tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50413658411883133662024-03-13T22:47:21.410-05:00framing the dayscapturing small stories in the light of the Big StoryAngie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-32870511991862029282022-07-17T13:56:00.001-05:002022-07-17T13:56:45.238-05:00The Waitress<p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">Yesterday I took Mason out for lunch. He starts band camp Monday for three weeks and then WHAM! school starts. So I decided to grab some time with him while summer was still summer.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">We went to a well known chain, and decided to have breakfast. The hostess was very pleasant. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6TRyQGKnXw0Ce7ahO4MC1mCKnLO7j5gUGihvKqPmUI6_vn7deBYUEra0PVMg53pxENqsqovu2EL9HXAT9VRcvMRKQsnicp1KkgM0oRQ2zsexOlm1aTADPqKOGWrGeYuJ4LutLnDHzEHE7a8yT3hqwyf5bN15YuBjyAK_-GBJISlmi39kkyLRKE7W/s612/BE995FA7-7C34-425A-B193-22E3ABB5E4BB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="612" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6TRyQGKnXw0Ce7ahO4MC1mCKnLO7j5gUGihvKqPmUI6_vn7deBYUEra0PVMg53pxENqsqovu2EL9HXAT9VRcvMRKQsnicp1KkgM0oRQ2zsexOlm1aTADPqKOGWrGeYuJ4LutLnDHzEHE7a8yT3hqwyf5bN15YuBjyAK_-GBJISlmi39kkyLRKE7W/s320/BE995FA7-7C34-425A-B193-22E3ABB5E4BB.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">And then. The waitress showed up. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more sour looking face – she tossed (literally) menus and silverware at us and said, “So. What do you want to order?” Um … could we have a minute? She got huffy and walked away, after asking gruffly if we wanted anything to drink. Water for both of us, please.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Mason and I just sort of looked at each other like, what just happened? It was shocking, honestly. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Then I looked at him and said, “Let’s kill her with kindness.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">We did. Some time later (as in, a WHILE later) she came back for our order, and brought one water and two straws. We were fully prepared to make it easy for her - eggs over easy, crispy hashbrowns, bacon, wheat toast and orange juice for me, thank you. All the while we’re smiling and friendly and kept eye contact. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">She still had pretty much that same look on her face, but she didn’t seem quite as huffy when she walked away. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">“Some time later” she slid Mason’s order at him and walked away, flinging at me over her shoulder, “Yours isn’t ready yet. I couldn’t put the orders in at the same time.” Um, ok.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Some time later, she walked by and without breaking stride said, “I’ll get you that other water.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Some time later (we’re 45 minutes or so in at this point) she reappeared and slid my food at me. I thanked her. No orange juice and still no water, but other than that it looked right. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Some time later she brought me a huge to-go cup of water. (I’m still confused about that, and I never did get my orange juice.) But this time I asked her a simple question: “How late do you have to work today?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I’m not kidding about this – her whole body, and especially her face, completely relaxed and she SMILED! She stood there and chatted with us, admired my earrings, asked Mason about school, and somehow by the time the conversation was over we knew each other’s names and she asked for a business card for a furniture refinishing project. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Some time later she brought the check. I paid her and signed the receipt, but I never did get a copy of it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">And then we left her a pretty darned big tip. For the worst service I’ve ever received.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Our strategy worked, and it was so simple. All we did was be friendly and ask her a question about herself. That’s it. And this big cool thing unfolded and turned a lousy experience into one of joy for both of us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">It was purely an outworking of the Holy Spirit, which can only lead me to awe and humility, and gratefulness that I got to live part of this Scripture out in a tangible way today:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">“But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, <b>joy</b>, peace, <b>patience</b>, <b>kindness</b>, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!” (Galatians 5:22-23 NLT<span style="font-family: "Apple Symbols";">)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Apple Symbols";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I keep thinking about her. But I also keep thinking about my normal self in these kinds of situations. At the least I would have been quite unhappy and likely I would have complained to management, while muttering under my breath about corporate culture. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Simply, what happened today is that the Lord showed ME kindness, and patience, and prompted me to respond to a frustrating scenario differently this time. And maybe it was partly because my grandson was watching – he doesn’t miss a thing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">As we showered kindness, we found joy. I got a gentle lesson, and I doubt I’ll forget it. I hope I don’t. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Kindness. It matters. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Grateful,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Angie<o:p></o:p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-87084186053766321662022-06-28T09:47:00.000-05:002022-06-28T09:47:15.249-05:00Give Blood Not Plants<p>Let me tell you about Madison. She had her 18th birthday in October. She graduated high school just this year. Earlier in May she went to prom. In March, spring break happened. Sounds like an ordinary Spring for a graduating senior right? She had a sweet schedule, done early every day. </p><p>But none of these things were “ordinary” for her. In fact, every bit of it was hard and sad.</p><p>Because Madison’s mom died in February. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcWOHkiwkq86yyYB3mi6o4I5jueFhFRiekEXN1sWzfTDqQpjExQpysobjf7AagYvJou1Ge6muCBLx8g1rrzlUgHtplaPzlRFjOhHNY068sRotLpcvBemXIMbpEdwu0ry3FPgtTikIKjqqNYG-3DwoQG7_B6bweO-BOX4Gwg3rbQqV6TnYxi_hIzm3R/s1526/D900D444-1715-4277-BB85-FB9DC447A094.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1526" data-original-width="751" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcWOHkiwkq86yyYB3mi6o4I5jueFhFRiekEXN1sWzfTDqQpjExQpysobjf7AagYvJou1Ge6muCBLx8g1rrzlUgHtplaPzlRFjOhHNY068sRotLpcvBemXIMbpEdwu0ry3FPgtTikIKjqqNYG-3DwoQG7_B6bweO-BOX4Gwg3rbQqV6TnYxi_hIzm3R/w157-h320/D900D444-1715-4277-BB85-FB9DC447A094.jpeg" width="157" /></a></div><p>I’ve met Madison multiple times over the years – she’s been friends with my granddaughter Lexi since they were in fifth grade. The doorbell at Lexi’s house would ring often, and she’d be smiling on the other side of the screen door, floppy hair in her face, eager to hang out with Lex. But I connected with her deeply over Spring Break this year. I knew her mom had died recently, so when I got a call from Lexi’s mom asking me if I could go check on Madison because they were worried about her, of course I went over immediately.</p><p>I found her huddled up in the corner of her couch, a blanket around her like a cocoon, a stuffed animal and her dog held close to her body, and her bottom lip was quivering. </p><p>I sat down next to her, hugged her hard, and watched the tears spill over. I didn’t know what she was feeling or thinking. I had no tools in my tool box for this broken little girl. Eighteen? She looked more like she was eight. Or four. </p><p>I cried with her for a bit, and I whispered, “I’m so sorry.” She just stared. No other words were exchanged until I said, “Let’s go get some stuff. You’re coming home with me.” And she did.</p><p>No, I didn’t have tools for an 18 year old girl about to start her life. One who is so wrapped in the grief of losing her mama that she couldn’t even speak, except to tell me her stomach hurt. I had no idea when she’d eaten last, or slept, or showered. I just knew I needed to care for her, and I took it one step at a time. </p><p>I put her to bed, snug as a bug, and brought her some ice chips. She pretty much slept the rest of the day, and if she was awake when I checked on her, it wasn’t for long. I seriously doubt she’d slept much at all for a number of days - being alone for a week in her house, where her mom should be, except she’s not. It’s not fair. </p><p>Later she told me how sad her dog was, and how her dad couldn’t even go into the master bedroom and had been sleeping on the couch. He is lost in his grief, which is understandable. And she is too. </p><p>Normally, she would put on her tough capable exterior, say something like her mom “is in a better place,” and end the conversation. But in that right now, her toughness was gone, and so was her capability. I saw the rawness and pain in this girl – this child. Because even though she’s 18, she’s still a child as much as any 18 year old is. Right then, at my house, she was reduced to the pain and grief that her “younger self” was experiencing.</p><p>Her burden is heavy. Besides her grief (and that’s enough to deal with), her dad works nights, and her 22 year old mentally disabled brother lives at home as well. She has the responsibility of looking after him often now, and she’s basically trying to run the household. She doesn’t know what to do next year because she feels so trapped. Her stomach hurts all the time. I get it. </p><p>She needs someone to be looking after her, too. I’m so grateful that she has Lexi, who is wise enough to just let Madison BE however she needs to be whenever they’re together. I think Lex is a lifeline for her in a way I can never be.</p><p>During that time at my house, she slept, ate more than usual I think, and slept some more. It sort of reminded me of the story of Elijah, when God told him, “The journey is too great for you.” Then God told him to sleep, and eat, and sleep some more, and then God promised to send Elijah some help. He did, in the form of Elisha – and not only Elisha, but there was a great army with him.</p><p>I pray for an Elisha in her life. I pray for an army to come around her.</p><p>By Saturday night, when her dad and brother returned, she was back to her “normal” self – and the change from Thursday’s pitiful broken child to this so sure of herself woman-child was a bit astounding. Her pain was invisible, and she has buried it so deeply inside her that she doesn’t even realize how big her loss is. And how OK it is to be feeling lost and alone.</p><p>Since then, she’s been over a lot. We mostly chat, and she freely talks about her mom now. She’s told me some stories that made my skin crawl about the way her teachers and administrators “handled” her – forcing her into class when she just could not stay another minute. Or putting her in ISS (in school suspension) when a certain principal found her out in the hall, falling apart. </p><p>She went to school the day after her mom died. Her reason? She didn’t know what else to do, and being alone at home felt like a terrible choice to her. I don’t know why, but it seems like most of the staff were apparently shocked to see her, and badgered her with questions and comments like, “Why are you here today? You should be at home!” What did that do for her? It made her feel guilty. Not helpful. One in particular seemed to think she needed to take on the role of Madison’s mother, and nothing could have made her more angry. </p><p>In the midst of all this, Madison somehow managed to organize a blood drive at her school, and she did it because her mom received 13 blood transfusions while she was in the hospital. Not surprisingly Madison doesn’t remember much about putting it together - except for the fear that accompanied making an announcement over the loud speaker at school, and most importantly that tons and tons of kids donated. Remarkable.</p><p>She has made mention to me that the blood donations were so very good for her and her family to experience. The multitude of plants they received, on the other hand, turned into a nightmare for them. They are all allergic and literally wore masks and slept with towels under their doors to keep the pollen away. And there were just so many plants. Madison would come home from school to “three more every day, I swear!” What exactly were they to do with all those plants, sent in remembrance of her mom? They could hardly throw them out, and they couldn’t keep them. Such a small thing to us, even a thoughtful thing, we might think, but it was a big ordeal for them. Her words: “Give blood not plants!”</p><p>There’s analogy here, for when we are with grieving people. Give them yourself, not something else for them to deal with. </p><p>We are working through her pain. Slowly. She still can’t face the depth of her loss, but I think she’s getting closer. And I’m pretty sure her stomach might start feeling better if she could let some of that grief loose, open the locked box of Mama pain, and start to slowly sift through it. </p><p>But this is ultimately her journey alone. I will continue to listen, and love on her, and support her however I can, until God tells me otherwise.</p><p>Isn’t this so sad? Imagine if your mom died (try, even though it’s hard) when you were 18, just beginning to launch into your grown up life. That tough exterior shown to the world might say, I’ve got this handled, but underneath is a broken child who can’t handle it at all. </p><p>She needs to believe in the real Jesus. To feel the comfort and care that He offers. To experience full acceptance, and the understanding that she’s been CHOSEN. </p><p>Because otherwise it’s too much. I’m doing my best to be a light and a comfort to her, and my prayer is that she is drawn to Him in an unmistakable way. </p><p>She’s lovely, and I had the privilege of taking prom pictures and helping her and Lex get ready for graduation things. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIZER9HqGUMKKIoZvdVF3umoF0iW_JfNUqOFoZI5dJ_8SrY-gKWc3j5O9r34mQMLPKolLNQbSZ_XbwD-4A1fwpoioFGdZLTjrOpUOHNNBxGNBrOv8vY5R5Fyfq0YvjjYXqgy0EZqpEr04nlaiL9724hLeU5mt6fEJzR0N8YJKfDjXjQV71ev4_3lt/s3725/8B0ABCF9-D655-4B87-83F2-F8EDAF2692FD.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3725" data-original-width="2137" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIZER9HqGUMKKIoZvdVF3umoF0iW_JfNUqOFoZI5dJ_8SrY-gKWc3j5O9r34mQMLPKolLNQbSZ_XbwD-4A1fwpoioFGdZLTjrOpUOHNNBxGNBrOv8vY5R5Fyfq0YvjjYXqgy0EZqpEr04nlaiL9724hLeU5mt6fEJzR0N8YJKfDjXjQV71ev4_3lt/s320/8B0ABCF9-D655-4B87-83F2-F8EDAF2692FD.jpeg" width="184" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EG5X3j9gKDkl65z2gz4vu0wL9m7oV3dySmqxvFTZvN6WD0x3DDiSmz7wQCHVuECrrj7kA-6Jcg8DVNzbHebveIDEjWk62xaExUuOeIIyPksNLAYAcv56sDh3JSyCfTDLb-z8Rdp-qnLHgiY6lW0jjbJ8IyOGsBaYKW-YJaYSu4XE8gRKG-HW36hY/s320/5707B34F-7931-47CA-90F1-71572E0A2F71.jpeg" width="240" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>I told her the boy taking her to prom was being a jerk (truth) and threatened to break his knees if he didn’t treat her right. And she told him I said that, right as I waved goodbye and stared him down at the same time. Apparently he was terrified and treated her like a queen the whole night. </p><p>It is a sacred privilege to walk beside this woman-child as she tries to figure out how to grow up. </p><p>Know anyone in this kind of impossible grief? Scared to enter into it? It’s not that hard, really. Just show up and listen and cry. Whisper a few words. It is enough, and more is too much. </p><p>Let’s pray for Madison as she walks out her life without a mama. She desperately needs an Elisha and his army and especially she needs our prayers. </p><p>Humbled,</p><p>Angie</p><p>PS My original book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/PEERING-INTO-TUNNEL-Angie-Clayton/dp/1364225514/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=N2O3IUOG9152&keywords=peering+into+the+tunnel&qid=1656427201&sprefix=peering+%2Caps%2C89&sr=8-1" target="">Peering Into the Tunnel: An Outsider’s Look Into Grief</a> is still available on Amazon. A revised and expanded 2nd Edition is currently in process. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-64408624060719763422022-06-04T21:48:00.009-05:002022-06-04T22:01:21.433-05:00It's YES DAY! <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKsk76A_Q9fX8NGl4Z9QgnOwXKMnKmo6fX_ciZXb5g82uaSroSYbNlKYIBzJwF71Ccn1pVZOKuZ-hMI1CfpKvbU3F4MlwIVOLCHDS3kugiRI0c06LRjLNzZaDiwIpiRURnSLS3Rx4J55qudukFVt0XRbPGpNa3T2zC_UhE7SOtJjAIu8QS7kbFh0z/s3445/E9660AC7-137C-4234-8103-117AB332F3DF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3445" data-original-width="2386" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKsk76A_Q9fX8NGl4Z9QgnOwXKMnKmo6fX_ciZXb5g82uaSroSYbNlKYIBzJwF71Ccn1pVZOKuZ-hMI1CfpKvbU3F4MlwIVOLCHDS3kugiRI0c06LRjLNzZaDiwIpiRURnSLS3Rx4J55qudukFVt0XRbPGpNa3T2zC_UhE7SOtJjAIu8QS7kbFh0z/s320/E9660AC7-137C-4234-8103-117AB332F3DF.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Happy Birthday to Lincoln Joseph, who is 8 today. I could wax poetic about how he's growing up too fast (he is) but we just had a couple of really fun hours with him.