My favorite spot in the movie theater is about five rows down from the top, smack in the middle.  Experience teaches us it’s best to get to the theater a bit early, especially if the movie is popular, as the seats will fill up quickly.  One evening a couple of friends and I decided, kind of last minute, to take in a movie.  In this case, we quickly realized our “a little bit early” was actually “a little bit late.”  We thought we had given ourselves plenty of time to get our tickets and find a seat, but the movie was more popular than we had anticipated.  As we walked through the doors and down the narrow hallway with the stadium seating to our left, it took but a moment to realize we would be hard-pressed to find three seats together. The theater was packed.  As we glanced upward, there were very few open seats, maybe two or three singles.  Unfortunately for us, the only open spots were the leftovers, the seats in the first two rows, directly under the screen.  I remember wondering if I could even remember the last time I watched a movie from the front row.  This was a giant headache waiting to happen, and I mean that in the most literal sense.

 Because we had no other options, we continued down to the front of the theater.  As we walked directly under the screen to take the last three open seats together, I spied two seats on the opposite end on the second row.  If I could get the two guys sitting next to the available seats to move to their right and occupy the single open seat on their right the three of us could sit together at the end of the second row.  Anything would be better than sitting dead center of the front row.  As we were now on display directly in front of the screen in an overcrowded theater, I tried to be very subtle and cool as we made our way to the empty seats.

 I hate being the center of attention. I get embarrassed very easily, and I will go to significant measures to keep myself under the radar. The guys agreed to move to their right, but I did notice a hesitation on their part. Now the three seats were together at the end of the second row. As I moved forward to round the corner from the front of the theater to the second row, I walked smack into a black pony wall that prevented access to the seating from that side of the room. (By asking them to move to the right, I was actually asking them to make it harder for us to get to the seats.) Not only did my foot make a huge thud as it kicked the hollow wall, but when my body came to an immediate screeching halt, my friend walked right into the back of me.  It could not have been choreographed better. The theater erupted with laughter, and someone in the crowd yelled, “Hey, you could climb over!” We had just become a modern-day comedy act performing the opener for the movie about to air. So much for being subtle.

 It is so easy for us to focus on the wrong things. I grew up in a beautiful home in San Diego County, but never really took in the view and realized the beauty of it until I moved four hours away. I remember grabbing a cup of tea early one morning when I was visiting my parents.  I thought everyone was still in bed, so I walked outside to drink my tea on the patio.  The view was amazing.  It was a cool, clear morning, and I could see for miles and miles.  I was so caught up in the view I didn’t even hear my mother come outside.  As she quietly sat down next to me, she said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I remember wondering how I could have lived in this home for so many years and never realized how spectacular it truly was.

 The good news is, I don’t always get it wrong.   I remember taking a college photography class one semester.   I was out shooting pictures and was wandering around an old building in the desert surrounded by creosote bushes, tumbleweeds, and a few large desert trees.  As I was walking around the building looking at it from different angles, I heard rustling and movement in the tree directly behind me.  I assumed it was a large hawk.  Trying not to startle it, I slowly turned around.  There on a branch in front of me, only a few feet away, was a family of three beautiful Great Horned Desert Owls.  Most often in the Mojave Desert, these owls nest in the branches of a Joshua tree, but often they take over a nest used by some other, larger bird. Rarely do you get to see an owl during the day, but to be this close to three of them was extraordinary.  All three of them kept their eyes on me as I very slowly inched toward them.  They were not frightened enough to fly away, but they had a space requirement.  When I got too close, they would move to a nearby perch and continue watching me.  I believe they were as intrigued by me as I was of them.  As I slowly approached their second perch, they again let me get very close but flew back to their original perch when I got too close for comfort.  Back and forth we went, five or six times, before they tired of the game and chose a spot a bit higher where I could no longer see them.  There I was, in a position to take a fantastic photograph that very few people will ever get an opportunity to take, but I never picked up the camera hanging around my neck. It’s not that I was so mesmerized by the birds that I forgot the camera was there.  I was fully aware I was experiencing something I’d experience only once in a lifetime.  I was so enjoying the moment I realized taking the picture became completely unimportant. I didn’t want to look at these beautiful birds through the lens of a camera.  I wanted to see them completely unobstructed.  Quite honestly, I have no regrets.

