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Today we had our weekly staff meeting. It took about an hour to complete the business part of the meeting, and then the senior chaplain asked us to share where we were with God these days; how God was working in our lives as we entered the new year.

I shared with them my desire to leave an \”impression\” (see article below) on the world that points folks not to me but to Jesus. The other chaplain at the meeting remarked how very interesting it was that I should say that, because he was currently reading a book in which one of the chapters discussed impressions we leave. He decided to repeat an exercise talked about in the book and just the day before began writing his obituary. The other lady in our group talked about a book she was reading entitled Finishing Well and the thoughts she was developing as she read. Finally our senior chaplain shared what was happening in his life and the way that God was working.

As I sat there with these fine folks, it occurred to me that not everyone has such an opportunity as I have had the last year. I love my job! My co-workers have become good friends. They truly care about each other. I am able to pray on my job–in fact, it is the first responsibility I have each morning, as I call inmates to join me in prayer in the chapel. I can hand out Bibles. We get to tell guys that the community cares for them with the love of Jesus as we hand out socks, tee shirts, coats, and other clothing. By sharing Jesus with them, we offer hope for a better/different way of living once the guys leave the facility.

I also really enjoy watching the chaplains interact with the guys. They are so obviously called to what they do, and it shows in the care they exhibit.

My job is a lot of work, but it\’s meaningful work. Right up my alley. Love it, love it, love it.

I\’m a lucky girl.

Several weeks ago, our Wednesday evening service was centered around a prayer labyrinth. Don\’t get all hung up on the word \”labyrinth.\” We just followed some taped lines in our chapel to different \”stations\”. At each station we focused on a particular aspect of prayer. Every station, every thought centered around our relationship with Jesus. Is He the center of my praise, have I properly forgiven those in my life who have hurt me so that the name of Jesus is magnified; is the person inside of me the same as the person I show the world about who Jesus is, or am I doing a really good job of faking it? Lots of opportunity to examine my heart and motives.

As I was nearing the end of the prayer time, I came to Station 11. It was entitled \”Impression.\” After taking off my shoes and leaving my footprints in a box of sand, I then was asked the following questions… \”What will be left of me when I\’ve left? What traces will I leave? Will the evidence be compelling? What will the surviving witnesses say? Will their world be better because of what I did in my present? What will history say of me when I am history, too?\”

Okay, now, before you go off on how that is so \”me-centered,\” let me tell you that I know that it could very easily become that way. If we are honest, don\’t we all wonder from time to time if our lives have made any difference at all in the lives of those in our world? Is anything we have done going to leave positive results for them? I certainly wonder. Maybe it\’s a girl thing. I don\’t think so, though. I would venture to guess that the reason many men work so hard is so that when they are gone, their world can talk about what a wonderful provider he was; how great a guy! Yep, that evening could have easily become an \”all about me\” exercise.

What happened–for me, at least–was that I was struck motionless with the notion that I might actually leave this world and not have left a single \”trace\” of the Savior I serve in my wake.

I wrote a poem once that went like this:

Someday my life will be no more
And I wonder
Will anyone knock on my door
To mourn my passing?

More than that… will any impression of the Savior I served be left from my life? Will anyone be able to say they knew Jesus better because of my witness? I\’m quite aware that my life is only a small ripple and that others\’ lives make huge waves with their witness. I don\’t need to have my name up in lights or be known world-wide; I simply do not wish to meet Jesus with empty hands. I\’m not looking for accolades here–not my intention at all. This is just the way I want to begin and continue the year 2012…contemplating ways to make sure Jesus is known and God is praised because of the way I live my life. The older I get and the more I learn, the more convinced I become of this truth–that has always been there, but just lately truly taking root in my life–it really is all about Him.

This morning\’s sermon was from Luke 5:1-11. My husband titled it \”Getting Back to Basics.\” The main points of the sermon were these: Our first responsibility as Christians is to glorify God. Our second responsibility is to become fishers of men. Jesus told Peter, Andrew, James and John, \”…from now on you will be catching men.\” This is what He has called us to do.