<p></p><p>He had the option of the traditional family party ... or a YES Day. Have you heard of this? Me either. It goes like this: </p><p>He gets to ask for whatever he wants, do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants to go - all within reason of course - with whichever members of his family that he wants. (His first ask was at the crack of dawn, when he asked if he could get up for the day. Ugh Yes.)</p><p>I'll be honest and say I was disappointed about no party, but then I realized we could play along. Except I hadn't gotten his present yet ... I had a plan but it had not been accomplished yet. I ended up giving him $25 ... so lame. </p><p>But instead of being disappointed, I asked for him to come over here for a bit, if he chose to of course. He did.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #741b47;">June 4, 2022</span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">Dear Lincoln, </span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">Happy birthday!! 8 is a lot of years! We’re so happy to be your Nini and Papa –</span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">And spending time with you is really fun. Can’t wait for Nini Camp!</span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">Ok so you can use this money these 3 ways, your choice. </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #741b47;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keep it and spend it however you want. </span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #741b47;">2. Give it to me to keep for Nini Camp. </span></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #741b47;">3. Hang on to it until Tuesday and I will take you shopping to get some stuff for your fort! I have some good ideas. </span></p></blockquote><p><span style="color: #741b47;">Also, I heard it was yes day today! So you may have 2 yes’s right now from me and Papa! Anything within reason, like go to the park, play uno, have Nini toast, play creepy baby – you choose whatever you want. </span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">We love you oh so much!</span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;">Nini and Papa</span></p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12B6bKMvGz3YVUrAQnXTzw8VioyRCEKvNknliDWdyNyOkzKejvhoZpkemX5JyUzCuJszSZeCe4o4wBlKnuXXx2jswk6sOm2zatTKKaqYoSLOy9aaT48oEbPCINwxR_tFo652vF89nXamUTpPHLPHWWI0d1QGW9Vx13Jqqtjfp-mV1rks-USjfgfAM/s4032/F47A6AB7-792D-4B81-91C6-AD8E7F7635EC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12B6bKMvGz3YVUrAQnXTzw8VioyRCEKvNknliDWdyNyOkzKejvhoZpkemX5JyUzCuJszSZeCe4o4wBlKnuXXx2jswk6sOm2zatTKKaqYoSLOy9aaT48oEbPCINwxR_tFo652vF89nXamUTpPHLPHWWI0d1QGW9Vx13Jqqtjfp-mV1rks-USjfgfAM/s320/F47A6AB7-792D-4B81-91C6-AD8E7F7635EC.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He got this fabulous costume at a garage sale on the way - “THE WHOLE COSTUME!!” </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Of course he had to go put it on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tmtlF-te3ezlbtIX2Iw8yvxncI2BZwHtJnSYihvRbM8DX08eHhXh8J9j5r3n0QHGpg0M8JNqQ7yA6bmKtEJykBTuvz0MxAPGOUDjLjYFUrz4hIcIZe-PRzG_SnfmiQAYIkJgHK1peNpJlO9mif98wqGjPkDKxfwCULIfoRD66GwCIxBxPI6D_jdW/s2178/5444C9BB-0A18-4A0C-B1B2-C1CD4909821C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2178" data-original-width="1051" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tmtlF-te3ezlbtIX2Iw8yvxncI2BZwHtJnSYihvRbM8DX08eHhXh8J9j5r3n0QHGpg0M8JNqQ7yA6bmKtEJykBTuvz0MxAPGOUDjLjYFUrz4hIcIZe-PRzG_SnfmiQAYIkJgHK1peNpJlO9mif98wqGjPkDKxfwCULIfoRD66GwCIxBxPI6D_jdW/s320/5444C9BB-0A18-4A0C-B1B2-C1CD4909821C.jpeg" width="154" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">And he wore it for the rest of his YES-visit. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">His first ask? Go Fish. With me, his dad and his big sister. (This kid whoops everyone in the family at chess and he picks Go Fish. One of a million things to love.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbds8qXnw_HaE6J9wY0boSCMNq1dIr_HbCGhc8yyAtTewaenD8qHTlMr4UBRyolFJcMpcHh3HqMMYragXpXNglG4Vp-46NsB45EHj6F4PsM0QnySHik5LdsX-cwVkBLvyKiFRjpmw7LeBMQSfwgzSKrePgd0sJh5DwwnNaRKgoxfQc1ba9_d44ERH_/s3010/E07C5FD8-ABA1-47BC-85F4-ACCDED45B265.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3010" data-original-width="2531" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbds8qXnw_HaE6J9wY0boSCMNq1dIr_HbCGhc8yyAtTewaenD8qHTlMr4UBRyolFJcMpcHh3HqMMYragXpXNglG4Vp-46NsB45EHj6F4PsM0QnySHik5LdsX-cwVkBLvyKiFRjpmw7LeBMQSfwgzSKrePgd0sJh5DwwnNaRKgoxfQc1ba9_d44ERH_/s320/E07C5FD8-ABA1-47BC-85F4-ACCDED45B265.jpeg" width="269" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;">We played two games, then Lex and I got cut. Just a boy and his dad now, the competition was fierce, voices rose, there were exclamations of joy and defeat and cries of "BRO!" and "Oh MAAAAN!!" and "COME <b>ON!</b>" In the end they tied, which was a pretty good place to end.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Ask #2? To go play at my park with his dad. (It IS my park, after all, for they deemed it to be Nini's Park some 13 years ago.) </p><p style="text-align: left;">All the rest of us were cheerfully invited, but only Dad had to say yes. So we all cheerfully declined, and the two of them headed for the park.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLkVqUoDCRHP6B170MKhqQ9DdyYJC7AjbW4u39Hh4BR8FrxsBMuag0kQU3okjIkVMeX6Z6RAkhUVqZc_bmwwdOmGAvnokz0dnfFM5WXI61EMBIiqrS2MuFxNmPwK7s2a3tvAxpqbpZ5WtWZA1vMdNyFgVhWOD-TZ9kDAWlYnWuK2XQGzEes9DrQX9/s3024/C5AD4BF2-A87A-494C-B91B-685AF200B153.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2656" data-original-width="3024" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLkVqUoDCRHP6B170MKhqQ9DdyYJC7AjbW4u39Hh4BR8FrxsBMuag0kQU3okjIkVMeX6Z6RAkhUVqZc_bmwwdOmGAvnokz0dnfFM5WXI61EMBIiqrS2MuFxNmPwK7s2a3tvAxpqbpZ5WtWZA1vMdNyFgVhWOD-TZ9kDAWlYnWuK2XQGzEes9DrQX9/s320/C5AD4BF2-A87A-494C-B91B-685AF200B153.jpeg" width="320" /></a></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;">Yes. This is it. He's HUGE for it, yet he still wants to go every time he visits.</p><p style="text-align: left;">And that was a wrap! It was lovely, better than a party, and it really makes me wonder about kids and traditions, and nostalgia. Go Fish, we've been playing since he could pick up cards. He still has me read The Cat In the Hat to him at every sleepover. He always wants my Nini toast for breakfast. And he always enjoys himself on the silly playground.</p><p style="text-align: left;">For the longest time I've thought that these were simply traditions or rituals, comforting and enjoyable. But today, on his YES Day - his choices felt nostalgic to me. Eight years old, not quite a big kid but not a little kid anymore either. Except he sort of was, today. A little kid. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzGkZkygg5gdo9t_yL-I4hJuN941Ni-wSkB3Bl0KoPaZcmalYmSkykcUvGg7f1My3mgObuSQW3qjTEEkK7sBjlGAX1fGBrhpqtTbFVefhEo8l-zo4DK0S3LJabZAWr7zs5TKKDSC3wc5v9gJwfqHJqz2qLjfasqXMhEnuUayeJfEpWOh-dtlZtqHD/s2054/A6583DEE-935F-4141-8F72-9EEEEC8303F8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1908" data-original-width="2054" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzGkZkygg5gdo9t_yL-I4hJuN941Ni-wSkB3Bl0KoPaZcmalYmSkykcUvGg7f1My3mgObuSQW3qjTEEkK7sBjlGAX1fGBrhpqtTbFVefhEo8l-zo4DK0S3LJabZAWr7zs5TKKDSC3wc5v9gJwfqHJqz2qLjfasqXMhEnuUayeJfEpWOh-dtlZtqHD/s320/A6583DEE-935F-4141-8F72-9EEEEC8303F8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">All the Nini love showing through here.</p><p style="text-align: left;">What's that? Well, I thought you'd never ask! </p><p style="text-align: left;">Nini Camps kick off on June 13th with Mason! We'll be doing a bit of traveling, as will Lexi and I the following week. Then after the 4th of July, Lincoln comes and finally Callie. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I promise some recaps - these are always beautiful weeks for me. Mason is heading into his senior year with his chin up - I can't wait for a better look inside his world. I expect to suffer from feelings around Lexi heading off to college next year, for sure. She did almost cry at the idea of this being her last time - of course it's not, dear child! But it will be different, and we both know it, and it will be weird and a little sad some of the time I think. Lincoln - he's got his own whole week planned, and he is ridiculously excited already, which makes me excited too. :) Callie is last, and we do a lot of our camp time on the fly so who knows what her week will hold, but there will inevitably be joy and sunshine and kindness because she just sort of sheds those things wherever she goes.</p><p style="text-align: left;">But back to today - Lincoln's YES Day - I sort of love this idea and maybe we should think about how often the "automatic no" comes out. I wonder what it could look like if we practiced giving more yes's out of love, just for the sake of the other person's pleasure. There was delight in it for all of us today, no doubt about it.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Before I leave though - tell me, what do you think he chose to do with his birthday money? </p><div style="text-align: left;">With love,<br />Angie</div>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-65511520983763285272022-05-31T12:37:00.004-05:002022-06-02T21:12:00.616-05:00From despair to determination<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOpEb2jUoi0ubwjRKn1M7QNH9yGuOEYcDQHTRM2fn0nXOW2j4EF2F4zJhg5OOStjlAVkapY-SocBW99lVI6qjYAMa8Z4VirZF7wrUked8rg_5AmoE3-dHGdoPOuLGSzIhHVQms1qYFHRoqD3RgFlFBa6eOAPRhI9eNYDjOdpqIF8RBCrlyTHPE1Ay/s3906/72CE3F47-9581-48CE-B4A2-21349B33B45B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2762" data-original-width="3906" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOpEb2jUoi0ubwjRKn1M7QNH9yGuOEYcDQHTRM2fn0nXOW2j4EF2F4zJhg5OOStjlAVkapY-SocBW99lVI6qjYAMa8Z4VirZF7wrUked8rg_5AmoE3-dHGdoPOuLGSzIhHVQms1qYFHRoqD3RgFlFBa6eOAPRhI9eNYDjOdpqIF8RBCrlyTHPE1Ay/s320/72CE3F47-9581-48CE-B4A2-21349B33B45B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So this is how my Monday started. I didn't even bother cropping the picture, seems fitting that it's all wonky.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not good, I should have thought, because as you may know technology is not my friend. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But yesterday I just laughed. I was coming off an incredible and awful and somewhat bizarre weekend, so it was actually perfect. Let me tell you what happened. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thursday was a great day. I planned for three full days ahead to write and focus on all things related to my NEW BOOK, coming soon!! <a href="https://a.co/d/cDe9FzY" target="_blank">Peering Into the Tunnel</a> (on Amazon now) is being revised and expanded, and God has really breathed every word. I spent Thursday printing and reading and organizing, and by that night I was all packed up and ready to go see my friend and writing buddy Ruth. I was really excited - forward movement after such a long time of waiting is like breathing new air. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Friday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I woke up early, raring’ to go. Felt great on all levels by the time I headed out the door. Ruth and I had a good visit, and we soon put our heads down to write. The words just flew out of me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then we stopped for lunch and before it was over I suddenly got so sick I had to come home. I got sicker Saturday - barely remember it - and finally emerged Sunday afternoon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Talk about frustrated. And disappointed. Add a big dose of discouraged. The whole weekend, gone. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But then. As the afternoon went on I became exquisitely aware that I was under direct attack by the enemy himself, Satan. Discouragement, disappointment, frustration? Thoughts of, who do you think you are? And, you know you can’t really do this - all of it swirling in my head until God.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He reminded me, from as close to me as my own breath, with His hand resting gently on my head, that those kinds of thoughts never come from Him. He lifted my chin and reminded me who I am - His. He reminded me that this PROJECT is His, not mine, and He will see it through to completion. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe most importantly, He reminded me of this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I do not have to believe everything I think. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stop there for a minute. Does that hit you like it did me? What a powerful, freeing statement, if believed. Those not-God thoughts should never be listened to, let alone believed. Wow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in quiet contemplation because I really wanted to get this. To apply it. All the time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The sudden awareness that there is a constant battle going on around us - one we cannot see but is nevertheless real - seemed as real to me as the chair I was sitting in. (Still does.) Satan is a liar and a thief, and he will use any means possible to knock you down, beat you up, and utterly defeat you if he can. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For me, my thought life is where the liar can gain a foothold. Maybe it’s somewhere else for you, but the principle holds. His goal is to defeat you, and he knows your weak spots. He shoots fiery darts at the already-wounded places in you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So what is my defense? If I don’t have one, I may as well lay my pen down and go watch tv. But I do. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There’s literally only one defense against these attacks, in these battles, and Paul told us about it in Ephesians 6:10-18 (NLT): </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A final word: Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil. For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm. Stand your ground, putting on the belt of truth and the body armor of God’s righteousness. For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared. In addition to all of these, hold up the shield of faith to stop the fiery arrows of the devil. Put on salvation as your helmet, and take the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. </div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So yesterday I laughed in the face of my “restarting” computer, adjusted my armor so I could sit comfortably at my desk, and picked up where I left off on Friday at noon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I have determination where there was despair, peace where there was anxiety, and a gorgeous picture of God’s love for me that dispels all the rest. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Questions? Confusion? Discouragement? Join the crowd. Message me, comment, or talk to a loved one who knows Jesus. This stuff is life-changing-ly important.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Oh and guess what ... where I am now headed with the organization of the book is really really different from where it was going Friday morning. Now I am content to sit safely, and let the Priestly Pen take it from here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">See what I mean by a wacko weekend? Except it was super important, and while the sick was not fun - regardless of what Satan might have intended for harm, God used it for good. In so many ways.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Onward!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Angie</div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-53128572784906880852022-03-30T14:07:00.002-05:002022-03-30T15:12:02.054-05:00When Boy Meets Girl<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nOyQFHx1U_fY-F9hn0-3aI2kf3gAKTyBz22uB5kZ_ZJRqfOAdCGN0vz5uZfQbr2lz-x1F6Mjyff-yzHj4l3lUKqQwB40InJhaV5UYSGcYIzudh0YjE9cC5pLWdWnd1eCrOH6S60ljs1wfmzFrS5WTLFaCIukLb3sbgbzGlXGTuPh6AtkpJwy2u3I/s2686/D30FDBAF-7C10-43B2-9107-874AB8EFED5B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2686" data-original-width="2223" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nOyQFHx1U_fY-F9hn0-3aI2kf3gAKTyBz22uB5kZ_ZJRqfOAdCGN0vz5uZfQbr2lz-x1F6Mjyff-yzHj4l3lUKqQwB40InJhaV5UYSGcYIzudh0YjE9cC5pLWdWnd1eCrOH6S60ljs1wfmzFrS5WTLFaCIukLb3sbgbzGlXGTuPh6AtkpJwy2u3I/s320/D30FDBAF-7C10-43B2-9107-874AB8EFED5B.jpeg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I picked up my grandboy from school. As we turned
the corner to our house he yelled, “HEY NINI! THE PARK! You said we could go to
the park IMMEDIATELY when we got here today!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The park he means is the neighborhood one just caddy-corner
from our house, and is commonly known around here as “Nini’s Park.” And I had
indeed promised him we would go, immediately. So off we went. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The temp was in the 70’s and the wind was only blowing about
20 mph (not bad for Kansas). I settled onto a park bench and watched this seven-year-old boy crawling around on the new playground equipment – which is
apparently meant for toddlers, because he looked kind of ridiculous squatting
down to look out the little window, and then thumping down that tiny slide.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He abandoned the play set quickly and wandered over to the
swings, kicking up rocks and singing some song I couldn’t quite recognize.
