This was one of those times when everything just kept going wrong.  Not for me this time, but I’ve had plenty of days where I was sure I should have stayed in bed for the day.  This story is actually about a bird, but believe me, you’ll be able to relate.

I’m not really a cat fan, but I am a fan of my daughter.  Kelsey was staying with me for a bit, so her Tabby cat, Mufasa, was a guest as well.  She loved that cat, and he seriously loved that girl.  I had a dog door on the backdoor of my home, which Mufasa quickly figured out how to use.  At first, he would go just outside and hang out on the back porch.  He occasionally would wander around the backyard or go to the property line, but I never saw him go much further.

I guess cats will be cats, or so I’ve been told.  And what better way for Mufasa to show his inner tiger than to take up the sport of hunting in the backyard?   It was fun to watch him pounce on a moth or grasshopper.  He was so proud of himself as he developed his skills.  Of course, he wanted his girl to be proud of him too, so he started bringing her his hunting prizes.  At first, it was dead bugs which wasn’t too big a deal.  But I guess the real prize was to bring her something that is, shall we say, still moving.    At first, the poor creatures didn’t have a chance, but he kept at it.  He graduated from bugs to lizards, which was a treat, especially when they were still wiggling in the middle of the kitchen somewhere.   There were a few that I had to chase down with a broom and a dustpan.

One time Kelsey came home from work and found a non-wiggling tiny baby bunny in the middle of her bedroom floor.  I won’t tell you how she found it, but I’ll let you guess.  It had something to do with not turning on the bedroom light and being barefoot.  Yea, gross.

When Kelsey shrieked and told me to come to help her, I ran to my bedroom, dove under my covers, and repeated over and over, “Your cat, your mess…your cat, your mess…your cat, your mess!” I still smile when I think about it.  (Poor bunny.)

So now that I’ve laid the foundation, I can tell you the real story here. 

One afternoon Kelsey came home from a friend’s house to get ready for work.  There’s no proper way to say this, but she was…um…on the potty when she got a little surprise.  As she was sitting there, a bird flew over the shower curtain and into the bathroom.  As tough as Kelsey can be, she does have a couple of fears.  One just so happens to be the fear of birds.

Oh, how I would have loved to have seen her scream and run out of that bathroom with her jeans still around at her ankles.  She ran down the hallway to my bathroom to finish her business and get ready for work.

I spoke to Kelsey on my way home from work, and she let me know what had happened.  My first question to her was, “Did you close the bathroom door?” She said, “No way.  I wasn’t going near there.” So, now I knew there was a live bird somewhere in my house. 

 It was a weird feeling knowing there was an animal in the house but not knowing where it was.  Although, it would have been much worse to learn of the visitor as Kelsey did.   Was it still in the bathroom, or was it now somewhere downstairs?  Had Mufasa found it again, and shall we say finished the job?

When I opened the back door and came in, I didn’t see any signs that there was anything unusual, so I headed up the stairs.  I very quietly climbed the stairs, hoping I would hear the bird and know where he might be.  It felt a little like a game of hide and seek.  I heard nothing.  You know that feeling you get when you’re watching a scary movie and you are sure something is about to jump out at you?  You want to cover your eyes so you don’t get startled, but you also what to see what is coming.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I turned left and went to Kelsey’s bathroom at the end of the hallway. The first thing I noticed was the “evidence” by the window and on the mirror above the sink.  There were a couple of small blood spots, and the other stuff birds do.  I thought maybe he went back to his hiding place behind the shower curtain.  As I slowly pulled it back, I reminded myself why it wasn’t a good idea to watch all of those thriller movies I liked.  However, the bird was not there.  All I found was more “evidence.” Oh my gosh.  Now I had to go bird hunting in my own home.  I closed the bathroom door and moved on to search my office. 

I felt like a Law-and-Order detective as I searched my house for the bird.  My office didn’t really have anywhere for him to hide.  The closet door was closed, so I checked under the small couch in my office.  He wasn’t there, so I closed the door and moved on.  I did the same for Kelsey’s room.  I checked under her bed and in her closet.  There was no bird or signs of the bird.

Next, I moved on to my bedroom.  I had a huge walk-in closet, so I went in there first; no sign of him.  But when I walked into the master bathroom, I heard a very faint rustling noise over by the window.  There he was.  He has somehow gotten between the horizontal blinds and the bathroom window.  My first thought was, “Ok, good.  Now I know where he is.” And yes, he was most definitely still very much alive.  My next thought was, “How the heck do I get him out of there?”