My desire, my prayer is that 2012 will be the year of leaving HIS \”impression\” on the lives of those in my world and catching lots of \”fish.\”

Among the great and happy memories of my childhood are my cousins. They were an inheritance from my step-father. He had three sisters, and they had children. I met them just shortly after my mother married my step-dad, and we stayed a day or two at one of the aunt’s houses while they went away—maybe for a honeymoon—that part I don’t remember.

Here’s what I do remember; lots and lots of fun. I don’t remember a single time ever that my cousins were around that we didn’t have a blast. In the winter, we rode sleds down the road in front of our house. In the summer we hiked the woods behind our house, or we rode horses. When we first moved into our developing neighborhood, we spent an evening climbing all over the skeleton of the house next door, playing hide and seek, throwing dirt clots at each other.

I still remember the anticipation when the cousins were coming over. The family went into high gear, getting the house straight, preparing the food, heating up the grill outside for the hotdogs and burgers. I also remember the freedom we older girls experienced once the cousins arrived. Whereas we were normally expected to help care for the younger siblings as part of our daily responsibilities, when the cousins came over there were enough adults around to take care of the babies, and we older kids were allowed (and quite probably encouraged) to go outside and play. I don’t know that anyone ever checked on us to see what we were up to—though they probably did. I don’t remember ever having to be told to go outside to play; it’s just what we did when we got together.

As we moved into our early teen years, our interests changed. We replaced hiking in the woods, croquet, and sledding down the street with showing off our latest dance moves, roller skating around our wide-open basement, occasionally going to movies; and because we were “kissing” cousins, even going out on dates as we got older.

Yep, the times I spent with my cousins still makes me smile. They were such happy, carefree times. We didn’t communicate on a daily basis—sometimes we went months without seeing each other. Then they’d come to our house, or we’d go over to see them, or travel to Pennsylvania to visit, and it was like we just picked up the conversation where we had left off.

The last time I saw my cousins was at a family reunion several years ago. The glow of all the fun was still there as we reminisced. Lots of years had passed since our childhoods, and that day we also spent time discussing our families—wives, children, grandchildren. Time had rolled on, and we had grown up. Life had done its usual thing–some good times, some sad times, some bad times. But nothing—and I mean nothing—will ever take away the memories of those growing up years and all the fun we had together. I sure do love those cousins.

Intensity. The title of the first book I ever read by Dean Koontz. And the story matched the title. But that’s not the intensity to which I refer in this blog.

In case I never mentioned this before, I have three grandsons. Oh, I did mention that? Sorry. Anyway, the three of them are very different. Little man Andre is spoiled, and even though he rarely gets his way by doing so, he still screams us into insanity on a regular basis, hoping against hope that this time we will let him have his way. Philip, my middle man, has a sweet personality, but he has this extremely annoying habit of talking to himself, non-stop, and mostly gibberish. Nate, the first man, is a study all to himself. And he is the subject I wish to address for the rest of our time together.

Nate is 11 years old. When he was born, he was born with a “sad” soul. I’m not kidding. As an infant, we would take him to church. It didn’t take many notes into the organ music before his little self was crying. I had mixed feelings about that—at once I thought it funny, a bit embarrassing (that he cried over the musician’s playing), and disconcerting. Deep inside, I had this foreboding that his reaction had something to do with his personality makeup, and somewhere down the road, it wasn’t going to be “good.” Well, friends and neighbors, that day has come. Actually, it’s been heading in this direction for a while, but last week it became clear it was time to get some help for this kid.

Right off, let me make something clear here. I don’t like the fact that so many parents put their kids into therapy these days. I don’t like the fact that adults get their own lives so screwed up that it messes up their kids, who end up needing that therapy. I don’t like the idea of a child being diagnosed and “labeled.” I don’t like any of that. But more than that, I have spent lots of sleepless moments wondering at what point a child that I love will get desperate enough to try to hurt himself or someone else.