Loudly, of course. A girl of about five meandered over, stuffed tiger under her
arm, and yelled, “HI!” The boy got weirdly shy and could barely muster a little
wave back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It didn’t take long for her to gently place the tiger into
the smallest swing, and she gave it a little nudge. The wind grabbed it and up
it went, and the boy ran over to help. He caught the swing just as the tiger
was falling out, saving the day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And just like that, a friendship was born.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We stayed for another half hour, and they chattered and
played and imagined and chased. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At one point he asked her, “What is your tiger?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She look puzzled, hesitated, and said, “Well, I did give him
a name.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He looked puzzled, then, “No! I mean what KIND of tiger is
it?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I SAID I gave him a name – it’s Hank!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But what KIND is it? Like Bengal, or Siberian?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“HIS NAME IS HANK.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">End of discussion.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And off they went for more imaginative play. It was sweet
and funny to watch. Soon, though, it was time to go. They waved goodbye, and as
we walked away, the little girl yelled, “WAIT! I have to give you a flower!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So we turned back, and she ran over and presented him with a
dandelion head. He cheerfully said thanks, and as we walked toward home I said,
“That was nice, her giving you a flower. What is her name?” His response: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Ummm … I don’t think she told me. But she gave me a flower!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then we skipped home and had some Nini Toast (of course),
and then it was time for him to go home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This morning, I found the flower on my table, long forgotten,
pretty sad looking by now. But when I looked at it, what I heard was … “She
gave me a flower!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He’s too young and she was too young for this to be anything
other than a sweet interaction between children, but it’s been awhile since I’ve
witnessed it. The playing, and the laughing, and the imaginations in action. It
was really fun, and funny, to watch them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Even though they still don’t know each other’s names, I guarantee
you that if they meet up again in the park, they’ll take up right where they
left off. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why is it that children can make friends so easily, and yet it
can be so difficult for us grownups? Maybe we just need to hand out more
flowers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Smiling in the wind,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Angie<o:p></o:p></p></div><br /><p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-45213151506688647632022-03-17T11:49:00.001-05:002022-03-17T13:10:04.859-05:00She made a difference. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQeHJOvcGrd7jyA6boeziDJ1wlUSLEUq8YYBBpNvfXzCnENb76pl-e8PfZjcCx-npQakJyA_UeFdUSC9ql7RsWSiCWLL7QOMBG9whwz4JGJNhlZwpmAd85VXg7V1FgxMbfKaA822lsdsCf8L3R-wJB71OrKIxiKv5H7sv6DzoeR7Jjb5qv31jPdpGQ=s1699" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1699" data-original-width="1279" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQeHJOvcGrd7jyA6boeziDJ1wlUSLEUq8YYBBpNvfXzCnENb76pl-e8PfZjcCx-npQakJyA_UeFdUSC9ql7RsWSiCWLL7QOMBG9whwz4JGJNhlZwpmAd85VXg7V1FgxMbfKaA822lsdsCf8L3R-wJB71OrKIxiKv5H7sv6DzoeR7Jjb5qv31jPdpGQ=s320" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p>This little lady is my Gram Irma, and she
would have been 101 last month. Oh how I wish we could have celebrated it with
her!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She left us when she was only 72. I was in my
30’s, so that seemed like a reasonable age to die. Except it’s not - the older
I get the farther away I push that “reasonable age.” Losing her at 72 feels
almost like a ripoff now.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But because we are a family that tends to have
babies when we’re young, my kids were in relationship with Gram Irma from their
birth to her death. My daughter was 12 and my son 10 when she died - it’s
really pretty remarkable to still have a great-grandparent at their ages.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let me tell you about Irma Irene. She was <i>maybe</i><i> </i>five feet tall, and her hair was red as
far back as I can remember. I have no idea what her natural color was, but since
she dyed it herself there was a
surprising and sometimes shocking number of the possibilities. I remember everything
from pink to fire engine red, with orange thrown in for good measure at least
once.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She wasn’t very modest, could cuss like a
sailor, and was famous for throwing her cards across the room if she was losing
the game, most especially if it was my (preteen) daughter she was losing to.
(Who taught you how to play this game?!?!. SHE did, of course, and she knew
it!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was bossy and feisty and she laughed a lot
… and she loved me. Completely, with no strings attached.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gram had no easy life. Abandoned at 14 and
destitute, she dropped out of school after the 8<sup>th</sup> grade, and was
pregnant by 16. She married my grandfather, a man who wasn’t very nice and had
bad habits. She stayed married to him for 45 years, enduring much more than
I’ll ever know.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was gone all summer every summer with his
work, and typically left her with very little money. Throughout my childhood
years I have distinct memories of these summer leavings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did she dissolve into angst or fear? No. She
marched down to the Burger King and got herself a job in the dining room. Every
year she did this, and every year he came home to a “surprise” – her way of
asserting herself, I suppose, but sometimes her surprises were astounding.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One year she tore out a wall between two
rooms.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another time she painted the outside of the house
a lovely pastel pink.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did she bring trouble on herself for these
acts of defiance? I would expect she did, but she never lost her sass or her
spunk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My brothers and I spent a lot of time there
during the summers. We had free reign of the place, with a few notable
exceptions. Number One: Stay out of her flower beds. This was serious business
and she was not to be trifled with.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So the day she caught the three of us jumping
off her front porch “over” her flower beds, we knew we were in for it! Now, as
was usual in those days and times, she had full spanking privileges. She lined
us up in front of the house, yardstick in hand, prepared to give us the good <i>whack
</i>we had coming. She swung that yardstick back like she was up to bat … and
smacked it on the side of the house so hard that it broke in half.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course we collapsed into laughter and she
stomped into the house. And that was the end of that.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was a constant presence in my life. It
wasn’t unusual to come home from school to find her helping around the house,
and I don’t think she ever missed a concert or performance or competition if
she could help it. Throughout my childhood, I spent millions of nights at her
house, often with my brothers or one of my cousins, sleeping in the stifling
hot treasure trove that was her attic. I remember exploring the rafters in the
basement, cooking and cleaning and playing cards and … just doing life together
I guess.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She loved me. Simply and purely and
undeniably. She told me so with few words and in many many ways. She was proud
of me, and she also made sure I never got too “full of myself.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She <i>was </i>brave,
and strong, and I learned so much from this little woman. I KNEW that she loved
me fiercely, and being loved like that made a difference in this kid. I’m
forever grateful, and I still miss her as fiercely as she loved me. I’d guess I
always will.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I could write a whole book on her life and her
antics – she divorced my grandfather after 45 years, and sometime later she put a personal ad in the newspaper. (No surprise – she was brave, remember?) That
was how she met Ivan. They married, and he gave her 10 wonderful, loving years.
What an ending!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, her life was full of difficulty and tragedy, yet
she never changed. She was steady and she was present, and SHE LOVED ME. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiP0MRo6iw2gkUcRDR_mGyk9aTZRpAEhFw_6zGYWtsvuO6BY7Y7RXDnLyx_dGvXwKNY0N9C3ncozfMaCeQewKvFTQHUKY6liiSHC2GusvmixlTa2Ohhl9T5beJGcymTflb796ENFdWrR4rd8H8LnW3DQQIcIUxUBYhNsVBp0ROxJl6pv9Xh7ETiKnTx=s320" width="240" /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;">Did you have a Gram Irma in your life? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-39622822920976270652022-02-15T09:23:00.004-06:002022-02-15T09:23:58.194-06:00The Sacred Interlude<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Are you waiting?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I am. For a lot of things, I suppose, but for some very specific things as well. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Are you waiting anxiously? I have been. In my view, this waiting is unnecessary. I’m ready to MOVE, I’m ready for an answer and I do mean now. I don’t want to be stuck in this place of in-between-ness, unsure and unsettled and a bit lonely.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Where is God in the waiting? Is he withholding, punishing, ignoring me and my requests? (NO.) Is he too distant to care? (NO.) Am I asking the wrong questions, praying the wrong prayers, wanting the wrong things? (Probably not.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidX7ITwxCjjIEEH8C9UXNc5gWdwkNgFR_NtHfxlWQ-RR_-u-VpaYel0kE0fVsai63IKZkywIa4liiI9woErRLqg3nv1mCVRLyODnbP27ZSGQScUvE9Fai5QhGkgqQUAij8o9Z_I1-8ym1D6PkJXYu2h-cZR3_Di9TT2pGJ6pX-Rzq9rYUKSkfQ0cyl=s1333" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidX7ITwxCjjIEEH8C9UXNc5gWdwkNgFR_NtHfxlWQ-RR_-u-VpaYel0kE0fVsai63IKZkywIa4liiI9woErRLqg3nv1mCVRLyODnbP27ZSGQScUvE9Fai5QhGkgqQUAij8o9Z_I1-8ym1D6PkJXYu2h-cZR3_Di9TT2pGJ6pX-Rzq9rYUKSkfQ0cyl=w241-h251" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">The thing is, while I’m waiting, I’ve discovered that God is IN the waiting. He wants me unsure and unsettled and a little bit lonely. He wants my prayers. He wants me to come in close, and to find my sure footing, my settled-ness, and my companionship in him. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">When I am moving along comfortably, I never stop at the in-between. These pauses have been pure annoyance to me, if I’m being honest. I’m tapping my foot and peering all around me, imagining every possible scenario and outcome.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I’m discovering how to just BE in the waiting. I’m a doer. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes. But in the silence of the waiting, I’ve been reminded over and over that I am a human BEing, not a human DOing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Catch that? Just BEING … that’s like speaking a foreign language to me. But when I stopped the toe tapping and the anxious peering around, when I let myself relax, and my mind unfurl, and my stomach unclench, I realized how very very tired I am. I don’t have any more DO in me, so I tried to just BE for awhile. It’s been quiet and restful and while I am still waiting, I am doing so expectantly (not anxiously), and relaxing in the right-now. The in-between. The pause. It is a sacred interlude, really – a break between the before and the after. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">We see the before and it might look like an unholy mess. The after is of course completely unknown feels and looks like the Last Frontier – remote and dangerous. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">But you know what? I have NO IDEA what the “after” will be. I cannot control these things I am waiting on, not a bit (or I would have done it, trust me). If I spend all my time worrying about the after, though, I miss the rest of the in-between.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">I’m just not ready to go charging into the next thing yet, and God knows that more than I do. And so I wait, and I hear him call me Child, and he beckons me to come close. THIS is what fills the loneliness. HE will make sure that I don’t stumble and fall, and he wants to keep me a bit unsettled and a little off balance because that’s when I lean into him. (I’ve got a lot to learn about that.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">This is a bit short for me (some of you are shouting, HALLELUJAH!) but that seems to be the end. For now. Waiting, after all, looks pretty unremarkable. Boring, even. But oh so much is happening inside my heart and soul as I rest, that I am content to stay here for as long as it’s good for me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Waiting in hope,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">Angie<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15.693333625793457px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-86331594389538693842021-12-14T18:39:00.003-06:002021-12-16T12:11:50.871-06:00What if Christmas Cheer feels like Christmas Drear?<p class="MsoNormal">Chances are that you know someone who will be grieving their
way through the holidays. Someone is missing, and missing out, and all that’s
left are memories. This is excellent, from Sarah Nannen: “<span style="background-color: white; background: white; color: #050505; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Holiday host etiquette: If you’re inviting someone to your
home and they’re grieving, be sure you’re inviting their grief to attend, too.
It will be there anyway.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s so natural to be tongue-tied around grievers. We want
to offer comfort, somehow, but words fail us, or worse, we say all the wrong
ones. Our intentions are always good, but sometimes instead of offering
comfort, we simply feel uncomfortable, afraid or nervous.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe we have some deep grief of our own, and maybe we haven’t
faced it. If so, another’s outward expression of grief may be hard to take.
It’s worth examining whether we tend to hold hurting people at bay, or come in
close – if indeed we do hold them at bay, why? <u>Are </u>we afraid,
uncomfortable, nervous? Is it hitting too close to home? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are lots of ways to hold grievers at arms’ length. Sadly,
some of those look and even sound very “spiritual” but can actually be quite
damaging. A word of advice: DON’T OFFER ADVICE. When I stop and think about
that, I realize that I have absolutely no standing to advise anyone about their
grief. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I asked a few friends two questions:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>1) </span> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>What do you wish people knew?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2) <b> What</b><b> are you feeling leading into the holidays?</b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Those responses are woven throughout the rest of this post, in
their own words.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One friend, whose young adult daughter passed away suddenly
in April, said this:<o:p></o:p></p>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left;">[I wish people knew] that just
because seven months have gone by, please keep checking up on me. It’s harder
when the world just goes on and the cards have stopped coming, and offers of help
are not there anymore, like they were. Our daughter’s birthday and immediate
family members’ birthdays and holidays (Mother’s Day, Father’s Day,
Thanksgiving, Christmas) without our daughter are so difficult, especially the
first year.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another friend talked about losing her husband, many years ago now, and said, “It has been a long time. He has been gone longer than I
knew him. I do ok now. But he lives in my heart every single day.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And this, from one who recently lost her husband of 58
years:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">I think sometimes we do not realize
how important it is to stay in touch with a widow. They need a good support
system. A card, a phone call, a listening ear, or lunch can mean so much. I
have been so blessed with the support system of my family and friends. My
children have been here every week to make sure I have food and any other thing
I need. Their surrounding love has helped me get through the “firsts” - the
first birthday after, the first Thanksgiving after. I have those who are walking with me, but
what about those widows who are not that fortunate? My heart goes out to them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They want to hear your stories about their loved one. They
want you to be brave enough to SAY THEIR NAME. Don’t shy away – your fears of
“opening wounds” with stories or names are probably unfounded. Remember that
there will never be any new stories to tell or memories to make. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One friend said, “I love when our daughter’s name is
mentioned and notes of remembrance of special times are sent. Those are like
gold to our family and especially myself.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can personally testify to the impact and comfort of the
cards my mother-in-law Pat received after Pop died – the ones that included
notes with special memories of their time with him were especially meaningful. While
we can say out-loud words to them, when things are still so new and raw and
overwhelming, a note may be treasured and remembered when words might be
forgotten.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The good news is that there are some simple and fairly
universal ways to connect that truly will comfort our grieving loved ones. But
we feel so inadequate, don’t we? There’s a passage in 2 Corinthians 1 that I
love so much:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">“All praise to God, the Father of
our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all
comfort. He comforts us in <b>all</b> our troubles so that we can comfort
others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the <b>same</b>
comfort God has given us.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Do you see that? God not only comforts US in all our
troubles – He does it in part <i>so that we can comfort others</i>. That is a
powerful notion, and the knowledge that God has equipped us to comfort our
loved ones should give us some courage.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So here’s what we CAN do. We can be helpers along the way, by
continuing to reach out, even if you don’t understand, even if you don’t get a
response. Or if you get an unexpected response. By accepting, really just
accepting, the way their grief is coming out, or not coming out. Remember that
your expectation of what their grief should look like may be completely
disconnected from their reality. Be careful not to judge.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Remember that if you want to come in close, it must be on <b>their</b>
terms. Period. Anything else will be like a dripping faucet, like annoying noise.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grief often must take a very solitary path. One friend said:
“Sometimes being alone with grief is good. Sometimes it is not. [But] it is not
up to others to decide the moments.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Stop. </b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s profound … it’s not up to ME to decide when I want to
come alongside, it’s up to my grieving friend. Sometimes they do need solitary
space. And sometimes they need YOU.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So spend time if you can, keep reaching out if you can’t. Whether
you are physically with them or reaching out to them some other way, LISTEN.