It was early evening, and it was getting dark.  I didn’t have anyone that could help me that evening, so I closed the bathroom door and called a friend.  It was Friday, so he said he could come over the next day and help me get the bird out of the house.  I went about my business that evening, made dinner, did a little cleaning, and went upstairs to go to bed.  I crawled into bed and turned on the TV, still thinking about the bird, wishing I could solve the problem myself. 

A few minutes later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.  Are you kidding me?  The bird was strolling across my bedroom floor from under my bed.  Seriously?  I looked up and saw the door to the bathroom was slightly open.  Mufasa must have pushed the door open.  However, the bird had gotten away from him again, and Mufasa must have tired of the hunt.  I tried to come up with a plan.  I knew if I moved I would spook the bird, but I had to do something.

The bird waddled under my end table and then under my dresser.  When I saw he was headed for the door, I thought, no way am I going to be able to sleep tonight not knowing where the bird is.  I thought perhaps I could grab a towel and throw it on top of him, so I slowly got up from the bed.  He saw me and shuffled into my walk-in closet.  I quickly closed the closet door and breathed a small sigh of relief. 

The following day my friend Todd came by to help me get the bird out of the house.  I was sure the bird had not escaped the closet, so he grabbed a towel, went into the closet and closed the door.  He asked me to please not open the door, so I stood just outside listening.  It was quiet for a minute, and then there was a commotion.  The best way to describe the sound is that of the sound effects you would hear in a cartoon.  There was fluttering, a few crashes and bangs, and then a “gotcha!” the victory cry from Todd. A minute later, Todd walked out of the closet with the bird in a towel and a grin on his face.

You would think the story should end there with a happy ending for the bird.  Not so much.

Todd and I walked downstairs and walked out on the front porch.  Todd gently unwrapped the towel and let the bird go.  The bird immediately flew across the front yard to a tree a few yards away.  The weary bird landed on a branch, but within seconds two more birds flew over and knocked him out of the tree to the grass below.  It all happened in a split second.  Todd and I ran across the yard to the birds.  We shooed away the aggressors as Todd picked up our poor little bad luck bird.  As Todd carried the bird in his bare hands back to my front porch, we tried to come up with a way to help our little friend.

We knew he must be completely spent with all he had experienced in the last 48 hours.  He had been hunted and captured by a cat.  He had been in hiding with no food or water as he looked for an escape.  He was chased into a dark closet and then captured a second time.  And to top it all off, when he was freed, he was beaten up by those who should have been his friends.  Wow, what an awful couple of days.

I can tell you; I’ve had so many times where I felt like the bad breaks just kept coming my way, and the light at the end of the tunnel seemed dim at best.  I totally understand how difficult the circumstances of life can get.  However, I’ve learned that being grateful is the best medicine for my defeated heart in those moments.  Trying to think of things I’m grateful for forces me to focus on the positive aspects of my life.  It requires reflection and stillness, two things that can be difficult in our busy, overstimulated everyday lives. 

Todd held the bird long enough for me to get a small water dish and crush up some crackers.  We placed the crackers and water deep inside a bush up against the side of the house, away from Mufasa’s hunting grounds.  Todd placed the exhausted bird inside the safety of the bush in hopes the bird would gather some strength and rest.  I checked on him a few hours later, and he had flown the coop, grateful I am sure that he was far, far away from his last 48 hours.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Psalms 100:4-5 – Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.

Ben was a music student in the high school worship band I led. When I met him, he was already an excellent electric guitar player, and he loved every minute he had a guitar in his hands. 

I believe he was 15 years old when I met him and had played guitar in the church’s middle school band before moving on to one of the two high school bands. 

Ben’s nickname was “Thrasher,” based on how he played the guitar. He played with high energy and full throttle all the time. He gave 100%. However, I struggled with him for a while. He had two volumes, loud and louder. I wanted to teach him how to balance his sound with the rest of the band. He also needed to learn that the lyrics of the song being played actually needed to be heard over the volume of his guitar. We struggled with this for quite a while.

We were asked to do an acoustic worship set one week, meaning Ben couldn’t plug in his electric guitar. He would have to play his acoustic guitar, and he was not a happy camper. When I got to the church, he and another student were running around trying to find cords and amps to somehow plug into the system. When I told them they could not, their disappointment in me was loud and clear. But we moved on. Once the vocal mics were set up, we were ready for a soundcheck. You could have cut the tension in the room with a knife.

