tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54748133227445823182024-03-13T07:18:06.622-04:00The Chambered NautilusThe Chambered Nautilus
"Deep calls to deep..." Psalm 42:7
...uncurling and growing into the wonderful grace of God.Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.comBlogger379125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-8561837909978376422018-04-03T09:53:00.000-04:002018-04-03T09:53:01.194-04:00The Thrill of Hope--Jeremiah, Part 1<br />
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">One April
evening in 2017 we reached for your Mama and Daddy’s hands and led them into
the stillness of an empty sanctuary. At an altar we prayed for you; we prayed
for you to come, prayed for God to create you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">The
sanctuary walls bowed and bulged as we prayed, the longing filling up the
hollowness—the hollowness of the yearning transformed into a hallowedness, a
sacred place of waiting and preparation. Of learning to trust and believe and
have faith even when every month indicators reminded your parents that you were
not yet. The waiting continued. Longing and hope stretched to half a year,
three quarters of a year. A year. We continued to pray. Continued to ask. Ever
waiting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">But waiting,
honest waiting is never passive. And the wait God instigates is never futile or
fruitless. His wait is never a killing of time. No, with God it’s always a
filling of time to bring about the fullness of time. At just the right time God
sent your Mama and Daddy a son. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">One night
your mama and her sisters and their mama gathered to eat. We gathered because
we needed each other—needed the familiarity and the deep-seeded love that is
present in us, even when is obscured or invisible. The currents of that night
we erratic—thrumming with something we could not name. We sat down with our tin
trays of barbecue and fried pickles and the let’s-get-situated commenced. But I
looked up at your Mama’s face and beheld something I had not seen in her
before—not fully. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">At the
moment I could not discern it. I could not put a name on this countenance of
her face. This night was a girl’s night, a partial surprise in the middle of a
hard month of winter and events—when all is cold and barren and hibernating. I
looked up and in walked your Daddy. He’s a big man, but you do not hear his
footsteps; he walks easy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">My heart
rate bumped up for his presence was an indication of something out of the
ordinary. The men in our lives rarely interrupt the gathering of us. He sat down.
The expectancy on our faces, palpable. Even now, I can remember time slowing; I
did not count the seconds, but instead the moments as we stared at your Mama
and Daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Years ago we awaited the advent of
Atlas, and I didn’t realize this glorious expansion would happen again and
again—this advent of children into our lives. Awaited. Anticipated.
Prayed-for-children. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">So when the
words, the announcement, danced out of your mama that you were coming—we sat
and stared. And we started to cry, the cry of joy, of elation, of hope, of
breath released. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">The
restaurant receded to a backdrop; we forgot those around us, unknown people
privy to the event beginning in us. Later I wondered if they pondered the
unfolding at our table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">Your
father’s face—so full of pride and joy. He beamed his low steady light, arms
already encompassing your mama already protecting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">I ugly-cried
at that table, overwhelmed with this holy gratefulness. My arm lifted, lifted
up into the air electric and permeated with something akin to fire. My hand
splayed forth, a silent witness to the miracle of you, to the glory of God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">Jeremiah,
your name means <i>Jehovah is exalted</i>. And that is exactly what we did when we
learned of you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">Much later,
one morning Gran and I joined your mama and daddy, and we gazed at a screen,
and you appeared. Bigger than life. Your little face, pressed and hidden inside
your mama’s frame, was achingly sweet and visibly distinct. We watched your
heartbeat (and ours beat faster), all four chambers pumping. The whooshing of
your waters grew loud in the room. Your fingers grasped and opened. And you
swallowed and turned your head. The grayscale images on the screen held your
grandmothers in awe. Her first, my fourth. And yet, we both fell in love,
perhaps at the same moment. Suddenly Jeremiah was more than an idea or a
stretch in your mama’s rounded belly. And we both wept (you’ll quickly learn we
cry a lot). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">And again my
arm shot into the air—a witness to the reality of Psalm 139. God knit you
together in your mama’s womb. You were fearfully and wonderfully made. At that
moment I understood that you were called before you were born. Called as a
witness that prayers and hopes are answered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">In some way.
In some time. In some how. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">Your very
existence, the coming of you, Jeremiah, increased your Noni’s faith. In you
there is this quiet testimony that the God of the Universe does bend down to
hear us; he hears the desires of our hearts. And he remembers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">Your arrival
in all senses for <i>everyone</i> was<b> labor.</b> Your mama and daddy labored the hardest
together, one flesh breathing and working for your emergence into this world.
The grandmothers and aunts and uncles labored in the waiting room. We (especially me) labored
to be patient, to exercise some self-control of being over-anxious. Each time
the door opened every head pivoted to see who emerged. (This seemed like <i>Deja-vu
</i>for some of us did the same when your cousins arrived). In the first fifteen
hours, we did not recognize the people who came through the door; they were not
of our tribe, our village. And we had to sit back down in our minds, return to
a place of waiting. I must confess I was impatient, concern for your mama
weighed heavy in me. It’s an interesting address to live at as a mother <i>and</i> a
grandmother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">But at last,
your daddy came to us—his face a subdued version of Moses’. He lit from within,
and everyone crowded him and hammered him with questions and hugs and tears. I
know we overwhelmed him, but he handled it as he does most things with grace
and ease and an infinite amount of patience. He held the same look as he did in
the restaurant when they announced your coming, but now this look was greater,
deeper, and it held even more awe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">He led the
grandparents back to you. Walked us into the quiet space where your mama held
you. And our world expanded. The borders of our hearts pushed back to encompass
the enormity of you. These two families bonded before by marriage and
friendship were now connected by blood—<b>you. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">The
convergence of all that we are merged in you, Jeremiah. And when your mama
handed you to me, I felt it. I felt the connective threads pull tightly,
drawing us into something far greater than ourselves. I looked down into your
tiny face—this merging of the grace of God—and saw for a split second the man
you would become and how proud I would be. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;">For a stretched moment I saw the family tree put forth another shoot. Another witness. Another beautiful child to remind us that there is hope.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk_IKRdfO8IDMN48LKhbLzNI8tpLTQq574t7R8pRtdd6y_Utjru3iQ74TN-hbuICF3_8tjmhDOYrBmVFacpWLbt6B29Va-dnGcOaLsOnrMoVw6f2ebOQECjNIYkiczgZZUdzwIFd39YE/s1600/20171105_120041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEk_IKRdfO8IDMN48LKhbLzNI8tpLTQq574t7R8pRtdd6y_Utjru3iQ74TN-hbuICF3_8tjmhDOYrBmVFacpWLbt6B29Va-dnGcOaLsOnrMoVw6f2ebOQECjNIYkiczgZZUdzwIFd39YE/s400/20171105_120041.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gran and Jeremiah</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROL8k7u3sWJSZtoFzHreDRLcpDUIjn3DZiw1UxY5up5hpkxGAEY0xKv_MffSgfpAY4n2hBm6T8ZB2F2qOxqNOD8UYg_4T-10y6KD2-BJ-aRrXVilEQzUnVDFJ6esmOfwoboCMu4p9brk/s1600/Noni+and+Jeremiah+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROL8k7u3sWJSZtoFzHreDRLcpDUIjn3DZiw1UxY5up5hpkxGAEY0xKv_MffSgfpAY4n2hBm6T8ZB2F2qOxqNOD8UYg_4T-10y6KD2-BJ-aRrXVilEQzUnVDFJ6esmOfwoboCMu4p9brk/s400/Noni+and+Jeremiah+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noni and Jeremiah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-35075963433336051302017-10-03T07:25:00.000-04:002017-10-03T07:25:04.216-04:00Out of the Land of Shadows, Part 3<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But the Word of God in me opened. His
word sustained me. Religious cliché? No, just the simple truth.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was a year
out from the epicenter of the origins of the depression. All this while, I
moved through life. Teaching. Working. Churching. Life moved and unfolded
continually around me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Perhaps, you
ask what the origins were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In 2015, a
perfect storm collided, intersected in my life.
Two events of extreme elation and devastating loss occurred within two
months of the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In August,
Westbow Press published my first book <i>Growing
Room: For Life in Tight Places.</i> I
remember the day my author’s copy arrived in the mail. My husband and I stood
in the break room of work, and I cried into his chest, the book clutched
between us—my top bucket list wish held between two covers. In September, my local library held a book
signing event for me. I sat at the desk and signed the inside of book covers. A
hundred people talked to me, spoke to me, bought my book, and shared with me.
My local and hometown newspapers shared my story. Messages poured into my
social feed. I was humbled. Undone by the response. <i>Still am. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In October,
Steve and I went to Gatlinburg to celebrate—a hand-holding, sharing ice cream,
kissing on the streets kind of weekend. After a couple of days in the heart of
the town, we went to bed exhausted. In the middle of the night, my phone rang.
The perfect storm arrived unannounced and unpredicted. Two fronts collided. My
only brother, eighteen years younger than me, had been killed in a car crash. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How do I
write from here? I’ve led you into a series, and many will dismiss the
subsequent posts because they are heavy and quite frankly, depressing. <b><i>But
this is the geography of depression.</i></b> And for me, because it was mild to
moderate I still functioned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I write because I know many struggle as I did.
I share because others need to know they are not alone. They are not isolated
in their darkness. They are not excommunicated from the community of faith
because this entity has a daily appointment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many
beautiful, faithful, committed Followers of Christ inwardly battle the creeping
fog and the pressing dusk. I know; I’ve talked with you. In my living room,
through text, through email, through Facebook messages, in cafes, and in the
aisles of grocery stores. I’ve heard the laments, the cries, the anger, and the
frustration. I’ve heard it vented and whispered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I know where
you are. Where you abide right now. <i>I
know.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many, if not
all, have experienced a perfect storm in your life of one kind or another—a
collision, and the fallout, the debris, the consequences, and the chaos loom. A
clear path or way through to the other side is not visible. And everything inside you seems to be
breaking into splinters and shards, and you’re being cut and wounded by your
own brokenness. There’s a slow leak of life-blood, a hidden hemorrhaging. You
are plugging the holes of the dam with your own fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And you’re
(I, we) are crying, “How long, Lord? How much more can I take? How many more
bad things will happen. How many more hard situations will we face? How long
will you wait, O God? Where are you?” We whisper these questions inside our
souls where no one can hear them. Breathe them quietly so no one can point out
that our faith is weak or that we doubt or offer us flat platitudes when we are
bailing out the water in our boat in the middle of the whipping storm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But, my
Friends, there is hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A precious
friend told me to convey this truth to another friend recently. She said, “Tell
her there is hope.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There is
hope. An anchor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">An anchor
that will hold in the fiercest and wildest of storms, and we will get to <i>the other side</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Out of the
Land of Shadows, Part 4—<i>The Other Side</i>
is coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-15436343657181671142017-09-14T06:13:00.002-04:002017-09-14T06:13:42.818-04:00Out of the Land of Shadow, Part 2<br />
<i>But the fact that I felt almost nothing during this time alerted me to something being amiss.</i> <br />
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Something amiss, yes. But this alarm, this wake-up call, pierced through the dusk settled on me like dust on a long-forgotten corner table. <br />
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During the episode of my burnt fingers, awareness spread like light moving across the morning sky, but the light was faint. I recognized this geography, this terrain—I dwelt here once before, and I knew the action I needed to take to return to myself. <br />
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I knew my first task. I needed to identify the triggers, the origins. Could I trace them? Could I follow the thread through my labyrinth mind? <br />
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I tried. <br />
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My fingers healed long before my soul did, but my index and middle fingers remained tender, sensitive to heat and cold. And a numbness stayed in the center of my fingers’ first digits. One numb circle persisted as the rest of the flesh quickened. <br />
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During the late winter and early spring of 2016, my husband and I planned a bucket list trip. For twenty years or more I planned this itinerary in my head. My husband tells a story of one afternoon when we gathered around my computer and scrolled through images of Ireland. I rattled on and on about the places I wanted to visit: to set my feet down on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, to enter into the long path way of Newgrange, and to climb the stairs of Skellig Michael. Later, after we married, my husband shared with me that as he watched me in this virtual tour, he kept saying in his head, “Then let’s go. Let’s just get married now and go.” Little did I know, right? <br />
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But as we prepared for Ireland, a battle waged in me; the depression, the dusk, created a reluctance in me to go on this once-in-a-lifetime sojourn. I waffled. But I knew I needed to push through the hesitancy. We planned and planned and planned some more. Sadly, I struggled with my lack of desire and enthusiasm. I found or created every excuse I possibly could to cancel and not go. But my husband, the steady anchor, would not allow me to cancel. He deflated every problem I presented. <br />
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We came home with memories, three thousand photographs, and treasures. <br />
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With our return, more of the darkness lifted and thinned, but I remained weak, fatigued, and weary. Jesus’ words, “Come to me all you who are weary, and I will give you rest,” applied now directly to me. The toll I paid depression was in emotional and spiritual exhaustion. Some people might call it burn-out, but I am not sure this is an accurate description. The flame still burned though faint and low. I was tired. <br />
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My Father knew I was tired. The good good Father knew what I needed. He knows his children.<br />
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For thirty-plus years, the Father had been hiding his word in my heart. His Spirit planted holy words deep in the soil of me, and those seeds, long-dormant, sprang to life. Pieces of Scripture long forgotten returned to my memory and leafed out in me. I grasped his words, and the stalks of them became my lifeline. Please understand this: my Bible remained closed most of the time. The books that littered every available surface of my home went unread. <br />
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But the Word of God <i><b>in me</b></i> opened. His word sustained me. Religious cliché? No, just the simple truth. <br />
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Please come back for Part 3. Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-69597796322761871782017-09-12T06:04:00.000-04:002017-09-12T06:04:27.283-04:00Out of the Land of Shadow--Part 1
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Twenty-three
months ago I entered into a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">land of
shadow</i>—like the brilliant day when the sun disappears because a cloud moves
in front of it. Suddenly the bright life is dimmed. Eyes must adjust to the now
faded light; you attempt to open them wide, to expand your pinprick pupils, but
they are slow to respond. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I
kept waiting for the cloud to move along, shift to the right or the left. I
woke each morning, slowly. Hoping the bright blue sky would reappear. Many days
I didn’t think about it at all—at least consciously. I just went about my
business; I lived the daily-ness of living: <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>the routine, the rote, and the rut. There were
moments the sun filtered through broken patches in the clouds. Glimmers of
light dappled through the cloud cover, and I followed them like a child chasing
fireflies at night. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">You
see I know the truth: I am a child of the light. I belong to the Father of
lights, and there is no darkness in him. But I saw and felt the darkness in me,
and it frightened me. I don’t like darkness. I don’t like the sun obscured by
the clouds—at least not for undetermined periods of time. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I
did all the things everyone tells you to do. Or I tried. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">However…
</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Reading</span></i><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> (the nourishment of my
life) became a chore. I struggled through reading a paragraph.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Praying</span></i><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> (the necessity of my
life) became a battle. I fumbled through one sentence prayers. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Writing</span></i><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> (the expression of my
life) dwindled and dried like a well in the heat of the summer. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Teaching</span></i><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> (the calling of my
life) became a duty. I grappled through lesson plans and Bible studies. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Loving</span></i><span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"> (the joy of my life)
became a burden. I stumbled under the weight and responsibility of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">And
the cloud remained. Eventually, my eyes adjusted to the dimness. But there is a
sharpness lost when the light is low. The keen edges are dulled, and the vivid
colors are muted. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I
wrote about this place, talked about it in a post. I thought to be vulnerable,
transparent, and confessional (to speak the darkness out loud) might help, but
I encountered responses and reactions I didn’t expect—others reading my
confession didn’t seem to like my filleted-open emotions. And they spoke words
and opinions that pierced (though unintentional I am sure). Their words tapped
on my spirit, and like a turtle, I pulled back into my shell and just decided
it was safer inside. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Sunlight
did break through several times, and like a cold-blooded creature, I moved into
that light as quickly as possible. I curled up in it—trying to give my body
time to soak up the heat and the light. For a long while, that’s the only
response I could muster. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Mustering
a different response as a course of action did not last long. Mustering
anything required feats of strength and stamina of which I had little. I
conserved my energy, pulled in all my limbs and appendages tight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I
gathered books and notes and Bibles and journals, even coloring books, and
hoarded them as if the very possession of them would aid me. Books littered the
house, and with every one of them came the heaviness of obligation. These tools
remained stacked on the ends of counters and tables and in towers on the floor
beside my bed or chair—cairns of intention, silent stones of expectations. Perhaps,
I thought, there will be something in the pages that will awaken my spirit. But
the books remained closed, and more often than not my Bible remained on the
table unopened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">The
weight of depression pushed down on me. Heavy-handed oppression pressed in on
my spirit.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The pressure weighted my
grieving heart. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I held grief deep and
tight, wrapped my arms around it as if it were a flailing, exhausted child. Instinctively
I knew if I didn’t contain this sorrowful creature it would break loose and
wail.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">At
first, my heart was just numb, sensory abilities depleted. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">In
January 2016 an accident occurred that broke through my numbness and revealed my
mental and spiritual state. I reached into a very hot oven and pulled out a
terra cotta Dutch oven. My potholder slipped, and so did the dome lid. Steam
burned my right hand—all four fingers, but the first two were severely damaged.