Even if they don’t talk. Even if they only cry. Or sit there staring. Listen to
what they are saying. To what they’re not saying. Tune in to them, instead of
tuning into your own natural desire to “fix” this or make it better somehow.
You can’t, you will be thwarted, and chances are you will not be a help to your
friend at all. A friend who has lost two children said:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">The grief is there, even when I’m
smiling; acknowledge my grief - say their name; my tears are an invitation to
sit quietly/silently next to me; resist the urge of trying to say something to
make it better - even a hug, or, “I remember, too” might be all I need.<o:p></o:p></p>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The holidays are just HARD. Think of all the traditions
altered - the family pictures smaller, maybe a favorite recipe or movie that
sends a griever reeling. Unexpected tsunamis of grief, I call those, and they
can hit out of nowhere. This is so true, and it made me cry: “Doesn’t matter how
long it’s been - there’s always an empty stocking, there’s always an empty
chair.”</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Most prepare themselves as best as they can, knowing what is
likely to come. They often “pre-grieve” the event – perhaps the two weeks
leading up to it have been so very hard, but the event itself turns out to be
less painful than expected. I asked my friends how they are feeling leading
into the holidays, and these are some of their responses:</p></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Leading up to the holidays? It varies day to
day: anxiety, sadness, tears, numbness, lament, resignation, “girding my heart”
in preparation for the inevitable sense of loss and needing to hide behind my
fake happy face so that I don’t ruin everyone’s happiness. </span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I'm </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">feeling sad, nervous, afraid that the
deeper grief could return like when I had first received the news of her death.
I am afraid of going backwards on my grief journey. I am afraid of the memories
(good and bad) that could come up. I am nervous about finding personal handmade
ornaments that she had made over the years and memories of her in all the Christmas
boxes. I am fearful about taking off the lids of the Christmas storage bins. I
am starting to cry, just writing this.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">a</span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">m very much looking forward to celebrating
Christmas with my family. There will always be an element of sadness, and
perhaps a tear or two in my heart for the loss of my sweetheart in that he is
not here to share in the hugs, laughter, and kisses with me. But for me,
Christmas tells of a hope and joy that man in himself cannot achieve by
himself. It brings me stability in my life that no matter “what is NOW,” Christ
never changes in His love, His message, His care and fellowship with me. It
will remain the same now and forever. This makes the sadness bearable, knowing
it is for only a little while and I will laugh with him again. And family - Oh!
How precious it is to share your heart with them in such a time as this.</span></li></ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">EVERYONE can relate to grief, whether in small or big
things. Pain is pain, grief is grief. Yes, of course some kinds of grief are
more complicated than others and that’s often when we say, “I can’t
imagine what it’s like … what you’re going through.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I will leave you with this challenge: PLEASE TRY. Try to
imagine their pain, dismay, disillusionment, hopelessness, as they are
feeling it … and also their relief, their joy, their peace, when it comes. We must
not have expectations, of ourselves or others, for better or for worse. Let’s
come around and under them, like Aaron and Hur when Moses’ grew too weary to
hold his staff. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">Moses’ arms soon became so tired he
could no longer hold them up. So Aaron and Hur found a stone for him to sit on.
Then they stood on each side of Moses, holding up his hands. So his hands held
steady until sunset. (Exodus 17:12)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They could not do his work for him. But their words would
not have helped him to hold that staff up. Neither would their discomfort or
fear or unwillingness to be close to a really hard thing for fear the weakness
might spill over onto them. They undoubtedly did not understand the importance –
the eternal significance – of what happens when we quietly come in close. Let us
find our grievers a place to sit and rest, and then <i>stay right there, </i>doing
the things they’re too tired to do, and mostly just BEING. Being with them,
loving them, carrying them through the holidays. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s how we help. I know … it’s hard to imagine. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">PLEASE TRY.<o:p></o:p></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2dP3-JU6yCtXhth_MO3jrIw0_DlVa3CZMzsO2UmRs9skrz5kjVNfnNhxqHwOuFEfwTIs-nMaCgnPJoPZBQhKarX6oSrGAvxzuMZf2QKL8mXLf7liwAPRhQpcLHSlMIK1D0sxUb-48Xk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1061" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2dP3-JU6yCtXhth_MO3jrIw0_DlVa3CZMzsO2UmRs9skrz5kjVNfnNhxqHwOuFEfwTIs-nMaCgnPJoPZBQhKarX6oSrGAvxzuMZf2QKL8mXLf7liwAPRhQpcLHSlMIK1D0sxUb-48Xk/" width="273" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-31614641359769662862021-11-18T10:23:00.000-06:002021-11-18T10:23:19.006-06:00THAT SACRED WEEK: September 9-16, 2020<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoTitleCxSpLast" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>
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<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-io1LtMdjmBI/YZZ6_12rL2I/AAAAAAABIyc/M4NM61OC3vUrAZaWAjyRsb3Z9RU2ScW9wCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="296" height="364" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-io1LtMdjmBI/YZZ6_12rL2I/AAAAAAABIyc/M4NM61OC3vUrAZaWAjyRsb3Z9RU2ScW9wCLcBGAsYHQ/w284-h364/image.png" width="284" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pop died on Wednesday, September 16, 2020. He’d been home from the
hospital for exactly a week, and his decline was quick and painful to watch. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That week though.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For seven full days we took shifts so that someone was always
with him and his bride. We were together as a family almost constantly. Because
of covid, there were very few visitors, and as a result we as a family were
bound together tightly in sadness, yes, but mostly by love. We looked at
pictures, tended to tasks, laughed a lot, and cried even more. Tenderness
abounded, grace was everywhere, love was shiny and bright, and GOD WAS THERE.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been so aware of His loving presence. This truth, given
through Paul in Philippians 10:6, shone like a light to all of us:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center;">And I am certain that God, who began
the good work within you, will continue his work until it is <b>finally
finished</b> on the day when Christ Jesus returns. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had a precious few hours with him during one of those
first nights – I wasn’t sleeping and neither was he and the whole house was quiet
as a mouse. It was hard to hear him by then, and listening to his coughing was
almost unbearable. We spoke of so many things, from some really funny stories
about his son that I love so much and had never heard before, to intensely
personal things like fears, and promises, and hopes, and Jesus. Always we came
back to Jesus.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the past 20 years, he has been more than a father-in-law
to me, you see - he was my brother, shepherd, mentor, and TEACHER. He taught me
from the moment God claimed me as his own until the last time we spent alone
together, always doing our best to “divide the scriptures rightly.” We had some
terrific verbal sparring contests that never failed to bring one or both of us
to a real understanding of a mystery we couldn’t get before. Or to the real
understanding that sometimes things must just stay a mystery.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That night, even though he couldn’t work his phone or the
remote very well anymore, he said: “Get my computer.” (It wasn’t a suggestion.)
So I did, and he proceeded to try to show me some new Bible software, and even
though we never quite figured that out, here’s what he said to me first: “You
need to know about this, you’re going to be teaching women all your life.” He
couldn’t have given me a better blessing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By Friday, Pop finally, finally, finally started to allow
his mind to wind down, and it began to slow down with his body. Even though his
notes for the next week’s sermon were sitting on his keyboard, even though he
kept going to radiation, and taking the meds he could hardly choke down, it was
so very evident to us that Pop’s “work” was coming to a final finish. Watching
him prepare for his exit is what we were doing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Saturday is a blur to me now. What I remember is the mingling
of emotions, among us and between us. We looked at pictures, alone or together,
and reminisced while wandering down memory lane. The kids told stories I’d
never heard before, and Pop spent most of his time looking for his phone. (Does
this surprise anyone who knows him? Absolutely not. He was widely known for his
“gift of phone” and at the merest nudging he picked it up and dialed whomever
he was thinking of.) I spent a lot of the day saying, “Pop, it’s charging”
because by then he just couldn’t work it anymore. He would continue to ask for
that phone almost to the end. He was tired, and frankly, so were we. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then came Sunday. Sunday was simply the most beautiful
thing I’ve ever witnessed. A dear sister of theirs orchestrated a praise service
on the front lawn of their house – down to colorful paper on the ground that
was carefully spaced six feet apart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-smNk8_rwdro/YZZ7l7n6_LI/AAAAAAABIyo/lIPExUdkQJUQVPabG7A_XOdcNO41v3CRgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="624" height="180" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-smNk8_rwdro/YZZ7l7n6_LI/AAAAAAABIyo/lIPExUdkQJUQVPabG7A_XOdcNO41v3CRgCLcBGAsYHQ/w512-h180/image.png" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-le6lniQdhDE/YZZ7dD_n4yI/AAAAAAABIyk/N8cOF83r4pIYwuVSo-qpRgLoSkcklzJdwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="433" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-le6lniQdhDE/YZZ7dD_n4yI/AAAAAAABIyk/N8cOF83r4pIYwuVSo-qpRgLoSkcklzJdwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="289" /></a></div><br /> We didn’t really know what to expect, but we gathered around
Mom and Pop as they sat on the front porch. Pop was so weak by then that it was
exhausting for him to get there, but as we watched, people started streaming
onto the lawn from every direction. As they were still coming in, the singing
started. They sang, we sang, we sobbed. I looked down at Pop, so hunched over
in his chair that I couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep, and noticed him
keeping tremulous time, tapping his leg with his still-strong working man’s
hand.<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">And mouthing the words. Every word.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-s6_LIuwvqjU/YZZ7678I0ZI/AAAAAAABIy0/CehJOyOPBIULxImxiWPEvMsyvI8WhY2lwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="332" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-s6_LIuwvqjU/YZZ7678I0ZI/AAAAAAABIy0/CehJOyOPBIULxImxiWPEvMsyvI8WhY2lwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="180" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;">I can’t even tell you any of the hymns and songs we sang
that day, only that it was far beyond astounding. Cars driving by rolled down
their windows, some stopping to listen, one to join us in song. It was church.
Church at its finest. Worship, praise, honor and glory all wrapped up in the
Holy Spirit on a front yard in Raytown, Missouri.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a long while, the singing stopped, and the
processional began. They lined up and one by one, spoke to and over him,
telling him what he had meant to them, telling him goodbye, and urging him on
into glory. There were millions of tears shed that day as he watched his very
own funeral unfold before him. He knew they were saying goodbye, and I think it
wasn’t until those moments that <i>he</i> fully realized that his journey here
was nearly finished. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that the <b>hope</b>
of glory was soon to become not a hope any longer, but a reality. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center;">For we have heard of your faith in
Christ Jesus and your love for all of God’s people, which come from your <b>confident
hope</b> of what God has reserved for you in heaven. You have had this <b>expectation</b>
ever since you <b>first heard the truth of the Good News. </b>(Colossians 1:4-6)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That afternoon, he had two final conversations. In the first
one, he humbly and truly apologized and mended a fence that had been broken for
13 years. Mended so well that the seam is invisible, when all hope of
reconciliation had been lost long long ago. This one I will unabashedly call a
miracle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The second one was his goodbye to his bride of 66 years –
that was an intensely private conversation, and it was the last time he spoke.
He drifted away that night and never came back to us, and on Wednesday morning
he left his broken body and ran into the waiting arms of his Savior, for all
eternity.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: center;">“Fight the good fight for the <i>true
faith</i>. Hold <i>tightly</i> to the eternal life to which God has <i>called
you</i>, which you have <b>declared so well before many witnesses.” </b>(1
Timothy 6:12)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Pop did this – he FOUGHT for the true faith, he held TIGHTLY
to the promises, and he never missed a chance to declare the truth and never
met an open door he wouldn’t walk through. He believed wholeheartedly that his
eternity in heaven was secured once and for all, long ago, the day that he said
“yes” to Jesus. The day he was changed forever. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead of the service that might have happened in the
pre-Covid world, we had a simple graveside service as a family at Leavenworth
National Cemetery. Taps played, the casket was draped with Old Glory, and then that
flag was folded precisely and perfectly by two soldiers. They handed the flag
to Pop’s bride, and then, unexpectedly, saluted her. Commended HER, for his service
to and for our country. It was an intimate finale to a grace-filled,
mercy-driven, sacred week, and it was perfect.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ITZaZxHvXes/YZZ8jp1WiPI/AAAAAAABIy8/LlANYSc2nQsK1Fayhh2sFt5fjXuCpwNUACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="624" height="235" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ITZaZxHvXes/YZZ8jp1WiPI/AAAAAAABIy8/LlANYSc2nQsK1Fayhh2sFt5fjXuCpwNUACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br clear="ALL" style="mso-ignore: vglayout;" />
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KPkYTao0NME/YZZ8-jRN_BI/AAAAAAABIzI/izOxxiQC8yEDFHYeDAuu2BesdZozh47gwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="597" height="196" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KPkYTao0NME/YZZ8-jRN_BI/AAAAAAABIzI/izOxxiQC8yEDFHYeDAuu2BesdZozh47gwCLcBGAsYHQ/w377-h196/image.png" width="377" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal">Update:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s a year later now, and it’s clear to us that the time for
any kind of service has come and gone. But I must tell of this. Pat got 135 (one
hundred and thirty five!) cards from family and friends far and wide, and every
single one had a message inside telling of how Pop had impacted them. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s what I think about that:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think that all those things would have been said to Pat at
a service, and while that would also have been wonderful, most of it would have
gotten scrambled and much forgotten in the big-ness of those few hours. Instead,
the words poured down on her like rain, one note at a time, and she remembers every
one. Answered every one, in fact. Here’s a powerful quote from that letter:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">Everyone who has contacted me and
asked me how I am doing. I feel they are really asking me, “How are you
adjusting to being a widow?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">In one sense, my grief will always
be with me. When CS Lewis lost his wife, he wrote that losing a loved one is
like having your leg amputated. The wound may heal, but the leg will never grow
back. You’ll always have that absence in your life, and you’ll always walk with
a limp.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was an incredible ministry of love to her in those
cards, and especially those written words, and she was blessed in both the receiving and the
answering. I dare say the recipients of that beautiful letter were impacted by
it as well.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, she is joyful and hopeful as she limps, because she
KNOWS she will be reunited with him – someday. She still grieves, and
remembers, and of course she always will. But <i>her</i> hope and joy come from
knowing Jesus is her Savior. May we learn from her example as she continues to
run her race well.<o:p></o:p></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-51558832993194162522021-10-23T11:45:00.000-05:002021-10-23T11:45:11.548-05:00Framing the Years<p>There have been lots of changes in my world since I last
wrote. I can’t believe it’s been almost four years since I posted here – or anywhere
for that matter. I found myself a little bit blocked, ok maybe actually
paralyzed. There are reasons, and I am honestly in “recovery” mode. Pain can
come from the most unexpected places, you know? And pain is pain is pain.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A little over two years ago, I found myself sick. Really
sick, and no one could figure out what was wrong. I got diagnosed with lots of
different things like MS, all of them scary but none of them right. Finally I
got to the doctor that not only diagnosed me immediately, but possibly saved my
life. The condition is called neurosarcoidosis, which is super rare and progressive.
We never expected it of course – one never does expect these kinds of things –
and so many adjustments have been necessary. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve had to get used to a round of doctor visits and tests galore every six months. (I’m up to 13
doctors, last time I counted.) I’ve had to get used to listening closely to and
respecting my body. No longer can I “push through” tired, like I’ve always been
able to do easily. Instead, I am chronically exhausted, and that has been my
biggest challenge. To set the bar on the ground, not just lower it but DROP IT,
so many times. To hold every plan I make so loosely and to not be too disappointed
when they don’t work out. To not be so darn hard on myself every time I need to
rest.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">BUT as of right now, I am relatively stable. I am so incredibly
thankful for that and if I have learned anything, it is to watch for the bright
side (there always is one) and to live each day, each hour even, not just to the
fullest but with abandon. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m also learning that if I don’t set my priorities
carefully, if I don’t keep my plans in line with my energy, I will end my day
having dealt with the urgent things, but perhaps not the important ones. It’s usually
more important to drop whatever I’m in the middle of doing to take a kiddo to
work … because then I get 15 minutes in the car with them and that is precious
time when they’re teenagers and hard to catch long enough for a hug let alone a
meaningful conversation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So today I sit before this keyboard, tired but hopeful. I
participated in the Kingdom Writers Conference recently, at the encouragement
of a friend, and I came away energized, so ready to put my hands on the keyboard
again. I have millions of ideas and not a lot of clear direction yet, but I am
prepared to go wherever God leads me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of my biggest takeaways from the conference was that I
am simply a Priestly Pen – we who belong to Jesus are also priests – see 1
Peter 2:4-5 – and that this pen is a fountain pen. It is not disposable and it
never runs dry, even if it sits on the shelf for a while. And my most heartfelt
prayer is that the words will pour forth from that pen, the words the Lord
gives me, and that they would minister somehow, some way, to someone somewhere.