I felt sorry for the sound technician sitting at the soundboard that evening. Ben kept saying, “You can’t hear me.” And I kept saying, “Finish the rehearsal.” When we finished, I asked Ben if I could speak to him. I pulled him aside and made him a promise. I promised him if I couldn’t hear him at any time, now or in the future, I would let him know and we would balance the sound. He heard me, but he still wasn’t thrilled with me.

The band’s music set that night was amazing. It was also a perfect way to teach these musicians they didn’t have to be loud to be effective.   

I remember the first time I told Ben I couldn’t hear him and asked if he would please give me a little more volume. I will never forget the look on his face. The entire band broke into laughter. They realized I meant what I said, and it was so heartwarming to see they were learning to be humble.

As time moved on, my relationship with Ben developed into something very special. When Ben was a senior, a couple of years later, he was diagnosed with some weird nerve thing in his left hand. His hand was going numb when he played. He didn’t tell us right away, but he was terrified by the time he had made an appointment to see the doctor. He had done his online research, and he determined the prognosis was dim at best. 

He was incredibly depressed, convinced that something he dearly loved would be taken from him. We ached for him. We prayed with him, and we tried to encourage him.  

He was indeed told he needed to stop playing. He was told to rest his hand for six weeks. They would reevaluate the situation after that. 

As we waited to see what would happen, it was interesting to watch Ben as he worked through his disappointment. The first time the band played after he was told he had to sit out, Ben didn’t show up to our Wednesday night rehearsal. He didn’t show up to our Sunday night performance either. But the next week, he was there. He showed up to mentor our other guitar player and help him fill in some of the holes that only he, Ben, knew how to do. Ben knew he was loved, missed, and valued. He sat right next to me for the next few weeks listening, mentoring, and learning what it sounded like from my seat vs. his spot in front of a loud amp.  

As Ben’s next appointment approached, he was nervous about the outcome; we all were. We again prayed for positive news from his doctor in the coming week. The following Wednesday evening, we were setting up to lead worship when Ben walked into the room. We weren’t expecting to see him so early. He had the most fantastic smile on his face. He had come directly to us from his appointment. His doctor had given him the go-ahead to play the following week with a few restrictions. He was told to ease into it gently and limit his playtime. Although Ben was told he could play the following week, we kind of cheated a little.  

We also had a very strict rule regarding rehearsal and performance. If a student misses practice on Sunday, they must sit out for the performance on Wednesday. However, it just so happened that our bass player was sick that night. When another student suggested they get the extra bass guitar from the Middle School Building and have Ben fill in, every single student in the room got excited. The rule simply was not important that night. 

Being a bit of a perfectionist, Ben considered the invitation but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. He knew he hadn’t picked up a guitar in six weeks. But before Ben had made his decision, that student had already gone across the parking lot to fetch the bass guitar for Ben to play. He stood in front of Ben like an excited puppy, guitar in hand and goofy grin on his face. No way could Ben say no to that.  

There was a love in that room that cannot be described. As the bass guitar didn’t have a strap, Ben grabbed a chair and humbly placed it off to the side, out of the limelight where our bass player usually stood. Not a typical move from the one called Thrasher. 

Although all the electric guitar solos were played beautifully by the younger musician that night, I’m sure he could not have done it without Ben’s help. Ben had no idea when or if he would get to play again, yet he was willing to set aside his huge disappointment and train someone to take his place. What a great example he was. As I quietly watched these musicians from my seat in the back row, the joy I saw on Ben’s face brought me to tears.

When I signed up for the gig of leading a bunch of high school musicians, I had no idea how blessed I would be as I watched them grow in spirit, character, and talent. It became one of the biggest joys of my life. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Those who plant with tears will gather fruit with songs of joy. He who goes out crying as he carries his bag of seed will return with songs of joy as he brings much grain to him. Psalm 126:5-6

My best friend and I finally got to take our trip to Nashville. We had been planning the trip for a few years, but it kept getting postponed. We were so excited to get the chance to visit Music City, finally. However, the pandemic was still alive and well, and traveling was a little scary for us. 

Tina flew south from Virginia, and I flew East from California. We set it up to arrive at the airport about the same time. Our similar arrival times made it super convenient to share a ride to our hotel located smack in the center of downtown.