I went to the doctor (who had a great deal of experience treating burns), and
he and his nurse explained the seriousness of these burns. A day later the
blisters on those fingers covered the entirety of the first two digits, and
they were over an inch high. I visited the doctor’s office every day for almost
a week to change the dressings and for them to assess the damage. Eventually,
both blisters burst and the raw skin of my fingers was exposed. They explained
to me that each day my fingers would need to be debrided and this would be
quite painful. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">Day
after day I went in and sat on the white papered examination table. Each day
they unwrapped my fingers and winced when the last bandage unwound. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The first time they debrided my burn they
watched me closely.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Apparently, I remained
rather stoic, and this reaction (or lack of ) surprised them. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">“Doesn’t
that hurt?” they inquired. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">I
shook my head negatively. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">One
nurse (who knows me quite well) leaned down and looked into my face when she
asked this question.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Her eyebrows drew
together and her lips pressed into a thin line.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>She proceeded to gently scrub all the white, dead tissue away, exposing
new flesh, raw and red. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Minion Pro",serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">But
the fact that I felt almost nothing during this time alerted me to something
being amiss. </span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-91835717064067170262016-11-24T09:29:00.000-05:002016-11-24T09:29:51.700-05:00The Weight of 5%
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<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I held him close—his little tank body pressed close into
mine, drowsy and warm and fighting the advance of sleep like a seasoned
soldier. There’s a solidness to him, the weight of him is substantial. Oh,
there’s such abundant energy and compressed power in this little boy of ours,
the littlest one, the youngest one. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">In my book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Growing-Room-Life-Tight-Places-ebook/dp/B012JU2KCY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479996664&sr=8-1&keywords=Growing+Room+Tamera+Rehnborg" target="_blank">Growing Room</a>, I tell the story of Atlas, this
grandson of mine. He’s fought hard since the beginning to take hold of
life.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Doctors informed his parents that
this smattering of hCG would not be a viable pregnancy and there was only a 5 %
chance of carrying it through the weekend, let alone to carry the fetus (if
there was one) to full term. Calls commenced and prayers ascended for this unnamed, unseen, undetected life. At this point, this baby’s
existence was like an imaginary number in math. We prayed through the weekend,
through a long Saturday and an even longer Sunday. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Monday morning came, and my daughter entered the doctor’s
office with reluctance and hesitation and most likely a tinge of fear. 5% is a
daunting number because on the other side is the weight of 95% stacked against
a hopeful outcome. We waited, our breaths caught at the entrance of our lungs,
holding in a stillness of both anxiousness and eagerness. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">As I held my youngest grandson a few weeks ago and last
night all these memories pushed right up to the top of me, and they gently
exploded, burst right open. I was overwhelmed and overcome. I gazed down at his
sweet face so slack and round in his sleep. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I held the weight of 5% in my arms. I could feel the
substance of Atlas, not only did I feel the impressive pounds of him but in his
drowsy state he turned his head over on my chest and mumbled “Noni”—my name
garbled from his sweet cheek pressed against my breast and the push of sleep. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">The weight of 5% slept on me. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">This powerful little personality, a barrel of a boy,
whirlwind of never-walk-only-run, mischievous and stubborn and charming son of
my daughter broke my heart cleanly into—opened it right up, so all the softness
inside was exposed. There I sat, my arms wrapped around the weight of 5%. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Many would say that the pregnancy just hadn’t taken hold or
it was too early to detect. No, the pregnancy was tested and confirmed. But
numbers began to drop, to not multiply. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">But God (one of my favorite phrases in Scripture). </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">He takes the human (educated, trained, experienced)
projections and statistics of a less than slim percentage (the imaginary
numbers) and creates certainties. Our God works with the less-than-good odds,
the probably-not-going-to-happens, the slim-chance-in-hells and in his hands
they become realities.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">We often ask why God is not doing or does not act as he did
in the Bible. Why don't we see such miracles? In that moment of holding Atlas,
my arms wrapped around him, I knew I held a work, an against-the-odds act of
God. An act akin to the reduction of Gideon’s army, David with Goliath, and an
unlikely group of apostle men. Our God is not daunted by the 95%. No, he takes
the 5% and multiplies it, increases it and grows it exponentially. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">He always
does more with less. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I held the <i>exponential</i> in my arms. I pressed my lips against
the roundness of Atlas’ head; my body curved around him, my middle bowed to
accept and contain his weight. I could feel the pattern of his breathing,
slowed and even—inhale and exhale. I paced my breathing to his. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I was holding the 5% of God. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">The answered prayers of so many. Encompassed in my arms was
not only an answer but a compressed body of life, an abundant life. As I held
him, my eyes closed. In the silence and screen of my mind, I could see his
full-face grin, broad gap-tooth smile. I could hear his voice, words spoken
unexpectedly in one so young. I curved my hand around his sweet head. I pulled
him even closer. In his sleep he did not resist;</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I rejoiced. I lifted my other hand upward,
lifted my arm toward Him. A silent praise. A wordless thanksgiving. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">5% in the hands of God. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Give him your odds, give him your less-than-hopefuls. Give
God that in which your faith falters. Give God the smallest of offerings. Give
him the inviabilities, the unseens, and the unheards. Give him the
impossibilities. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">There’s a part of me that hesitates to write or suggest
such—that God takes care of all the impossibilities and long-shots. Sometimes
he doesn’t. For whatever reason, we do not see or experience the outcome we
desire or expect. But those times do not negate the situations in which he does move
and act. We cannot stop declaring HE DOES just because sometimes he doesn’t--or
just because we are not aware of his movement or interventions. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">In holding my Atlas-grandson, all the 5% chances become
viable. And I understood through my grandson that God has the power to multiply
by exponentials. And that power, according to his <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ephesians+3:20&version=NIV" target="_blank">word through Paul to theEphesians</a>, is at work in me. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Rarely do I embrace this power like Atlas. Atlas knows
nothing yet of his questioned life. He knows nothing yet of the fight waged
against and for him, and he knows nothing yet of the obstacles (a malformed
kidney too) stacked against his little life. No, he just lives. This little boy
grabs life with both hands—extracting from every link of DNA hope, laughter,
and strong-will. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">Atlas Jensen can mean either “strength of the grace of God”
or “he carries the grace of God.” Either way, my Atlas-grandson is a
testimony—a witness to the grace, the unfaltering and unfailing grace of God. </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">I held him in my arms, pulled him closer right into the
depths of me. In my arms, I held a package of God’s grace. I breathed deeply.</span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;">And my breaths, the vapors of them, were
wordless paragraphs of thanksgiving and praise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvpnYnvDOX2ruULjU3lPnJIGh0K_E5sDEHtfD9oJ_qdwG4j3vc1QRs6zQE7B0TOBg10Sdyq5lO5wmR8WPPmA5Y3wBuguQ5i2a-t7DsKPqDZGoZVx9aTbNWIubskKY0f7tFQDzcjHdN7s/s1600/AtlasandNoniLaborDay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvpnYnvDOX2ruULjU3lPnJIGh0K_E5sDEHtfD9oJ_qdwG4j3vc1QRs6zQE7B0TOBg10Sdyq5lO5wmR8WPPmA5Y3wBuguQ5i2a-t7DsKPqDZGoZVx9aTbNWIubskKY0f7tFQDzcjHdN7s/s400/AtlasandNoniLaborDay.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: calibri; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wTP0avARhFYOKdlL8WSJhQj-KQymXJcJF82L7EKB_vlKpwo814AilrftQ5kJF9vfkXqj9o_d79clCmvKOLZT9Jj-Y5HzvOfhHmMcOqrz0DcaUnbK5Qh5BCfttFEm72vNieiPFU_8NSU/s1600/atlasgrin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wTP0avARhFYOKdlL8WSJhQj-KQymXJcJF82L7EKB_vlKpwo814AilrftQ5kJF9vfkXqj9o_d79clCmvKOLZT9Jj-Y5HzvOfhHmMcOqrz0DcaUnbK5Qh5BCfttFEm72vNieiPFU_8NSU/s400/atlasgrin.jpg" width="380" /></a></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-size: large;"></span>Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-62501196916690237072016-08-23T06:45:00.000-04:002016-08-23T08:24:42.405-04:00The Monster at the End of This Blog Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdrTq_k9uAyHfjW6DebJJiD3hu6PH0CyqJovT9VJxHf9HtTQt8Q8A3aRfs3xfnvIbAq7CSGRjmEfOCkiSg7dHXBzethMPJrdTpW32zoUFvMWExutUposrCdN1RUm9veiuGfoibXtBqpI/s1600/passports.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicdrTq_k9uAyHfjW6DebJJiD3hu6PH0CyqJovT9VJxHf9HtTQt8Q8A3aRfs3xfnvIbAq7CSGRjmEfOCkiSg7dHXBzethMPJrdTpW32zoUFvMWExutUposrCdN1RUm9veiuGfoibXtBqpI/s400/passports.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Several
weeks before we were to leave for Ireland, Steve’s updated passport had not yet
arrived. We sent it to the passport office with ample time to spare, but for
whatever reason, there seemed to be a delay. Anxiety rose in me; for a few days
I pushed it down. But one day I panicked. I just lost all control over my
anxiety and worry and then produced the worst-case scenario in my head. <em>Well, I
guess we just aren’t going to Ireland. Steve’s passport isn’t going to get here
in time.</em> At the beginning of June, this litany of thought raced rampant through
my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I went to
the mailbox every day. Just white envelopes or flyers advertising stuff I
didn’t care about or need. Each day the barrage of anxiety heightened. Now,
Readers, I did the things I was supposed to do. I prayed. I waited. I prayed
some more, but none of these disciplines seemed to shut down the worry. I knew
it was absurd. I told myself in no uncertain terms that I was downright silly.
But Tamera didn’t seem to have her listening ears turned on, and so this went on
for a week. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A few people
knew about this struggle. All of them had sound advice. Advice I couldn’t seem
to assimilate or employ. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Now, what I
could tell you, and this would make a great story—a desirable testimony—was
that I finally let it all go, gave it over to God’s hands, and the moment I did
that the passport arrived. That seems to be the weightier of testimonies,
right? The ones where we flail and struggle and fight, and then we give it over
to the Father, and it all works out just fine? And we applaud the giving over. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But I never
actually gave this anxiety over to Him—whatever that phrase means. Simply put?
I was just an everlovin’ mess. Saying those words, I’m giving this problem and
worry to you, remained just words. Those phrases carried no transformational
ability in my spirit. They offered no respite from my turmoil. Those words were
rote phrases reiterated to me by well-intentioned people for most of my life,
but they had no power to save me in the crisis, at the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Perhaps, you
are thinking this woman was blowing the situation completely out of proportion.
Yes, yes I was. That is the point. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then one
day, in plenty of time before the start date of our trip, I went to the
mailbox. And I reached my hand into the vaulted recess of that black box and
pulled out a large cardboard mailer. I recognized it (because mine came in the
same type of mailer a month before), and I knew what we would find inside. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I walked
into the house and texted Steve. He asked me if I had opened it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No!” I
replied. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“OPEN IT!”
he typed back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I did. And
there was Steve’s little blue book—his face and information on the glossy pages
for all of Ireland to see. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stood in
the kitchen (many epiphanies happen for me in the kitchen), and this strange,
odd thought popped into my head. There is a book I read to my children and now
to my grandchildren. A Little Golden Book®. And our family has more than one
copy. The title? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Monster-End-This-Book/dp/0307010856/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1471948372&sr=1-1&keywords=the+monster+at+the+end+of+this+book" target="_blank">The Monster at the End of this Book</a></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Grover, a
Sesame Street favorite, reads the title of the book and then is the narrator
through the whole story. He tries to no avail or success to get the reader NOT
to turn the pages because there is a MONSTER at the end of the book. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My grandsons
laugh uproariously and watch my face intently when I read this book to them. I
employ every type of voice and level of volume I possibly can—every animation
regardless of how over the top. The book just seems to call for types of
dramatics. The boys can finish my sentences as I read. They play along as if
Grover’s attempts to keep them from turning pages is real. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Grover is
beside himself. He does NOT want to encounter the monster at the end of the
book. But after the cutting of rope, breaking of wood, knocking down of bricks
we finally arrive at the last page. The twist? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Grover
realizes that HE is the monster at the end of the book. No other. Just Grover.
Grover tries to save face. He tells the reader that they shouldn’t have been
scared. But then on the very last page, Grover is covering his face and in the
dialogue bubble he mutters, “I am so embarrassed.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The day I
held Steve’s passport in my hand, I was so embarrassed. I was the monster at
the end of the book. I was Grover. AKA Tamera. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">For weeks I
had dreaded opening the mailbox. I worried and fretted because there was no US
Government official envelope in the assortment of daily mail. While I stood in
the kitchen with the passport in my hand, I realized I never did come to trust
God for this issue. Instead, I just kept worrying it, had it been a stone the
edges would have been smoothed, perhaps even a hollowed spot rubbed on the
surface. Somewhere in this head of mine, the wiring shorted—and I thought my
worried frets would make a difference. I knew better. <strong>I. Knew. Better.</strong> But I
couldn’t let it go. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I stood for
a long time and looked at that passport. Once again the Lord had been faithful.
Maybe someone will read this and conclude that the due process happened. We
sent the passport application in, and it followed its normal trail. Perhaps.
But our deadline was real, and the time frame was being pushed to the very
outer limits. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But the
issue wasn’t about a passport. The problem wasn’t that I was worried. The
concern wasn’t that I kept looking in the mailbox (that’s where the passport
was going to show up, right?). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">NO. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here’s the
issue. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I allowed my
anxiety to outweigh and overshadow what I <em>know</em> to be true. The more I
fretted and worried the greater the problem became.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughters know my adage: all problems
start small, and if left unchecked and unresolved they roll down the hill,
gaining speed and amass more girth as they roll. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I rolled my
little bitty monster down the hill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The monster
I faced at the end of this situation was not the lack of a passport or the
change of plans, but the monster was me—that’s it. Just me. Not the devil. Not
demons. Not even circumstances. Just me. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Me and all my need for control. Yes,
there it was. Self-deception led me to believe I had the adventure under
control. Almost obsessively, I planned this bucket list trip. I wanted
everything (and I do mean everything) to be perfect and to transpire without a
glitch or hitch. Details were important because I knew we had a one-time shot
at this adventure. And the passport’s tardiness messed with my plans. (Sometimes
pilgrimages have detours). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I confessed
all of this to a good friend; she is indulgently kind to me. Later, she gave me
a gift, just a small one. A 4 inch tall Super Grover--superhero cape and all.
The cape could not nullify all my end-of-the-book behavior. (He'll stand on my
school desk this year). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The passport
incident reminded me that for all my plans, I am not the one in control. I
can’t keep people from turning pages. I can’t stop the progression to the end
of the book. I’m not in control, and much of what I fear is a tiny monster that
has been rolled down a hill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But God is
not afraid of or hindered by my Grover-like tendencies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, go ahead
turn the page. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZEpPR61mQwwYydRTU2AH2V19VQPobcWKCsuoYSkNFWihAtU3bhaflY8Ggl8B7D51IB6HHiilWobLxC4GHU46NmtdcQuUQxDISgWA02yBqj-QtaVaNRUN_6zS4MsqwEbMODks2f-gWj4/s1600/grover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZEpPR61mQwwYydRTU2AH2V19VQPobcWKCsuoYSkNFWihAtU3bhaflY8Ggl8B7D51IB6HHiilWobLxC4GHU46NmtdcQuUQxDISgWA02yBqj-QtaVaNRUN_6zS4MsqwEbMODks2f-gWj4/s400/grover.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-69861106568387472392016-07-20T01:26:00.000-04:002016-07-20T01:26:06.420-04:00The Unknown Nun
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UcUiMaMuIvtH9MnC-o_0iL70MKe93bwRiJay-JyXkaJ7czFdQrq86TUcVj1raV3ZAXPeGf5LJwgYqlwAzV5yyDOheHW5NvVlhmVlastgp5eZVG0e2Lq_Tmn3CZ2KcpChHJTBvbAbfWE/s1600/20160617_143700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UcUiMaMuIvtH9MnC-o_0iL70MKe93bwRiJay-JyXkaJ7czFdQrq86TUcVj1raV3ZAXPeGf5LJwgYqlwAzV5yyDOheHW5NvVlhmVlastgp5eZVG0e2Lq_Tmn3CZ2KcpChHJTBvbAbfWE/s400/20160617_143700.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the plane from Charlotte to Dublin. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two of our
younger daughters drove us to the airport to catch our flight to Dublin,
Ireland—I think they were as elated and as giddy as I was for us to be on this
adventure. Our baggage (after hard work of planning and packing) cleared
without a glitch. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We flew to
Charlotte and then across the vast expanse of water—across the Atlantic Ocean.
I watched our progression on a screen on the seat in front of me; the tiny
plane moved by millimeters over five thousand miles. We landed in Dublin at
6:38 am. After seven hours of sleeping fitfully and sporadically, we came fully
awake. We stood up in the cabin of that plane realizing we were in a different
country, on a different continent. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Ireland.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The stuff of
dreams (at least mine). <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can
recount in detail the next couple hours of our trip—details that honestly would
mean little to you, so I will skip them, leave them in the suitcase bundled
tightly. One thing we did know? We would battle jet lag, and so we made a
decision to attempt to stay awake the entire day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We hit the
ground running. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had only
one window of opportunity to see <a href="http://www.stmichans.com/" target="_blank">St. Michan’s (short i) Church</a>. A brief
backstory would be interesting and helpful here, but for lack of time and space
just click on the link and you can read about this church for yourself. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tucked
between modern buildings this 1,100-year-old church seems lost in the myriad
of city planning that grows around it. St. Michan’s is across the River Liffey,
deep in the inner city of Dublin. We went because this church is famous for its
crypt. Well, it’s known not so much for its crypt as for <a href="http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/st-michans-church" target="_blank">who resides in the tombs</a> beneath the church. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steve and I
descended far too narrow and steep stone stairs to the cool underbelly of St.