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bNKIBuYL19E/YXQ6BXkMBGI/AAAAAAABIo8/qss3cUkBxoQuZ9x0PPnxzeXDjIY9cuMQQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bNKIBuYL19E/YXQ6BXkMBGI/AAAAAAABIo8/qss3cUkBxoQuZ9x0PPnxzeXDjIY9cuMQQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />I got a visual recently of a sky filled with dark clouds, heavy
and full of rain, about to burst – and it is not raindrops that fall, but WORDS.
My head and heart are full of the things God has shown me. He’s taught me much,
and he’s shown himself to me even more.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve realized that many things remain Mystery. I capitalize
that intentionally, because they are the things of heaven that either are not
meant to be unwrapped until we get there, or perhaps more often, the things
that I simply cannot understand even though all the clues are there. This is
how he keeps showing himself to me – unfolding one Mystery after the next,
coaxing me to put aside the ones that are not meant for now. One at a time.
Here’s a good one (Isaiah 40:28-31):<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have
you never heard? Have you never understood?</span></b><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">No
one can measure the depths of his understanding.</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333;">He
gives </span><b style="color: #333333;">power</b><span style="color: #333333;"> to the weak and </span><b style="color: #333333;">strength </b><span style="color: #333333;">to the powerless.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even
youths will become weak and tired, and young men will fall in exhaustion</span><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
those who trust in the LORD <b>will</b> find new strength. They <b>will</b>
soar high on wings like eagles. They <b>will</b> run and not grow weary. They <b>will</b>
walk and not faint.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve been operating out of that
last promise – yes, those are all three promises – the walk and not faint part.
Sure, I still soar sometimes. Literal running, not so much, especially these past
few years, but I hope I am running well toward the finish line of this life. For
now, I am grateful that on the weary days I can count on the One who NEVER grows
weak or weary to keep me upright and moving forward, even if that means he
tells me to rest for a bit so I can walk the next length of my day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And so I repeat … I sit here
today hopeful. Hopeful that I HEAR. That I UNDERSTAND. And that as I lean into
him, his words will fall down like rain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kHnazGXLLyo/YXQ72rXmnVI/AAAAAAABIpM/918A3AM6PhEdGzkHD0xucfmhmGo9O3QzwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kHnazGXLLyo/YXQ72rXmnVI/AAAAAAABIpM/918A3AM6PhEdGzkHD0xucfmhmGo9O3QzwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #333333;"><br />Thanks for reading.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Angie<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-31848384211114836122017-11-01T16:13:00.002-05:002017-11-01T16:32:06.017-05:00on being an introvert<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt awkward and
uncomfortable and … well … <i>dumb</i> in
lots of social situations. Meeting new people, a big party, making small talk
in general – I suck at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get overstimulated easily, and spending even a little time
around lots of people (including crowds) is exhausting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am an introvert.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never knew it until a few years ago, at least I didn’t
know I was one, and I’ve never been so thankful for a label. It explains why I
am wiped out by a little bit of a lot of people, but feel alive and well when I
am in deep conversation with a few friends. It explains WHY I’m content with a
handful of close friends. Why I spend so much time up inside my head. Why not
leaving the house for three days is not only ok, it’s enjoyable. Why I hate
meet and greet time at church. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can “play” extrovert just fine in some situations, so I
wouldn’t say I’m shy. I WOULD say, if I’m honest, that the extrovert me is in
control of my surroundings. Like if I’m talking to customers, or teaching
something, or standing in front of crowds, I’m fine. Because I’m in charge,
basically. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ouch. I didn’t realize that was true until I typed it just
now. We’ll see if I leave it in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway. This inherited characteristic has, predictably, made
my daughter and one of my granddaughters just as awkward as I am.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I was with the girl this weekend we each did some writing.
Hers is better than mine and so I’m sharing her words with you:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Being the shy introvert that I am, I often find myself
regretting the “road not taken.” I don’t take very many chances, preferring to
stay in the safety of my comfort zone most of the time. But sometimes, staying
in my comfort zone causes me to miss out on the fun other people seem to be
having. I often regret not joining a conversation, or not enjoying myself at an
event simply because I don’t know anyone. Because of my shy nature, it amazes
me how some people can just strike up a quality conversation with a complete
stranger, or always be comfortable no matter where they are. I like to think of
those people as have a very large, mansion-like comfort zone, while mine is
limited to only a few small rooms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While other people’s comfort zones may be bigger, it doesn’t
mean they are happier than I am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They can just be happy in most places, while I am
comfortable in only a select few. In a way, doesn’t that make the places I can
be comfortable in more special by default? Think about it this way: if you were
competing for something, would you be more excited about getting the high ranks
from the judge who gave everyone high ranks, or the one who only gave them to
one or two contestants? The pickier one, right? It’d seem like more of an
achievement that way. That’s how I imagine my comfort zone. If I can be myself
in a certain place, that place has to be familiar and special to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even so, sometimes I despise how small my comfort zone is.
While others are talking and building lasting friendships, I’m most likely in
the corner reading, or not even there at all. I’d like to be able to be
comfortable wherever I go, but I’m not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m working on it. I try to speak up
in class or take the time to talk to someone new. It’s nerve-racking, talking
to people I don’t know. But I do it, because sometimes I have to step outside
the small place I call my comfort zone. Maybe I’ll eventually be able to be
comfortable everywhere, but I’m not there yet. I’m just going to live my life where
I’m comfortable, and try not to care too much what people think.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
------------------------------------------------------<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t need any more of my words to get inside the skin
of an introvert. And if you are part of this tribe, and if you’re still in your
jammies at noon I probably am too so don’t fret. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fondly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Angie<o:p></o:p></div>
Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-56911894713351869232017-10-19T15:50:00.000-05:002017-10-19T15:50:00.759-05:00on words that wound: the sound of silence<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Today, I just wanted to scream. Yell my head off. Intervene.
But I kept silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still don’t know if I did the right thing. It feels like I
didn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman in the store that was screaming at the 3-year-old
who was screaming. I wanted to scream right at her to stop. Instead I turned away and
made my way to the front of the store. The screaming continued, it followed me
to the register and out into the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By then the girl was crying in earnest. Not throwing a tantrum anymore, just crying. They
walked right up beside my van, and the woman started screaming the most vile
curse words imaginable at the little one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still I was silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched, yes I watched very carefully, because if she had
laid a hand on that girl I would have intervened, called the police, all of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she didn’t, and so I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt helpless and half sick, and unsure and confused about
what, if any, responsibility I had. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was worried that she would do far worse to the child. I’m
still worried about that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I didn’t DO anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My 12-year-old grandson was with me, and he was absolutely
horrified. As we sat there discussing what had happened, the woman and the
child disappeared from sight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still feel half sick, and I still don’t know if I should
have done something or if it would have only made matters worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I do know, however, is that words wound. They are
damaging. Tone of voice carries meaning, for better or for worse. This extreme
example has made me remember to watch my words. To check my tone. With the
young people I love, and with the old people I love. The ones in between too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw that little girl’s face. Indeed, she was throwing a
monstrous tantrum in the store. I know, it’s frustrating to manage a situation
like that. I remember. I’m not taking anything away from the absolute fact that
mothering is the hardest thing. In the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember yelling at my own kids. I wish I hadn’t but I did.
Out of anger, frustration, fear, whatever – I yelled. So I’m not saying anyone
is bad for yelling at their kids. It happens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And kids throw tantrums. It happens. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there is a broad line between discipline and abuse. This was so extreme, so out of control, frankly it was
scary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart is heavy now, and I can’t shake those images. My
grandson said it was very depressing. Disturbing. He is right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what would have happened if I would have spoken
up. I’ll never know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll be praying for that fit-throwing little girl, that she
is safe, that her wounds won’t be too deep, that they will heal. That people
will come into her life and speak love and lightness and acceptance to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I will be a little more careful with my words, I will
think about my tone of voice – not just volume, but tone. Tone of voice can
carry so much weight. It can call you stupid, incompetent, frustrating,
irritating, a liar. When the tone is hurtful, the words sometimes
don’t matter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always have the option to be kind. Even when I’m angry,
frustrated or scared – I can still be kind with my words and my tone of voice.
Even if the words are hard to hear, even if they correct and instruct, I can be
kind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is that easy? Of course not. But it matters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m still feeling the turmoil of that scene, and I admit
that I am scared for that little girl. I didn’t say anything, didn’t act.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s too late now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I can carry the lesson with me, and choose to be kind
even when it’s hard. I can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angie<o:p></o:p></div>
Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-91097351358036633822017-10-11T11:24:00.000-05:002017-10-11T11:34:05.314-05:00on middle schoolers: what they carryA couple of weeks ago, I took my favorite 13-year-old to a workshop about "writing your story" - the book <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Things-They-Carried-Tim-OBrien/dp/0618706410">The Things They Carried</a> </span> (Tim O'Brien), a memoir about the Vietnam War, was to be her jumping off point.<br />
<br />
She has written quite a lot of fiction, and it's really very good. But <i>this</i>. This is the real stuff, the things our kiddos are grappling with every day.<br />
<br />
This grabbed me by the heart.<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
"They carry library books, notebooks, pens, paper. They carried heavy backpacks in the morning and string ones during the day.<br />
<br />
Earbuds blasting music, they carried the assigned textbooks and the knowledge required for the test next period. They carry iPads and binders and their precious smart phones with them to every class.<br />
<br />
Everyone carried the secret anxiety of failing a test or forgetting an assignment, losing a paper or having to present something they hadn’t finished.<br />
<br />
Some carried Sharpies to draw with - either on their arms or on their papers - during the dull parts of class. Others had fancy watches, bracelets, necklaces which are never removed. Some considered these items lucky, other just liked the way they looked.<br />
<br />
After class they carried their complaints. Madison complained of all the makeup work she had to do, and Delaney hated that she had to bring four separate binders to school. Some, like Isabella, fretted that they had already almost finished their book, but wouldn’t have their class’s library day until the end of the week.<br />
<br />
They carry hidden emotions and secrets and stress.<br />
<br />
They carry the anxiety of growing up, feeling like high school is coming too soon, too fast.<br />
<br />
They carry confusion, about why they are being told to pick a college and a career path already.<br />
<br />
They carry the thin boundary between childhood and adulthood, never knowing what to do.<br />
<br />
They carry too much, but not nearly enough at the same time."<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
I remember when my own kids were this age and sometimes so mouthy and sometimes crying for no reason and sometimes tormenting each other and sometimes being so sweet with each other I could hardly stand it.<br />
<br />
I see all this in her now, veiled as it is sometimes by the way it manifests, and I ache for her and am so proud of her all at the same time.<br />
<br />
But I'd forgotten, you see, my <i>own</i> 13-year-old pain. Yes, this world is is a different one than the one I grew up in, but the feelings are the same. Pressure is pressure, anxiety is anxiety and confusion is confusion. She helped me to realize that despite our age difference, despite our completely different 13-year-old worlds, despite technology and politics and everything going on now that wasn't happening then, <i>the heart cry of a 13-year-old remains the same.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And honestly, some of the cries of our heart never change. We still carry hidden emotions and secrets and stress. We still feel like we carry too much and not enough.<br />
<br />
If we can remember, we can give grace even as we correct and instruct these young ones in these hard, hard years. We can remember to understand what it feels like. We can identify with them, and tell them we get it, and maybe, just maybe, we can help them carry the weight of right now as they move toward crossing that thin boundary between child and adult.<br />
<br />
I love the transparency of this piece of writing - I love that she can use words to express her world. I love that she is willing to let it out, out into this big big world.<br />
<br />
When I asked her if I could guest post her here, she hesitated, then said: "But why would your readers want to hear from ME? I'm just a kid."<br />
<br />
Why indeed.<br />
<br />
Because no matter what stage of life we're in, we can remember. And when we remember, we can relate to this messy age, and maybe love them just a little bit better because of it.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fNXGaBgQpc/Wd5GX3ZeORI/AAAAAAAAgnA/XAi4EpsiDQY8AGHx8BajZL4DPnEzQvy8ACLcBGAs/s1600/me%2Band%2Blexi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fNXGaBgQpc/Wd5GX3ZeORI/AAAAAAAAgnA/XAi4EpsiDQY8AGHx8BajZL4DPnEzQvy8ACLcBGAs/s1600/me%2Band%2Blexi.jpg" /></a></div>
Grateful,<br />
Angie<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-39759947091672188412017-09-29T15:20:00.000-05:002017-09-29T15:20:01.049-05:00six things Nashville taught meJust got home from a wonderful vacay to Nashville with the hubs and my son and his wife. They live in LA (as opposed to KANSAS ... I wish ...) so having this stretch of time with them was really great. The drive was long but the conversation was good.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I learned a few things while we were there:<br />
<br />
1) <u>How to call an Uber</u>. Now of course I knew of this thing but I've never USED it. By and large they were all fine, and the pickups were crazy fast, although I never had enough room to put on my seatbelt and this one time the driver showed up with a passenger so there wasn't room for us so he kicked the "passenger" out and we piled in and then he changed his mind and kicked us out. At least I think that's what happened ...<br />
<br />
2) <u>There is a huge replica of the Parthenon in a random park</u>. I don't know why.<br />
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</div>
3) <u>Nashvillians are friendly, friendly folk</u>. Seriously you guys, we got hands-down the best service every single place we went! Friendly doesn't begin to cover it. Except for that one lady in the antique mall who apparently was having a bad life.<br />
<br />
4) <u>The accent I was expecting was mostly missing.</u> Apparently there are 100+ people a day moving to Nashville. I suppose that's the reason that other than a "Shootfire!" from the Walmart cashier and a bunch of "Hey ya'll"s from the good folks at the flea market, everyone sounded like me. Disappointing - I mean, who doesn't love a good accent?<br />