I will admit Nashville wasn’t quite what I expected. When I thought of Nashville, I thought it would be all cowboy boots and country music. It wasn’t like that at all. Yes, there were a ton of bars, all had music, but not much of it was country music. It was all over the board and a little overwhelming—so many people. And loud…oh my gosh, it was so loud, each sound system trying to overpower the next.

Little did we know that Nashville currently was rated one of the top five bachelorette destinations. We might have stayed downtown for only a night or two had we known. The city was like a huge party, kind of a crazy place. I fondly named downtown “Whoo-town” because that was what we heard all night. It was coming from the rolling parties throughout the city. The chaos started about 1:00 pm and went to about 3:00 am. Call me a party pooper, but a little bit of that went a long way.

One evening we walked up to John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge that looks over the city. Our thought was to get away from the noise and shoot some cool pictures. What I remember most about the bridge was the city’s roar below us. It had all the typical sounds you would expect, sirens, motorcycles, car horns, and crowd voices, but added to all that was a bombardment of music filling the air—everything you can imagine. I’d never experienced anything like it.  

One of the days we rented a car so we could get out of the city and see some of the countryside. We went to downtown Franklin, which was a beautiful little town. We wandered around the shops and stopped at Puckett’s for some of their famous homemade southern country fried chicken. We had a great day. I suggested we drive over to the Grand Ole Opry and check it out on the way home. We had just enough time to see the place and take some pictures before we needed to get our rental car back. Wouldn’t you know, we ended up getting there just as they were selling tickets for the last show of the evening. We worried about that rental car for about one minute. 

We bought our tickets, grabbed a couple of hot dogs, and found our seats. It was a great show. I really wanted to do this, and it was great to get it checked off my to-do list. We only thought about the car again as we walked to the parking lot. We hoped the rental agency didn’t have a tracker on the vehicle and had it towed when we were in the show. But the car was there, and we stayed out of trouble. (With my luck, it could have gone either way.)

One evening, near the end of our trip, we had gone downstairs for dinner and stayed a while to listen to the music. It was late, but not super late. We were sitting in our room chatting when a couple of lights from the hotel across the street caught our attention. It looked like the lights of two cell phones in a hotel room window directly across the street from us.

We watched for a few minutes. We weren’t sure what to think at first; perhaps these people were signaling for help? And why was the room behind them dark? We quickly realized they weren’t in trouble at all. They were simply saying hello to the “windows” on the other side of the street. Their curtains were open, but there was absolutely no other light in their room. 

It was kind of fascinating as the lights danced across the window. We assumed someone on our side was doing the same back to them. After a few minutes, Tina said, “Let’s get our cell phones, turn off our light, and signal back to them.” 

Usually, I’m the one that comes up with unusual ideas, so I’m not sure why I hesitated. At first, I felt like I was crashing someone’s party. But it didn’t take much convincing on Tina’s part to get me to participate.

So here, Tina and I stood at the window of our dark hotel room with our cell phone lights on. At first, we meekly waved them back and forth, slowly to the left and slowly back to the right. At some point, we realized the lights across the street were mirroring what we were doing. I think that was the point when my awkward self-consciousness faded away. I remember saying to Tina, “Are they coping us?” They were. They had seen us and were engaging with us. Left to right, right to left, up, down, circles, and patterns. It was creativity with lights. We would lead, and they would follow. Then they would lead, and we would follow. It was mesmerizing.

The longer we stood there, the more creative both sides of the street became. This went on for quite a while until Tina and I were eventually ready to pull the curtains and get some sleep.

Later I realized I still felt this odd connection to whoever might be behind those lights. We had no idea who they were, what they looked like, what country they were from, or if we spoke the same language. They could have been sitting next to us at dinner or whoo-hooing on one of the party buses all day. We would never know.

But the connection was genuine. We shared a moment. It was a perfect display of silent equality and creativity.

Here we were, in the crazy world of downtown Nashville with all its noise, lights, and over-the-top stimulation. Who could have ever guessed one of my favorite moments of the trip would be the anonymous lights across the street?  

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

The peace of God is much greater than the human mind can understand. This peace will keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:7

A challenging hike indeed, but there are no words to describe the amazing view from all sides when we reached the top. It was breathtaking. (Well, it took whatever breath I had remaining, which I assure you wasn’t much.) We rested on the side of a huge rock, drank some water, and ate our snacks, feeling as if we were on top of the world. We were in no hurry to return to the trail, but eventually, we headed back down the mountain. 

I expected the hike to the top to be difficult, and I had used nearly every ounce of my energy getting there. 