Michan’s—into the tunnels where people laid at rest with the church’s structure
as their tombstone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-vBQ3Q2kwK-lNYP9h5RU5i51VAjMKPHBhTpolThwHfaRgVDnmcBHpwY40_IyYAp3tmvz7INJkeqqeG66aIo-HWOlh_5JIqokoSY5MJf6UIypX5yVDD-x8I46hZbVFzwY3aw2mHIAjCc/s1600/20160618_104111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-vBQ3Q2kwK-lNYP9h5RU5i51VAjMKPHBhTpolThwHfaRgVDnmcBHpwY40_IyYAp3tmvz7INJkeqqeG66aIo-HWOlh_5JIqokoSY5MJf6UIypX5yVDD-x8I46hZbVFzwY3aw2mHIAjCc/s400/20160618_104111.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our tour guide opening the Crypt door. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq-Cs82owoi1oF0IFovCZDFWejVdpBCyR9FPwJ6VMtY5mcH9IFI8ciEr77k4ULZiIsSt-G_CGsG5aFvkUGkQItOl6cRZeHHgbe5mqGGoaAYl9GT48UhnOwAgz1iATn67laHStfwmBeDI/s1600/20160618_103203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq-Cs82owoi1oF0IFovCZDFWejVdpBCyR9FPwJ6VMtY5mcH9IFI8ciEr77k4ULZiIsSt-G_CGsG5aFvkUGkQItOl6cRZeHHgbe5mqGGoaAYl9GT48UhnOwAgz1iATn67laHStfwmBeDI/s400/20160618_103203.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crypt stairs. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We met four
of the residents. Saw them face to face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, we saw them stretched out in their wooden coffins. All the
environmental conditions of St. Michan’s lends to the perfect atmosphere for a
type of mummification. And through accident and the passage of time four
end-of-the-life resting places broke open to reveal four people—whose stories
we can only surmise from the inferences in the clues left behind with them in
the crypt. Four people who talked and walked and interacted with others. Two
men and two women who ate, slept, loved, and perhaps prayed. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, Steve
and I met four people—mummified over the centuries of time, asleep in the hard
confines of their wooden coffins. I stood at the door of their crypt and looked
in at them—I wondered how they would have reacted to having all of us stare at
them unabashedly in their state? But stare I did. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeavKmNc5wkYtDbdB_kbquCY1eIvVSAKZ1AuhM9X2qhwfxwq6nmwB0opj2vPJV3zIm2oS2yGVz78SsBg0dAtl3cFqaewS51WHfH8PR3le9Pvmta5e4RUkBkcSrmj2yYZJJOMTANKOWLw/s1600/saint-michans-mummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeavKmNc5wkYtDbdB_kbquCY1eIvVSAKZ1AuhM9X2qhwfxwq6nmwB0opj2vPJV3zIm2oS2yGVz78SsBg0dAtl3cFqaewS51WHfH8PR3le9Pvmta5e4RUkBkcSrmj2yYZJJOMTANKOWLw/s400/saint-michans-mummy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photography is no longer allowed in the crypt; this photo is from an internet source. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They were so
close to me had I leaned a fraction forward I could have touched them, touched
men and women who lived at the very least four hundred years ago. I stood in
the cool, dry air of the crypt, in the faint light and stared at the St. Michan
mummies. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">People
talked and joked. Our tour guide’s sense of humor played riot around us, but I
heard all of this in a muffled way, lost in my thoughts and imaginations. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Four people
whose once robust and strong bodies were reduced to the stretch of skin over
the stakes of bones—the remains of the tents that they were, <em>that we are</em>. If
ever I understood the brevity and temporary state of our lives, I realized this
truth here. In the crypt of an old church—gazing at flesh tents preserved by
time and limestone and temperature. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Their names
are lost to us—unknowns missing hands and with broken legs. We know one was a
knight and one a nun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their stories?
Buried with them, or at least with the few who knew them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But God
knows their stories; their life is not lost to him. He knows them by name. He
knows who they were and who they were not. He knows why one lost his hand, and
why the other fought in the Crusades. God knows. Death does not hinder the
Father; it does not wipe his people from his Presence. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I left St.
Michan’s Church with questions swirling in my head. And the crypt remained with
me throughout the trip, even after we came home—not in a haunting, specter-type
of way, but in fragmented images and unfinished thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One morning
after being home from Ireland for over a week, I was in the middle of getting
ready for work. In the midst of the mundane routine of things St. Michan’s and its
inhabitants returned to me, full and in color. Not Newgrange. Not Trim Castle.
Not St. Patrick’s Cathedral, but the out-of-the-way, mostly unknown, invisible
St. Michan’s and his residents. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Ireland,
God had to start me where I was. God (as I say in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Growing-Room-Life-Tight-Places-ebook/dp/B012JU2KCY/ref=sr_1_14?ie=UTF8&qid=1468992056&sr=8-14&keywords=growing+room" target="_blank">Growing Room</a>) always starts
at the beginning. At the first of things. For months I had fought the waning of
life in my spirit, battled until spiritually I wasted to the stretch of skin on
bones. The dusk of darkness and the weight of sorrow leaked joy and robbed the
moisture and vibrancy right out of me. I felt like a shrunken version of
myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my
routine of preparing to face my world, the images of the residents of St.
Michan’s Crypt came to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>God took me
to a place of death in order to bring me to a place of life.</em></strong> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I recalled
the urge of (as morbid as it sounds) wanting to touch the nun’s hand—to just
reach out my fingers and brush hers, to create a connection. To tell her I saw
her and desired to know her story. I knew she was much more than the shrunken
tent before me. At one time she lived animated and full of quickening verve. At
one time she knelt and prayed, her voice lifting beyond the vaulted ceilings of
her church. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This bride,
a virgin consecrated to the Groom, spoke to me across the centuries. From her
stone vault, from her wooden bed, she reminded me to live. To live in Him. To
die is gain (which gain she had), but in the midst of life, we must learn to
live. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To live in
the wonder and the mundane, in the beauty and the ugliness, in the darkness and
the light, in the sorrow and the joy, in the grief and the bliss, and in
conflict and peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through this ancient nun, through her silent and muted lips, and through her unknown story God reminded me to LIVE!<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I rose
from my bed, pushed out of my wooden confines and stood.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-3306231241207195402016-07-14T10:53:00.000-04:002016-07-14T10:53:46.114-04:00A Lovely Adventure--Ireland <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefrjdSrq8F2CCyXe2HNkX9bKl0yfofzivqUEXXRVjrI6DSZuA7F5R-sgS_AyFkcRwC6ysaCorRFDWux6oyt9TNMWje7f1bUY2WTJpxZWCJmtzuiTZYkGGQh0C3gQibjh-igGXnR0HLWg/s1600/cead+mile+failte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefrjdSrq8F2CCyXe2HNkX9bKl0yfofzivqUEXXRVjrI6DSZuA7F5R-sgS_AyFkcRwC6ysaCorRFDWux6oyt9TNMWje7f1bUY2WTJpxZWCJmtzuiTZYkGGQh0C3gQibjh-igGXnR0HLWg/s400/cead+mile+failte.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">This Ireland Adventure began as just dream—far off, hazed by
the mists of all that seemed unattainable. I’m not sure where or when this
dream began—the origin of its intensity eludes me. I don’t even see it on the
far off peripheries of my mind. It just seems that one day the longing birthed
in me, expanding and contracting the small places of me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">Periodically, following some internal compass or map, I
searched for photographs of the places I longed to be, spaces in which I
yearned to stand. I memorized details and the isolated pieces of the history of
the country—of an island flung farther west that any other on the European
continent. I read books, devoured and savored novels written by Windsor,
Roberts, and Llewelyn. I read through Cahill and Miller and O'Donohue. Perhaps,
hoping by osmosis, the ancient atmosphere would be absorbed into the pores of
me. For years I tucked this desire away, not hidden, but only wishful. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember being on a house date with my husband, my then
neighbor friend. We sat in my living room at my massive desk and surfed the
waves of the internet on a barge of a computer. I pulled up images that
represented my wishes and gushed exuberantly and too enthusiastically to Steve.
I remember he listened and looked—acted interested whether he was or not (I
found out his thoughts later. He was thinking, “Let’s get married; let’s go!).
I made a <em><a href="http://tamera-thechamberednautilus.blogspot.com/2007/08/no-particular-order.html" target="_blank">No Particular Order</a></em> list (aka Bucket List), and Ireland always made
the list, but the reality of going there and experiencing all I had researched
and studied just seemed beyond the navigable reality to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">In 2015 my top Bucket List desire manifested. My first book
</span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Growing-Room-Life-Tight-Places-ebook/dp/B012JU2KCY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1468506770&sr=8-1&keywords=growing+room+for+life+in+tight+places" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Growing Room, For Life in Tight Places</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> was published. The vulnerable
word-soaked, tear-baptized parts of me printed for the world to read if they
had the mind to do so. And some did. I revisited my bucket list. Humbled and
elated, I realized I could cross off several things. Unexpected
items—ones I hadn't expected to become real or attained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Ireland remained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And behind this one proper noun, a whole
myriad of hopeful wishes skipped and leaped.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">In April of this year, I turned fifty. Fifty years old. In
the beginning, back in the cold and snow and darkness of January and February,
Steve asked me what I wanted for this Jubilee celebration. We discussed cruises
and Ireland—and the flutter of the wishes in my heart beat its wings, and the
butterfly effect rippled the breezes and the band of the atmosphere around me.
The wistful dreams began to solidify—the edges becoming sharp and keen,
outlined in a thick black line. We waffled, joggled, juggled, switched, and
shifted finances, budgets, and schedules. I reneged once (twice) and suggested
the idea that we just go on a cruise. A seven-day cruise seemed much easier,
planned for us and contained. Safe. He looked at me—searched my face, moved
with agility through this labyrinth mind of mine and understood. He understood
my fears and the concerns. He called me out, interrogated with a frustrating
accuracy my hesitations and reluctance. And he made a decision. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, this trip is for your 50th birthday. You’ve always
wanted to go to Ireland. We're going to Ireland.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">Plans commenced. Travel agents engaged. Plane tickets
purchased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My research took on a whole
new dimension—no longer did I look at The Cliffs of Moher or Newgrange or
Clonmacnoise because they were beautiful or represented something greater to
me, but because my feet, our feet, might trod across the soil and stone of the
place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">I speak of this trip as if it were the greatest longing of
my life, but it wasn’t and isn’t. The deepest longing of my life is to be in
the Presence of God. To love him with utter abandon, and that the fruit and
abundance of abiding in his Presence would spill over into others. But there is
something about Ireland—the longevity of its existence, the length of seasons
of prayer lifted from its tumultuous terrain that drew me. I wanted to stand,
sit, kneel or whatever else in the thin places and silences of its spiritual
history. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">Little did I know. How little did I know? About Ireland. Or
about myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">God’s timing is flawless—without seam or catch of a thread. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">This trip came to fruition during a season of drought. This
sojourn came during a time of sparsity and sorrow. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’m processing the journey now—in the moment there didn’t
seem to be enough space, but now in the sweetness of my little patch of earth,
I have been pondering, mulling, and considering. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;">As always this <em>Chambered Nautilus</em> place throws open its doors to you. If you
are inclined, grab a cup of coffee or tea and join me in the next few
posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">As the Irish say, “Cead Mila Failte.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><strong><em>One Hundred Thousand Welcomes.</em></strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><em></em></strong></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXudfedNPNhf_5xLiN8W5QGpqb4jr51jV9_i47FTEKTe0kuECHQL4oo9MISrfkYmYAwedfIk8sJFsWQmCro-uykLV5N9yUeF2fu9SGw88_V5V9DtYHdJjpGszcZ2mRbc9FxY40uepy83c/s1600/DSC_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXudfedNPNhf_5xLiN8W5QGpqb4jr51jV9_i47FTEKTe0kuECHQL4oo9MISrfkYmYAwedfIk8sJFsWQmCro-uykLV5N9yUeF2fu9SGw88_V5V9DtYHdJjpGszcZ2mRbc9FxY40uepy83c/s400/DSC_0147.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to our adventure! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><em><o:p></o:p></em></strong></span> </div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-11960973163628709022016-05-08T09:12:00.002-04:002016-05-08T20:50:29.704-04:00Mother's Day TributeIn May we celebrate having a mother and being a mother. I could fill post after post about the wonders, pains, celebrations of being a mother, of having a mother. But I don't have time. Today, I want to just celebrate some amazing women in my life. <br />
<br />
Considering I have just a little time before I need to get ready for church, I will make this as simple as possible. Today, I want to praise and thank God for the following women: <br />
<br />
1. My mom. We call her Mamaw Judy and JuJu. She's witty and funny. She loves hard. She taught me to read. She taught me to love beauty. <br />
2. My stepmom. I call her Brenda. But mostly I call her friend. She's fiercely loyal. Has deep common sense. She's adventurous. She's strong and brave--and fights a daily battle against a disease that would take most to the ground. And she's the other half of my dad. <br />
3. My mother-in-law. She's anything BUT plain Jane. She is an inspiration--to live life to the fullest. To not allow fear to rob you of what and who you love most. She is an amazingly strong, courageous woman. She's an incredible mother and the perfect kind of grandmother. <br />
4. My first spiritual mother. Peggy Mastin. She taught me about faith and the power of it. She taught me to pray and the depth of it. She is with Jesus now, and I know she is in the great cloud of witnesses cheering us to the finish. <br />
5. My second mother. Dianna Jean. How this woman has mothered me. When I have felt lost and frightened, like a child, she has been a rock. She calls me "Tamera Ruth" and I call her Mama. <br />
6. My other mother. Betty Vaughan. Betty mothered me through my early mothering years. Loved me like her own. Still does. And I am grateful. <br />
7. Anna Vaughan. My first daughter. To watch her mother this giraffe and a lion of a boy of hers--I love their conversations and their sweet bond. Her understanding of her son is something to behold. <br />
8. Katherine Rector. My second daughter. She often juggles a circus, a three ring one at that. But to listen to her reason with such patience with her 3 1/2 year old son is simply astounding. <br />
9. Hannah Harris. My third stepdaughter. Hannah is mothering a child who is 5 going on 18. And on the outside it seems she does it effortlessly. <br />
10. I am thankful for all eight of our daughters. Eight of them. All different. All unique. Elizabeth, Stephanie, Anna, Katherine, Hannah, Olivia, Gabrielle, and Abby. <br />