<br />
5) <u>The world really is small</u>. While waiting in line (OH HAVE I MENTIONED THE LINES??) we met a lovely couple from Israel, she a judge and he an aviation mechanical engineer.<br />
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(Learned that the judicial system in Israel does not include juries.)</div>
<br />
Then we were joined by a couple from Australia who met singing on a cruise ship, and then two guys from Norway showed up. FINALLY, some good accents!<br />
<br />
6) <u>The music is good but the crowds are insane</u>. This is truly tourist territory - I've only been to Vegas once but the Broadway strip in Nashville sure reminded me of it. There were live bands all up and down the street, and the people watching was so so good, and I thought I was going to get crushed or buried alive 5,463 times.<br />
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(These silly things were everywhere. No, we did not get on one.)</div>
<br />
For this impatient introvert, the lines and crowds were a bit overwhelming at times, but I wouldn't have traded a bit of it.<br />
<br />
Sadly, we didn't see Garth or Dolly or Travis or Vince, but we sure did hear a lot of great music. My favorite was the Station Inn, where a bunch of mostly old guys just show up and jam. The fiddle player is 85, and he plays there four nights a week. There was also an 11-year-old girl playing with them at one point, and just about every age in between.<br />
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All of that said and done ... we had a blast and I am glad to be home.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Where have you been lately, near or far? Share with us?<br />
<br />
Tired but happy,<br />
Angie<br />
<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-88806633162256626952017-08-09T14:38:00.001-05:002017-08-09T14:52:01.680-05:00for when a hard thing happens and your feelings are not your friendEver have one of those weeks? When you are surprised by a hard thing you never saw coming and it catches your heart and you can't even breathe. When your feelings are hurt - you feel betrayed, you are disappointed, you are bewildered, you're sad. When you protect yourself from feeling the hurt with anger, bitterness and vindictiveness. When you are feeling all of it and your physical, mental and EMOTIONAL responses are wildly unpredictable and pretty much none of them feel good.<br />
<br />
And all the time you're angry and bitter, you are looking outward and blaming, but then you also submerge yourself in an internal dialogue that goes something like this:<br />
<br />
I'm a stupid idiot.<br />
If only I would have ...<br />
If only I wouldn't have ...<br />
If only I could have ...<br />
WHY did I invest myself? I know better!<br />
<br />
And all of those implicitly lead to this:<br />
<br />
I'm not valuable.<br />
<br />
Hurt feelings = I'm a stupid idiot = I'm not valuable.<br />
<br />
Or is that last part too big of a leap?<br />
<br />
I don't think so. Because a constant dialogue in your head about what a creep you are turns into self-loathing. The dictionary definition of loathing is this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
strong dislike or disgust; intense aversion</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Whoa. Strong words, right? But if this is how I feel about myself (and by the way I'd never talk to anyone else the way I talk to myself) then I am loathing mySELF. My thinking, my feeling, my speaking, my behavior, all of it - I loathe.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
How can I possibly feel valuable when I dislike myself so strongly?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So while the circumstances of my hurt feelings were difficult, I have realized <i>these two things about myself:</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>First</i> - Ick. I don't like feelings. (Well I pretty much knew that, but it's a good reminder.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Second</i><b> - </b>When I feel betrayed or rejected, I catapult back to being that betrayed, rejected kid, especially the teenager, and also to that betrayed, rejected young woman. I think most of us have felt that way at some point in our lives for any variety of reasons.</div>
<br />
[If you've never felt like that kid or young woman, I'm so happy about that for you. For real I am.]<br />
<br />
If you're like me and get stuck in old old feelings sometimes, <b>here's two things I can do</b>:<br />
<br />
<b>First</b>, I have to recognize that the way I'm feeling is triggered by things that happened in the life I was living many long years (decades) ago. When that old junk rears its ugly head, I tend to REACT out of those hurt feelings, out of those blaming feelings, instead of RESPONDING thoughtfully and in a grown-up way.<br />
<br />
And when I react instead of respond, I often regret what I said/did, or at least replay it endlessly doing the coulda woulda shoulda thing.<br />
<br />
And so that endless loop now includes talking crap on myself.<br />
<br />
I have to recognize ALL of that.<br />
<br />
<b>Second,</b> be introspective for a little while. Pay attention to the trigger, to the feelings - identify their source (if I can). By doing this I am able to separate old hurts from current circumstances. I can explore why that old thing made me feel this way <i>now</i>. I can begin to release myself from that self-loathing because <b>the old thing has suddenly lost its power over me</b>. Do I still feel hurt? Yep. Do I want a repeat of the thing? Nope.<br />
<br />
And now I can choose my next move (if any) <i>wisely</i>. I can put aside the old thing, and rationally handle the new thing by responding instead of reacting. I can be sad without being devastated, I can wish things had been different without blaming myself for what was beyond my control. I can be disappointed instead of angry. I can be bewildered without attributing the cause to myself.<br />
<br />
Always always I need to own up to my part, though. Sorting through old junk is helpful and valid when it's used for me to grow in a healthy way. Excusing my current bad behavior because I got hurt a long time ago is not helpful or valid.<br />
<br />
So there's the tension of not being too hard on myself while simultaneously taking responsibility for what is mine.<br />
<br />
If I make healthy adult choices, nothing may change but at least I will have no regrets about the way I handled myself.<br />
<br />
IF.<br />
<br />
I want IF to turn into WHEN - I want to always respond instead of react, I want to take responsibility for my stuff right away, I want to do these things without hours (days, weeks, months) of feeling all the feelings and talking to myself terribly.<br />
<br />
I want to be ok with the "but nothing will change" outcome that is so difficult for me to accept.<br />
<br />
I want to have no regrets.<br />
<br />
It's surely an up and down kind of process, but I've hopped on the ride. Separating the old from the new has truly transformed the way I've looked at my recent hard thing. (Don't get me wrong, this was a days-long journey of screaming emotions before it dawned on me that I was reacting to old junk, not the new thing.)<br />
<br />
And I'm so grateful, because while I still feel sadness I am not angry. I have peace about the hard thing, and I have no regrets about the way I handled myself. Eventually the web of lies I told myself was banished (well, taken down to a low roar anyway) and I am left with some hurty feelings ... and peace.<br />
<br />
Above all, I'm valuable. I. AM. VALUABLE. Other people don't determine my value, God does. He did. He will. Who will I believe? Humans or God? The God who created me in HIS IMAGE loves me just as I am. After all, he made me just like I am. He's the one I can completely rely on, because he never changes.<br />
<br />
And you - YOU ARE VALUABLE. You are also created in God's image, and you can rely on him when the humans hurt you because he loves you and he never changes. Don't leave him out of this process, this journey, this introspection. Take courage, for he will NEVER leave you. He longs to guide you.<br />
<br />
What's your hurt right now? How do you handle your triggers? Do you talk to yourself in a not-nice way? Do you believe the truth about you?<br />
<br />
I pray you believe it.<br />
<br />
Angie<br />
<br />
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-35314982828840614112017-05-24T16:55:00.000-05:002017-05-24T19:17:55.787-05:00on life ... because I disengagedAngie here. Remember me? Once upon a time blogger?<br />
<br />
Gotta just take my own advice here and do SOMETHING to re-engage.<br />
<br />
Here's my disclaimer: I don't really have any idea what to say.<br />
<br />
And here's my safety net: Just because I sit down here today to make a start I have to let myself off the hook for more than this one post today.<br />
<br />
Because if I try to anticipate or plan for more my heart beats hard and my face feels flushed. (Although ... hot flashes.) My stomach gets butterfly-y and I just want to shut off the computer and turn on Netflix. Again.<br />
<br />
I feel like I've been on a year-long submarine ride. It is dark and the air is stale and every time I felt like I could maybe come up for air the periscope spied something scary (real or imagined), and down I dove.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It's so weird. The deep dark sea feels safe and predictable, but really it is not. The danger is creeping, it's internal, and what's going on at the surface feels irrelevant and unreachable. So I sit in my fake safety and do constant battle with the incessant negative ever-looping messages playing in my head, listening with shame, hanging my head in defeat.<br />
<br />
Blah blah blah. Lots of "always" and "never." All or nothing. Everyone or no one.<br />
<br />
So much drama lives in the dark.<br />
<br />
And apparently I've spent the better part of the last year making sure the stupid submarine stays submerged and if it dares sneak toward the surface then all the alarms go off - DANGER - and down I dive.<br />
<br />
Lots of hiding - from predators, yes, but mostly from the LIGHT. And other LIFE.<br />
<br />
[<i>Clearly I was prepare for a long voyage and packed plenty of food because I have not suffered a bit in that regard. </i>Oh wait. I thought that was funny, except that I constantly feel guilty because I gained a bunch of weight. Gee whiz.]<br />
<br />
Ok but here is what I really want to say. I've come up for air. The sun is out, chasing away the darkness and all that comes with it.<br />
<br />
I hear my Heavenly Father's voice again, beckoning me near, reminding me that he is especially fond of me. I weep now, not out of desperation or depression, but out of thankfulness that no matter how deep I dive he is with me. If I can't hear him, he is with me. If I can't see anything good, he is good. If everything seems terrible, he is my redeemer. If my situation doesn't get better, he won't waste my pain. His lovingkindness is everlasting and constant and is always there, present and active, no matter how I feel.<br />
<br />
And that even though I have not leaned on all these truths while I was in the submarine, that does not make them any less true and I am longing for the time when I am aware of every bit of this and all the other things I should never forget even when I am diving.<br />
<br />
It's baby steps, I must take my own advice. Today, I will be thankful. I will post this.I will sit in the sun next time it comes out, eat something that is actually good for me, and maybe, just maybe even do some kind of exercise in the not too distant future.<br />
<br />
I had surgery on my hip again last week (WHAAAAT? Yep it's my third hip replacement. On two hips. I guess it's that New Math.) It went well, and recovery seems to be on a fast track that I no longer thought was possible.<br />
<br />
I've got a summer full of grandkids and Nini Camps coming up, and I'm excited. Some cool stuff is happening with my book, "<a href="http://www.blurb.com/search/site_search?search=peering+into+the+tunnel">Peering Into the Tunnel, An Outsider's Look Into Grief</a>." A couple of organizations have picked it up to use as a resource, and possibly there are a couple other really exciting things in the works. Right now it's available on <a href="http://blurb.com/">Blurb</a> (search my name or the book title and it pops up), and I'm working on getting it over to Amazon as well. (Anyone know how to do this? It's like a foreign language. But I'm determined.)<br />
<br />
Wish I could say I climbed out of the submarine and blew it to smithereens, but I'm still retrieving my life from its bowels - the parts of it that are worth hauling up, that is. It WOULD be impressively fun to watch, though, so when I'm ready to do that I'll let you know so you can get tickets.<br />
<br />
Watch for me here, if you would. Check in, if you can. It helps me. Let me know where you are, what you wonder, how we can live this life engaged and free. Join me in the journey.<br />
<br />
Out of the darkness,<br />
Angie<br />
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-11982262135620743222017-03-17T08:33:00.001-05:002017-03-24T14:32:58.189-05:00on grief ... for when you've disengaged<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Your friend lost a loved one. A family member lost her </span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">job. Another is sick, another is dealing with
infertility, another is going through a divorce. One has a wayward child. And
so on. You love her, and you wish you could somehow help her, make it better,
ease her pain.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But instead you disengaged from her. The immediate crisis is
over, and maybe you’ve been busy, and maybe you just don’t know what to say,
you’re so afraid to get it wrong that you don’t do anything at all.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And now time has gone by and gone by and you feel guilty
about it but you also feel like it’s too late to fix it. You got it wrong, you
vow to do better next time, but you still wish you could have a do-over.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Don’t feel bad. You are not alone. This is hard. There’s no
easy answers. But now, your wishes keep crowding into your mind and you don’t
know how you could possibly re-engage after all this time.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Your friend might be angry with you. Disappointed in you.
Even resentful toward you. These fears are real, but are they valid? Maybe.
Maybe not.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What now?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">First, determine that you are going to try. You are going to
reach out, even though you feel guilty and afraid. You are going to do this
with love and no expectations.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next, arm yourself with some information. What do I say? How
do I act around her? Will she reject me and if she does what do I do with that?
(There are lots of resources for this step, including a little book I wrote
called Peering Into the Tunnel: An Outsider’s Look Into Grief. No pressure but
if you’re interested you can get a copy <a href="http://www.blurb.com/b/6961763-peering-into-the-tunnel">here</a>.)</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then, prepare yourself. Maybe she will welcome you with open
arms. But maybe not. Maybe she can’t right now, but down the road she will. Or
maybe she won’t. Oh man, this is scary. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You must be willing to be your most vulnerable self. You
must be humble. You maybe should apologize (you’ll know if you should, I
promise). And you must be ok with the result regardless of how your overtures
are received. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Really? This sounds like the perfect setup for rejection,
right? Yep. It is.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But you know what? Even if your overtures are not
well-received, if there is no option for re-engagement right now because your
friend can’t, or won’t, you should do it.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It? What is it?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maybe start simple. Send a “thinking about you today” text.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Send a card. Even if it’s been awhile.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Remember those important days. Birthdays, holidays,
anniversaries.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Offer to do/be whatever you have to offer. It might not be
much, but that’s ok. It’s the offering that matters. It’s the willingness to
humbly re-engage, even if you’re scared.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But you also have to be prepared that you may not get the
response you hoped for. For various reasons. She simply might not be able to
engage on the level you desire. Maybe not at all. Truthfully, she might be
disappointed in you. Don’t be surprised. Be humble. Don’t grovel, but release
your guilt and shame. Let it go.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But if something like rejection happens, you will surely be
sad. Disappointed. You expected to be received differently. Your job is to do
your thing, whatever it is, and release the results to God. I mean, really
release them.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Maybe, just maybe, down the road she will be able to engage
with you. The important thing is to TRY. And keep in mind that there’s a very
good chance that the simple act of reaching out, however that looks, may now or
later be a comfort to her. Be ok with that, even if she never tells you.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If she does welcome you, then what? You still might not know
what to say. You did NOT expect this, and now you’re paralyzed. Please please
please do not disengage again. Don’t force yourself on her, be wise about how
far to go, and follow your instincts. Because you have them. Follow them. Do.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s something helpful.</span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9HhFqH2Qglg/WMvkpKq30pI/AAAAAAAAgfk/gngg7LB_Jd84Wb8g6N4DLtQwKD_dzIPgACLcB/s1600/comfort%2Bin%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9HhFqH2Qglg/WMvkpKq30pI/AAAAAAAAgfk/gngg7LB_Jd84Wb8g6N4DLtQwKD_dzIPgACLcB/s320/comfort%2Bin%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Remember not to pour in</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">your own worries and struggles on them. Maybe later. You’ll know. But
certainly not at first. If you need to dump out your own pain, dump out.