 I know I’m not the only one who tends to lose sight of the forest for the trees. A forest is full of beautiful trees, but when we become so engrossed in looking at the individual trees, we can forget that each tree is merely one of the thousands in the forest.  Many of us become so consumed in the little details of life’s race we forget it is a marathon, not a dash.  We would love to skip to the end of the book without experiencing all the chapters, but it just doesn’t work that way. A book’s ending is meaningless if all the pages leading up to it are blank.  We are always growing, learning, experiencing, and evolving.  Looking back at my life, I can see many situations when God has put people and experiences in my life to prepare me for something else. 

 Even now, I sometimes walk into walls because I get focused on the wrong thing.  Because I believe God loves me, and he wants me to be happy and successful, I have to trust that walking into those walls is one of God’s ways to get me refocused or to change my direction.  Although redirection can often be uncomfortable, I’m confident that his way is always better than my way, and the outcome will be better than anything I could ever imagine. Only he can see both the forest and the trees at the same time.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

My mother, always the perfectionist. My father, the workaholic. My mom worked as a school teacher and also kept an immaculate house. “Everything has a place,” she would say. I don’t disagree, but perhaps it works so well for me because if I don’t put things where they belong, I can’t seem to remember where I put them at all.  None the less, she was very particular about her home. Shoes were left at the door when entering.  Dishes were not allowed left in the sink. If I had a dollar for every time I heard her say, “Rinse and load” when we got up from the dinner table, I’d be a rich woman.

One weekend my five-year-old daughter and I were visiting. Becca was one of those kids that needed to be busy all the time. This particular trip we brought with us a bucket of sidewalk chalk for Becca to use on the patio.  My parents’ home had a huge patio area off the kitchen that was a wonderful, safe, place for Becca to play. We knew she would love to write and draw on the concrete just outside the kitchen door. I was a little concerned the chalk might bother my mom, as she kept the patio just as clean as she kept her home.  However, she assured me she didn’t mind a little “decorating.” I promised to wash it off before we left for home Sunday afternoon, and all was well.

I’m here to tell you it is incredible how much chalk a five-year-old can lay on a patio in a weekend. By Sunday afternoon that patio was a serious piece of art. It was covered in pink, blue, purple, yellow, and green sidewalk chalk. There were rainbows, flowers, smiling sunshine faces, stars, tic-tac-toe games, and whatever else Becca could think of when she was going through her bucket of chalk. She had been happy and busy all weekend.

As we were packing up the car, just about ready to head home, I glanced outside the kitchen window. I had almost forgotten to wash off the chalk before we left. I didn’t want my mom to have to do it, so I headed outside to give it a quick rinse before we took off. As I stepped out the door and turned on the hose, my mother came running out the door. “No, no. Leave it. Leave it there!” She said. I was confused at first. I thought she didn’t want me to unwind the perfectly wound hose neatly stacked under the facet. “It’s ok. I’ll put it back.” I said over my shoulder. “No!” She said. “The chalk. The artwork. Leave it there.” I turned off the hose and turned to look at her, totally confused.   She wanted me to leave the artwork there. She said the rain would eventually wash it away, but until then she wanted me to leave it there, just outside the window so that she could see it.   Somehow something that was always viewed as a mess or an inconvenience had turned into something precious and irreplaceable.

It made me think about the things in our lives that are irreplaceable and how often we don’t pay attention to them until they’re washed away. We get so caught up with our everyday lives that it’s easy to take for granted or ignore those things that positively impact our lives.   Why are we not more intentional about protecting the things that are important to us? Perhaps we need to calculate the cost of our complacency. What is in our lives today may not be in our lives tomorrow.

James 1:17 says, “every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”   So my simple truth is this. If every good gift is from above, we need to pay better attention to what we’re doing with our lives and the things we hold dear.

Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. James 4:14

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Minnesota was home to my mother. My mother was a school teacher, so when the school year ended, we packed up and headed north. I loved it there. The small-town environment was in sharp contrast to the hustle and bustle of life in San Diego. I loved the beautiful old buildings, the small, family-owned businesses, and the quaint churches. I loved the soda shop, the one-screen movie theater, and the fact that the supermarket left their shopping carts outside after they closed so we could have buggy races in the parking lot. The lifestyle was slower, calmer, friendlier, and much more personal than living in the city. I don’t think my Aunt, my mother’s sister, ever realized how much we loved her small town. She would often make remarks like, “We don’t have the same things here as you do in your big city.” What she failed to realize was we came back year after year, not only to visit family but also to visit our favorite small town. We loved it there. It was peaceful and rejuvenating.