11. My four daughters. Need I say more? Well, yes. I am a mother because of these four women. Each one contributed to my growth not only as a mother, but as a woman, as a Believer. These women have helped me become more than I ever thought I would or could be. They will NEVER know the depth of respect, admiration, and love I have for each of them. I have been blessed in abundance. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVRIhV7KrA0exJViwVB9A1CiFlVXy2HqifxMNMhyNiJHWKBzAKuYU9D1zI3crZA_tLgm36k_mrdICU7TZxDJKCEGV_xMEVWMiz60nmW2wi4xCXrZ4bZ3-Mi5h8EzN7f07UP9Hi0Kr9pA/s1600/Juju2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVRIhV7KrA0exJViwVB9A1CiFlVXy2HqifxMNMhyNiJHWKBzAKuYU9D1zI3crZA_tLgm36k_mrdICU7TZxDJKCEGV_xMEVWMiz60nmW2wi4xCXrZ4bZ3-Mi5h8EzN7f07UP9Hi0Kr9pA/s400/Juju2.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother. Juju. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoK0B_bBIP5av2-j5WfWOyLxStYla1hbe4vNdvt6iJ_hZI6vyi2k0rgm4iVroJFYZRl_SXBY2z9-UZosJR-gAdujLSd-NGMC0BhZjGfvu4TcwPTNoGLMkmtfCLZ-2PpKpYGrWLew_a3AU/s1600/dad+brenda+abby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoK0B_bBIP5av2-j5WfWOyLxStYla1hbe4vNdvt6iJ_hZI6vyi2k0rgm4iVroJFYZRl_SXBY2z9-UZosJR-gAdujLSd-NGMC0BhZjGfvu4TcwPTNoGLMkmtfCLZ-2PpKpYGrWLew_a3AU/s320/dad+brenda+abby.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My incredible Stepmother--Brenda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sMdNtn0I-HgMmOiX0ZLuWWVmSZy1zE6mXFoFGlPDEb8mu9OFSzEygBbAZ-j-WcUBIjVWIO2yqwHaOwCcMeEDwuuV7crouB9kFjld470MMhEw6hTOK5fA4grhITGJepSXzpo4UatfL_M/s1600/jane+and+stephanie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sMdNtn0I-HgMmOiX0ZLuWWVmSZy1zE6mXFoFGlPDEb8mu9OFSzEygBbAZ-j-WcUBIjVWIO2yqwHaOwCcMeEDwuuV7crouB9kFjld470MMhEw6hTOK5fA4grhITGJepSXzpo4UatfL_M/s320/jane+and+stephanie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strong, tenacious, and wonderful mother-in-law--Jane Rehnborg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwA5GHUCGcnrN93OENcSPdINZg7nBeBOCF3O-28Z3UK3sDy5qsufq-DtCOI0XevTxfkEBkjUFy5mvqIyGm2C7vw1Zrjhxu7w6IT_NkYPHZO7URWcWKgvL2YrLoroyoYT3ACWn0stmnL4/s1600/Peggy+and+Elizabeth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwA5GHUCGcnrN93OENcSPdINZg7nBeBOCF3O-28Z3UK3sDy5qsufq-DtCOI0XevTxfkEBkjUFy5mvqIyGm2C7vw1Zrjhxu7w6IT_NkYPHZO7URWcWKgvL2YrLoroyoYT3ACWn0stmnL4/s320/Peggy+and+Elizabeth.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my spiritual mothers--Peggy Mastin (on left)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbI6_MvjXur4l0PtMTK57LfteVwNI0xxFtmojDr1Od8LK8Q-lLZ3_FLO8kC8-_2z7sQ1VDM6h9-T4vSn68JWzp-JrFkBZZMVe1B7hyLiOiaQ-QrfqI75fqGf_dGBQ9RewOwJU7YkOcxKA/s1600/dianna+jean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbI6_MvjXur4l0PtMTK57LfteVwNI0xxFtmojDr1Od8LK8Q-lLZ3_FLO8kC8-_2z7sQ1VDM6h9-T4vSn68JWzp-JrFkBZZMVe1B7hyLiOiaQ-QrfqI75fqGf_dGBQ9RewOwJU7YkOcxKA/s320/dianna+jean.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Second Mother: Dianna Jean </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbQ1hsHyH4qkKlfNN9lknx2pnwmpO-i_2Cb1S62uPBJDEufijCpqcTtD7qcy1B-wrZ3ujy3DCIvB0Ui__fCtpawYvjspIlrDxd5v2NMO7f-ksaSo11YwpWho0DU_KnOReCfbEqlyUWbU/s1600/betty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbQ1hsHyH4qkKlfNN9lknx2pnwmpO-i_2Cb1S62uPBJDEufijCpqcTtD7qcy1B-wrZ3ujy3DCIvB0Ui__fCtpawYvjspIlrDxd5v2NMO7f-ksaSo11YwpWho0DU_KnOReCfbEqlyUWbU/s320/betty.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mother when I needed her: Betty Vaughan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PcdtquvuNmGHZdUW5m8G5FOzbsXkNhAorQRSSoPiCvC_MSgIlaxlJcDZWiSGYXe3gBp7fJRp46pSsaC9CxDGB7fC9OiK9JOa5zG4xuUprDYK7I7_bIrJBAMzT-zlQpuhTvyIVv77Pg8/s1600/katannaeandj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PcdtquvuNmGHZdUW5m8G5FOzbsXkNhAorQRSSoPiCvC_MSgIlaxlJcDZWiSGYXe3gBp7fJRp46pSsaC9CxDGB7fC9OiK9JOa5zG4xuUprDYK7I7_bIrJBAMzT-zlQpuhTvyIVv77Pg8/s320/katannaeandj.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kat, Elijah, Anna, Judah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_5KqnwblFO0cgoDu7ScEd2qP1r3RDCDZdg8V4fX8-PYGGJ3M4nSvyM21FgRzaMZaUTtwg_D4SQRxatpEDOUMR9fiVTeF_PCSKpmBUTCdYpnWHSiwhAeYXVrHwnIApBiXFIEobYGq7gc/s1600/olivias+wedding+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1k_kI82wAOXzdxD3MLJeF8CuL-7o_gtGMu2Y0hXECecrSNpGidE4x0qEMleWUdsBjR8-GmD7_BsbZZI36uOj5IaV0l7opJo_BzWi5nEviu8Cd2wsENXNyaVVas06iZyHBLSCJ5ekIPpo/s1600/hannahtatem1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1k_kI82wAOXzdxD3MLJeF8CuL-7o_gtGMu2Y0hXECecrSNpGidE4x0qEMleWUdsBjR8-GmD7_BsbZZI36uOj5IaV0l7opJo_BzWi5nEviu8Cd2wsENXNyaVVas06iZyHBLSCJ5ekIPpo/s320/hannahtatem1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My third stepdaughter--Hannah and her son Tatem</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZkV9a5Y3yg3iB2unWO0JVkB9QRtSUuSbpAk9NhIhqfrB7-KmFhYCmClQI7zZJMd_UIZGxkHqHgWhO-KxkIpYWDZeDOU5rAT3j0-X7lguQOW02kQ_anPhSj9BQ1PTCd9n6FNMcp24xJ4/s1600/all+eight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZkV9a5Y3yg3iB2unWO0JVkB9QRtSUuSbpAk9NhIhqfrB7-KmFhYCmClQI7zZJMd_UIZGxkHqHgWhO-KxkIpYWDZeDOU5rAT3j0-X7lguQOW02kQ_anPhSj9BQ1PTCd9n6FNMcp24xJ4/s400/all+eight.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All eight. Our daughters. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR62eEfwkq8nVnnD71EGrquzG9YF5OQdbU1xoNqq60Kc2iSREE6d4tLAeJbXFs1txuPRhEtnAFLI8f_UHnslEx0Z5qLRLK8r9KsrUy0DNCLlPD0qqqYVTgJNJXvo4JPppJXaEtIuN79Hg/s1600/My+Little+Women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR62eEfwkq8nVnnD71EGrquzG9YF5OQdbU1xoNqq60Kc2iSREE6d4tLAeJbXFs1txuPRhEtnAFLI8f_UHnslEx0Z5qLRLK8r9KsrUy0DNCLlPD0qqqYVTgJNJXvo4JPppJXaEtIuN79Hg/s400/My+Little+Women.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why mothering is a privilege. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-28669098312947623762016-04-01T15:51:00.001-04:002016-04-01T15:52:24.643-04:0050 Years, 5 Decades, and a Half a Century<br />
Today is <em>April Fool’s Day</em>. A day of pranks, jokes, and tricks. And I’ve always taken them all in stride, grinning big when someone said, “Today is your birthday? April Fool’s is your birthday? Well, what does that make you?” <br />
<br />
It didn’t take this day to make me a fool. I came by that moniker honest and true. Early on I lived up to the tag of my birthdate—I was a fool. Sure enough. I made sloppy mistakes, nearsighted choices, and sinful plans. A fool, I wouldn’t listen to anyone; I closed my ears and sidestepped a teachable spirit. I thought I knew all about life, everything there was to know, and I was oh, so much smarter than my mama. <br />
<br />
But fifty years has run out beneath me, seeped out in an increasing crescent. Fifty birthdays rolled right under the proverbial bridge. Five decades are behind me now, mile markers in the past—lined up like fence posts. This half century of mine barely makes a mark, a dot, on the eternal stretch of time. <br />
<br />
I’m glad that some of the typical 50th birthday gifts aren’t what greeted me today. I’m thankful I didn’t wake up to black balloons, over-the-hill-gift packages, and trifocal glasses—given as commentary on the number of years I have lived. Someone did say to me yesterday that I wasn’t allowed to cheat and put the number candles on my cake. I had to use fifty candles. All fifty. This “friend” suggested that the cake might catch fire. What an illuminating fiasco that would be!<br />
So here I sit on my porch. The wind is rustling and sweeping and pulling all the loose ends of everything. The neighbor’s wind chimes sound like a well-practiced bell choir. The bees are buzzing, but they are not content enough to light and allow me to pet their fuzzy backs (maybe in June when the weather is warmer). Henry is scuffling on the porch watching everything with a cautious eye. And Judah is napping, curled up right on the couch. <br />
<br />
And I am crying. <br />
<br />
Streams of hot, unsummoned tears running down my face. I’ll have to redo my makeup before tonight (and hope that everyone is tactful enough not to mention the swollen and puffy eyes). <br />
<br />
Fifty years. <br />
<br />
I don’t feel a day older than twenty-five. Inside my head, I’m still this young woman trying to embrace every moment of life. But what I didn’t understand at twenty-five was that I need to savor the ordinary, everyday moments--tucked away to be pondered later. Brought out like treasures from antique cedar chests.<br />
<br />
But then I look down at my hands typing on these keys. And my hands are getting older, once smooth and slender they are now road-veined. I look in the mirror, and my face isn’t exactly the right image looking back at me. Sometimes, I look at my daughters’ faces and see some of the young Tamera there. These are not sad thoughts, just observations. Matter of fact things that you just notice and move along. <br />
<br />
What have I learned in fifty years? What truths do I know that I know that I know? Not many. Certainly not as many as I did when I was twenty-five. But for whatever it’s worth I think I’ll share that which I know. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">10 Things I Know.</span> <br />
<br />
1. <strong>I’m still a fool</strong>. Yes, I am. I’m a ridiculous fool for the love of Christ. I understand my faith seems foolish to many in our culture today. But I’m not enough of a fool to believe that I could make it one day or one hour in this world without the love and grace of God. <br />
<br />
2. <strong>The older I get, the less I know</strong>, and the more I want to know. The Spirit has tendered my spirit teachable. And I want it to remain this way until I take my last breath. <br />
<br />
3. <strong>Prayer is the anchor</strong>. In many ways, we have returned to the world of Genesis 1:2—formless, empty, and dark. In prayer, I am made aware that the Spirit of God is still hovering over the face of these turbulent waters. Light will come; it is on its way. <br />
<br />
4. <strong>The deal-breakers are far and few between</strong>. Ideologies and philosophies and man-made doctrines are moot points. When the leper needed healing, Jesus didn’t cry unclean. <br />
<br />
5. <strong>God’s Word</strong> is utterly relevant even when we don’t want it to be. If prayer is the anchor, then God’s word is the boat. (All analogies fall at some point, just note my point.)<br />
<br />
6. <strong>Love is the warp and grace is the weft</strong> of these tapestry-stories we are weaving. God’s love and grace assuredly, but ours extended to others. Over and over. Seventy times seven. (Mind you this isn’t Hollywood love. Nor the romantic love of the formula-driven books we read. And this grace? Not weak tolerance or leniency or indulgence. But instead, the wild and fierce and untamable love and grace of God. )<br />
<br />
7. <strong>Kindness is more than a nice virtue;</strong> it must be rooted and established in us knowing the value of someone—of considering others better than ourselves. And that knowledge must have extension. The Proverbs 31 Woman extended her hands…<br />
<br />
8. <strong>Community is necessary</strong>. Whether we are introverted or extroverted, we need an extended family to lift us, encourage us, bolster us, prod us, challenge us, and care for us. It’s not optional.<br />
<br />
9. <strong>Invest in the character and eternalness of people</strong>. Especially those closest to you, those nearest you: your children and grandchildren. Don’t invest in material stacks and piles. Don’t spend your energy on the inanimate objects that often clutter our lives. Invest and pour blessing into people—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. And remember what you sow, you will reap.<br />
<br />
10. <strong> God is good.</strong> He is a good good Father. We may not see it. We may not understand it, but anything we have given, surrendered, offered, extended, spent, and wasted for Him will be swallowed up in his glorious redemption—to be poured back into his kingdom, to bring him glory and us purpose. <br />
<br />
That’s it. That’s all I know that I know that I know. Fifty years of learning, trial and error, to get me to this point. But I <strong><em>know </em></strong>these things. <br />
<br />
And one more thing…I don’t want to squander anything I have left. I want the last part of my life to produce more fruit than even the first two-thirds. Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-56225650768794569742016-02-04T09:15:00.001-05:002016-02-04T09:15:15.154-05:00White Noise
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Recently, my
high school writing class and I met at a local coffee shop. I gave them a
writing prompt. I mean it is almost cliché to sit and write in a local coffee
shop, right? And you are in some famous company if you do: Rowling, Rankin,
Fitzgerald, McCall Smith, and many others have strung words together while
sipping coffee or some other form of liquid fortifier. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>What was the
prompt? The jump start words to prime the proverbial well? <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Two words. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>White noise.
<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_Rwpdwk11J_eKAPvn6AZWzNqiRPtwy24K5C8JdIIbKTDyBraVRe1NUObSJk_KnpxyUTAjjKBpw4xqpGilwi-NGUbLXCQBbbWqlgM7lSS2sT_SxcCHDiU9bMBTq3QuTGA0gKBeuqhb6k/s1600/800px-White_noise.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_Rwpdwk11J_eKAPvn6AZWzNqiRPtwy24K5C8JdIIbKTDyBraVRe1NUObSJk_KnpxyUTAjjKBpw4xqpGilwi-NGUbLXCQBbbWqlgM7lSS2sT_SxcCHDiU9bMBTq3QuTGA0gKBeuqhb6k/s400/800px-White_noise.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White.noise.png">https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White.noise.png</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>In the dim
light of the coffee house conference room, light streamed in through the
seven-foot windows, and the muffled noises from the street and downstairs
wafted up to us, I asked my students to identify the white noise of their
lives. A few of them looked at me puzzled. Some looked past me with a blank
stare as if I had just spoken Russian on a Japanese subway. Some met my gaze,
and the light bulb glimmered like a compact fluorescent—slow and low, and then
bright. A couple lit immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
<em>
</em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>I watched as
they scratched their words on the paper, hesitating, erasing, and pausing. Some
of their answers surprised me. As I quietly meandered around their chairs, I
considered the white noise in my life. And I asked myself the question I asked
my students.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is the
white noise in my life right now? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is the
static that crackles just under the surface? What is the hum of the underlying
current? What is the consistent tone or pattern I hear layered just under
everything else? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A friend of
mine asked me to consider 2015: the highs and the lows and the shallows and the
depths. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The summit
places have been broad and open and full of light, places of indescribable
joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In March, my grandson arrived. I
held Atlas in my arms, the five percent miracle of him, and joy swelled in me
in proportions uncontainable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">August
marked the release of my first book, <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Growing-Room-Life-Tight-Places/dp/1490885293/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1454594245&sr=8-2&keywords=growing+room" target="_blank">Growing Room</a></em>. The publisher sent the first
copy off the press to me. My husband and I stood in the break room at work and
opened the box. The joyful rush and exhilaration of holding my book in my hand
were surreal. I pressed my head into his chest and wept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In September, I experienced my first book
signing, and another type of joy pushed into me, pressed in leaving embossed
indentations on my spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">These
wonderful events produced definitive heights—experiences much like the ridges
on the roads in the hills when I visit my dad. And for much of 2015 I rode on
these high places. Drove them. Maneuvered them. Navigated them. I’m grateful I
didn’t see the ninety-degree bend in the road that was coming. I’m thankful I
didn’t see the drop-off and the crumble of the pavement. I’m blessed that God
does not reveal the future to us; he did not show me the wreckage in the
distance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In October,
Steve and I took a sabbatical weekend and drove to Gatlinburg, TN. In the early
hours of the third day of our trip, my phone rang waking me from a deep sleep.
I know the phone rang two different times because later I would check my
records, but it was the second call that broke through my sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The story of
that few minutes of eternity is for another time, but my brother was dead,
killed in an accident on an interstate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The descent
from the heights of the joy ridge began, and the white noise commenced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I viewed
the residual fall out of my brother’s death, white noise infiltrated my thought
processes, inserted itself into the routine of my life, and became the
underlying discordant hum I couldn’t quite decipher. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last week I
stayed home from church. The inner chaos and white noise were taking their toll
on me. I keyed up a worship playlist on my computer and cleaned house with a
focused vengeance. At last worn out, I sat down on the couch and the white
noise increased to deafening levels. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyone who
knows me or has read my blog or book understands I am a crier. I cry, and I cry
some more. But since my brother’s death, I have lived the last three and half
months dry-eyed. The white noise clogged my tear ducts, dam tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat in my
living room curled up on the couch, and the white noise pushed against my ears
and eyelids. Strangled cries and choking sobs broke through my throat. I tried
to stop them, futile efforts. Finally, I wept for my brother and for the
wreckage his death left behind—for the situations and people I can’t fix or
help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I finally
wept for me. And I called things what they are. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Grief.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Grief and
depression.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I heard the
static of each of them humming under the surface; </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I identified
my white noise. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now
begins the work of turning down the volume of this white noise named <em>Grief</em>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friends, I
know many of you are struggling with white noise in your life. Some of you (of
us) are living with a deafening roar in your ear, a ringing that just won’t
stop. The hum is so familiar that you selectively don’t acknowledge it anymore,
but it is taking its toll. Perhaps your white noise is grief, fear, anxiety,
infertility, loneliness, anger, isolation, cancer, brokenness, resentment,
addiction, depression, abuse, busyness, rejection, lethargy, or emptiness.