Nate is angry. He feels cheated that he has to share the grownups in his life with his brothers. He’s angry that he isn’t as close to his brothers as they are to each other. He feels abandoned by a deadbeat dad who shows up for a month every other year or so, making big promises he never keeps and then who disappears back into his hole for another couple of years. Yeah, I know. Tell him to get over himself; get a grip; just grow up. Actually, that is what we are telling him–with the help of someone who can help us help him, and who can help him learn to deal with his depression and his moods.

I know a lot about the nature of Nate. The reason I know is because he shares a lot of the personality traits that I had as a child. He’s the first born. He’s smart. He’s independent-natured. He thinks he knows the better way to do a thing, over suggestions offered by just about anyone. Okay, okay, by anyone at all. He is very intense. He gets focused on something—anything—and off he goes. Many times, he walks into a room and states that he is going to do thus and such and launches into a dialog about how he will accomplish this goal. No matter what the topic, the game, the event—he has to be in charge of what is going on. I get that. It’s a control thing. He feels out of control of his life, and because he is intelligent, he is hard-pressed to understand why he has to let anyone be in “charge” of him. For me, being in charge was how I controlled the chaos around me as a child. I tell you the truth, it doesn’t win friends on a regular basis. The only trait we don’t share is depression, which I’ve never experienced on long-term basis. I can mostly talk myself out of depression. Some folks aren’t as fortunate as that.

When you put all these traits into one body, you end up with a potentially irritating personality. I don’t need to remind you how much I love this boy, do I? He’s my heart-child. But his personality, combined with the anger that he carries around inside of him, could be bad news. It is most certainly maddening to try to sympathize with, that is for sure.

Anyway, I get this kid. But what\’s going on inside of him is something we have to deal with–either now through therapy, or later through some other means. I vote for now.

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When I was very young, I remember my aunt reading to me and trying to teach me the alphabet. She was only two years older than I, but I still remember her little self being the teacher. Other than that, I don’t remember anyone ever reading to me as a child (if you remember differently, sisters, please let me know). It didn’t stop me though, and I began my life-long love affair with books in the third grade. That was the year I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie books in our school library.

The library at Arcadia Elementary School was located in the basement. I can still feel the anticipation I experienced each week as we lined up and walked down the wooden halls of the school to the library. Immediately upon entering, I would head straight for the section where Laura’s books were shelved and scoop up the next book in the series.

And off I’d go into my private little world, devouring book after book after book.

Since the third grade, I’ve read so many books I often get two or three chapters into one before a phrase or the action of the story reminds me that this is one I’ve already digested at some point or other. My husband used to tell our children, “Say goodbye to your mother for a day or two, now; she’s starting a new book!”

There is something about reading that is almost magical. It’s as if one is able to transport themselves into another realm. I really get into reading—I cry, I laugh, I get angry at a character’s behavior. I sigh when a book ends, reluctant to turn that last page and close the story. Occasionally, I’ve read a book that caused me to re-read the last page or chapter over several times, simply because it ended either too abruptly (like, where did the rest of the story go?), or the twist of it left me open-mouthed and incredulous, or the end was so haunting that I just couldn’t let it go. Yes, I love to read books.

From the very moment they were born, I either read to our children or told them made-up stories. One of their favorite was the story I told of how God had woven them together when they lived inside of me. I told Josh how God had used his darkest ink to create those black-brown eyes he has, and I told Jenni how God had fun and dropped a head full of blonde hair on her, so people would say, “Where did all that blonde hair come from?” I told them how God had knit their little toes onto their feet and commented on how special they were as He worked. They loved it and so did I.

Their father told them stories, too, about Fuema the Mouse. He’d sit on their bed at bedtime and share his stories as their eyes glistened with enjoyment. Nowadays he tells our grandsons stories about Hoppy Joe the Frog—all out of his imagination. It’s fun to watch them sit spellbound–as did their mother many years ago–as he weaves his story together, full of adventure and special characters and life lessons.

It caught. Josh was the first to love reading. I remember when he was a pre-teen; he’d mow grass in order to buy the Dallas O’Neal book series. A few years later it was the books by Frank Peretti. I can recall many nights that I’d get up in the wee hours of the morning to find him deep into a book. I’d tell him he needed to rest; he’d tell me he just had to finish this chapter. His love for reading transferred over into poetry, writing and songwriting. He still writes now, and very well, I might say.