My Aunt and Uncle had a beautiful home in town and had also built a log cabin on the lake about twenty minutes from town. The cabin was right on the shore of beautiful Lake Pokegama, tucked away off a dirt road in the trees. Words cannot express the beauty of this place. It was magical. I can remember waking up to the sound of loons calling somewhere close by. I can remember sitting on the dock early in the morning watching the ducks swim by while my mom and Aunt were making breakfast. I can remember swimming, skimming rocks, and canoeing for hours with my cousins with nothing more on our minds than the pure joy of each other’s company. I remember the 4th of July sparklers, bug spray, and mosquitoes the size of small birds. I remember spending time with my Grandmother as her Alzheimer’s was setting in, knowing that she may not know me, but she was delighted to sit quietly and watch all the commotion as we ran around the grass in our bare feet and swimsuits.

One year, the little summer home next door to my Aunt and Uncle’s cabin was up for sale. My parents purchased the place, and it became our home away from home for a few summers to follow. As we grew older, we quit chasing frogs and butterflies and became very interested in water sports. I intentionally say water sports, not water skiing, because often times we would tie whatever was in arms reach to the back of the boat just to see if there was any possible way to ride the thing. We tried inner tubes, rubber rafts, seat cushions, and old pieces of carpet. I’m sure my parents could have made some money if they’d charged admission.

One afternoon we found an old, forgotten,  broken wood sled at the back of the storage shed on the property.  It was either forgotten or intentionally left by the previous owners. We all know California kids don’t know much about sledding, but they know plenty about surfing. We tied that baby to the back of the boat, and we had the perfect Minnesota surfboard. It was easy to stand on and wider than anything else we had. We could do all kinds of silly things on it. My older brother put a lawn chair and some type of box on top of it. He climbed on, sat down in the lawn chair, put his feet up on the box, and away we went. I think he also grabbed a newspaper to read while cruising the lake, just for effect. He never even got wet. In fact, in all the years we spent around the water that broken sled was the only thing we ever got my mom to ride. She never tried the water skis or the inner tube, but she did get on that old sled. When she stood up on the thing, she let out such a loud “whoo-hoo.” I’m sure neighbors located miles down the shoreline could hear her.

Of course, we all mastered the water skiing thing quickly. My younger brother, Steve, was only six when we put him on skis. I was thirteen at the time, and my older brother was fifteen. Steve was so small when he skied the tow rope hung in the water as if there was no weight attached to the end. One time we stopped in the middle of the lake to switch skiers. We cut the engine and wanted him to swim up to the boat. He actually stayed on top of the water and walked up to the rope, hand over hand, all the way to the boat. We teased him all summer about his ability to walk on water.

I remember one of his very first turns behind the boat that year. At first, he stayed right behind the boat, but the kid was fearless. He had watched his older brother ski, and being fiercely competitive, he assumed anything big brother could do he could do also. Before we had made our first circle, he was already outside the wake and giving us the thumbs-up sign to go faster. My older brother and I just laughed and were amazed at how easy he made it look. We had given him very specific instructions on how to take off, where to ski, and how to land. When we came back around to drop him off, the little stinker jumped outside the wake and leaned back to pick up extra speed to shoot for the shore. His six-year-old mind decided he had perfected his skills to the point of being able to ski right up to the beach and walk out of his skis onto dry land.

He only thought he was shooting for the shore; actually, he went shooting off directly toward the dock. We stopped the boat and started screaming at him. “Drop in the water.   Steve!  STOP!” You know that feeling you get when you watch something happening in slow motion? This was one of those times. He was going to hit the dock, hard, and break both his legs just below the knees. We knew he was going to be hurt very badly, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. We had thought we were doing Steve a favor by bringing him closer to the shore, but we never anticipated he would use his free will to alter the course we had set for him. He had made a small change to our exit plan, but he wasn’t experienced enough to see what would happen if he missed the mark by just a few feet.

Lucky for Steve, his angels were working overtime that day. He was flying across the top of the water so quickly he lost his balance and fell, about five feet short of the dock. I actually don’t think he fell. I honestly believe one of those angels gave him a push. Boy, oh boy, was he mad when he got out of the water. However, Steve never knew how close he was to hitting the dock. He was angry because he got his hair wet. What Steve looked at as a failure, his inability to reach the shore dry-headed, was actually a blessing in disguise.