Maybe, you can’t seem to identify it at all; you just know that you are going
to go deaf. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friends, don’t
go deaf. Ask the Spirit to identify your white noise, to name it, and to show
you how to decrease its volume. Identification and recognition are the first
steps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Take the
first steps. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-85965460996615476552015-11-16T09:10:00.000-05:002015-11-16T09:10:45.507-05:00One Month<br />It’s been a month since I got the 3:38 am the phone call. A phone call that shifted the terrain of our family. In the first seven days I functioned automatically, shifted into a place of doing what needed to be done, the shepherding mode. Take care of the sheep. <em>Take care of the sheep</em>. My goal was to take care of everyone—my mother, my step-father, my daughters, my niece and nephew, step-sisters and step-brother, and my brother’s two best friends.<br />
<br />
My grief was and is real, but I relegated it to a compartment I wasn’t ready to open. I folded my grief and laid it in a box, thinking I would take it out and examine it later. I grieved during those first seven days, but through a fog, a numb stupor. Other people’s pain registered more strongly than my own. <br />
<br />But grief is a strong entity. Physical and tangible. Persistent and invasive. And it ambushes you. This thought did not originate with me, but someone said this during my brother’s funeral week. What a keen insight, what verb-age to apply to grief. <br />
<br /><strong>Ambushed</strong>. <br />
<br />I would think after being ambushed several times one would begin to get a sense of the patterns and triggers. But no, I was caught off guard more than once. <br />
<br />A video (posted at the end) was playing during visitation and right before the funeral. In the footage Courtney encouraged his baby son to walk. <br />
<br />“Come on. Come on.” <br />
<br />I stood with my back to my brother’s casket, placing an armload of stuffed animals on the floor to get them out of the way. I knew where I was. I knew what was going on. In less than ten minutes, my brother’s funeral would begin. I was straightening. Preparing. Cleaning. I was trying to keep busy. Trying to focus on activity, remaining in motion. Somehow I knew that if the motion ceased, I would collapse inwardly. <br />
<br />And then I heard my brother’s voice. <br />
<br />“Come on. Come on.” <br />
<br />And I turned to find him, whipped around to look behind me to see where he was. My mind understood where I was and what was about to happen, what <strong>had</strong> happened, but Courtney’s voice pierced through the numbness, and I looked to find him. The hearing and looking were the triggers. Before I knew it, a sob pushed up and through and out of my throat. I remember putting my hand over my mouth to catch the sound, but it escaped through the spaces between my fingers. My face was already wet with tears. I turned and stumbled away, not even knowing what direction I headed. <br />
<br />I watched grief ambush the people Courtney loved. Over and over. And I was helpless and powerless to warn them. To stop it. <br />
<br />A month has passed. Everyone is still hurting and grieving in such different ways.<em> Each of us broken or cracked at a different angle and severity</em>, our own unique fractured webs. <br />
<br />Slowly, I am reentering the mainstream of living. There is still a numbness that I don't quite comprehend—just this small vacuum of space that I don't know how to navigate. This past week I realized with this foggy vagueness that something in me was anticipating my weekly text and pictures from Courtney. And I am still in the midst of trying to know and discern how to help my family navigate this nightmare.<br />
<br />My daily life has not been avalanched or earthquaked like my brother’s two best friends (Christian and Steven) or my mom and stepfather. I experience the aftershocks, the wakes of their grief combine with my own. I am trying to reenter the mainstream, but it is like merging back into high-speed interstate traffic. I keep feeling the whoosh of air fly by me as the cars just speed along in life.<br />All my dear friends encourage me to take the time to grieve, to allow myself space, and to give myself permission to grieve. <br />
<br />One of my brother’s best friends said something this week that I have been holding. <br />
<br /><strong>“He’s [Courtney] in the back of my mind constant. But that’s not new for me, what’s new for me is I’m not in the back of his mind. We’ve always thought of each other in a lot of things, things only we shared. But most people are already tired of hearing about him</strong>.”<br />
<br />Most people are already tired of hearing about him. Perhaps this is true. I catch myself holding thoughts in, holding emotions close, belting reactions, and closing my mouth before words escape. Only late at night when the house is dark or in the early light of the morning do the tears come, running hot and quick down my face. They waylay me and take me unaware. The tears and sorrow are held in a deep reservoir waiting for a crack to open. <br />
<br />And I am thankful for the cracks, for the fissures. For the seepage of the weeping. The tears coat the jagged edges of pain. The release of them keeps me from cracking internally. <br />
<br />I think of Jesus. <br />
<br />He is the <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Hebrews+1:3&version=NIV" target="_blank">exact representation</a> of the Father. He is <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=colossians+1%3A15&version=NIV" target="_blank">the image of the invisible God</a>. <br />
<br />
Jesus stood at the<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John+11:38&version=NIV" target="_blank"> tomb</a> of Lazarus, his friend, and his heart brother. And he wept. He didn’t just cry ceremonial, obligatory tears. No, he cried. Jesus wept because death wasn’t a part of the original plan. It wasn’t an element in the original storyline. It wasn’t’ the Father’s intention. And Jesus stood at the brink and edge of sorrow and loss and pain. He didn’t shirk. He didn’t stoically hold it all in because God would make all things work together for the good. No, he wept for Lazarus, for Martha and Mary, and he wept for us. He stood at the cavern of death and wept for all of us. <br />
<br />And then he said to Lazarus, “Come out.” <br />
<br /><em>Come on, Lazarus</em>. <br />
<br />I believe he said this to Courtney. <br />
<br /><em>Come on. Come on</em>. <br />
<br />Someday Jesus will say it to me. <br />
<br />And someday he will say it to you. <br />
<br />And when he does <em>death shall be no more, neither shall there be <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Revelation+21%3A1-4&version=NIV" target="_blank">mourning</a>, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.</em> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGpuGs-5NtFe6Y-OzG00zuPUPezfh1b5fBiwWE57Dc7AtWs_iYvsppJ7iwy9zO4J2CDREdTgw_aP5b9bMYT0poOUbq6XbIMqHH6PMwGw2bB4PZqHv70OXMX4X2TPrnKmx04C8x7iM0cU/s1600/4677.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGpuGs-5NtFe6Y-OzG00zuPUPezfh1b5fBiwWE57Dc7AtWs_iYvsppJ7iwy9zO4J2CDREdTgw_aP5b9bMYT0poOUbq6XbIMqHH6PMwGw2bB4PZqHv70OXMX4X2TPrnKmx04C8x7iM0cU/s400/4677.jpeg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtney and Aiden</td></tr>
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-60578510882248356822015-10-15T08:21:00.000-04:002015-10-15T08:21:36.975-04:00Mr. Mohr, Chocolate, Sarge, and Ms. Inga<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Ingeborg Hoffmann</strong> (Her mama made sure Inga always put the second “n” on her last name; she assured her that it made a difference) was born in Faurndau (Swabia) in 1938. Ingeborg, red-headed and strong-tempered, persistently and constantly asked a litany of questions much to her mother’s annoyance. The 1940’s version of time-out was to be sent to your room; Ms. Inga spent a lot of time in her room. </em><br />
<br /><em>Even now when Ms. Inga talks to me, I hear her voice, riveted in places with remnants of her native German. I see this sepia photograph in my mind of this auburn-haired little girl stamping her feet before her brothers (she followed them everywhere), her hands on her hips, brown eyes flashing. Ms. Inga assures me that this redheaded trait got her into trouble more often than not. But this precocious child surely made an impression on an American soldier.</em> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvFvi0cQ349t4hlcaUNVZ_fsJkxDaORjsimwmjpFZrPlnyh20XgYhG9b-pVTAX27B7IMt02yy6KTxef7iRHFfQcsZXKX39CTndIDfLoBfKSUa2TQTQ-xETVivyp0mzuE52Lq8psiD-QY/s1600/OldMsInga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvFvi0cQ349t4hlcaUNVZ_fsJkxDaORjsimwmjpFZrPlnyh20XgYhG9b-pVTAX27B7IMt02yy6KTxef7iRHFfQcsZXKX39CTndIDfLoBfKSUa2TQTQ-xETVivyp0mzuE52Lq8psiD-QY/s400/OldMsInga.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thirteen year old Ms. Inga on left with her younger sister on right. <br />
The little girl in the middle was an American child the sisters babysat. </td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
Sarge<br />
<br />By Ingeborg LaBella<br />
<br />
<br />
Early one morning my brother Hans woke me up. He wanted me to listen to the noise outside our house. What is it? I asked him. <br />
<br />He said, “Come and look out my window, and you will see.” As I looked out the window, on the street were the biggest trucks we had ever seen. The fumes they expelled were awful. Once they shut their motors off, the noise and fumes subsided. <br />
<br />Many of the soldiers sat on the sidewalk, but some of them laid on the sidewalk. My brother explained to me that they drove all night long to reach their destination.<br />
<br />“What is the destination?” I asked him. <br />
<br />“A town or city, just a place,” He answered. <br />
<br />I didn’t know why the soldiers were in our little town. I hurried back upstairs and got dressed. I tried to comb my curly hair the best way I could. <br />
<br />Some of my friends were there, and made fun of the black soldiers, but the men just ignored them. Out of the first truck came the biggest black man I had ever seen. Most of the children ran away to hide; we had never seen a black man before. All I could do was stare at him. He spoke, and I was very surprised. He spoke almost perfect German. <br />
<br />I had a picture book that I got from my Aunt Martha (my mother’s younger sister). I couldn’t read yet, but I looked at the pages of pictures of Africa. The title of the book was <em>Der Schowarze Mohr</em> (The Black Mohr). I thought Sarge looked like the men in the pictures. <br />
<br />“<em>Habekeine angst</em>,” He told us don’t be afraid. He assured us that he and the soldiers would not harm us. <br />
<br />My brother Hans stepped forward and asked, “Are you the Americans? How come you speak German?” <br />
<br />Of course, I was in the front, and the Sarge asked me in German what my name was. I told him my name was <em>Ingeborg</em>. He picked me up and smiled at me. I noticed his big white teeth and his big lips.<br />
<br />“That is a beautiful name, but much too long for a such a little girl like you. I will call you <em>Inga</em>, that’s the right name for you. Do you like it? ”<br />
<br />I told him, “I don’t know, I will have to ask my mother.” <br />
<br />My mother came out of the house with a basket of clothes she just washed. She saw us, and, of course, she was curious about what was going on. He told her my new name was <em>Inga</em>. She wasn’t mad or anything, and she even shook Sarge’s hand.<br />
<br />My mother told us to go and play in the yard, and she and the soldier talked for a very long time. Later I learned she asked Sarge where he learned to speak German. He told my mother he had to learn German because he was a scout. He and the rest of his platoon were always the first soldiers to occupy the towns or cities. The soldiers were given instructions to talk to the children in the villages first. They considered this the best way to find out the local news. Children don’t lie; they are brutally honest. My mother was not sure if she could believe him or not. But she told us that we didn’t have to be afraid him. <br />
<br />Later on the street Sarge pulled something out of his jacket pocket, and he explained that it was <em>schokolade</em> (chocolate). He offered it to us. None of us had ever tasted it before, and we were hesitant and wary. <br />
<br />He looked at me and said, “You look like a brave girl, here put this little piece in your mouth and let it melt slowly.” Several of the kids shouted that it was poison, and they didn’t want anyone to die. But Sarge laughed and assured me that we would not die. He broke a piece off and let it melt in his mouth and told us how good it tasted. I stepped toward him and took the piece he offered me. It was just the best thing I ever ate. I whispered to him that this <em>schokolade</em> was good. He told us that he would still be here tomorrow. <br />
<br />I said, “<em>Gute Nacht, Herr Mohr</em>.”<br />
<br />“The same to you, Redhead,” He replied. <br />
<br />I was awake most of the night. When I got up the next day, I had to eat oatmeal and half of an apple before I could go downstairs. Outside at last Sarge offered us another surprise: a few pieces of chewing gum. The others were still a little afraid to take it, but I went first. He told me I could chew on it as long as I wanted, then spit it out. <br />
<br />He said, “Don’t swallow it, Inga, it will get stuck in your throat.” <br />
<br />Sarge asked me if he could swing on my swing. I told him he was much too big for my swing. <br />
<br />“I will be careful, and if I break your swing, you will get a new one, but I will keep all the apples that fall from the tree.”<br />
<br />Well, the apples fell from the tree, and Sarge was lying on the ground holding a part of my swing in his big hand. I cried, and he laughed. I told him that he couldn’t call me Inga anymore. He teased me, “Can I call you Redhead?” <br />
<br />“Nein. What about my swing?” I asked. <br />
<br />“It will be there, don’t you worry. Just wait and see.” <br />
<br />He explained that he and the other soldiers had to move along and that he would see me tomorrow and say goodbye. <br />
<br />I cried myself to sleep that night. In the early morning hours, I heard the motors of the big trucks start. I hurried downstairs and outside; I wanted to say <em>aufwiedersehn</em> (goodbye). <br />
<br />I sat on the sidewalk for a long time until someone woke up in the truck. Several soldiers slept in the back. Sarge came out and told me they were getting ready to leave soon. I told him about my book and that I had decided his name was <em>Mr. Mohr</em>. He laughed and told me to call him <em>Sarge</em>. I asked Sarge if I would ever see him again. <br />
<br />“Maybe,” He said. <br />
<br />He pulled his wallet out and showed me a picture of his wife and two little girls. He told me that they lived far away in America, not in Africa. I was confused. He asked me if I would like to blow the horn on the truck, but he had to help me because my hands were too small and not strong enough. <br />
<br />Then he asked me if I wanted to take a look at the apple tree. I was so surprised! There on my apple tree was a new swing. The other soldiers helped Sarge make it.<br />
<br />Sarge told me it was now time for him to leave, and asked if he could give me a hug. I told him it was ok, but that I hoped I wouldn’t get black like him. He laughed. “I will miss you, Inga.” He hugged me and then got into his truck. <br />
<br />“<em>Aufwiedersehn</em>,” he yelled and waved at me from the window. I shouted for him to come back again.<br />
<br />
I don’t know if he could hear me anymore because of the noise of the trucks. I waved goodbye.<br />
<br />
<em>Ms. Inga never saw Sarge again. But I have a few questions to ponder. When Sarge returned to America and to his family, I wonder if he sat his two little girls on his knee and told them about the brave little German girl. Was there a time he considered returning to the village to see the bold red-headed girl? Did he talk to his wife about the little girl’s innocence and forthrightness? About her candor and honesty? When Sarge unwrapped a chocolate bar or bit into an apple did he think about the little girl he nicknamed Inga? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>One thing we know for sure, his nickname for her remains; we still call her Inga.</em> <br />
<br />
<br />
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-17784288244863096172015-10-12T07:49:00.000-04:002015-10-12T10:14:29.362-04:00Helga, Sarge, and Ms. Inga (Guest Blogger)<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In July, <a href="http://www.westbowpress.com/" target="_blank">WestBow Press</a> published my first book. Many people,
including the publisher, likened this event to a birth. At first, I thought this
comparison far too epic, but as each step in the process came to fruition, I
embraced this metaphor. I fretted
over every sentence, worried about mistakes and typos (and there are still many
of them in the book). <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1490885293?keywords=growing%20room&qid=1444648374&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Growing Room</a> survived the first
publisher’s edit mostly intact. Honestly, I
couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t quite focus. My disconnected thoughts
bordered on elation and panic. This book I wrote might well be a failure—but
WestBow published <em>Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places</em>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since <em>Growing Room</em> went live in July 2015, there’s been a
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uanAZ_c2gw4" target="_blank">video release</a>, Facebook contests, text messages, and newspaper articles. I’ve
heard from readers through Facebook messages, phone calls, and face to face
conversations. My Church Body prayed over the book and me, and in September I
experienced my first book signing. My own. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But God’s orchestration and plans are far above and beyond
ours. In <em>Growing Room</em>, in the opening chapter I declare that God is ahead of us
always. He. Is. Always. Ahead. Even now this unfolding causes me to catch my
breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In early August <em>The Winchester Sun</em>, our newspaper, ran a
<a href="http://www.centralkynews.com/winchestersun/news/local/blog-turned-book-is-dream-come-true-for-local-writer/image_6fabc5df-0624-5c10-9c50-66de76a1f01d.html" target="_blank">local interest article</a> about <em>Growing Room</em> and me. The story made the front page
and had the hometown-girl-makes-big feeling. I read it and tucked it away, not
because it wasn’t important, but because I didn’t want it to be. <em>Growing Room</em>
is not a best seller or great American classic writing, but all the words and
the lessons recorded in it have shaped me. Through the experiences written in
it God revealed to me his sweet, beautiful, and powerful grace. Quite often I stand
in the throne room, with a little moxie and chutzpah, praying for this book to
bear fruit that will last for his glory. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And when you ask the Father for <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+7:9&version=NIV" target="_blank">bread</a> on your plate he
doesn’t give you stones. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One day after the newspaper article printed I was at work.
It was a Thursday night, rainy and storming. I heard a patron ask my daughter
an odd question: Did we have any resources available to help her convert her
manuscript to a typed document? My daughter referred her to our reference
department. A few minutes later one of our reference librarians came and asked
me if I could come and talk to the patron at her desk. Jennifer explained that
this patron would like to meet me because she read the newspaper article.
Jennifer introduced me to Ms. Inga LaBella. And my life hasn’t been the same
since. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ms. Inga started at the beginning. A friend of Inga’s called
and asked her if she had seen the newspaper from a few days ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, Will, I haven’t,” said Ms. Inga.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, Inga, you need to find you one right now. Monday’s
paper,” he encouraged. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ms. Inga went to a neighbor’s house and found the Monday
edition of the paper. Three days later she and I sat at the reference desk
sharing stories. Mostly I listened to her, enthralled. She has a story to tell, many stories. When she read of my journey to share mine, she embraced the
courage to find a means to tell hers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ms. Inga needs to write a book, and we are working to make
that happen, but in the meantime I invited her to share some of her story here
on <em>The Chambered Nautilus</em> as a guest blogger. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ms. Inga’s stories are memories from Germany during WWII. In
the early 1940’s Inga was a little girl with red curls and dark brown eyes and
a strong will. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_MFJS-9gMmnQomMWu-sn5A2dOxAeQAbPfd6ZOwwXb938A-JT4OPS0QfRY_aqeaQFWX5t0ius9AJPTdt-IOwtVXt8hvnrwHUhNBBEZfDiydBdnQnMDRZt9C_7VqdX4XJQeWYwkrBM570/s1600/MsInga1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_MFJS-9gMmnQomMWu-sn5A2dOxAeQAbPfd6ZOwwXb938A-JT4OPS0QfRY_aqeaQFWX5t0ius9AJPTdt-IOwtVXt8hvnrwHUhNBBEZfDiydBdnQnMDRZt9C_7VqdX4XJQeWYwkrBM570/s400/MsInga1a.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ms. Inga today. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7D0dDVgw7eBn-AXPe27yZCgw2CWDn7aL6PpjNA-YpMztkyGO97qSvpAg8ufxBaMC91Fop4TXd0HW_88ffoEMn7ta6N2mPspnz4yiyBofPBcA_XbgoAWHFR-TMXRrctx8G1Eo29e41O4/s1600/MsInga2a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7D0dDVgw7eBn-AXPe27yZCgw2CWDn7aL6PpjNA-YpMztkyGO97qSvpAg8ufxBaMC91Fop4TXd0HW_88ffoEMn7ta6N2mPspnz4yiyBofPBcA_XbgoAWHFR-TMXRrctx8G1Eo29e41O4/s400/MsInga2a.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ms. Inga in 1941-42</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She lived in a small German village and remembers events and
people that most of us only read about in books. Inga watched American soldiers
drive tanks down streets far too small—the sidewalks widening the road. Inga
watched her father nail a picture of Hitler on the wall of their small home.
She witnessed the SS (<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.britannica.com/topic/SS" target="_blank">Schutzstaffel</a></span><em><strong>)</strong></em></span> when they pushed through front doors and into their home,
waiting for the Hoffmann family to salute the Fuhrer’s image. Inga heard the
staccato barks of the soldiers commanding her mother to salute. The stern
soldiers shouted, and their dogs intimidated Inga too, but her little
four-year-old-self refused. The SS left her home, the German shepherd trailing
slightly behind, licking Ms. Inga’s hand as it passed through the front
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These stories drew me. Ms. Inga, her accent, and her still
red hair delighted me. I thanked God for her and this incredible opportunity. I
meet with Ms. Inga almost every week now. On Thursdays, I drive to her house
and sit at her kitchen table or on her deck and listen as she recounts
experiences and people and events. Sometimes I take notes, abbreviated words
and scrawled writing, so I don’t miss or leave out a detail. I laugh because Ms.
Inga has a snap-sharp wit, impeccable timing, and the punch and point of her
story come naturally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look forward to Thursdays.
I think you would too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ms. Inga has written her stories down in a cloth bound journal, printed in clear, distinct, and purposed handwriting. She gave me
permission to post them here. This connection with Ms. Inga is fruit, the very fruit of my prayers. I praise and thank the Good Father; there are no stones on my plate. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOprvj_037tGNx8mwwBbukRUpM9kOsTCr0bCricgHFhaxedjLfKfBjT0yEmyi9Qj7twH8NsXYcIK7LDQxHYAgDHEaM2WFEFO14gHsrIWmHw_uRgzuYdnTXifM-9d8Z65axK3QVxpWrs4/s1600/MsIngasjournal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOprvj_037tGNx8mwwBbukRUpM9kOsTCr0bCricgHFhaxedjLfKfBjT0yEmyi9Qj7twH8NsXYcIK7LDQxHYAgDHEaM2WFEFO14gHsrIWmHw_uRgzuYdnTXifM-9d8Z65axK3QVxpWrs4/s400/MsIngasjournal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ms. Inga's handwritten journal. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is Ms. Inga's story of Helga. </span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>Helga</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>My Best and First Friend</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p>By Ingeborg LaBella</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We both were the same age, born in the same month (July). We
always pretended we were sisters. She had blonde hair and the bluest eyes—the
color of the flower (forget-me-not). They grew wild in the fields, and as we
got older, we picked them for our mothers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We would sit on my swing for hours, made up stories and even
a few songs, and then we would dance like butterflies. On rainy days we
played—one day in my house, one day in her house—usually we played school. We
took turns on who was the Teacher. We knew the alphabet real well, and we could
count to one hundred. Our ragdolls and one Teddy Bear were our students, bur
after a while we got tired. We looked outside my window and tried to count the
raindrops, after a while we laid on my bed and took a long-long nap. For
Sundays, we picked daisies and made a wreath to put on our heads. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were not allowed to talk in church. I was fascinated by
the Virgin Mary, and so was Helga. At the end of church when the minister and
all the people left the church we hurried to the Virgin Mary and laid our
wreaths at her feet. One Sunday the minister said, “Mary said, ‘thank you’ to
the two little girls who put the wreaths by her feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Helga whispered maybe we can’t ever go to Church again, but
he smiled at us and said, “The angels are smiling at the two of you.” We both
hugged, and I told Helga that we will be sisters forever. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cherries were almost ready to be picked off the trees.
