no “normal.”

*I see faith as not just a concept, but as something real, tangible, and witnessed.

*I discovered that Jesus put the handholds on the slippery sides of the pit of fear. And the more people who hang onto them with you, the higher up you climb together.

*There is a point of being so totally overwhelmed that “I can’t handle this” ceases to even be considered or spoken. You just do. Handle it. And at some point you realize you are living that Footprints poem. And you come out the other side.

Superman has a baby brother now, born two years to the day of his big brother’s heart surgery. As he grows, there will be days that he’ll look at his big brother as a hero, a Superman. He’ll ask him to tell again the story of that cool scar on his chest, maybe running his finger along it in awe and wonder.

He probably won’t even notice his parents’ eyes well up with tears as they silently breathe their zillionth prayer of thanksgiving for the life of this little man. But that wouldn’t surprise him because prayer is what their parents do.

As I watch this boy go tearing past me on his current adventure, and I’m marveling at how brave and heroic he is, my thoughts always go to them – his parents.

Imagine. Imagine just for a moment being the kind of people entrusted as the parents of Superman.

Talk about heroes.




If I Was a Fridge, I’d Be in the Discount Aisle

I have a tendency to get emotionally attached to my appliances. There is visual and physical contact every single day. They make my life better and easier and more convenient. They don’t ask much back from me. What’s not to love?

So when my fridge started making an especially loud and obnoxious noise last weekend, I mourned a little, knowing instinctively that our time together had come to an end.

But the sadness didn’t last long. I had adopted this particular appliance with the house. Actually, upon reflection, I realized that I had inherited from someone every refrigerator I had ever owned. So as I dragged into the appliance section of my local home improvement store way too early on a Saturday morning which had way too many other things on its agenda, I cheered up a bit knowing this would be my first fridge ever that was chosen by me for me.

At my age, that’s sayin’ somethin’.

On Sunday morning, my calendar cleared yet again to allow for next-day delivery, I watched the clock tick past the time I should have gotten called. Finally, I called the store.

[Note: This post could easily de-evolve into a rant about the business ethic of my local home improvement store. Or about business ethics in general. Or phone etiquette. Or unfulfilled promises or obligations. Or interpersonal communication. Or trust issues. Or how much coffee it truly takes to get through the purchase of a major appliance. But I shall do here what I have determined to do next time I’m tempted to enter aforementioned store to purchase anything ever again: I shall refrain.]

As it turns out, the reason my fridge was late in coming was when they unboxed it at the store, they noticed a scratch on the bottom of the door. It’s a dark color and the scratch is about three inches long. Therefore, it was, by their standards, undeliverable.

I disagreed – vehemently – the noises of my dying fridge ringing in my ear. They finally agreed to deliver it to the house for my perusal, and if I decided I could “live with” the scratch, they would knock another twenty-five percent off the cost.

Wait. Twenty-five percent. That’s one-fourth, if I remember my math right.

I don’t care if the bottom of the door had been kicked in and painted neon green. Twenty-five percent off?? For that, my emotional attachment is elevated to downright maternal possessiveness.

As it turns out, the scratch is just that – a scratch. Barely noticeable. I took a picture of it and sent it to my kids with the caption: “This is what $X00 looks like.”

At first as I passed by my brand new, personally-chosen fridge, I would glance at that scratch and smile, recognizing its value. Now, I don’t even see it. The value of the fridge isn’t in its imperfection, it’s in my overall appreciation for the whole thing. I don’t think of it as less than perfect. For me, it IS perfect.

Somebody cue the God Stuff music.

Of the concepts difficult to grasp in my life, the most unimaginable has been that God looks on me and smiles. He sees a perfect me. Indeed, He sees His Son. It’s hard not to cringe at the thought. All I see are the scratches, the imperfections, the dents and scars, some of them painted neon green.

And I didn’t come to him at a discounted price. Rather, it was the highest of prices. But He chose me anyway, the least deserving and multiply-scarred, at the ultimate cost of the life of His own Son.

As He gazes at me, He, this magnificent Abba Father, He sees His personally-chosen child. And as He looks on me, He smiles with paternal love and possessiveness. And the more I accept His invitation and allow those arms to surround and envelope me, the less dented I feel and the less I notice my own scars and scratches.

One day, my lovely new fridge and I will part company and I’ll upgrade to a newer, better model. How comforting – how impossibly, amazingly, unbelievably comforting – to know that Abba and I will NEVER part company. And yet one day I surely will be upgraded to a newer, better model.





While the Kumquats are Chillin’ in the Fridge

(With a smile and nod to Anna who told me the story…)

She squealed. She actually squealed with delight when she spotted them in the produce section – right there by the bananas.


A treat from her Mississippi Gulf Coast home, they are a hard-to-find fruit and the craving had gone unsatisfied for a long time. She scooped some into a clear plastic produce bag, tied off the top, finished her shopping, and headed for the checkout.