How often are we just like little Stevie? We think we’ve got it all handled and under control, so we stop listening to God’s voice. We believe we’re on the right course, but we come to realize if we don’t make some changes something disastrous is going to happen.  Isaiah 30:21 says, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”

I thank the Lord for pushing me in the water now and then. I wonder how many broken legs I’ve been spared or how many near misses I’ve had because of my own stubborn will. More often than not, our inadequacies cause us frustration and discouragement, but we need to remember perhaps we don’t see the big picture, and maybe we never will.

I have to smile when I remember that crazy little six-year-old skier. The rest of that summer we dropped little Stevie off in the middle of the lake and made him swim in.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

One afternoon I invited my five-year-old Becca to visit my new office. Well, actually, it was my new office-cubicle. The room was located dead center of a three-story office building. There was a central hallway going down the center of the 3rd floor, with large rooms off to the left and right of the hallway.   As you walked into my room, there were two actual offices on the right and one in the back. On the left was an area with two cubicles. My little cube was the one closest to the door.

Becca walked in and made her little self at home. She climbed up into my chair and gave it a spin. I guess it passed the test because she did it a few more times until I gently said, “That’s enough, Honey.” She then methodically opened each desk drawer, most likely looking for treats that were most likely stashed somewhere inside. It’s funny, now that I think about it, my children checked my desk drawers for my stash until they were out of high school. They would probably do it now if given the opportunity. Anyway, when Becca was satisfied with her search, she looked around the room and said to me, “Where’s your window?” What a funny question, but so cute. Becca knew her mother well. She knew I loved the fresh air and sunshine, and apparently, I like lots and lots of windows. I explained to her there were no windows in my office. She didn’t seem very happy about it. So, Becca being Becca, she had a solution. She said, “Grandpa can make a window for you.” I had to explain to her that although Grandpa built houses, he couldn’t run around town putting windows in buildings that belonged to someone else. She was pretty sure this was an exception, but she accepted my answer and went on her merry way.

A few days later, when I picked Becca up after work, she told me she had a picture for me that she had made. This wasn’t unusual. Moms are the lucky recipients of all kinds of arts and crafts created at school. I miss all the beautiful artwork I proudly displayed on my fridge when my children were young. But this one was a little different. She handed me a beautiful picture and said, “Here. I made you a window for your office.” The image was exactly what you would expect to see if you were gazing out a window on a bright, sunny spring day.  It had a big tree, rolling hills, and of course, flowers.  There were a couple of puffy clouds in the blue sky with a bright, cheerful, yellow sunshine beaming down from the corner of the page.   Leave it to a five-year-old to come up with the perfect solution to my windowless office. When it seemed impossible for me to see the sunshine, my own little sunshine made it happen.   She brought the sun to me.  That picture was proudly displayed for years, in quite a few offices. Many asked about it, and the story of my inside window told many times.

Sometimes I forget to think outside the box, or the cubicle in this case. Our lives get crazy and confusing. Even as Christians, we often wonder what the heck God is doing and why whatever is happening in our lives is happening.  Sometimes we’ve created the circumstance. But for me, I get most frustrated when I don’t create a circumstance, but still, somehow, end up smack in the middle of somewhere or something unwanted.  What a great opportunity for God to show us who He is and how much He loves us. Just when we think there’s no solution, something happens beyond anything we could have imagined.  A friend of mine wrote a song a long time ago that said, “Whenever He closes a door, He opens a window.” So true. We cannot comprehend how big God is. In my case, when there was no window to the outside, He used a precious child to bring the outside in, just for me.

 Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

One summer, when I was working for the bank, a coworker was noticeably absent for a couple of days. Of course, I was concerned for her and was happy to see her when she returned. When she walked into work that Wednesday morning, she was visibly distraught and obviously upset. Alice was a woman in her early fifties. Her husband of twenty-five years had passed away the previous summer. She was a kind, gentle woman who had loved her husband with all her heart. She provided support and encouragement throughout his illness and was devastated by his passing.

We worked for a few hours getting through our morning routine before we had a chance to take a break and talk. As the two of us sat perched on our stools behind the teller counter, I was surprised how easily she opened up to me when I asked how she was doing. She told me about her weekend and how she and her friend had decided to take a day trip to the beach. The two of them made the three-hour drive to the coast, had lunch at a charming restaurant overlooking the ocean, and then went for a peaceful stroll on the beach. As they were walking Alice realized she hadn’t taken off her watch. Concerned she might get sand or water in it, so she slipped it off her wrist and put it in her pocket. They continued their walk and enjoyed a beautiful summer sunset before heading back to the car. When they got to the car, Alice realized her watch was not in her pocket. It must have dropped out of her pocket somewhere along the beach.