Helga and I thought that maybe we can reach one or two if we can pull on the
branch. We finally got one. I told Helga this one was hers. Suddenly I heard
her scream. I saw some blood run down her chin, and she spit her bottom tooth
out. Suddenly she stopped crying and reminded me that I did not eat my cherry
yet. I ate it very careful and did not lose a tooth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s not fair,” she said and went home. Every evening I
laid on my bed twisting on one of my bottom teeth. It took almost two weeks
before the tooth finally fell out. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother said, “How come you are so happy because you lost
your tooth.” I told her that Helga lost hers, and I felt bad for her, and now
she will be happy again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother asked, “If she breaks her arm or leg, will you
break yours too?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I said, “Of course not, but I will take care of her until
she is better again.” My mother gave me a big hug and said, “You would be a
good nurse just like your Aunt Martha.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never knew Helga’s last name, and I wonder if she she
knew mine. We didn’t care, and we didn’t know our last names meant life or
death for all of us. One day a young boy carried a black bucket and broom
between two German soldiers, and he had to paint a cross on some doors. They
painted one on Helga’s door, and we didn’t know why. We thought maybe we could
wash it off when they left our street. We tried, but it didn’t work. Helga
wondered why they didn’t paint a cross on our door. I decided to ask my mother what the black marks meant,
but she didn’t know either. She told us not to worry, but I could tell she was
upset. She told me it wasn’t the time to ask her questions (I asked lots of
questions). My mother told me I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play for a
while, and that I must listen. My feelings were hurt, and I sat on my bed and
cried and cried. Finally, my brother Hans came home, and I told him the whole
story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He said something bad was going to happen; he didn’t know
when, but it would be soon. I wasn’t for sure, but I think he mentioned the
Jews. I wished I knew about the Jews; I didn’t know who they were. Were they
dangerous? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>During our Thursday mornings together Ms. Inga and I talked
about Helga. These two girls were inseparable. One morning after the event
mentioned above Helga came to Inga’s house early, and they snuck outside to
play. Inga and Helga heard that the SS had gathered people in the town square.
Sometimes little girls do not do what their mothers tell them, and Helga and
Inga slipped away from the yard. Their curiosity drew them to the town square
where they saw many of their neighbors and friends lined against the wall of the
building, and the SS shouting. The little girls hid lifting their eyes enough
to see what was happening. Shots were fired, and the little girls ran back to
Inga’s house. <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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</em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>The next day Helga did not come to play, and Inga’s mother
did not allow her to go outside. Helga did not come the next day. Or the next.
Or the next. Heartbroken, Inga kept asking why. She never saw her friend again. Later Inga
learned Helga’s family was Jewish. Inga could only assume that Helga and her
family did not escape the war.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Next post tells the story of Ms. Inga's friend Sarge, a black American soldier who visited her village. </em></span>Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-11054814247969478862015-10-05T08:04:00.000-04:002015-10-05T08:04:06.141-04:00Dancing Lessons
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_y-_vS5-TVu8WKdPaDjDfL_R54aegKEOmS7ZUVxgTlGLvD2RJHoXBnU-jwHNITXHa5dEyUM6gymFXeJVTLwfnBB6c25lwz86z09xdnyQzx06H2l_0aQ8xYI1CBslogNzk96UIivjFcU/s1600/wedding+dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_y-_vS5-TVu8WKdPaDjDfL_R54aegKEOmS7ZUVxgTlGLvD2RJHoXBnU-jwHNITXHa5dEyUM6gymFXeJVTLwfnBB6c25lwz86z09xdnyQzx06H2l_0aQ8xYI1CBslogNzk96UIivjFcU/s400/wedding+dance.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Wedding Day Dance</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Years ago for Christmas my daughters gave my husband and me
dancing lessons. Four lessons at a professional dance studio. Four appointments
with a private dance instructor to learn to the rumba, the waltz, and the
cha-cha. We were a little stunned, but we decided to give it a whirl. What
could we lose? Maybe it would be fun; certainly, the participation in the
classes held a romantic aura.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each week we donned fancy clothes and went on our dancing
date. Newly engaged we were in the midst of the I’m-learning-even-more-about-you-stage.
Steve walked over to my house and out to his car, opened the car door for me
(he still does, always). I scooted into the car with weak knees and
butterflies. What was the root of these flutterings? Nervousness about dancing?
Or because of the striking handsomeness of the man of mine? These dance dates
proved to be awkward and challenging. Our self-consciousness raised to new
levels. Certainly there was something incredibly romantic about those nights in
that studio. Being held in his arms and looking up into his face seemed to be
movie material—but we discovered (or admitted) that we both had two left feet. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When envisioning the lessons, I saw us gliding gracefully
across the floor. Every movement choreographed together, synched. As close as
we were and are I thought we would anticipate each other’s movements. I thought
I would be able to follow his lead. What a picture we would make, I
dreamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This dream was far from the reality of the situation. We
were awkward and disconnected. Stiff and tight. The rhythm of the dances didn’t
come naturally to us. We were too busy counting and trying to remember the next
set of steps. I’m not sure who was more uncomfortable? Steve or me? Our
instructors were patient, tolerant. But their eyes spoke volumes: This couple
is hopeless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew it too, but at the
end of our gift package, we decided to sign up for four more lessons, not
because we thought we could dance. Not because we were determined to be great
dancers. No. We signed up because we were learning something hard together—a
built-in weekly date that forced us beyond our comfort zones and into trusting
each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The waltz came the easiest, though far from elegant. We
didn’t know how to guide our feet on the floor or how to keep our eyes pivoted
away from our feet. We had no innate rhythm. The instructors kept encouraging
us to raise our chins and look at each other. And for a few moments when we
followed these instructions we danced. Briefly. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m sure the instructors felt a bit awkward themselves.
Steve and I couldn’t dance, but we were in love. Written all over us was this
“I’m crazy about him stare, and this I can’t look at her enough gleam.” And we
did not bother to hide it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anything
we reveled in it, and the instructors had front row seats. Thankfully, they
often turned their heads and allowed us our private moments. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of the second set of sessions, we discussed the
option of investing in more lessons. We laughed and decided to invest our money
elsewhere. We opted out of the sales pitch, and the somewhat insincere “but you
are doing so well”. We knew better. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This week I thought about the value of those lessons. Those
eight lessons solidified something in us that had nothing to do with dancing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These lessons taught us to ask questions and evaluate. How
would we interact and respond and react to the difficult and uncomfortable
places in life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What choices would we
make when we just couldn’t get it right? How would we handle the reality that
there would be situations when we both would have two left feet? What would we
do when we couldn’t find the why or the how? What would we do when we stepped
on each other’s toes or missed steps or moved in the wrong direction? These
lessons helped set a precedent for what would we do, as a couple, with the
challenges in life.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We still dance. At the weddings and chaperoning school
dances and in our kitchen. We still have two left feet. We don’t remember any
of the steps of choreography. But what we learned and still know is how to keep
looking at each other. To lift our eyes away from our feet and look at each
other, through love rather than perfection and expectation. In those dance
classes, we learned that even with two left feet we danced well with each
other. We met and meet challenges together. My hand in his, his hand on the
small of my back, leading me even when I am moving backward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After we had married, long after the lessons were over, we
were in Wal-mart. In the middle of the household department, Steve caught me up
in his arms and pulled me close. We danced—swaying and laughing and gazing at
each other. We didn’t care about steps or choreography or who was watching. We
danced in and because of joy. Silly wonderful delight. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">More often than not we dance through life with two left
feet—a weakness and limitation that makes the tricky combinations quite
difficult. But our Father knows our frames. He knows about our two left feet,
our lack of rhythm, and our awkward lilt. But when we dance in spite of being
uncomfortable and self-conscious, he is delighted. Laughs right with us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friends, dance. Lay down the self-conscious censoring. Put
aside the unreasonable expectations. Give over the hobbling limitations.
Seriously. Just put your hand in the Father’s, look into his face and dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-43818356762876656352015-09-21T09:59:00.001-04:002015-09-21T09:59:24.968-04:00Ripples<br />
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+1%3A9&version=NIV" target="_blank">Mark 1:9</a><br />
<br />
In the streets or the synagogue of Nazareth, the news of John’s message of repentance reached the ears of Jesus. The emergence of this voice in the wilderness was Jesus’ trumpet call—the <em>shofar </em>of the Lord—to enter the last season of his ministry and time among us. Yes, the <em>last </em>of his ministry. <br />
<br />Surely the gospel years were not Jesus’ only ministry. He ministered before. The three years recorded in the gospels were the fruition of the previous thirty years. Scripture tells us Jesus <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+2:52&version=NIV" target="_blank">grew</a> in wisdom and stature. In those years all the wonderful things we see in Jesus developed. The patience. The wisdom. The understanding. The discernment. The compassion. The insight. When he stepped into public ministry, by the avenue of association and baptism, then came the power and authority. Jesus allowed his Father to do his work in him. <br />
<br />But when Jesus got wind of John's voice he packed up his belongings (what little he had) and kissed his mama goodbye. We don’t know if Jesus traveled alone, or how far he traveled, or if he sent a message to his cousin that he was on his way. Regardless he left Nazareth. He left Galilee. Jesus leaves home, the place he grew into a man. <br />
<br />He left his places of routine, comfort, and familiarity. <br />
<br />Jesus came to John. He walked into the river water. John looked up and recognized Mary’s son. John knew the stories: this cousin caused him to leap in his mama’s womb. Once again John's spirit leaped. He knew this man, and he argued with him. <br />
<br />“Baptized me, John,” Jesus spoke with John’s gaze riveted to his. <br />
<br />“No, Jesus. It is you who should baptize me.” John confessed and dropped his head. <br />
<br />“John.” John looks up into the face of Jesus.<br />
<br />“Baptize me so that all righteousness is fulfilled,” Jesus explained. <br />
<br />John laid his cousin back, buried him in the dark waters of the river. Eddies swirled around and over them both. Jesus came up from that watery grave, his hair streaming, his beard pouring, his tunic plastered to his chest, and <em>his eyes on fire</em>. <br />
<br />
John staggered backward in the wake, and just as he regained his balance he saw the <em>anointing</em> rest on Jesus, remaining. He felt Jesus’ squeeze on his shoulder and watched him as he walked back up the bank of the river. And the wind blew, whipped Jesus’ hair and billowed the sleeves of his tunic. John saw the water trail behind Jesus, dripping ripples in the water and John watched until the widening circles touched him. <br />
<br />And these ripples, of Jesus fulfilling righteousness, have touched us. <br />
<br />If you are reading this post the ripple has reached you, the very ripple caused by Jesus.<br />
<br /><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=hebrews+1%3A3&version=NIV" target="_blank">Hebrews 1:3</a> and <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=COLOSSIANS+1%3A15&version=NIV" target="_blank">Colossians 1:15</a> declares to us that Jesus is the <strong>exact</strong> representation of God. He came to show us who God is. Jesus came that we would have a better understanding, a clearer vision of the Father.<br />
<br />God called us to the same ministry as his Son—a ministry of representation and reconciliation. We are called to help fulfill all righteousness. In Mark 1:8 John tells us John baptizes with water, but Jesus baptizes with the Spirit. <br />
<br />The Spirit descends on us, lights on us, and indwells us <em>just as He did Jesus</em>. We can argue like John, protest and hesitate, or we can be baptized (immersed in the Spirit) and enter the rippling ministry of the Good News. <br />
<br />But. <br />
<br />We must be ready to leave home; we must be willing to leave our places of routine, comfort, and familiarity. We must decide to go down into the river. It is there we will be immersed and anointed by the Spirit. Only then we will be prepared and equipped to carry the good news up the bank, into the wilderness, and beyond. <br />
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-46349804804361479682015-09-14T10:22:00.001-04:002015-09-14T10:23:44.307-04:00We All Need I.P.A. <br />
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+1%3A9-11&version=NIV" target="_blank">Mark 1: 9-11</a><br />
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9 At that time Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 Just as Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. 11 And a voice came from heaven: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”<br />
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Jesus came to be baptized by John. In approximately sixty words (NIV) something utterly new unfolds. As Jesus lifted up out of the water, Heaven tore open (Jesus' presence tears many things) and fresh revelation descended. <br />
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What did the voice of the Father say to his Son at that moment? <br />
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1. <strong>You are my Son</strong>. <em>Identity</em>. God the Father declared Jesus as the Son. His Son. Here’s who you are, Jesus. <br />
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2. <strong>Whom I love</strong>. <em>Position</em>. God the Father proclaimed his love for his Son. This love gave Jesus a position that no one could take from him. It marked him with favor, with the relationship, and with a place. <br />
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3. <strong>With you I am well pleased</strong>. <em>Affirmation.</em> God the Father affirmed his satisfaction with Jesus. With pleasure, he affirmed Jesus. <br />
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Why are these three points important to us? <br />
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How are they relevant to us? We are not Jesus. No, we are not, but the same things offered to Jesus are available to us. If we accept these points, if we receive them, and if we embrace them, our lives will be radically different. <br />
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In the past two weeks, our grandsons have all had birthdays. We bought presents, had parties, and celebrated them. This third birthday is the first time Elijah and Judah were quite aware that it was their birthday. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2I7Jt4_tuvVQ0tlU7Jy8aFA_55Ck_yGRiHitMxnIcA0-1QVxqzy4F_eYw8fMjkS5lhVPLBJxvjC-n9u2weMOeGEdc77m3kg3wZVBLomL86_qrVjGm_k_bPOCrntkEq5xxV_7EORyIGA/s1600/elijahsbday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2I7Jt4_tuvVQ0tlU7Jy8aFA_55Ck_yGRiHitMxnIcA0-1QVxqzy4F_eYw8fMjkS5lhVPLBJxvjC-n9u2weMOeGEdc77m3kg3wZVBLomL86_qrVjGm_k_bPOCrntkEq5xxV_7EORyIGA/s400/elijahsbday.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijah sporting the blue icing on his fish birthday cake! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIn8cmDjJHsWthd3BW-jd9LqAnW9R2Mjyfwso7JZOButU6zn8XWtXcjsphXh_bjGSoblU_f_1WUMg9fWpoYMM1nFNa4fxziwEquRdjz0uKqQel8n5eOs-Y6J0c-WkOutfdX8hILKtIW8/s1600/tatemsbday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIn8cmDjJHsWthd3BW-jd9LqAnW9R2Mjyfwso7JZOButU6zn8XWtXcjsphXh_bjGSoblU_f_1WUMg9fWpoYMM1nFNa4fxziwEquRdjz0uKqQel8n5eOs-Y6J0c-WkOutfdX8hILKtIW8/s320/tatemsbday.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tatem's 5th birthday. His geode cake! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUce_yEChDcLgmK7YWGX18HzRsDxwDkDtx8SqgzSutZ_pWNNhlYnRmsJHKxEbRRgwVElqpUcqOSiTvEPCD7lZMHxaR1xysOt4IVEgMIWzgVJt-09kbutIhjHWhw3sH2fT0Sh79MPyVDc/s1600/judahsbday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUce_yEChDcLgmK7YWGX18HzRsDxwDkDtx8SqgzSutZ_pWNNhlYnRmsJHKxEbRRgwVElqpUcqOSiTvEPCD7lZMHxaR1xysOt4IVEgMIWzgVJt-09kbutIhjHWhw3sH2fT0Sh79MPyVDc/s400/judahsbday.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judah and his <em>Aunt Wivvy</em> monkey cake. Photo credit to Ashley Wellman. </td></tr>
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<br />
When I pray for these little boys, I pray several Scriptures over them. This passage of Mark is one I added recently. I want these little boys to know <em>three things</em> as they grow and develop and become. And for them, or any of us, to <strong>know </strong>we must have the same three things God the Father gave to Jesus. <br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Identity.</span></em></strong> <br />
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The boys are learning the connections of family relationships: who is aunt, cousin, uncle, grandfather, and grandmother. Quite often I tell these little boys they are my grandsons. To know this connection helps them to understand their identity. I am their grandmother (I am not the only one who tells them; their grandfathers and parents tell them too). As they learn their familial connections they develop their identity. <br />
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We are <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8:16&version=NIV" target="_blank">God’s children</a>. Scripture tells us this repeatedly. We are the adopted children of God. Grafted into his family. We assumed his name. He is our Father. These truths should afford us our identity, not success, wealth, abilities, skills, appearances, or connections. <br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Position.</span></em></strong> <br />
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I tell the boys ALL the time I love them. I whisper in their ears I love you. I love you. I love you. All of them. (Atlas just grins.) Right in their ears, as close as I can get. I do this every time we are together. I do this at random times. Their behavior, their performance, or their abilities do not determine the frequency or the intensity of this practice of mine. I declare my love for them because they are mine. My prayer is that my love coupled with their parents, other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins will give them a sure position. When people know they are truly loved, not tolerated or indulged, but unconditionally loved their position in this life seems to be more stable and solid. The foundation is laid deep. <br />
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We are loved by God. Before the foundations of the world were in place, and even while we were <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+5:8&version=NIV" target="_blank">far from him</a>, he loved us. Because of this love he sent his Son to whisper this news in our ears over and over and over. Scripture assures us that this is our position and NOTHING can <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8%3A38-39&version=NIV" target="_blank">separate</a> us from this love. <br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Affirmation.</span></em></strong> <br />
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The other phrase my grandsons (and my daughters) often hear from me is that I am proud of them. Incredibly proud. In their accomplishments, developments, successes, and endeavors. But even more I am proud of who they are. I am well pleased with the growth of their character, with the sweetness of their spirits. <br />
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During this birthday time, all attention centered on these three little boys. That much attention is hard for even a grown-up to handle. But these boys swelled my Noni-heart. At Elijah’s birthday, he did not pass his birthday cards by uninterested. At three years old he opened them and looked at them and listened to his mama or daddy read them. He expressed the same gratitude for the cards as for the gifts. A close friend of the family commented on Elijah’s thoughtfulness. I beamed. His mama cried. <br />
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At Judah’s party, Elijah wanted to blow out the candle too (what child doesn’t want to blow out the candle?). Judah shared his candle and his seat with Elijah, and they took turns blowing out the candle. Judah had several helpers when he opened his gifts; there were no declarations of <em>this is mine</em>, nothing of the <em>these are mine</em> attitude. <br />
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I am well pleased with my grandsons, but what if they looked at me each time I said this, and they gave me excuses for why I shouldn’t be proud? What if each time I expressed my pleasure in them they attempted to negate this truth with negative things about themselves? I know the negative, I am not a blind grandmother. I have seen my grandsons not share. I have seen them angry because they did not get their way. I have seen them fight over a toy. But these times do not negate my pleasure in them. <br />
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God is pleased with us. And this point is the hardest to accept. This truth is hard to swallow down past the <em>buts</em> and exceptions. We do not believe God can be pleased with us. We know our secret sins, the condition of our hearts, and the state of our spirits. How can God be pleased with us? We don’t pray enough. Study enough. Read the Word enough. We are angry and resentful. We are jealous and envious. We are lustful and vengeful. We are ______________________. How can God be pleased with us? THIS IS HOW: God is pleased with us because of his Son. <em>Grace affords us this place.</em> Grace. When we shun God's affirmation of us, we deny grace. <br />
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<em>Father, I thank you for your word—the relevancy of it for us today. It is not a worn-out, archaic book that no longer applies to the modern age. No, Father, your truth is timeless. You know people. You know us. You know what we need. And Father, we need to know who we are. We need to know we are loved. And we need to know that someone is proud of us, that someone is pleased with us. Father, these are essential needs. Your word tells us that you know what we need before we even ask. Father, I pray you would pour out these gifts, supply these needs for these sweet people today. Father, tell them who they are. Remind them they are loved. Assure them you are proud of them. And wherever there is a lack or unbelief, I pray for you to help. In the name of Jesus. Amen</em> <br />
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-6003238947387061752015-09-12T08:20:00.001-04:002015-09-13T07:33:25.813-04:00Growing Room Book Signing Event!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In July WestBow Press released my first book <em>Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places. </em>There have been several milestones since that day. This is one I am looking forward to with great eagerness. Why? Because I get to meet you! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtouSLDOREtIZ8npj1XEfnd2Vtl8H2SheV5jOWi9WvpCtNI_Xa26H2NUBxjKNtLhSrWuRIpgDwZ5QfvyH7PfSmXpamNS7zXpAfbta8VM4vWOxbEC0D97QGUa4bLITC39CmDFfiwPdUmc8/s1600/book+signing+flyer+ccw+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtouSLDOREtIZ8npj1XEfnd2Vtl8H2SheV5jOWi9WvpCtNI_Xa26H2NUBxjKNtLhSrWuRIpgDwZ5QfvyH7PfSmXpamNS7zXpAfbta8VM4vWOxbEC0D97QGUa4bLITC39CmDFfiwPdUmc8/s400/book+signing+flyer+ccw+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would love to have you join me! Food, fellowship, and fun! There will be giveaways, books for sale, and other surprises. </td></tr>
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-77764376020795830092015-09-08T23:04:00.000-04:002015-09-08T23:04:55.598-04:00Just Like John<br />
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+1%3A1-8&version=NIV" target="_blank">Mark 1:1-8</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So this John came, this unexpected, radical, and fiery man
appeared in the wild—burst into the middle of the scene. His voice boomed
before the stage lights even flickered. A raw and forthright man who didn’t
curry favor or kowtow to anyone. John declared the kingdom of God was on its
way. Make preparations. Be ready. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Long ago when a royal entourage approached a city or
village, a group traveled ahead to remove the obstacles and barriers. Their
job? To open and smooth the road for the king’s arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Remember our central theme as we move through Mark? <em>Watch
Jesus</em>? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through the walls of their mothers' wombs, John watched
Jesus. John was <em>the messenger</em> even <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+1%3A39-45&version=NIV" target="_blank">in utero</a>; he leaped in excitement and
announced the coming arrival of God’s final revelation. God sent John as a
forerunner, a harbinger, and a new voice in a culture and to a people who
hadn’t heard a “word from the Lord” in over four hundred years. God sent John
to prepare the way, to make straight the paths for the Word (Logos) to come.