Determine where you are in this drawing, and be willing to pour into anyone in
a circle smaller than yours. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This could be costly for you. You need boundaries.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But mostly, you need to let go of your guilt
and just do it. Just reach out SOMEHOW. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then pray. No matter what else does or doesn’t happen,
pray. For wisdom for you, for comfort for her. That somehow you will be a
comfort to her. That you will be ok with the result. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Again, trust your gut. If you don’t know if you can trust
yours, ask a trusted friend or family member. Dump out for a minute and let
them pour into you the wisdom they have gained from their own experiences.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Love her.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Don’t forget to love her, even from afar.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Engaged,</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Angie</span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-62664714946076239822017-01-27T10:19:00.003-06:002022-01-28T15:28:33.716-06:00for when you can't just snap out of itWow you guys. Thanks for reading my last post ... the response was almost overwhelming to me. Your messages of "me too!" and "I'm praying for you" both helped me to remember that I am not alone, and people are caring about and praying for me.<br />
<br />
Both matter to me, a lot.<br />
<br />
So thank you for hearing, and for saying all the stuff I forget to remember.<br />
<br />
I think I will go a little farther down that road today. I want you to know what I feel like, because maybe you do too and you feel guilt and shame and that your mind is your enemy. I want you to know because maybe you don't know what to do or say or how to care for the struggling ones around you.<br />
<br />
First, though, I must make this disclaimer:<br />
<br />
What I am about to tell you is what this season looks like for ME, and not everyone is like me and not everyone experiences these things and if yours looks a little different (or a lot different) it doesn't mean your struggle is not legit. But maybe there is still something relatable here for all of us no matter what world we're living in right now.<br />
<br />
So here goes.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I have to put "take a shower" on my to-do list for today.<br />
Sometimes I still don't do it.<br /><br /><div>
Sometimes I don't care if my house is even remotely clean.<br />
Sometimes I forget to do laundry and I run out of underwear.<br /><br /></div><div>
Sometimes I eat all day long.<br />Sometimes I don't eat at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>
Sometimes I sit in my recliner and Netflix binge and color all day long.<br />
Sometimes I forget what I was going to say or I just can't find my words at all.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I sleep and sleep.<br />
Sometimes I don't sleep at all.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sometimes I just can't take your phone call.</div>
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Sometimes I cancel plans with you.</div>
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Sometimes my social anxiety is so crippling that the thought of a gathering makes me cry.</div>
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Sometimes I am so so sad and I don't even know why.</div>
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Sometimes I do know why and I still just can't get over it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Often I isolate. I'm so far up inside my head that I can't be anywhere else.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sometimes I am busy and it makes me feel better for a little while but then I don't anymore and I thought I was better and I can't understand what just happened.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sometimes life seems pointless because I can't see a second in front of me and time moves so slowly and I am blind to where I am going, and then hopelessness can engulf me.</div>
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Here's a good overall illustration:</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A9jT5m5J_3U/WItrqUecWoI/AAAAAAAAge4/AvCBvZP_LsgEdjaRmm4gapb1-reI_7AIACLcB/s1600/depression%2Bpie%2Bchart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A9jT5m5J_3U/WItrqUecWoI/AAAAAAAAge4/AvCBvZP_LsgEdjaRmm4gapb1-reI_7AIACLcB/s320/depression%2Bpie%2Bchart.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
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Because sadness is there but all the other stuff is there too and at any given time one of these things may overwhelm all the others.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I said my mind is my enemy. A lot of those descriptive words, if not all of them, happen inside my brain. And I sit in the silence of guilt and shame and wish I could just "get on with it." Whatever it is. Whatever I'm avoiding. Whatever I'm doing or not doing. Guilty thoughts are my constant companion.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sometimes my thoughts swirl in an endless circle that never accomplish anything and even though I MIGHT be aware of it I can't make it stop.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sometimes, honestly, well-meaning folks, even those who love me, are not helpful. Sometimes they make me feel worse. </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8AiqJ_uMh1U/WItskFU3tdI/AAAAAAAAgfA/VRn_YotonngwycNkG6mMcDAkiyQmlDAGwCLcB/s1600/try%2Bthis%2Binstead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8AiqJ_uMh1U/WItskFU3tdI/AAAAAAAAgfA/VRn_YotonngwycNkG6mMcDAkiyQmlDAGwCLcB/s320/try%2Bthis%2Binstead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If you don't know what to say, these are good.</div>
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But keep your expectations low, because even if you say all the right things I may still seem like I'm pulling away but trust me I heard you and what you said matters.</div>
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If you are reading this, if just one single person reads this and it makes them say "me too" or "there's something I never knew before," then it was worth it to tell you these often embarrassing things that happen to me. That are happening to me even now.</div>
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I yearn to "just get over it," and I think that by February or so this mess will lift and leave me alone, and in the meantime I will remember that no matter what I feel or don't feel, do or don't do, Jesus does NOT want me to live in shame and guilt. He wants me to live free in the light of his love for me. I will remember the past times when he showed up big and trust that he will show up again. That his mercy and grace can override my pain, that if (when) I can get out of my own destructive brain he is right there waiting for me.</div>
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Sometimes I just can't get this. I believe it to be true for you, and that helps me to understand that it MUST be true for me no matter how I feel right now.</div>
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He is the light at the end of this tunnel. Even in the darkness, He waits. He is for me. He has plans for me. And when this episode is over, He will be standing there and I will see that He was there all along. THAT's what keeps me moving through the tunnel.</div>
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Sometimes I forget this. But he is for me. Whether I remember or not, he is for me. He will not abandon me. He extends grace and mercy to me even when I can't extend it to myself. Maybe even more then, because he knows I need him to reorganize my brain and see myself as he sees me.</div>
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And this:</div>
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He is a mighty Savior. He will rejoice over you with great gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will exult over you by singing a happy song.</div>
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Can you imagine?? He is rejoicing over YOU. He is singing a happy song about YOU.</div>
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Hang in there, dear ones.</div>
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Love,</div>
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<br /></div>Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-37128564554542316142017-01-20T10:44:00.001-06:002017-01-20T10:49:57.521-06:00for when you've fallen apartWell, here I am again. Finally, huh? It's been six months since I went dark, about five months longer than I intended to. You may remember that I had a hip replacement in July and then signed off til I recovered. Expecting that to be in about four weeks, as it had gone when I had my first one done three years ago.<br />
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But sometimes things just don't go as planned, as expected, as hoped for.<br />
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Without needless detail, the deal is that because my "new hip" leg is now over an inch longer than my other one, I never fully recovered. I still haven't. I will most likely have to have revision surgery, and start that recovery process all over again, hoping against hope that it will go well and that THIS time, I WILL recover. Constant pain is my companion, and that just plain stinks.<br />
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Then came November. November is never my friend, nor are December and January. Seasonal Affective Disorder ... depression ... anxiety ... sadness ... lack of motivation ... isolation ... all of it. ALL.OF.IT. hit at once and combine that with pain and discouragement made for a falling apart. I have, you see, gone to pieces.<br />
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You might not realize it, because I can still post the funny stuff on Facebook. And sometimes that's the reality of where I am, taking joy in the funnies, but sometimes I am hiding my real face.<br />
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It's still January, and I am still in the throes of my November December January depression, and I'm hoping February will be better, but honestly, I'm not REALLY all that hopeful.<br />
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This stuff is for real. If you are like me, depression seems always to lurk around the corner, dread precedes what seems like the inevitable every darn year.<br />
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If you've never experienced this level of bummed-out-ness, good. It's pretty awful, and I'm glad you don't have to deal with it.<br />
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But because so so many of us will struggle with depression at some time or another during our lives, many of you have been (or are now in) the boat that feels like it is sinking in a storm, and you feel helpless to steer let alone keep your head above water.<br />
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Symptoms vary, and you can't put depression and anxiety in a box. There is no "right or wrong" way to be depressed. We need each other, we need all kinds of each other. We need medical help to correct brain chemistry. We need to not be ashamed or guilty because we are struggling.<br />
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We need to GIVE OURSELVES A BREAK. Depression is not a choice. Ever. Who in this wide world would choose <a href="https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/depression/index.shtml#pub4">all this</a>?<br />
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We need Jesus. We need to know that He is a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief. Yes indeed, He is God, but He is also man. He sympathizes with us, He loves us, He stays with us in the darkness, He lights the way when we're climbing out of the pit.<br />
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Remembering this is the hard part. Remembering that God is compassionate, gracious, comforting, and extends never-ending lovingkindness to us. These are FACTS, people, whether we feel them or not.<br />
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If you're like me, meds are necessary to climb out of my own head enough to trust in the truth about God, about Jesus, about the Holy Spirit that lives in the heart and soul of all who believe.<br />
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I must be diligent to stay in the Word, to hang on tight to this understanding companion that is Jesus, even when I feel the most alone.<br />
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A man of sorrows? This is an identifying character quality of Jesus, and when we are sorrowful, sad, depressed, anxious, Jesus knows. He gets it. Even if our people don't, He does. We can cling to His promises in this darkness, trusting that He will bring us through it, back into the light.<br />
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I'm trusting hard, but I'm still in the darkness. Just being honest.<br />
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It took real effort to sit down here this morning and share my heart, my difficulties, my pain. It is hard to be vulnerable even with safe people when I am isolating.<br />
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We need Jesus. We need each other. We need kindness, understanding and grace. We need help seeing the forest of joy when we can only see trees of despair.<br />
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Love your depressed ones. Fellow strugglers, trust in Jesus. If you can, FORCE yourself to engage with the people who bring joy and love and all that stuff you feel like is missing right now. For me, this is my husband, a few friends, and my kiddos and littles. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes I do anyway.<br />
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I need a push now and then, a loving push from a kind friend to lift my head. Be brave and search out those folks. Take courage and be vulnerable. Ask for help. Go see your doctor.<br />
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Mostly, hang on. The night does not last forever, and joy comes in the morning. God says so. I choose to believe it, and I'm hanging on for dear life.<br />
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All my love, to the depressed and the ones who love the depressed,<br />
Angie<br />
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-87955192855916217812016-07-15T23:11:00.003-05:002016-07-16T12:08:03.629-05:00when summer is over you before it's overHeigh ho, heigh ho, it's off to get a hip replacement I go.*<br />
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The first half of my summer has been completely amazing. Tons of time with the littles, lots of chances to go pickin' with Greg - treasure hunting of the most magnificent kind. (We have this hobby where we have a booth in a vintage store and we go find stuff to put in it.)</div>
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As of this coming Tuesday, I have used up all the amazing this summer has to offer me.</div>
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This surgery has been scheduled for months, and I keep telling Greg I don't think I really need it so maybe I'll just skip it for awhile. In return he keeps giving me a look that is a smile of indulgence because I'm talking utter foolishness. Which I am.</div>
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I've been in a general malaise while I've waited, to be sure, but that's not the same feeling as being RIGHT ON TOP OF IT. When I woke up this morning I actually felt panic. Heart pounding, stomach flutters, sweating, the whole ball of wax. </div>
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Because only two more nights to sleep well. Two more days to hang out in my basement in my recliner with my hubby. One more chance to go pickin' with him. No more "going out for coffee," going swimming with the kiddos, no more running my household well. (Greg is an excellent household runner, so it is in good hands.)</div>
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And the obvious, two more days to move freely. Two more days until I'm in a ton-load of pain. Two days until I can't take a shower for s.i.x.t.e.e.n doggone days.</div>
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Of course, it's not "only two more days" for the ever and ever, it's until about three months are over. But you would surely agree that there are going to be ZERO THINGS fun about this.</div>
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There's something else, though. </div>
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The "general malaise" and panic I mentioned? </div>
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There's more to it.</div>
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My heart is broken for my country. As much as I try my mind can't wrap around what's happening here. I mean, I understand the facts just fine. But my soul cries out that there must be a better way than this. And for our brothers and sisters around the world, battered and baffled. I don't have any answers, I just have grief and confusion, but I think almost all of us might feel a little bit that way?</div>
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What makes it harder is that we talk a lot about the facts and the opinions of all the terrible things, but not so much about how it all makes you feel. How you feel about the whole forest, not just the trees. Could we not, just for a little bit, debate or even discuss, but instead just acknowledge and share our fear and sadness and perhaps anxiety and dread? Our heartbrokenness?</div>
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The forest is on fire. Let's help it to heal.</div>
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Praying for us all,</div>
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Angie</div>
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P.S. I probably won't be around here for awhile, seeing as how I'll be having pain and physical therapy and such. But if I do drop in, I can't be held responsible for any posts made while I'm on pain medicine. It makes me weird.</div>
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*Yes it's terrible. I cannot poet.<br />
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-43292892746423355412016-04-30T10:37:00.004-05:002016-04-30T10:37:42.597-05:00five things I learned in AprilEvery month I learn new stuff. Stuff that's fun, and stuff that matters.<br />
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So here's a quick reflection on April.<br />
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1. <u>Grade school orchestra concerts are beautifully terrible</u>.<br />
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My older grandson plays the bass. He's the only kid in the orchestra that plays it, and he loves and is quite good at it. For real, not just my Nini-pride talking I promise. So of course we go to all his concerts and I have eyes only for him even as my ears are completely assaulted with all the learners.<br />
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Actually I knew this fact once upon a time, when my own kids took their turn at learning new instruments, but I had forgotten the magnitude of terrible awe of a concert.</div>
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2.<u> I have to have a hip replacement in July</u>.</div>
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OK so this is bad news. I didn't want to hear it. I resisted going to the doctor because I knew it was coming. And since I had my other hip replaced about three years ago, I don't have the bliss of ignorance this time. Recovery will be easier because I know what to expect, and it will be awful because I know what's coming. Boo.</div>
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3. <u>Re-reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00QMSCJ1C/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?ie=UTF8&btkr=1">Simply Tuesday </a>by Emily Freeman has been really good for me</u>. </div>
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The truth is that I flipped back to the beginning and immediately started over because I just knew that I had missed stuff. That I needed to ruminate more slowly on much of what she has to say there, because I devoured it the first time.</div>
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And indeed I was right. I'm learning the depths of moving small through this world that wants big and exciting and fast.</div>
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4. <u>My youngest grandson's growing vocabulary is increasingly hilarious</u>.</div>
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Suffice it to say he gets some of his consonants wrong. And he loves trucks.</div>
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5.<u> Sometimes grief hits you like a ton of bricks when you least expect it</u>.</div>
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Like, 11 years later. And it's confusing and exhausting and I'm pretty sure I'm processing the loss of "my" children in a way I never have and so the delayed grief is coming in waves.</div>
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Kiki</div>
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Terran</div>
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Branden</div>
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Mary Ann</div>
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All these beautiful children found then lost. I was deeply connected to each one and I am so so sad.</div>
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And that's some of what I found out in April. It was a wonderful and difficult month.</div>
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How about you? What did you learn in April?</div>
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Love,</div>
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Angie</div>
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-57516652947778795132016-04-18T14:30:00.000-05:002016-04-18T14:30:49.657-05:00on grief ... for when someone is missingThis weekend was the prom in a little town in Iowa. A time of excitement and joy, for the prom-goers and for their families.<br />
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But for my friend Sara, it was a time of grief and longing and loss. Because Anna was missing.<br />
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Last August, Anna went for a ride with a friend. That's all. But what she didn't do is put on her seat belt. And a sheriff's deputy came knocking on Sara's door, with the worst possible news, news that ushered Sara and her family into a storm of grief and pain.<br />
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Anna was on the cusp of her senior year in high school, had turned 17 only a couple of weeks before. She was thriving and full of life and no one could have imagined life without her.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7prLGW_f4Fk/VxUFDJ5qdhI/AAAAAAAAgR8/mbdnJYdDEx8QcjH64mmTU3nDEeEFZ0VsACLcB/s1600/anna%2Beggerss%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7prLGW_f4Fk/VxUFDJ5qdhI/AAAAAAAAgR8/mbdnJYdDEx8QcjH64mmTU3nDEeEFZ0VsACLcB/s320/anna%2Beggerss%2B3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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When I talk to her mama, she remembers the good and weeps in her pain. Her life is a mixture of the mundane and the impossible, a life of missing what was and what never will be, now.</div>
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No prom.<br />
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No graduation.<br />
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No college, marriage, children.<br />
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No growing into that special mother and adult-daughter relationship that I take for granted and she can never experience.<br />
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Anna and Sara</div>
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Because no seat belt.<br />
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A seat belt could have saved her life and the life of the friend she was with.<br />