As Alice described the watch to me, her eyes welled up with tears. The watch was a special gift given to her by her late husband, just as his illness was taking hold of him. It had been designed by him and had been handmade, especially for her. She described how and when he had given it to her and how he had designed it. With tears in her eyes, she described every tiny detail of her beloved watch. She told me it was not the monetary value, but the sentimental value of the watch that made it so difficult to lose. She said she felt as if she were losing him all over again.

Not knowing what I could possibly do to ease her obvious pain, I asked her what she had done to find it. Of course, she had retraced her steps from the car to the beach and back again. She had checked, and double-checked, her pockets and had searched her vehicle. I then said, “Do you feel like you have done everything in your power to find it?” She looked at me, confused by my response. She paused for a moment, deep in thought. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “I guess I could run an ad in the local paper or something. But other than that, yes I’ve done all I can do to find the watch.” That afternoon, on her lunch break, Alice placed an ad in the local paper where the watch had was lost.

We talked again that afternoon, and I asked her, “Now do you feel like you have done everything in your power to find the watch?” Her answer was firm this time. “Yes,” she said, “I have done everything I can think of.” I told her if she had done her absolute best, it was time to let it go. She pondered my comment for a few moments, and nothing more was said. Already I was seeing a less grief-stricken coworker.

She could have put the watch in a glass case or locked it away in a safe deposit box, but that was not what her husband had intended her to do with his gift.   He wanted her to show it off and be proud of it.   He wanted her to wear it, and enjoy it, maybe for a lifetime or perhaps for a season. Nothing could take away the joy and the love her husband had given to her. The watch, as beautiful as it was, was only a symbol of a much bigger gift, his love and adoration. She could never lose his love for her. That gift was safely locked away in her heart.

The next week, on my day off, I received a phone call from Alice. She was so excited. A young man had found her watch on the beach the day she had lost it. The young man’s mother described it as a beautiful watch that was so unique someone must be very sad to have lost it. She encouraged her son to check the newspaper’s lost and found section in hopes of finding the owner. There he found Alice’s ad that described the watch and the location where it was lost. After a brief telephone call to Alice, the boy and his mother brought the watch to their local branch of our bank, and the bank then forwarded the watch to our office. Alice, in turn, sent the boy a check as a reward for his honesty.

I wish I could say when we do our best there’s always a happy ending. Life doesn’t always work out that way. But if we do our best, God will bless us. We will find comfort and peace in knowing we’ve done all we can do.   The same applies to us as Christians. If we know God has asked us to do something, we need to do it. We need to do our best and let God take care of the rest.

Deuteronomy 28:1 says, “If you fully obey the Lord your God and carefully follow all his commands I give you today, the Lord your God will set you high above all the nations on earth.”

Just as Alice’s watch was a beautiful symbol of her husband’s love and adoration for her, our obedience to God is our way of showing him our love and adoration for Him.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie 

The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I discovered the very famous poem, The Road not Taken, by Robert Frost, in my early 20s. Even then, I somehow knew I would be traveling my life on the road not taken, or to be more accurate, the road less taken. I was captivated by the mystery and adventure of it all, and I will agree with Mr. Frost, it has made all the difference. However, occasionally, that difference can sting.

 As my children were growing up, I had a saying, “Treat meanness with kindness.” They heard this many, many times. If I leave nothing else behind for my children, I pray they will always remember that statement. I believe to make a difference, you have to be different. I’m hoping my kindness to those around me has somehow made a difference. But sometimes, in this very hurtful world we live in, it can be difficult.

I had an opportunity this week to show kindness in a situation where it was extremely difficult. I’m going to be perfectly honest. I simply did not want to be kind. I absolutely did not feel like walking the talk. And sadly, my feeling that way sort of broke my heart. I was disappointed with myself. That’s not at all like me, but I guess it makes me human.

This week the climb to the high road seemed very difficult. I was exhausted, not by the climb, but by how many times I’ve had to make it. I was almost willing to travel the superhighway, as the road less traveled seemed too lonely. Just this once I wanted to hurt someone because they had hurt me. I could have easily opted out of the kindness club, and no one would have blamed me. But in the end, I knew it wouldn’t make me feel better, quite the opposite.

I slowly crawled back to the high road, just in nick of time.