Although steep and exhausting, the path up the mountain was well-traveled and well defined. We had to simply put one foot in front of the other. My biggest mistake was to assume the downside would be less challenging. I was wrong. The path down was just as difficult, but for different reasons. 

The hike down the other side of the mountain required watching every rugged step as the path turned into a narrow, ungroomed trail littered with loose rocks, sticks, gravel, and leaves. Every step took thought, requiring complete focus and concentration on the ground directly in front of us. There was no small talk on this side of the mountain. One misstep could be disastrous, and the last thing we needed was to slip, fall, or twist an ankle. The ground was slippery and shifted with each step. It was a balancing act to stay on our feet, and with it came the fear of losing our footing as the pebbles rolled under our boots. 

Fighting the gravity pull down the mountain went from difficult to painful. My ankles, legs, and hips were already weak and shaky. The steep downgrade was such that my toes were now hitting the inside of my boot. With each step, my body was screaming, “enough!” But what choice did I have but to put one foot in front of the other? 

I knew the very last part of the path joined a fire road. I kept looking for that fire road with anticipation around every curve. I was sure when we reached it I would get some relief. I assumed getting my feet on the gravel road, although still a reasonably steep downgrade, would be hugely helpful to ease some of the pain in my body. But to my surprise and disappointment, once we set foot on the fire road, the relief simply did not come. As there was no longer the need to be ultra-focused on where my feet were going, my brain now zoomed in on every ache and pain I was experiencing.

For the last half mile, my knees hurt so badly I joked that my knees felt as if they were going to blow right off my legs. The desire to quit with only a half-mile left was intense. I secretly hoped someone would magically appear in one of those cute little golf carts and ask us if we would like a lift to our car in the parking lot. Anything would have worked for me actually, a horse, donkey, camel… whatever. It seems for me, the most challenging part of that hike was the last section, which should have been the easiest.  

About a week or so later, as the physical pain subsided, there I was with a pretty incredible feeling of accomplishment and a pretty spectacular lesson learned. I realized although I was up for the challenge, I didn’t know what I was actually getting myself into. I was sure the uphill battle would be difficult, but I had very much underestimated the downhill side. I simply was not prepared.  

As Christians, we can be most vulnerable when we push the cruise control button. Perhaps we get complacent after we’ve overcome a big obstacle. I understand we get tired. I know, I get tired. Perhaps we’re humming along and get blindsided with a “Whoa. I didn’t see that one coming” situation. Whatever the case, Isaiah 40:29 tells us that God gives power to the faint and increases our strength. 

In Philippians, Paul says, “Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead. I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14)

We are truly capable of doing much more than we realize. We are encouraged to keep moving forward. It’s our responsibility to be vigilant, watchful, and prepared. So my friends,  train as an Iron Man and finish the race strong. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

“The road is long, with many a winding turn, that leads us to who knows where.” Bobby Scott

The hike is three miles up, with a one-mile rock scramble at the top before reaching the summit elevation of 3,291. After that, it’s five miles down the other side. The hike takes about 6 hours for the average hiker.  

The hike is called Old Rag and is located in the Blue Ridge Mountains of the Shenandoah National Park in Virginia’s Madison County, near Sperryville. It’s deemed Shenandoah’s most popular and most dangerous hike. In contrast to most Blue Ridge mountains, Old Rag has an exposed (rocky) summit. I didn’t know this going in, which in hindsight was probably a good thing. I had heard many conversations about the hike, but I was unclear as to the difficulty. Just as someone would tell me how difficult it was, another would disagree and boast of its ease. It’s all relative, I suppose.

Either way, I knew it would not be a “walk in the park.” After all, I currently logged eight hours a day behind a desk. It wasn’t like I trained for a strenuous hike. But still, I was interested in giving it a go. It was most definitely on my to-do list before I moved back to the west coast. 

Oh my gosh…yes, it was hard. As the path zig-zagged its way up the mountainside, it was a steep climb and incredibly tiring. Note to self, when 95% of the hikers are much younger than you, you may want to rethink your personal expectations. I didn’t notice this until I was about 2 miles up the side of the mountain, as I stopped to catch my breath. At that point, I was committed. I was concerned, but I was committed. 

At the top of the mountain, the path turned to a rock scramble, my favorite part of the hike. It felt oddly like a scavenger hunt as we climbed around the boulders looking for little blue paint marks on the rocks that marked the “trail.” Even though my thighs felt like jello, making rock climbing more difficult, I loved the challenge of trying to figure out how to get from here to there. With every rock I conquered, there seemed to be another, and then yet another.  