The collection of tiny orange footballs stopped the cashier. She held up the bag, her eyes questioning.

“Kumquats,” my daughter said. “Starts with a K.”

The cashier found them on her list and typed in the code. “I’ve never heard of them.”

My daughter extolled their virtues, then noticed the bag boy as he picked them up. Our neighborhood store employs people with special needs to help with bagging and helping people take their groceries to the car. Anna had just noticed the man ahead of her being rude to this young man, so she smiled as he looked up at her, the bag gripped in his fist, the little cluster of kumquats swinging.





“But what ARE they?”

“Fruit! They’re like an orange. You eat them peel and all – just pop ’em in your mouth and chew them up! The peel gives it a slight bitter taste, then the inner fruit is so sweet… They’re delicious! You want to get them cold, though. They’re so much better when they’re cold.”

By now the young man is resting his entire upper body on the conveyor, turning the bag in his hand and looking at the fruit with the squinting eye of a scientist.

“I’ve never even heard of ’em! Never seen ’em before! Where’d you find ’em?”

“In the produce section by the bananas.”

“Huh. I didn’t look there.” (Her smile widened, and she winked at me when she told that part.) “I musta been going the wrong way. You know how somebody asks you in the store if you need help and you say no and then you really DO need help because you’re goin’ the wrong way?”

They nodded seriously at each other, in obvious mutual agreement. Then he sighed, straightened, and finished bagging her groceries.

I gaped at her as she finished telling the story, made even better by gestures and facial expressions.

“Is he still in the car?” I asked, a familiar comment referring to our desire to grab up and bring home someone who has touched our hearts in some way.

“I dropped him off at the park to play first. I told him the kumquats would be chilling in the fridge.”

A young man had a story to tell when he got home from work yesterday. About this new little fruit with a funny name that he had missed because he was going the wrong way in the produce section and how you just pop the whole thing in your mouth and chew it up and how it’s better if it’s cold. And about this nice lady who told him all about them and answered his questions and looked him in the eye and smiled the entire time and thanked him and called him “sir” as she left.

I’ll bet he didn’t one time think about the man just before her who had been rude to him.

How hard is that? Just being nice. Just being human. Made a day just a little better for two people. Then three. And now more.


I Yam Who I Yam

I spent a few days studying the book of Jude this week – a teeny take-a-breath before Revelation. Jesus’ little brother was quite the poetic writer. In railing against false teachers, he refers to them as “hidden reefs (blemishes) at your love feasts…waterless clouds swept along by the winds…fruitless trees in late autumn, twice dead and uprooted…wild waves of the sea, casting up the foam of their own shame…wandering stars for whom the gloom of utter darkness has ben reserved forever.” (verses 12-13 ESV)


It makes me wonder what Jude did for a living. I have no idea though because Jude doesn’t do much to identify himself. I wasn’t even entirely sure he WAS Jesus’ brother because he doesn’t name himself that way. He refers to himself as JAMES’ brother, but the only relationship he claims with Jesus is as “a servant of Jesus Christ” (verse 1).

I have to admit that bugged me a bit. I mean, if I was Jesus’ sibling, and I was writing to someone, I believe I would be very comfortable with that type of name-dropping. Doesn’t that add a bit of credence to your letter, a little punch?

But maybe he didn’t want to brag. Perhaps he was doing what I’ve seen others doing. I can think of at least one big-name writer who has an even bigger-name writer parent who does not use that parent’s name. I’m assuming he wanted to find fame on his own, to be respected for his abilities and message, not rest on the hard-earned laurels of daddy.

Jude: “Don’t listen to me because I grew up with Jesus. Listen to me because of what I have to say. Who I am isn’t important.”

But wait – that’s not what he said. He identified himself immediately as “Jude, a servant of Jesus Christ.” His servanthood to his Savior was more important than being his baby brother. His truest tie to Jesus was in his salvation, not his genes.

Jude identifies EXACTLY who he is: A Servant of Jesus.

Yesterday a beautiful song came up on my feed, the familiar lyrics sort of billowing past with the melody. Repetition was what got my attention. Suddenly I heard the repeated phrase: “That’s who I am. That’s who I am. That’s who I am.”

You’re a good, good Father; that’s who You are, that’s who You are, that’s who You are,

And I’m loved by You; that’s who I am, that’s who I am, that’s who I am…

(“Good, Good Father” by Chris Tomlin)

Wrapped up in the phrase, I lost the rest of the song. I thought of all the ways I would identify – and indeed have identified – myself to someone: by family association, by occupation, by hobby, by religion, by accomplishments, by region, by belief, by whatever helped them at the time to identify with me.

Hey, Jude (had to – sorry), I think I get it now. You chose the best and most perfect identity.

So please allow me to introduce myself:

Linda, beloved of Abba, and His servant. That’s who I am.