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A few weeks ago, Sara wrote me a long letter detailing the events of last summer. Her oldest son graduated from Air Force boot camp on July 23rd, Anna celebrated her 17th birthday on July 28th by going out bowling with her friends. She was on the fast track to her senior year in high school.<br />
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She died a week later. At the scene. Because no seat belt.<br />
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With Sara's letter came a box full of beautiful things, cool stuff that I love, a gift that I was expecting but yet one that I could never have expected.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qcqiOH0sqfk/VxUFFMCJHJI/AAAAAAAAgSA/RRu7_ddw-DwgDqzHh7KLqH_xLpmOcC5mACLcB/s1600/anna%2Beggerss%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qcqiOH0sqfk/VxUFFMCJHJI/AAAAAAAAgSA/RRu7_ddw-DwgDqzHh7KLqH_xLpmOcC5mACLcB/s320/anna%2Beggerss%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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She writes:</div>
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"I have started this letter several times, get started and decide NO too much info and throw it away, throw it away and start over."</div>
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I couldn't have been more honored to read that letter. Although I never met her Anna, Sara shared the essence of this sweet girl with me, and I am grateful.</div>
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She goes on with an account of the summer, the high of seeing her son Nathan graduate from high school and boot camp. The celebrations, the birthdays, the joy, the promise. And the devastation of August. </div>
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Then she says this:</div>
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"Anna and I always liked to play with junk type stuff ... we went to several shows to sell it ... so this is my/our stuff that I am sending you. I don't have the heart right now to continue with that so I am hoping that it will be useful to you and your husband!"</div>
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You see, my hubby and I have a little booth at an antique store, and she was sending me some cool stuff that we might be able to use. But I was stunned at the magnitude of the gift.</div>
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She gave me a piece of herself, and a piece of Anna. She entrusted me with memories, memories of joy and memories of pain.</div>
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I was overwhelmed and I wept desperately for her loss. I called her, and inexplicably, she comforted me.</div>
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When we talk, now, she explains how alone she feels, how it's hard to accept that life has just gone on. That the sun keeps shining and other people have moved back into their own worlds and she is left longing, wanting what she can't have.</div>
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She goes to concerts that are dedicated to Anna.</div>
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She went to the prom march that Anna's friends were in.</div>
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She has planned a gathering on graduation weekend.</div>
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She weeps.</div>
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And yet, she realizes that even in her own grief, others are also grieving. </div>
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Her sons.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EjJKJOIF1Gk/VxUOk3XyewI/AAAAAAAAgSY/8up3LtrfxsoVurV3RysKCrspZyrLpVpfACLcB/s1600/anna%2Beggerss%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EjJKJOIF1Gk/VxUOk3XyewI/AAAAAAAAgSY/8up3LtrfxsoVurV3RysKCrspZyrLpVpfACLcB/s320/anna%2Beggerss%2B4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Marshall and Nathan</div>
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Anna's friends "shouldn't have to go through this. It's too hard." And so she continues to reach out to them, ministering to them with a strength I can't begin to understand.</div>
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And we agree that our only hope is heaven. Outside of the great sacrifice of Jesus, outside of the resurrection that ushers us into eternal life when we believe, there is no hope at all.</div>
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Even still, she regrets not having a chance to say goodbye. Not painting Anna's fingernails before the funeral. Sometimes she's angry. Often she's overwhelmed. </div>
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Because no seat belt.</div>
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A seat belt could have saved her life.</div>
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I'm begging you. Kids, don't put the car in gear without your seat belt. Parents, watch to be sure. Friends, don't let your friends move an inch without snapping it into place.<br />
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Please, buckle up for Anna. Always. The time is now.</div>
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Please, get to know Jesus. The time is now.</div>
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For Sara,</div>
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Angie</div>
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-3824283206226702672016-04-06T15:00:00.002-05:002016-04-06T15:06:08.901-05:00for when beauty is missingMaybe you're living in the ashes, just now.<br />
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Ashes of loss and grief.<br />
Ashes of depression, sickness.<br />
Ashes of failure.<br />
Ashes of hurt.<br />
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And you can't see a way out, over or through them. Sometimes we sit in the ashes, heads down, emotions swirling, pain winning the battle for our souls.<br />
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There's nothing beautiful about ashes. They are remnants of what once was, never to be again, because ashes can't be remade into any resemblance of what was. Ashes are always ashes.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-diqasU4vAJs/VwU8vIOZIqI/AAAAAAAAgP0/ItGUz1ndQoomzAugRmnCP85ffDu2W-0tg/s1600/ashes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-diqasU4vAJs/VwU8vIOZIqI/AAAAAAAAgP0/ItGUz1ndQoomzAugRmnCP85ffDu2W-0tg/s1600/ashes.jpg" /></a></div>
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But look at what I just learned:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ashes improve root health and strengthen plants, helping them resist all kinds of stresses. But only if theyre buried first.</span></span><br />
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Ashes clean silver jewelry. But only if they are remade into paste first.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-anZyiv-1y3o/VwU_UU-u9vI/AAAAAAAAgQU/HTRCgCqiuUgDAqmC80Co3n3CJsOCEnhsQ/s1600/ash%2Bpaste.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-anZyiv-1y3o/VwU_UU-u9vI/AAAAAAAAgQU/HTRCgCqiuUgDAqmC80Co3n3CJsOCEnhsQ/s320/ash%2Bpaste.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UxDLC90BU4g/VwVBAmeoEoI/AAAAAAAAgQg/i0n34dm6etQTJXy038J5uG9S_BcZBFOFw/s1600/silver%2Bfrom%2Btarnish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UxDLC90BU4g/VwVBAmeoEoI/AAAAAAAAgQg/i0n34dm6etQTJXy038J5uG9S_BcZBFOFw/s320/silver%2Bfrom%2Btarnish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Beauty doesn't rise <b>from</b> the ashes, but ashes can be exchanged <b>for</b> beauty.</div>
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The Old Testament promised that Jesus will bring good news to the afflicted, bind up the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners. He will comfort all those who mourn, "<b>giving them a garland of beauty instead of ashes</b>." (Isaiah 61:1-3).</div>
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The Hebrew word for ashes is "epher." The Hebrew word for beauty is "pheer."</div>
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Can you see it? If you move just one letter, ashes are replaced with beauty.</div>
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An exchange.</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aJlV7iNWs3U/VwVnv1xaYOI/AAAAAAAAgQw/Npn5f9Kk5OEPsG71XM2D1V_54NPRi0NXA/s1600/beauty%2Bfor%2Bashes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aJlV7iNWs3U/VwVnv1xaYOI/AAAAAAAAgQw/Npn5f9Kk5OEPsG71XM2D1V_54NPRi0NXA/s320/beauty%2Bfor%2Bashes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Probably this will take time. Certainly it won't be easy. Sometimes the ashes are all we see. But there's hope, there. A hope we can cling to, a truth that cannot be shaken. A promise from the God who loves us like crazy that He can and will redeem even the most painful pasts, presents, and futures.</div>
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With love,</div>
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Angie</div>
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<br />Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-15665219641618889422016-02-03T12:23:00.000-06:002016-02-03T12:23:32.852-06:00overcoming insecurityLet me just burst your bubble now: There is no to-do list, no step-by-step program, no quick fix.<div>
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Dr. Charles Stanley says this: "Drifting into security is impossible; we must work toward it." ("In Touch" magazine, January 27)</div>
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Don't stop reading though, because ...</div>
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There is hope. There IS a fix. Insecurity can be overcome. For real.</div>
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Don't we all struggle with feelings of insecurity somewhere in our lives? Maybe it's our appearance. Maybe it's our parenting skills. Maybe it's our job. Maybe it's our home. Maybe it's our marriage. Maybe for you it's (fill in the blank). Regardless, we have that feeling that we just.don't.measure.up.</div>
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Insecurity is destructive. It wounds and maims us on the inside. It leaves us sad, or mad, or paralyzed, or striving. And it usually (always?) comes from comparison. We compare ourselves to that skinny friend, that mom with the perfectly behaved, always dressed just right kids, that person that excels at (whatever) effortlessly. Or that beautiful, always clean home, or that joyous loving wonderful couple that never struggles in their marriage.</div>
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So let's look at all those perfect people to whom we compare ourselves.</div>
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Newsflash: no one's perfect. I promise you that those kids are brats sometimes, that house is messy sometimes, that couple fights from time to time. Even if the outside veneer looks amazing, behind closed doors is reality.</div>
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And in reality, I can almost promise you that those same people are feeling the insecurity struggle somewhere in their lives.</div>
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So if nearly all of us are facing this hopeless feeling of not being good enough, what's the answer? I want there to be an answer, because I'm tired of feeling less-than, weary of wasting time and emotion trying to fix myself and always always falling short of the other [wife mom house co-worker] no matter how hard I try.</div>
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If Dr. Stanley says that security is something we must work for, and I'm working so hard to measure up, then what? WHAT am I missing? How do I shake this feeling?</div>
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For me, I will confess that most of my insecurities revolve around writing. I feel anxious when I read other people's books or blogs. They blow me away with their insight and wisdom and I can't imagine how I can ever be that good.</div>
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Where does that leave me? Defeated. And afraid to try. Wondering what in the world I have to say that hasn't already been said (better than I ever could) before. In-se-cure.</div>
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So I try harder, I set a writing schedule, I fail to keep it, I search for topics and can't find anything that seems important, I DO write something and then fear no one is reading.</div>
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I want to just drift into feeling secure in my own skin, with my own abilities, just like God made me, comfortable and sure of myself in a way that's not arrogant or prideful.</div>
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That's my deal. I think we all have a "deal" that is making us feel we are missing the mark and we don't have the skills to hit the bullseye and asking for help will admit failure and just NO THANK YOU. I will keep hiding it from you and keep pulling myself together for you and anyone else that's watching.</div>
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But here's a question. </div>
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Is it possible that by the way we handle our own insecurity might make OTHER PEOPLE feel insecure?</div>
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If we hide it and fake it and pretend we are the most secure women God ever made, not only is that untrue but maybe, just maybe, we are the mark others try to live up to. Maybe other people see our abilities better than we can and they see our fake facade and think we have it all together and they feel insecure because of how we present ourselves. They feel less-than us, and have we ever thought about insecurity that way before?</div>
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So where's the hope? What's the fix? I want to feel authentically and truly secure without causing anyone else to feel less-than.</div>
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Here's the gut-level, honest truth. It takes work. And it takes time. And it takes honesty, with ourselves and others, and sometimes you have to be broken before you can heal.</div>
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First and most of all, you must know the truth about who you are. And not compare you to the truth about who someone else is or might be.</div>
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The truth is, you are the only you God made. The ONLY ONE. For real, think hard on this. It's only five words but once you grasp it, it can be life changing.</div>
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Because if I am the only me, that means no one else can be me and more importantly, I can't be anyone else. If I am the only me, trying to be you will probably be a disaster. And if I'm comparing me to you, I won't take the time to learn how to be the me I was made to be.</div>
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Read that paragraph again, real slow. It's lots of me's and you's and it's all a bit confusing but when you read it twice can you hear the ring of truth there? That's hope you hear. </div>
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We are also called individually. I am not called to write like [insert any of about 500 names of great writers here]. Just because someone else has already said "it" doesn't mean I don't have a different perspective to share that will resonate with just one person. </div>
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We have to ask, what does God see in us? Because THAT'S the fix. Really and truly seeing ourselves in the light of the One who made us, just like we are, with our abilities and our limitations and our faults and our difficulties He made us. He loves us with an everlasting love (check out just about any Psalm in the Old Testament if you don't believe me). He loves the "me" he created and my security will only come from believing that I.am.enough in His eyes. </div>
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Where is my focus if I'm comparing myself to others? It is on others, and on myself, and how I don't measure up, and yes, on my insecurity, if I'm honest.</div>
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If I believe the truth, that God made me to just be ME and He loves the ME he made, then my focus changes and my eyes clear and I am secure in the knowledge that I am enough. That even if I'm not sure yet what He plans for me to be when I grow up, He DOES have a plan, and it's good for me, and it's good for others, and it is just for me based on just the way He made me.</div>
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Can I just drift into this new focus, drift into believing this truth, drift away from focusing around me and comparing myself to others and into the marvelous security we are offered, free of charge?</div>
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I don't think so. I think it takes practice, and reminding, and it takes reading the words of this God who loves me desperately, so much that He wrote a whole book about that love. It takes a gradual shifting of my attention from myself and my shortcomings to God and His promise that He loves me and He will keep loving me until finally, finally I believe Him. </div>
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This is not striving to be better. This is accepting the truth of who I am and being A-ok with it. I think we move in and out of this place of security (at best), but I also know that the more I know about the truth of me the less insecure I feel. Some areas are easier and some are harder, but I will keep working to learn and live the truth about me. </div>
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That's security.</div>
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Here's to accepting,</div>
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Angie</div>
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Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041365841188313366.post-45238257568875968432016-01-15T09:01:00.001-06:002016-01-15T09:01:01.699-06:00on grief ... for if you're waiting in the darkLet's face it, waiting is just hard. And if the waiting feels dark, and scary, and impossible, it's harder than if you are waiting with the sort of happy anticipation of better things right around the corner.<br />
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Waiting in grief is perhaps the hardest kind of painful. And the darkest and scariest and impossible-seeming cloud is looming large over your head.<br />
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I write a lot about grief <a href="http://framingthedays.blogspot.com/2016/01/on-grief-day-after-day.html">here</a>, and usually it has been about those suffering and lamenting the final earthly loss of a loved one. <a href="http://framingthedays.blogspot.com/2015/02/what-planet-are-you-living-on.html">Impossible grief</a>.<br />
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But there are plenty of other kinds of grief. And dark, scary places. Places where we grieve the loss of the future, the being-trapped-in-the-present, the ending of once-wonderful relationships, the longing of things hoped for, the absence of which leaves you feeling hopeless. Sometimes overwhelmed. Often in the dark. Wondering whether the hope will ever return, wondering why it feels like God has turned a deaf ear and moved away.<br />
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These are real-life, reality-based, legitimate kinds of grief. There is loss. Any loss can be accompanied by this kind of darkness, and this feeling of alone-ness, and this perception that we are living solitary. These kinds of losses often seem too private to share. Maybe because of shame, guilt, wrong thinking, believing lies, listening to our inner critic.<br />
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And here's a truth: sometimes grief has to be a solitary journey. For a time, for pieces of time, for lengths of time.<br />
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But here's another truth: unless we can find people, Jesus with hands and feet kinds of people, the ones who love us during (and maybe in spite of) that dark scary place, we will likely suffer more intensely. We need each other all.the.time, but <a href="http://framingthedays.blogspot.com/2015/03/broken-open-prelude.html">especially when the burden seems too much to bear</a>.<br />
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The Bible tells us of the difference between a burden and a load. We each have our own load, a backpack that belongs solely to us, that we are meant to take responsibility for, that we are not to foist upon others. It's important to know what belongs to us, what is not meant to be shared.<br />
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But here's the thing.<br />
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Burdens are absolutely meant to be shared, for they are too heavy to carry alone. We need to know that Jesus has offered to not only share but carry that burden. We must believe, also, that there are people, real life come-as-you-are people, loving you even in the dark people, that are meant to help us share our burdens. The burden of things like grief. The things that weigh so heavy that our very bodies feel unable to carry it alone.<br />
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When these burdens are shared, something sort of amazing happens. Those burdens feel lighter, hope can blossom in the dark, and comfort that has seemed gone forever is recovered. When we weep with those who weep, there will be a time when we can rejoice with them when they rejoice.<br />
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Rejoicing comes in the morning, when the dark is lifted and the sun has risen and even if it's still cloudy and gloomy the sun does indeed rise.<br />
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Let's be burden-sharers. Let's not be afraid to be honest in our pain, and let's be willing to help carry that which is impossible for our friends to carry alone. Let's remember that joy and grief are not mutually exclusive, and even in the pain there can be rejoicing. Let's gently be reminders that the sun will come up. And that whether the day is gloomy or bright, light dispels darkness.<br />
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We are meant to be light. Let's wait patiently and lovingly in the dark places with our dear ones, and let's be the ones to gently point out the light when it peeks over the horizon.<br />
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Gently. Because they can't always see what we see. But whether seen or unseen, it is there, and the light of day allows us to see the full-ness of the burdens they carry, and we can shoulder some of that for them and with them and keep walking them toward the sunrise. At whatever pace they are walking. Don't run ahead of them. Don't blind them. They need you present right where they are. But we must not lose sight of the morning that is coming, the daylight that will return, and the time when we can again rejoice with them.<br />
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And if you're the griever, let someone in. Open the door to let in the ones who can lovingly share your burden. And realize, please know, that those are the ones who can reveal light to you even in the darkest of times.<br />
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Love one another. No matter whether it's a season that is as black as the night or as bright as the day, whether it's a cloudy gloomy day or a sunshiny day, we are to love. And love will give a glimmer of hope. We can give a piece of ourselves, can't we? We can choose to enter into the dark with the one who feels hopeless, knowing that <a href="http://framingthedays.blogspot.com/2015/02/its-ok-to-eat-box-of-donuts.html">as we share the burden</a> we can help them to see that the door is not locked forever, and joy will come in the morning.<br />
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Are you living in a dark hopeless place? Can you choose to let the safe people in?</div>
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Is a loved one in a pit where the door seems locked? Will you open the door and join them?</div>
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Love. Share. Weep. And believe in the joy that will come.</div>
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Much love to the grievers,</div>
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Angie</div>
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Angie Claytonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02472820683745549169noreply@blogger.com2