My lesson learned is this. We can, at any time, choose the road less traveled. It is exactly that. It is a choice. We can choose to be spiteful and hurtful when others hurt us, or we can choose to treat others the way we would like to be treated, regardless of how they treat us. We can choose to serve when we are not served, and we can choose to give when we do not receive. It can be hard, but we can choose to love others when we are not feeling loved.

But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.
Matthew 7:14

Wishing you joy and peace,

 Lorrie

When Kelsey was six years old, I signed her up for her first season of recreational basketball. It was coed, and the children were adorable. After sign-ups at the gym, some of the children wanted to stay and play. We weren’t in a hurry. It was fine with me if she played for a few minutes before we headed home. She disappeared through the gym doors, and I chatted with some of the other Moms just outside.   I took my time, and a few minutes later I went in to watch. When I walked into the gym, I noticed the children had gathered a full ten players. They were smoothly moving the ball up and down the court.

I was amazed that somehow these children seemed to have a grand understanding of the game at such a young age.   I watched as they were under one basket and then suddenly one of them would break away from the pack and take the ball down the court to the other end, most often taking a shot. I was impressed. There was a little passing and a lot of running. Anyone happening to walk by would have shared my opinion. However, after a few moments of watching them, I realized something wasn’t quite right.

On the way home, I just had to ask Kelsey a few questions about her basketball game. The first thing I asked her was how they chose their teams. She said, “We all play; we only have one team.” That wasn’t the game of basketball I knew. I was confused. I said, “If you only have one team, why do you use the entire basketball court?” She said simply, “Because there are two baskets.” Well, OK, then. I guess that kind of made sense; at least it made sense in a six-year-old sort of way. I then asked her, “So how do you decide which basket you shoot into?” She was very mater-of fact about it. She said, “Whoever has the ball decides what basket to shoot at.”

The basketball game the children were playing didn’t have the complex rules that we know the game to have. They had their very own way of playing a game that made perfect sense to them. I realized none of them knew what they were doing, but all of them were having the time of their lives. No one was keeping score. Not one of them cared what those crazy lines on the floor meant. They moved in mass around the court, not caring where the ball went or who had possession of it. Obviously, traveling was not an issue because it didn’t matter how many times the ball bounced when moving it from here to there. Sometimes they just carried the basketball as if it were a football. And when they happened to be close to a basket, whoever had the ball would shoot. It wasn’t about points, possession, or floor time. It also wasn’t about winners or losers. It was all about having fun. Basketball made simple.

What a great lesson. Sometimes I wonder if we make our lives too complicated. Do we make things harder than they need to be?   Sometimes we’re faced with situations where we haven’t learned the rules yet. Or maybe we have learned the rules, but we haven’t developed the skills to get to the goal. Other times we have to make the rules up as we go along. Whatever the game, if we keep praying and keep our eyes on the goal we’ll get there eventually. God wants us to be successful. He wants us to be happy. Sometimes it may feel like all we’re doing is chasing the ball around the court, but that’s OK. All we need to do is get close to the basket and shoot.

We don’t have to know all the rules, and we don’t have to know all the plays. God will take care of that part.  Philippians 3:14 says, “I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

 All we have to do is get in the game.  We can be happy and content just to have the opportunity to play.

 But godliness with contentment is great gain.  For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. – 1 Timothy 6:6-7

 Wishing you joy and peace,

 Lorrie

When my mom passed away in late November 1993, I remember feeling lost and hopeless. I missed her so much it was overwhelming. We were very close. Although we lived four hours away, we spoke daily, often more than once. My children were young, and I leaned on her for support and encouragement. She had become my best friend. I loved sharing every new adventure with her as the girls grew. She knew the entire goings-on in my life, from lost baby teeth to skinned toddler knees. Losing her was devastating to me and left a huge hole in my life.

 A few weeks after the funeral, a neighbor came across the street carrying a flowerpot with half a dozen flower bulbs. She had ordered too many to use and wondered if I would like them. I had never had much of a green thumb, but the idea of planting something and watching it grow into something beautiful seemed very therapeutic. I spent quite a few hours playing in my flowerbed that weekend. The weather was beautiful, and the fresh air and sunshine helped to remind me although I missed my mother terribly. I had to try harder to find the sunshine through the rain. When I told my father I had planted the bulbs he laughed. He said he had tried many times to grow Daffodils and Tulips but had never been successful. He wished me the best of luck.