At one point, there was a rock where everyone needed help. It was difficult, or near impossible, to get footing about halfway up on the side of the rock. Some got a boost from the bottom, but most got a hand extended to them from the top. I watched as the college-age hikers, some of which I fondly referred to as mountain goats, helped each other up this exceptionally difficult rock. One hiker stood at the top of the rock as he extended his hand to help the next hiker climbing up from the bottom.     

As the hikers in front of me disappeared over the top of the rock, I worried as I approached. I thought, “Now what? It looked as if I most likely would get stuck there at the bottom of the rock. Had I come to a spot where I was defeated after all the effort to climb the three miles up the side the mountain? I didn’t want to have to turn back the way I came.  I wanted to move forward and finish the hike.  

When I got to the bottom of the rock, I was very surprised to hear a voice above me say, “Need some help?” One of the mountain goats had waited to extend a hand. I never thought someone would do that. He helped me through the most difficult part, but as soon as I had my footing near the boulder’s top, he quickly ran off with his friends and disappeared to find the next blue marker. So much so, I had to shout my thank you as he vanished out of sight.  

I, like you, have come up against many challenges in my life. Some of them so steep I felt I could never move past them. I have learned, however, God always has a plan. I may not see it, but he’s already got the solution in place.

Psalms 3:5-6 Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. 

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

I recently reconnected with a friend of my parents, Manon. She and her husband Aaron, as well as their two children, had lived next door to my family until I was eight years old. Aaron and my father were business partners, and Manon and my mother were very close friends. When our homes were built, Aaron and my father intentionally purchased adjoining lots.  Because our two front yards joined, our front yards became the neighborhood kickball – freeze tag – dodgeball field. To look at it now, it’s a small area, but to four little kids, it was the perfect grassy playground. 

Families grew, and lives changed as the years passed. Aaron built a newer, larger home and his family moved. Soon after, my father also built a larger home. We left our little track house for a larger home “out in the country.” I know the two women stayed in touch, and I know Manon continued to be a dear friend until my mom passed away at the very young age of 62.

Many years passed. About a year after my father passed away, I received a phone call from one of my father’s old business partners. I’m sure this is what sparked my desire to connect with Manon. Knowing she was close to my mother made me want to reach out to her.

I got Manon’s phone number from her daughter, who was easy to find. Her daughter was cautious when I called, but after we spoke and exchanged some memories of our own, she felt safe enough to help us connect. When I called Manon, we had the most delightful conversation. We made arrangements to meet for lunch a few months later, which we did. It was absolutely fantastic catching up, and I promised to meet her again as soon as I was able.  

Two years later, we again met for lunch. I brought Manon a copy of my most current children’s book as a gift, just as I had done before. This one had only been published a month earlier, so it was very newly released. She didn’t read it right away; she set it aside. Our time together was too precious.  We chatted of memories I hadn’t thought of in years, as if there had been no time lost.  Oddly, there were moments when I again felt like the little girl next door. 

When I got home, I sent her a quick text to let her know I was home safe and sound after the three-hour drive back to my place. I texted her, “Just got home. Thank you for a wonderful lunch date today.” Her reply said, “I loved it. You are amazing.” I was caught off guard when just those few words made me cry. I assumed her “You are amazing” was directed at my new book, and I was deeply touched.  

Later, after rereading her message, I realized I had actually misunderstood her message. When I realized Manon was not referring to the book as being amazing, but to the person who wrote the book, there were more tears.  

I’m terrific at finding my flaws, failures, and insecurities. However, I will admit, I struggle with the idea of being amazing. I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve spoken to many that feel the same way. Why is something like this so hard for us to believe? 

The bible tells us we are His masterpiece. We need to believe it. We need to own it.

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” (Ephesians 2:10)

Hard as it may be for many of us, we need to start owning our amazing selves.  And while we’re at it, we also need to help encourage those around us to own their amazing selves as well.  

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

It was Sunday morning. I noticed Ellie right away when I entered the room. She was one of the middle-school students and the daughter of a friend of mine. She looked adorable. As we stood there chit-chatting, Ellie kept looking at her left wrist. I could only assume the cute little watch she was wearing was new. I asked her about it, and she was so pleased I did. She told me she had gotten it the day before, and she loved it. She extended her left wrist towards me so I could get a better look.  