Jenni didn’t begin to love reading until about the sixth or seventh grade. All of a sudden, it was if she couldn’t read enough. She also spent many hours reading Frank Peretti, among the vast library of books she consumed. I remember one summer she read about 20 books, picking up a new one almost as quickly as she closed the cover of the old one. She still loves to read even now. Since December she has read 12 or 13 books, standing at the counter while she cooks supper, or lying on the bed while the boys play in another room, or while she’s waiting for the clothes dryer to stop.

I told my children, and now my grandchildren—when you read you can go anywhere. The places you travel and the sights you see when you read produce an active imagination. It’s a tradition I hope to pass on to the grands, just as I was blessed to be able to pass it on to our children.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the new Dean Koontz book just arrived in the mail, and it’s calling my name.

Took grandson number one to the Toby Mac concert last night. It is part of his Christmas gift this year. We were both excited as coud be, and doubly so because I had been able to get us seats on the floor.

On the way into the Coliseum, Nate scooped up a piece of paper lying on the ground. It turned out to be someone\’s ticket. We checked the name and planned to leave it at the ticket window on our way in. A few seconds later we saw this guy walking out the doors and down the sidewalk. \”Nate,\” I said, \”ask him if he\’s (whatever the name was).\” So Nate did, and lo, and behold, it was! He was so grateful! It had fallen out of the pocket of one of his teens. Can you imagine getting all the way to the show and then not being able to go in, or having to pay for the ticket all over? We took that as a sign that the evening was going to be a good one.

We got there with 20 minutes to spare and found our seats. Pretty cool. Not too far from stage and the last seats on the row. We thought we were in for a real treat. Unfortunately, when the opening act began the evening, we discovered a problem of major proportions. Everyone stood up. Nate is only ten; he couldn\’t see over any heads. We tried standing him in a chair, but the usherette told him he couldn\’t do that. So we moved into the aisle a little and a couple minutes later were told we couldn\’t stand there.

After about ten minutes, Nate very quietly said, \”Grandma, I don\’t want to seem ungrateful, but I sure wish we didn\’t have seats on the floor.\”

I wished we didn\’t either. His little face looked so disappointed that it was breaking my heart. Not being one to just decide nothing can be done, I decided to do something (does this surprise anyone?). I took Nate\’s hand and we went up the steps to the middle section. We walked until I found an usher and explained the situation.

She was very understanding. They had already had a couple other folks with the same problem, she told me. She also told me to never get a floor seat again. That won\’t ever need repeating, I promise you.

After some radio communications back and forth, we were escorted to a seat on the middle section directly facing the stage. We sat through Skillet, who did a great light and smoke show, but I\’m not particularly fond of the guttural scream, so I didn\’t really enjoy them.

At the intermission, we moved to the end of our row so Nate could see a little better. About 9pm, Toby Mac started, and my little guy was on his feet, singing every word to the songs, dancing as much as he can (he\’s sort of rhythmically challenged), and just enjoying himself to pieces. He stood a bit out in the aisle, because the guy in front of him was a big guy.

About ten minutes into the show, an usherette showed up and spoke directly to Nate. I thought she was telling him to step out of the aisle, but he looked at me and yelled, \”SHE TOLD US TO FOLLOW HER!\” I grabbed up our coats and followed her… six rows down to a really empty space in the seating, where she gave us permission to sit. Nate was ecstatic! About halfway through the show, he shouted, \”THIS IS THE BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER!\” Made my heart feel good.

On the way home, we talked about the seating problem and how it had finally been solved. We thanked God for His blessing to us that evening. It was a great object lesson for him, and one I hope he remembers for a while.

In 2007 my work-life changed. In a month\’s time, I went from being the office manager of a business to being a member of a corporation where my particular position of \”all-around, every aspect of the job\” did not exist…and I became a customer service representative. Now, don\’t get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing disrespectful about being a csr; it requires a particular skill set if you intend to be good at your job. Honestly, I think I did okay in that position. There was just one problem… I hated it. Pure and simple. Hated. It. I won\’t go into all the reasons I didn\’t like this position, because that\’s not the purpose of this note.