Time went by. The end of fall came, winter came and went, and then finally the early days of spring arrived. I noticed my Daffodils coming up and got very excited. I watched as they grew and flowered into the brightest, happiest little yellow flowers I’d ever seen. They looked like small pieces of sunshine blooming just to brighten my day. They reminded me of my mom but in a happy way. I called my dad to brag a bit. He was amused at my success and asked me how the tulips were coming along. I told him I didn’t see any blooms yet, but they were still growing. Again, he wished me luck.

 A few weeks later, I had three beautiful tulips. I knew the flowers wouldn’t last long, as the wind often comes up quickly in the desert, especially in the spring. So I could “record” my success, I grabbed the disposable camera I kept in my car. I shot a couple of pictures of my “perfect” tulips and put the camera back in my car. I was going to tease my dad with the pictures when I got the chance.

Sadly, the next day, I got one of those phone calls that none of us ever want to receive. My dad was in the hospital. He had suffered a severe heart attack. I hurriedly packed a suitcase and hit the road for San Diego. It had only been six short months since my mother had passed away. I couldn’t believe this was happening again.

Thanks to an exceptional hospital staff, my dad survived the night. We spent many hours at the hospital that week visiting with him until he was able to go home. It was a scary few days. On one of those mornings, I brought with me the pictures I had gotten developed from that little disposable camera. I showed him my beautiful tulips that had bloomed so brilliantly in my flowerbed just days before. He was very impressed. But best of all he thought it funny that I had taken the time to take the pictures just so that I could tease him. His smile was worth my very small effort.

We stayed with my dad for about a week after our scare and then drove back home to the high desert. When we pulled into the driveway, the first thing I looked for was my tulips. To my disappointment, they were completely gone. In one short week, they had come and gone. The wind had destroyed every pedal, and now only the stems remained.

It’s incredible how something as simple as a tulip can be significant. When our joy seems to be buried deep below the surface, sometimes spring can take us by surprise. When the long, cold, desolate winter overtakes us, and everything seems dark, frozen, and brittle, often we forget that God is working below the surface to grow something beautiful. We need to hold on because spring will come. And when spring does come we need to welcome it with open arms and appreciate its beauty. The last thing we want to do is miss it.

Daffodils and Tulips will always remind me of my mom and dad, daffodils for my mom and tulips for my dad. I plant them every fall, wherever I happen to be. To some, they may be just another pretty flower. But to me, they are a reminder never to give up hope. God is always with me, working in my life, even in the bitterest of winters.

 To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.
–Ecclesiastes 3:1

 Wishing you joy and peace,

 Lorrie

My daughter sent me a picture of the Pacific Coast. She was standing on a mountain top overlooking the surf at Big Sur. Even though I’d been on the East Coast for four years, the feelings of homesickness unexpectedly crept in and caught me off guard. It reminded me of another time when I was very homesick.

About a month before the big move, I hopped on a plane and headed east for a house-hunting excursion. I landed in Baltimore at night.  Quite lucky for me, I was able to sweet-talk the employee at the rental car counter to let me use their last available GPS for my nine-day stay. Oh my goodness, I would have never found my way had I not had it.  All the roads were referenced by numbers, not by name.  It was incredibly confusing for me.  The freeway was called an “interstate,” and for goodness sake, the lack of street lights and the presence of gutters on the side of the “highway” made driving the narrow country roads terrifying for me.  I quickly realized I was most definitely not in California anymore.

I worked during the day, and house hunted every evening after work. I had nine days to find myself a new pad, but on day five, I was no closer to finding myself a place than I was on day one. I remember that evening very well. It was incredibly dark outside, as that time of year the sunset in Virginia about 5:00 pm. I worked until 5:30 or 6:00 every day.  By the time I climbed into my car, it was pitch black outside. It had been my experience in the few days prior, house hunting in the dark was not the most efficient way to get the job done.  I was very limited on time, so I pressed on.  However, I quickly realized there was a bit of a shortage when looking for places to rent. That night I checked out a couple of places but again went back to my hotel disappointed.   I was starting to think maybe this move wasn’t such a good idea after all. I’m typically not one to throw my hands up and quit or waste time on a pity party, but that evening I was tired and discouraged. I felt as if I was driving around in circles, and my slick GPS told me that it was very close to accurate. The feelings of homesickness came flooding in and nearly drowned me. I was ready to go home to the familiarity of my house, my roads, and my California sunshine.