“It’s beautiful, Ellie,” I said. “It even has a second hand.”  

Ellie looked up at me with her big blue eyes. She was confused. “Second hand?” she asked. “Yes”, I replied. “The small hand, right there,” I said as I pointed to the small moving hand on her watch.

“Oh, that’s not the second hand, Miss Lorrie,” she said. “That’s the third hand.”  

I most definitely was caught off guard. Ellie was very literal, so I suppose technically, she was right. The second hand on her watch was actually the third hand in a different context, never had I considered it. I explained to her the second hand was named to count the seconds in a minute, not the size of the watch’s mechanism. I explained one hand counts the hours, one hand counts the minutes, and one hand counts the seconds, also known as the second hand. She understood it, but she didn’t like it. Quite frankly, I’m not sure she even believed me. But then again, she was fourteen. Grownups aren’t very smart when you’re fourteen.

I once heard an expression that captures my thoughts. “You don’t need to know how the watch works; you just need to know how to tell time.” 

That sums me up pretty well. I’m a big picture girl. I like to see the whole picture and how the pieces fit. I’m aware I don’t need to know all the tiny details of how God is working things out in my life, but still, I often get bogged down in the details.  

Very often as Christians, we don’t get the luxury of seeing the whole picture. God’s big picture is too complex and too extraordinary for us to figure out. Trusting God often requires not knowing how he will accomplish what needs to be done and not knowing when or how he will do it. He uses times of waiting to stretch our faith and to bring about change and growth in our lives.

Habakkuk 1:5 says, “For I am doing something in your own day, something you wouldn’t believe even if someone told you about it.” 

We often hear God is never late, but generally, he isn’t early either. There are times when we might give up if we knew how long something would take, but God causes things to happen at precisely the right time, his time, not our time.

 Psalm 27:14 says, “Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”

We know that God’s plan for our lives is good. Perhaps we spend too much time trying to figure out how and what he’s going to do and not enough time trusting that he who began a good work in us is faithful to complete it.

Just as Ellie and I looked at the same watch, but saw the time differently, let’s remember that God’s timing for our lives most likely looks quite different than how we see it. God is working for us in every tick of every second hand.  

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Mufasa was my daughter’s cat.  He was a big, shy, tabby cat. When he came to live with me, he hid under my daughter’s bed for weeks.

 I’ve never been much of a cat lover, so the fact that the cat stayed in my daughter’s room was fine by me. He had a typical stereotypical cat personality. He was very aloof and kept to himself, except when my daughter was present.  If she were there, he would follow her around like a puppy.  I would laugh and comment on how much that cat loved his girl.  My daughter was crazy in love with her cat, and the cat was crazy in love with my daughter. They had an extraordinary relationship.

It seemed Mufasa and I had a tense peace. We respected each other’s space.  We put a small cat stand by the window in my daughter’s bedroom so he could look outside.  I would occasionally catch him there or lying at the foot of her bed.  It took a long time for him to feel secure enough to venture out of my daughter’s room.   Eventually, he became brave enough to quietly lie next to her open bedroom door at the top of the stairs.  When I would walk by him, I would say, “Hello Mufasa,” hoping he would get used to my voice and become less skittish.

As time went by, he relaxed a bit. I would gently touch the top of his head when I walked by, always saying something to him and using his name.  As more time passed, I was able to kneel and pet him without him running back under the bed.

The cat stayed in my home for two and a half years.  Very slowly, Mufasa went from a cat hiding under a bed to a cat sleeping next to me with his paw on my shoulder. It took us a long time to build our relationship, but it grew into something very special. 

And so it can be with human relationships.  We need to invest ourselves in others with no expectation of return on our investment.

Trust, more often than not, takes time to grow.  There will be some relationships that never grow at all, but let’s not give up too quickly. Perhaps with a bit of extra grace, patience, and understanding, we can build an amazing, unexpected relationship with the most unlikely candidate.

I will admit I still don’t like cats, but Mufasa was different.  Together we built our own very special bond.  He was not just any cat; he was my friend.  He was a beautiful example of how a little time and effort can result in an unexpected turn of events.  

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Romans 12: 10 – 13

Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer, contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality.

I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, “Throw spaghetti against the wall and see if it sticks.” In the most literal way, it’s a wacky way to test your spaghetti to see if it’s fully cooked. You see, uncooked spaghetti never sticks to the wall.