What I want to tell you is how my Father, the Lover of my soul, was at work. See, I prayed…a lot…. for God to get me out of there. I was never at work for very long on any day that my stress levels weren\’t off the charts. I just could not see myself ending my career in that position, so I prayed every single day for God to get me out of there. For three years. The last few months of that three years my stomach burned all the time, and I had frequent headaches.

I looked for other jobs. But folks these days in this economy aren\’t eager to hire someone my age, so nothing ever came from my search. At least, that was how I thought it was going down.

I\’m not sure exactly what precipitated it. I became convicted, or something might have been said in a sermon; I really don\’t know, and why it happened is not important. I just know that one morning it occurred to me that I was being faith-less and unfaithful. I was so busy complaining about how much I hated my job, that I forgot my responsibility to be a light to my \”world.\” So I repented. I told God that if I was to be there until the day I retired, with His help, I would do it unto Him. I still felt stressed, my stomach still burned, and I still hated it. But on the outside, I really did make the effort. I was cooperative and helped where needed, and I made sure I exhibited a good attitude.

One day I received a text from my husband that said a local ministry was looking for an administrative assistant. Resumes were due in four days, and he was bringing home the paperwork that evening. \”You better look into this,\” his text said. \”Sounds perfect for you.\” That evening, when I read the THREE-page description of the job, I went right to work, updating my resume and getting it in the mail. Dave was right–it just seemed perfect! I also continued praying a whole lot! I prayed as I kissed the envelope when I put it in the mailbox, and I prayed as I drove up to my job every day. I prayed every afternoon as I checked the mail.

Somewhere deep inside I felt like I already had the job. I know, that sounds weird, but it\’s true. It was just a watch and wait time, coupled with–you got it–praying without ceasing.

The letter came in the mail. I got all excited. It said we got lots of resumes and we are working through them and you may hear from us in the near future to set up an interview date. I put the letter down and got up the next day and went back to my job, proper attitude intact. Waited some more.

Two weeks later, I got a phone call from Chaplain Rodney Stilwell, asking me to come in for an interview the next week.

It was the absolute worst interview I ever had.

I was nervous as a cat. I did not feel confident at all, and I couldn\’t read the faces of the folks in the room. When I left that evening, I knew that whatever else happened, I had just completely lost any chance of ever getting that job. That was Tuesday evening.

On Wednesday evening, Chaplain Stilwell called me at home. Said he would like to have me come in for a second interview and what evening was best for me. We set a time for Monday evening. I hung up the phone, completely full of wonder–as in, \”I wonder if this man is deaf and didn\’t hear a single word I stumbled over last evening?\” The chaplain suggested I check out their website and learn as much as I could about the ministry. He also suggested I pray. Hmmm, prayer…. If he only knew.

On Monday evening, we met and ended up talking for THREE hours, and I\’m pretty sure it would have lasted longer, except my phone kept vibrating and when I finally looked at it, the message said, \”Husband patrol heading out the door to find his wife if he doesn\’t hear from her in the next five minutes.\” We had a good laugh over that, and I went home.

The next time I saw Chaplain Stilwell, he met me for lunch and offered me the job as the Administrative Assistant to the Forsyth Jail and Prison Ministries. The next day I gave my letter of resignation to my job, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Here\’s the thing. God let me wait for the job of my dreams until I accepted that I might not ever get it. Is that mean of God? No, it is not. It was important for me to remember that God is in control, and He still knows my name. No one can meet my needs but Him…not even the best job in the world. And I needed to know that before I moved anywhere, or if I never moved anywhere. I needed the reminder that it\’s not about me, it\’s about Him; and it\’s about How I represent Him wherever I am.

My new job? I love it! It\’s fast-paced, non-stop activity from the time I get in until the time I go home. Even so, my stomach doesn\’t burn anymore, and as busy as it is, I don\’t suffer from stress. It\’s the absolute perfect job, combining my administrative skills with a ministry that affects the lives of other people for the better. And God gave it to me. Because my name is inscribed on His hand; because He is the Lover of my soul; because my Father wants to give His child the good and perfect gift.