As I sat on my hotel bed, I made a decision. I needed something to encourage myself. I needed something familiar. I took a minute to figure out what would make me feel a little less lost. I marched myself out to my little rental car, turned on that GPS, and typed in one word, “Starbucks.” To my dismay, the closest Starbucks was thirty miles away, but I didn’t care. I had a full tank of gas and an empty tank of emotional strength. So I hit the road. The drive was dark and scary, and the winding country road was intimidating. But I kept at it. In about forty-five minutes, I found myself walking into a Starbucks a million miles from home. It was exactly the fix I needed that night. It looked familiar, smelled familiar, and the white noise sounded familiar. Best of all, my drink tasted familiar.

It was a well-needed refuge and a quiet place to calm my nerves and refocus. I realized the fear of the unknown was getting the best of me. Where was my faith? Where was my trust that all things work together for good? I remembered all I needed to do was my part, nothing spectacular or exceptional. If this was the place God wanted me to be, I just needed to do my part, and he would show up in a way much bigger than I could imagine, which he did.

I found a great place to live on day eight by using a little creativity. I had discovered some townhouses where I wanted to live, but none were available for rent.  However,  there were three that were on the market for sale.   I called the realtor and asked if she would please contact the owners to see if any of them were willing to take their homes off the market for a year.  In exchange, I was ready to sign a one-year rental lease. She told me she was quite sure none of the owners would be willing to rent, but she would call them anyway. It just so happened that one owner was a little unsure he truly wanted to sell his place. He agreed to lease his place to me for a year. And to make things a bit sweeter,  he ended up being a great landlord.

This week I was reminded that my feelings of missing home are ok. We all miss stuff. Sometimes it’s people, sometimes it’s places, and sometimes it’s things.   But missing doesn’t mean stopping. We never should stop living and embracing and enjoying what we have every day.

“The past is your lesson. The present is your gift. The future is your motivation.”  -Unknown-

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

When was the last time you rode an old-fashioned carousel?  When I was a little girl, my mother would take my brother and me to the zoo. Just outside the exit-gates was a beautiful, old-fashioned carousel. We never complained about calling it a day when the zoo closed because we knew our day wasn’t over until we had our ride on what we called “the merry-go-round.”  Although the ride was just outside the gate, it was down the sidewalk a bit and surrounded by trees and hedges.  As we walked out of the zoo, we couldn’t see it, but we could hear the faint carousel music calling to us.

I remember seeing the carousel ring machine and asking my mother what it was. She explained that it was a machine that held nineteen tarnished brass rings and one shiny gold ring. The riders on the outside horses would lean out as far as they could and try to grasp one of the rings as their horse went by the machine. Rarely did a rider get off the carousel holding one of the brass rings, and although I did see it happen once or twice, it was even more unusual to see someone lucky enough to climb down from their horse holding the golden ring. A rider who could produce a gold ring to the ticket taker received the award of a free ride.

I remember my excitement when my arms were finally long enough to reach that old ring machine.  As the carousel started to move, I got so excited about getting the chance to go for the gold my entire focus was on the machine, forgetting about the ride altogether.  It was a miracle I didn’t fall off my horse, as I stretched my little arm out as far as I could in an attempt to touch the ring machine and still stay mounted.   I remember the first time my finger slipped through the ring as it popped out of the machine onto my finger. I felt like I held the whole world on my little index finger. It didn’t matter to me the ring was brass. I genuinely didn’t care. I kept the ring on my dresser for years as a reminder of my tremendous accomplishment. It reminded me to keep trying. For me, the brass ring was a sign of hope and encouragement. I was always excited to try again.

I remember that carousel often and how it relates to my now grown-up world. Often I feel as if I’m riding a carousel, seeing the gold ring, reaching out to grab it, and missing it by a breath. I pay the price of another ride, and then another, only to find the gold ring stays just out of reach.

However, I know I’m never actually leaving empty-handed. With every ride, I have one more ride’s worth of experience. The experience teaches me I can make a few changes and adjust my technique on the next go-round.  I need to remember that coming home with a ring, brass or otherwise, is not the goal. It’s actually the ride and what we learn in our efforts that make us who we are. You never know, maybe someday with a little luck, a little patience, and a little perseverance, I may be the lucky one that walks away holding tight to that cherished gold ring. But if not, I’ve still had the blessing of a wonderful carousel ride.

Wishing you joy and peace,

Lorrie

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it.  –  1 Corinthians 9:24 –