John did the good work God <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/quicksearch/?quicksearch=good+works+prepared+in+advance&qs_version=NIV" target="_blank">prepared</a> in advance for him to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friends, John understood <em>who he was</em> and <strong>who he was not</strong>. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He elevated Jesus and proclaimed him above all. John states
that he wasn't worthy to untie Jesus' sandals—a slave’s job. John didn’t employ
a self-demeaning or self-deprecating or falsely humble attitude. He stated the
truth. John told them and us: What I do is temporary and partial, but this One who comes after me will do something
eternal and complete in you. I will start something, this preparatory
repentance, but he will <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Philippians+1%3A6&version=NIV" target="_blank">finish</a> it; the Holy Spirit does the lasting work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">John understood his role, his purpose in the strategy of the
kingdom, and he proclaimed the message given to him and it wasn't a pleading or
begging message. Repent. Turn. Forgiveness is on its way. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like John, we need to understand our role, our purpose in the kingdom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is our message today? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Ask the hard questions</em>. Have we made this message about us
or him? Are we preparing the way for him or ourselves? Are we removing
obstacles so people can find him or are we rolling hurdles onto the highway?
Are we telling people with certainty who we are not and who he most certainly
is? Are we proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favor? Are we telling people
about the<a href="http://www.tamera-thechamberednautilus.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-good-news-of-rest.html" target="_blank"> deep rest of God</a>? About the sweet grace that covers shame? About the
blood of Christ that absorbs sin? </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we have been called by God, then each of us should proclaim the imminence of the kingdom and the eminence of Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Just like John. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-85544930489525361452015-09-04T20:20:00.000-04:002015-09-04T20:20:35.824-04:00The Good News of Rest
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Welcome! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m so glad
you are here. I wish we were all together in one place so that I could see your
faces. Maybe, someday. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>(If you are
here to engage in scholarly, academic Bible study this is not the right place.
I am not a Bible scholar. I love the Word of God, but my perusal and
interpretation of it is far from academic. These thoughts are not meant to be
not a systematic theological treatise on the Gospel of Mark. But let’s see what
the Holy Spirit unfolds for us over the next few weeks.)</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=mark+1%3A+1&version=NIV" target="_blank">Mark 1:1</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Good
News begins here—not because Mark says so, but because God announced that the
good news would come long before He arrived. God proclaimed the reality through
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah+40%3A3&version=NIV" target="_blank">Isaiah</a> and <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Malachi+3%3A1&version=NIV" target="_blank">Malachi </a>(and too many other places to account for here). Our God is
always ahead, always far out in front. He announces the arrival of his plan,
foretells and foreshadows. He speaks it long before the bud of fruition even
appears. God counts the tomatoes on the vine before the blooms even open. He
orchestrates everything so that the circumstances ripen into the fullness of
time. He lines up the courses of human history so that <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Malachi+3%3A1&version=NIV" target="_blank">ALL things work together</a>
for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What then is
this good news? Oh, surely Friends, we need some. With unceasing and increasing
graphicness the news and social media networks display frightening images and
report horrific stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On a daily,
perhaps hourly, basis we struggle to make sense of it all. And if that wasn’t
enough, personally we battle simply to survive, to stay afloat, to stay one
paycheck ahead, to … you fill in the blank. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All the
while we are dying. Our spirits are devoured and emaciated—rail thin. There’s
no meat on our spiritual bones. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark knew.
And from the beginning he proclaims that the good news of Jesus Christ is
coming. Salvation and redemption are on the way. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=matthew+11%3A28-30&version=NIV" target="_blank">Matthew 11:28-30</a> Jesus issues an open, inclusive, and RSVP invitation: </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Come to me all you who are weary and burdened.</em> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are all
wearied, worn-out from the monotonous work, from the cultural demands, from
dysfunctional family relationships, and undoable religious expectations. We all
carry some burden—a weight pushing hard between our shoulder blades or sitting
on our chests like the proverbial elephant. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jesus
declares the good news. Speaks it plainly and offers it to everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>I will give
you rest.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, to rest!
Don’t we all want rest? Not just sleep, though to sleep in or longer would be
bliss. Not just a vacation as lovely as that sounds. And not just a change in
the intensity of our schedules even though that's worth a shout of amen. No,
the good news is this: Jesus came to offer an invitation into rest. He came to
give, not sell, trade, barter, or borrow. He came to give rest, and his rest
leads to a decrease and cessation of religious striving, turmoil, pain,
isolation, and conflict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is this
good news of Jesus that Mark proclaims in the very first sentence? Jesus came
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, to be the Savior for a world gone
awry. He came to unshackle the chains and fetters of sin and to turn hearts of
stone to hearts of flesh. He came to make us holy and to make us in the image
of his Father. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the
course of Mark, we are going to watch Jesus offer rest in diverse situations. To
madmen and lepers and fevered women. To tax collectors and paraplegics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In every case Jesus knew the kind of rest each person needed. </span>In the people he touched, we see us. In them, we see our own
issues, fears, and circumstances. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He is
offering the same rest to us. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>And this is good news</em>!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Father God,
we thank you for being far ahead of us. Thank you for plans made not on the
spur of the moment, but back at the foundations of the world. We praise you. We
need the rest your Son offers. We need our conflicts resolved. We need our
turmoil settled. Oh, Father, we so want for the I-do-what-I-don’t-want-to-do
pattern to cease. And we long for this religious striving to dissipate. Only in
you can we find this rest. Only in you do we enter into this Good News. Father,
we accept your invitation. Show us how to come to you. Enable us to come to you
in our weariness and lay our burdens into your care so we will find rest for
our souls. In the name of Jesus. Amen.</em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-62443769256195161022015-09-02T21:25:00.000-04:002015-09-02T21:25:47.353-04:00Write What You Know ( A New Series)
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This past
week I started teaching again. Sixteen students enrolled in <a href="http://www.thegenesisacademy.org/" target="_blank">Genesis Academy’s</a> <em>Oral
and Written Expressions</em> course, a class designed to improve writing and
speaking skills. Next week, my lesson plans inform me that the topic of the day
is What Do I Write About? (Of course, I might begin by telling them that
traditionally we don’t end a sentence with a preposition, but that might be a
bit much for the first full-blown writing class). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This
question seems to be the age-old (insert <em>whiney</em> here, and pretend I didn’t say
it) excuse for not writing. Even those of us who blog, journal, write on
napkins in restaurants, and have words pressed between two covers of a book
whine and complain sometimes. Since the internet launch of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Growing-Room-Life-Tight-Places/dp/1490885293/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1441242728&sr=8-1&keywords=growing+room+for+life+in+tight+places&pebp=1441242511350&perid=035YDTVH8HZ0HXYBFCG6" target="_blank">my book</a> my writing
and word well went dry. The bucket descended, but it came up empty. Only
a dark ring moistened the bottom rim where it plunked down in the well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized it was time to remind myself of
something I always tell my students: <em><strong>write what you know</strong></em>. I am not sure where I
first heard this adage, but this sage advice is often attributed to the salty <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/55868-write-what-you-know" target="_blank">Mr. Mark Twain</a>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For weeks
this question (I thought I was so far beyond it, <em>not</em>) poked at me. What
do I write about now? After exhausting all I have written in the last seven
years, how in the world do I begin again? Where, oh where do I start? For
weeks, my blog hung in the blogging world—empty and void of anything new. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sick with
aches and pains and fever, I stayed home on the couch today listening to podcasts and
reading. I gravitated to Mark—the immediate Gospel. This time I read the
account in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+1&version=MSG" target="_blank">The Message</a>, which lends a different feel and tone to a familiar
text. This familiarity reminded me of what I try to encourage my students to embrace. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>Write what
you know.</strong></em> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In <a href="http://tamera-thechamberednautilus.blogspot.com/2007/08/watching-jesus.html" target="_blank">August of2007</a> I wrote the following: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>All my
Christian life I have been taught to read the Scriptures and watch what the
other person is doing in an encounter with Jesus. I was encouraged to watch the
person and either behave like them or don't behave like them. I should observe
and note what they did in a situation with Jesus and either emulate them or
dismiss them. Seems simple, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I
am supposed to look like Jesus...act like Jesus...be like Jesus why in the
world am I watching everyone else? Why am I going to Scripture and noticing and
studying others before I look at Jesus? When I started reading the gospels
repeatedly, I discovered something. Watching Jesus changes your perspective.
Watching others causes you to attempt to change your behavior and your actions.