I was about ten years old when a young friend demonstrated this new, purely scientific, discovery. I was horrified but completely intrigued. I will tell you… MY mother would NEVER have let me experiment with wet noodles hitting her walls. Full disclosure here, I may have tried it a couple of times, but you can be assured she was nowhere to be found during the testing phase.

Recently I was at a friend’s house and saw something I found to be hysterical. Apparently, she had been exposed to the same science teacher as my little friend. There was a small section of wall in her kitchen with what appeared to have spaghetti stuck to it. It really wasn’t very noticeable, but once I realized what it was, I was tickled. Now, that’s my kind of woman. I asked her if I could take a picture of her masterpiece for my blog, and she graciously agreed.

Digging a little deeper, as I always seem to do, I realized those noodles thrown toward the wall easily represent opportunities that crop up in our lives. Sometimes it’s difficult to decide if we should step up to the challenge or let them cook and simmer for a bit longer.

I wonder how many times we cook up an idea, throw it against the wall, and are hugely disappointed when it doesn’t stick. Our emotions forget this is just a test, not the final product. We have gained much by it slipping off the wall. We’ve learned it isn’t done, and we need to keep it on the heat.

Patience is not my strong suit, so I can tell you I’ve tossed too many uncooked noodles across the room to count. But patience, as they say, is a virtue. I’m learning every day to leave my pasta in the water a little longer and to wait for the perfect noodle.

I have one more spaghetti thought. The noodle that didn’t stick is not the only noodle boiling in the pot. God knows which noodles are keepers long before we chuck them. He has a plan. Although our spaghetti is a mystery to us, it is not a mystery to Him. God is the master chief, and he is far from finished.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore, he will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him! Isaiah 30:18

It was a bucket list thing, something I’d wanted to do for years but had never taken the time to do so. I’ll give you a couple hints. It happens every year on the first day of January. There are a lot of people that come from all over the world to attend, and it smells like flowers…lots and lots of flowers. It’s the Rose Parade in Pasadena, California, of course.

I had seen the parade on television too many times to count. However, attending the parade wasn’t what was on my list. I was interested in being a part of the masses that decorate the floats. It was the adventure of witnessing the magic unfold that drew me in. It was hard to imagine that every single float would be covered entirely in organic material. I’d always wanted to see, firsthand, hundreds of volunteers, most of them strangers, come together and create something so incredibly intricate that some of the work actually required tweezers to get the job done.

This year I had the opportunity to do just that. I got to the warehouse area early in the morning, but even then, the area around the Rose Bowl was buzzing with activity. People were setting up a sea of tents for the shopping “Village” on the large grass area by the stadium. People were arriving by busloads, van-loads, car-loads, bicycles and on foot. There were television crews, food crews, flower crews and vendors coming and going. The entire area was transforming from a quiet neighborhood to a bustling metropolis, right before my eyes. 

 The actual float work was pretty incredible. At one point, I was literally gluing split peas to a styrofoam ball about the size of a tennis ball to be used as part of a single piece of seaweed. Each half-pea was placed on the ball, flat side down, yes, by tweezers. Can you imagine? I’m not trying to be dramatic, but honestly, there were too many of these kelp balls on the float to count. I think it took me close to an hour to do just one of the balls. I also took my turn sitting at a table with about twenty of my new best friends cutting tiny purple petals off flower stems. As I write this story, the blister on my right hand from the scissors is still healing. I also got to do a “climber” job. My job was to climb up to the second level of the scaffolding where I carefully covered the purple area of one leg of the octopus with flower petals. We literally painted a section with glue, dipped a dry sponge into a cup filled with tiny, tiny, confetti sized petals, and scooped them onto the glue. I told you it was intricate. Some of the lettering on the float was covered in rose petals that were applied by tweezers, one petal at a time. I have no idea the total man-hours to complete the float, but it must be overwhelming.

So, what is my takeaway? I think it’s the care that was given to each part to make such a beautiful whole. The petals and peas placed by tweezers, the hours upon hours spent cutting and collecting flower bits, and the brave workers that climbed atop shaky scaffolding to attach these tiny flowers to the float.   I have no idea of all the elements in play, as what I did was but a small part of something so hugely complex. However, I do know the end result was breathtaking.

That’s where I find myself. I’m a work in progress with just a vague idea of the end result. I absolutely do not see all the intricate pieces God is putting together as he builds my life. But I do know, He who began a good work in me will be faithful to complete it, and it too will be beautiful.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7