Your name is written there, too. His great gifts are waiting for you. His love is never-ceasing. I pray you know this about Him.

A couple weeks ago, between my old job and my new job, hubby and I spent a couple nights at the mountain home of some friends. It was also the last weekend of Dave\’s five-week sabbatical from the church, and we consider it to have been the perfect way to end his time off.

When we arrived on Thursday afternoon, we spent a while with our friends and then they left to go back to their home in town. The first thing hubby and I did was sit on the porch. The weather was perfect, and the sky was the most beautiful blue. We could see for miles from the front and the back porches.

It was so quiet. Not in an eery way, but a comfortable silence. Unwilling to break that silence, we sat without conversation watching the birds at the birdfeeder and looking at the mountains. At one point we looked at each other with a sort of awe on our faces. It was so quiet as we sat that we could actually hear the flutter of the birds wings as they flew from tree to tree and tree to feeder. The sound was a rich, almost comforting flutter–sort of like when you fluff a sheet as you put it on your bed. I\’ve watched birds for a couple years now, and I can\’t say that I ever heard them before.

I enjoyed the porch a few more minutes and then I went inside and took a long nap on the couch. When I awoke, it was getting dark outside. Hubby and I went down the road to get some supper and then headed back to the house.

In the mountains–at least on this night–the sky is absolutely stunning. The air seems cleaner, the sky appears clearer, and the stars really show themselves off. Dave stepped outside to look at the sky and a few seconds later called me to join him. Pointing straight overhead, he pointed out the Milky Way. It was perfectly clear! And it was just beautiful. We stood outside a few more minutes, admiring the handiwork of God, Dave pointing out other star patterns, until it got too cold.

It was so quiet up there, it was almost worshipful. It was also very restful. We slept well those two nights.

For the blessing of that weekend, we are grateful–to our dear friends who shared their home with us and for the reminder from God of the beauty He created just for us to enjoy. God has richly blessed us.

This is the last full day of a week-long vacation hubby and I had down here at Emerald Isle. It\’s been restful, for sure. We\’ve only gone out to eat once, and the rest of the time we\’ve just lain around reading, snacking, playing with the puppy (well, hubby played with the puppy), and watching t.v. The weather has cooperated, for the most part…had a couple of rainy days. But considering how little we did, the weather wasn\’t really a factor.

So today my friend Terrie is coming here and the three of us are going fishing off the pier. Yes, you read that right, I am going fishing. Not something I like to do, but I am doing it to spend time with her. Terrie loves to fish, so there you go. Hubby is going with us to try and keep me from planting a fish hook in someone\’s behind or otherwise making a total idiot of myself. He\’s a good guy. I like him a lot.

In other news, when I return home, I will work my final week for the company I\’ve been with for the last three years (ten, if you count the seven I was with the other janitorial supply company). I\’m not a job-hopper; I take my work very seriously, but I have felt for some time now (like maybe the last three years or so) that this is not the job from which I wish to retire or upon which I wish to end my career.

The good news is that in three weeks I begin a new position with a ministry here in town. I will be the administrative assistant for the Forsyth Jail and Prison Ministries, a local ministry to prisoners here in the state. My main position is to be the support for the chaplains and outreach ministers, a position for which I am comfortable. I am so looking forward to this new \”notch\” in my career belt, and can easily see myself staying with this until I do retire. I honestly feel that God put this job in my path and is blessing me with it.

Tomorrow it\’s back home for puppy and me. Dave is going on to a different location for a few more days of R&R and will be home later in the week. I\’ve got to get back to the world of work and helping Jen with the boys.

In other news, it\’s time to do some de-cluttering, so I hope to spend some time cleaning out closets and drawers in my home and holding the end of all yard sales in a couple of weeks. If y\’all are in the area, watch for the date and come on out! Because at 1pm, I will have the Rescue Mission truck on my property loading up everything that didn\’t sell and hauling it off. I never take yard sale items back inside my house. Y\’all come!