When you watch Jesus, your attitude and the condition of your heart is
revealed. Jesus calls you to change inwardly first, and the outward behavior
will be the fruit of that change. You cannot truly watch him and remain
unmoved.<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am
returning to what I know, returning to the familiarity and immediacy of Mark’s
account of the good news of Jesus. I am returning to watch him, and I would
love for you to join me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I invite you
just to sit down with me (I’ll try to keep the posts short) and with the first
installment of the series posting this Friday, September 4. We will watch Jesus
together. Invite
others to join us. Jesus enjoys the supper table full—the more the
merrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-49937258824594545072015-08-19T10:55:00.000-04:002015-08-19T10:55:18.371-04:00Growing Room Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I have had so many posts half written in my head. Snatches and pieces of stories and happenings in the last month. But my mind will not completely wrap around all that is coming to fruition. And in the midst of such abundant joy, my heart still aches and breaks for the pain and hurt and brokenness manifesting among God's people. The joy of the release of my first book <i>Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places</i> is skimming across the surface of everything right now. Many events are planned and being prepared, but underneath, below the surface prayer is humming for the Body of Christ, for the bruised Bride.<br />
<br />
Last night Steve, Abby, and I opened the boxes of books together. Steve laid them all out on the table--the partial, visible fruit of seven years. It was surreal. 70,000 plus words times over an hundred books. We celebrated. We took pictures. We laughed. Then we decided to put the books all back in the boxes for safe keeping. And my husband said, "Let's pray over these before we send them out..." <br />
<br />
During that prayer time I breathed in his grace. He filled the lungs of me all the way down. His grace. His sweet grace is given in every and all circumstances. His grace sustained me in the tight places, and now it is here in the spacious places. But for me, any place without him present is a tight place.<br />
<br />
We prayed. Gratitude and faith and awe laced and wove our prayers. Gratitude for the provision of God, for the protection of God, for the Presence of God was uttered. And we prayed for you. For all of you who have read <i>The Chambered Nautilus,</i> my Facebook, and my Twitter over the years. We asked for God's blessing and favor to go forward with each of these books, those on the coffee table and those unseen and bought from other places, to each reader. We prayed for fruit that would glorify him, lift HIM to the place he belongs and deserves. Over and over we prayed for you. <b>You.</b> And I cried for you. All of you. I want so much for you to know the grace of God. To experience his sweet provision of growing room and the expansion of tight places.<br />
<br />
And then all I could breathe out was praise. Worship. This bowing of the little that I am before the greatness that He is. Not because of the books on my coffee table. Not because of a dream come true. Not because of words. Not because of favorable circumstances. No, I breathed out praise because of the faithfulness of my God. He is faithful in<i><b> all</b></i> circumstances. Sometimes it is obscured, hidden by the pain and torment of the season. Often times it is veiled by preconceived ideas and theology. And more often than not God's faithfulness seems to be hidden in the tangled messes of our lives. But he will make growing room for you so that you might see. So that you will know.<br />
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He will reveal his faithfulness. I have prayed for you to see it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Watch the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uanAZ_c2gw4" target="_blank">book trailer</a>, created by Nolan McCarty, my son-in-law, as a beautiful gift to me.<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_723261622"></span><span id="goog_723261623"></span><br />
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<br />Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-83435337543587080732015-08-06T09:56:00.002-04:002015-08-06T10:20:31.620-04:00Obey and Release<br />
In January 2014, I didn’t choose a word. (My word to stay with, abide by, listen to, and experience during the year). By March, I was still wordless. But then, God chose a word for me. And I wasn’t excited about this word at all. The adage, <em>be sure you don’t pray for patience</em>? Well, I know not to pray for this word either. To be patient, we must be in situations and with people who require this of us. My word for 2014-15? <br />
<br />
Obey. <br />
<br />
I knew what was coming. I could see it all turning around the bend—these places and spaces that would require obedience, perhaps even blind obedience. I cringed. I tried to choose my own word then. Something light and doable. Something encouraging. But no. Obedience was the word. All through the spring and the summer the Spirit led me into and through deserts and wildernesses and rivers, but they seemed fairly mild. Doable. <br />
<br />
In October, I was asked to lead a weekend women’s retreat. The door opened. Obedience required me to walk through it despite my misgivings and feelings of inadequacy. These women are Hebrews 11 kind of women. Despite these feelings, I knew I needed and wanted to obey. <br />
<br />
My friend and I drove out winding roads on a day when the October air was crisp, and the trees were bright with their autumn foliage. The cabin, tucked away in the hills, was roomy and quaint, the fireplace large and the dining room table even larger. <br />
<br />
Everyone brought food to share. Oh, the food. Homemade caramel corn that melted on your tongue and left you forever reaching for more. Homemade bread, thick and crusty. Baked cheese dips and homemade mushroom soup (that made the canned ones seem like paste). I tried them all. Savoring. Enjoying. <br />
<br />
God always invites us to a feast. My friend, <a href="http://theheartoftheworshiper.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Vivien</a>, talks and teaches about the tables of God, and the feast offered at each. That weekend I sat down at the table and ate to my soul’s delight, but the Father never feeds just our souls—he feeds our spirits. Nourishes the kernel of us. The center core of us. God feeds the marrow of our bones. <br />
<br />
We saw him that weekend, heard him in the conversations and the words shared. He touched us through others, opened us to receive the warmth and strength of his hand. And as the women encouraged and prayed and interceded for each other, we caught the scent of the fragrance of him, his Spirit moving among us. During the weekend I know I tasted of him. I chewed his Word up and swallowed down. And my throat was dry, and the Word built up in it. At times, I had to swallow hard, had to reach for a drink of water. But I chewed, and the sweetness of his Word broke open in me, and in the breaking he nourished all the thin and malnourished places in me. Often we go too long without sitting <em>down</em> at his table. <br />
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Rarely, does God feed on the go. He doesn't hand out bags of fast food, pressed patties of processed meat product, through a window as we drive by in a hurry. No, God sets the table. Prepares it. He sets down his richest of food for us. Then he issues an invitation. It’s a standing invitation. Offered and sent to us every day. <br />
<br />
Recently my friend, Denise, and I prayed together about this invitation one morning. In August, her Community Bible Study will study the gospel of Matthew. Again and again in Matthew, Jesus offers invitations because his Father is the epitome of hospitality. God sets the table for us. Prepares the food for us, and never tells us that it is potluck or to bring your chair or your own drink. <br />
<br />
We sat at the table of that retreat, and I broke the bread of his word to them, but only because he had broken it in me first. That group of women blessed me. They poured out words of affirmation and encouragement. Their iron words, words pressed against the blade of me, sharpened my dull places. I witnessed a woman prostrate before the Lord interceding—unashamed and poured out like a drink offering on the floor. I longed to stretch out beside her. Before him. <br />
<br />
I left that retreat emptied, but blessed. Fed, but hungrier. Nourished, but craving more. I left with a restlessness I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Not discontent. Not dissatisfaction, but a sense that I needed to move forward. Take a step out into the unknown, down a path never traversed or navigated by me. The women blessed me with a generous monetary gift. And I sat at the table and prayed about the use of the gift and my restlessness. <br />
<br />
“Lord, this is from your hand. Given by your daughters. I don’t want to squander or waste it. I don’t want to penny it away, with nothing to show for the spending. And what is this restlessness? What is this stirring inside of me?"<br />
<br />
Days later, on a Friday, I sat at my computer desk writing and browsing the internet. An ad for a <a href="http://www.westbowpress.com/" target="_blank">publisher</a> popped up—a gorgeous ad with a stone castle and an archer poised and ready. <em>Do you want to publish your book</em> the tagline asked? Inwardly I’m nodded. <em>Contact us</em>. Instinctively I clicked on the contact tab. I filled out the application. My heart beat wildly, and my palms sweated. Here was my risk. This question this publisher posed eased the itching restlessness of my soul. I sent the information, and it disappeared, gone somewhere. I didn’t think it would ever return to me. That day I <a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/esv/ecclesiastes/11-1.html" target="_blank">cast my bread</a> on the waters, but I didn’t understand how quickly it would return to me. <br />
<br />
Monday afternoon found me at my desk again. My phone rang. An unknown number. An area code I did not recognize. I answered. <br />
<br />
Hello?<br />
<br />
Hello, Tamera, this is Christine from WestBow Press. <br />
<br />
I almost laughed out loud, but I thought that might be rude. I looked around to see if there were any hidden cameras, anything recording my gullibility. I felt my hope rise, swallowing up all the restlessness. All the itching faded, replaced by this tingling anticipation. <br />
<br />
Forty minutes later I hit end call. I sat in my chair. Still. Unmoving. But the inward parts of me were alive and wild and eager. The <a href="http://tamera-thechamberednautilus.blogspot.com/2015/07/a-thirty-four-year-old-dream.html" target="_blank">thirty-four-year-old dream</a> surfaced, and this time I didn’t swallow or punch it down. <br />
<br />
After that, it was series of phone calls and contracts and instructions. Twice in the process I started to lay the project down. The enormity of the task and details overwhelmed me. Like my sweet brother, Peter, I risked and stepped out of the waves, but the tumultuous water was getting the best of me. All my old fears were clawing and climbing in the belly of me. God knew it. He was not surprised, but he had issued me an invitation to the table he had prepared for me. <br />
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In November, my first hesitation surfaced. I contemplated putting this project aside (to wait for a better day); I went to hear my friend Denise teach at CBS; it was also her birthday, and I wanted to surprise her. I sat at the table as she broke God’s word open for us. I soaked in the words of Zechariah. I chewed on them, and they broke open in me. And I prayed about the manuscript, my dream, and the fruition of it. <br />
<br />
And then I heard my friend say, “God wants obedience, not sacrifice.” <br />
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I sat there at the table with the Lord. He had my attention. <br />
<br />
<em><strong>Tamera, I am asking you to obey. There is no real option other than to follow and do what I have asked you to do. You are not to be concerned about the outcome. The outcome is not up to you. The outcome is up to me.</strong></em><br />
<br />
The waves ceased. The winds died down. And there I sat in at the table in the wilderness, God’s invitation offered to me, to join him at his table. All I had to do was obey. The provision would come from his hand. Obey. Just simply obey. Put one syllable, one word, in front of the other and release them all to him. Every single one of them. <em>Even the typos and missed commas</em>. <br />
<br />
Obey and release. <br />
<br />
God set me up. Set the table for me, even in the presence of my enemies: self-doubt and fear. And he sent me an invitation. <br />
<br />
Take a risk.<br />
<br />
Come join me at the table—out in the midst of the places and spaces you don’t know. Give me all your words. Release them into my hands. Let me turn them into food for others. <br />
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Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-50145923045961344812015-07-27T09:47:00.002-04:002015-07-27T11:04:57.890-04:00Like Little Children<br />
The house was full, all our daughters (all eight, Steve’s four and my four) and most of their husbands and boyfriends arrived. Our home is too small to accommodate everyone in one room comfortably, so they spilled outside to the yard and the front porch. <br />
<br />
Steve filled our fire pit with dry grayed wood and started the fire for s’mores; we waited for the fire to burn down to slow embers—marshmallow roasting coals. The fireflies blinked yellow blurs of light all over the yard. The vocal cicadas filled the evening with their loud voices. And my grandsons wanted me to play. <br />
<br />
“Run, Noni, Run!” Elijah and Judah cried. Their grins wide, eyes alight, and expectancy beamed in their faces. And of course, I ran. Barefoot I circled and zig-zagged, and these little boys chased me. Their bursts of laughter only fed my energy, nourished the grandmother soul of me. Even while running I felt the joy bubble up in me. <br />
<br />
Elijah plopped down in the grass. I asked him if he was tired, and he explained that he just needed to rest a minute. <em>Just for a minute</em> he clarified. I joined him, and Judah joined us. The rest didn’t last long. Little boy batteries recharge must faster than older women batteries! We were up again running through the rain grown grass. Certainly running is not an everyday event for me, but it is a freeing thing to run uninhibited and unfiltered by pretension and protocol. Finally, this almost fifty-year-old Noni had to stop. Pulling air deep into my lungs, I forced it to go all the way down.<br />
<br />
But little boy voices shouted, “Run, Noni. Do it again.” I told the boys Noni was out of breath. <br />
<br />
And then…<br />
<br />
Usually <em>and thens</em> come to us unplanned, unpracticed, and unexpected. <br />
<br />
Elijah came to me, tapped me on the leg, looked up at me, and said, “Noni, are you out of breath?”<br />
<br />
“I am Elijah. Wait just a second and let me get my breath, and then I’ll run with you again.” <br />
<br />
I wish I had the ability to stop time, to hit rewind and reverse and replay. If I did, I would watch this moment over and over again. <br />
<br />
Elijah pressed his little hand against his mouth and then lifted that hand to me. <br />
<br />
“Here, Noni. You can have my breath.” <br />
<br />
He peered up at me in such serious earnestness, so generous.<br />
<br />
Elijah offered me his breath. This little almost-three-year-old boy saw my need and put his breath in his hand and offered it up to me. I took it, took this sweet offering from his little, upturned hand. This gesture prompted Judah to offer the same. <br />
<br />
I stood in my backyard on a warm July night, fireflies glowing, fire beginning, frogs croaking, voices blurring, and I truly lost my breath—lost it right out of my lungs. No one prompted these words or this gesture from Elijah. No one told him to do this. I watched his mother's eyes puddle, stunned and proud. His aunt's heart swelled. <br />
<br />
Elijah wanted to help Noni, so he offered what he had. In <a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/matthew/18-3.html" target="_blank">Matthew 18:3</a> Jesus tells us to be like little children. Friends, if we are going to inherit the kingdom of God, we must change and become like little children.<br />
<br />
Elijah offered his breath to me out of love and concern and the eagerness to continue to play. The sweet concern on his face caused me to be undone, to melt. Elijah’s offer prompted Judah’s offer and isn’t that the way of the kingdom of God works? Or should? Didn’t Jesus call us to offer each other our breaths when we run short? Aren’t we to share from the reserve he has provided us and offer it to others? <br />
<br />
I stood looking into my grandson’s eyes, and his offering filled me. The pureness of it inflated my lungs and renewed my energy. I inhaled, and the new breath filled my lungs to capacity. At that moment I honestly believe I could have run a marathon. I sprinted forward and looked over my shoulder. The boys followed. I ran just ahead of them; my vision blurred by tears and my ears filled with their exploding laughter. <br />
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Two thousand years ago God knew we were running too hard, too fast, and too long. He knew we were going to be out of breath. Through Jesus he came and gave us his breath—took it right from his mouth and gave it to us, that we might inhale and live. Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5474813322744582318.post-20869950311449996272015-07-16T12:09:00.000-04:002015-07-16T12:09:54.379-04:00A Thirty-four Year Old Dream<br />
Stories. I love narrative stories, and I have told them since I was a little girl. I never could just tell a simple story. Many of you are thinking, “She still can’t.” <br />
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When I was fifteen, I started writing freelance for our once-a-week county newspaper. My mother saved all of those articles. Each one clipped from the newspaper and folded to fit a scrapbook she kept for me (I didn’t know she did this until a few years ago). The spiral bound book is worn—tattered on the edges and pages askew. Full of memorabilia the book bulges in the middle. The faded newspapers are brown and brittle now, the creases white and fragile. I read the titles and memories flare and briefly rise. I recall the first time I saw my name printed in the by-line, surreal. I was elated. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLPVe3GaurJTYegIOLV8xWpun_jNi-bu8PQ2E85OAbqS3rpAhNtdtg5-c7tQ9ngT8Hbm7L9KvYqRvGM4y6vCEwh1tf2dtQYCu72OK5-GuJ7xOaBQPXpJgCoHqe6AP_KBIoLaYcU7weS0/s1600/20150716_000142_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLPVe3GaurJTYegIOLV8xWpun_jNi-bu8PQ2E85OAbqS3rpAhNtdtg5-c7tQ9ngT8Hbm7L9KvYqRvGM4y6vCEwh1tf2dtQYCu72OK5-GuJ7xOaBQPXpJgCoHqe6AP_KBIoLaYcU7weS0/s400/20150716_000142_resized.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of my last newspaper articles. "Run, Kate, Run" was my favorite. </td></tr>
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When I look through this book, I am transported. I don’t’ remember much about the girl in the pages, some details are fuzzy, some evaporated in the heat of four decades of living. This scrapbook chronicles the outward girl—the measurable things, the counted and visible events: pageants, contests, and demonstrations. It houses the awards and accolades. My mother adhered these articles and certificates to the pages with scotch tape, gone brittle and yellow with the years. <br />
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With clarity and wonder, I recognize that even thirty-four years ago the words were there. Writing for the newspaper satisfied two needs in me: one for people and one for words. I loved them both. These two things mattered to me more than anything else. I didn’t know Jesus; I knew about religion, the rights and the wrongs and the rules. I hadn’t yet made a decision to become his follower. I was just a lost little girl trying to follow the passionate beat of my heart. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfLIA49qkZvDpwb-sKOl803FbNHxf2HJ-6TdRIgstxHh6Hjio89hkTmOTlgvT48an2qwtUByiDzLJwa9Lj3xrjsaJdXD_T-fsO-2plCCt4hsST0N_WTkZm5b6jbXXJkktqMmah3Bl77k/s1600/Press+badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfLIA49qkZvDpwb-sKOl803FbNHxf2HJ-6TdRIgstxHh6Hjio89hkTmOTlgvT48an2qwtUByiDzLJwa9Lj3xrjsaJdXD_T-fsO-2plCCt4hsST0N_WTkZm5b6jbXXJkktqMmah3Bl77k/s400/Press+badge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of my Press badges from state 4-H events. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGlA1XZIHkMdvaoK4nc64goafjvP6GixzIf8BRtLZK7A3cfghfjmJySq3Xt3aDp9-cO_Ls7dsB4I_8BeAX1fZX4RZqzxfiXpADo7Yl6vN6Ea6zDu07LQ2dX1XdWdvoCgHe7Bh1lAe4Ak/s1600/editor%2527s+note.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGlA1XZIHkMdvaoK4nc64goafjvP6GixzIf8BRtLZK7A3cfghfjmJySq3Xt3aDp9-cO_Ls7dsB4I_8BeAX1fZX4RZqzxfiXpADo7Yl6vN6Ea6zDu07LQ2dX1XdWdvoCgHe7Bh1lAe4Ak/s400/editor%2527s+note.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't even remember this editor's note until writing this post. Fannin is my maiden name. </td></tr>
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I went to college, and the writing changed. I poured all of my words into the channels of finals and research papers, always striving for the A or better. My college tests are in my mother’s scrapbook. Thin, blue, stapled, and lined booklets filled with my familiar cursive handwriting. By this time I was a believer, and my faith began to appear in my writing. This faith was yet to be refined, and I smile at my idealistic words and theology. I recognize the young girl, me, but I’m profoundly grateful she didn’t know what was coming. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQXS-Uryo3pKBvCogyJczUpzo_UO_jrfliluiCus3C8N0yyoCo3y7zMo8ZIZMsSW-oxdERWFQK87ue9VWiUK7s2kkIIOr3fs8s7d2u9IMQGrMHbILGdruroCSOOc-euCuIN73qhA54DA/s1600/blue+books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQXS-Uryo3pKBvCogyJczUpzo_UO_jrfliluiCus3C8N0yyoCo3y7zMo8ZIZMsSW-oxdERWFQK87ue9VWiUK7s2kkIIOr3fs8s7d2u9IMQGrMHbILGdruroCSOOc-euCuIN73qhA54DA/s400/blue+books.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of my blue book exams from a ministry class at Asbury University. </td></tr>
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The summer between my junior and senior year of college I was an intern in a church outside of Boston. I arrived full of ideas to change the ministry, the world. The minister knew about my love for words, knew I loved to write. He explained that I only had two assignments to fulfil the requirements for the internship: to get to know people in that small church, to see how God was visible in them, and write about it. I couldn’t believe it. What an assignment—everything I loved braided into one rope. People. Writing. Ministry. Recently, a precious friend emailed me the piece I wrote about her family. As I reread the story, I saw the young me sitting in a poorly lit basement hunched over a typewriter, typing and laboring to get the words and phrases right. My friend kept this piece of my writing for thirty years. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYv_vk71Pnb9ZtgW_CUMFZbSUTPrkfy0e4u7p_aCp_wj7Ieu5Ed_z7n9Ch_KsE0d7Xbu91RyzMVqwYFB-SwvYe2KGaMHwmwljKWVAcvAsHqx0l1aydrkpIcM72nVuzQyzrqWmozT2Gzvw/s1600/Diamond+Hall+Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYv_vk71Pnb9ZtgW_CUMFZbSUTPrkfy0e4u7p_aCp_wj7Ieu5Ed_z7n9Ch_KsE0d7Xbu91RyzMVqwYFB-SwvYe2KGaMHwmwljKWVAcvAsHqx0l1aydrkpIcM72nVuzQyzrqWmozT2Gzvw/s400/Diamond+Hall+Image.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The thirty year old writing piece. </td></tr>
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There was a period after college when my writing fleshed out only in journaling. Page after page, journal after journal chronicling the inward shifts, upheavals, joys, births, avalanches, and valleys of my life. In them, I see the evolution of my writing. I detect the threads and patterns that would eventually lead to my style and voice. <br />
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In 2007, my life shifted. An inevitable earthquake trembled and tremored, and the landscape of my life cracked open—the geography of me and those around me forever changed. I knew I had to make sense of this time; there had to be a methodical venting of the gasses and steam released in my breaking. Once again words came to my aid. I decided to take a risk. The new forum for writers was the blog, and I opened up our antiquated desktop and navigated the setting up of a Blogspot all by myself. For seven years, this was my address, this is where I lived. Through The Chambered Nautilus Blogspot, God began to heal me, to fill in the caverns, ravines, and fissures left by the earthquakes in my life. <br />
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God is faithful. Utterly faithful. Ribboned and threaded through all those years of writing was a dream, a silent hope. I wanted to be a published author. I longed to have a publisher agree to press my words and the message of them between the front and back covers of a book. Psalm 38:9 says, "All my longings lie open before you, O Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you." All through my life, God heard my sighing. He saw my longings, bare and naked. He saw, and he heard. <br />
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Soon this dream will come true. At the end of the summer, my first book will be published. God does immeasurably more than we can ask or imagine. This fruition of a dream does not look like my young naïve self envisioned. I didn’t know earthquakes and aftershocks would birth my first book. I didn't know the depth of healing that would come in the joy, the light, and the life of the writing of it. I just wrote. I did what I am called to do: <em>love God, love people, and love words</em>. <br />
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I realize now that when I was fifteen, God was already moving and leading me in my giftedness. He was teaching me to embrace what he called me to do, even when I didn't know him. God always starts before we begin. Always. He's ahead of us stretching out the path, healing and teaching us through the very gifts he gives us. <br />
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<strong><em>Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places</em></strong> will be published by <em>WestBow Press</em> in late August or September. This book is a revised compilation of my blog and new material. It is <em>seven</em> years worth of writing. It is the story of how God healed me, pressed down all the upheavals and filled in the faults. He used my family, my friends, and the words to create growing room for me. He used his Word and my words to form in me a narrative, a testimony to his presence. And He was present. He is ever present. Always. Never forsaking. <em>Growing Room: For Life in Tight Places</em> is my evidence of his grace, of how his sweet grace permeated everything.<br />
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Tamerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13757372581520966244noreply@blogger.com7