coffee and found

Sipping on my 2nd cup of morning coffee,

thinking about all the different people 

that I have had the privilege of getting to know

I had an idea. An idea to simply introduce them to you

over time, one at a time. A little here, a little there.

I don't want to be selfish with such gifts.

I'd like to share them.

Everyone has a story.

Each and every person is unique, talented, gifted, loved.

I may spend my whole life saying this everywhere always.

I want to share everywhere always what I've found.

I spent years and years wandering. 

Wondering. Doubting. Questioning.

I didn't think I mattered.

No value. No purpose. 

Like a blob of a human with no form to be or do anything.

I felt like an unwanted house pet to be fed and watered

but to get out of the way of others who had things to do.

I cannot and will not blame any person for the way I saw things.

I just saw it that way. For years and years. Hopeless.

It is part of my story.  I will sprinkle in bits here and there

 on UNCOVERING GOLD but for now

 I'd like you to meet Dani

my gypsy, free spirited friend who has learned to love very well.

She serves grace and kindness through coffee to every type of human being and puppaccinos to animals but more than that she dispenses the unlimited love of God, brings joy wherever she goes and spills it like the candy falling out of her pockets. Sometimes candy does spill out of her backpack ready to share with anyone who will partake with her in the communion of sugar with her.

Always listening to her new favorite song that points toward the love of God and wanting you to experience it with her as she plops down on her favorite rocking chair on the front porch sending a melody from her smartphone in her front pocket. Candy and music.

She is wise. She has a heart filled with wonder and you can see traces of wander in her soul if you listen for it.

She drives a huge conversion van and has dreams of traveling almost aimlessly across the country just for the adventure.

She is fiery. And carries with her an addiction. 

Her addiction grows more and more every time I see her. 

She is highly addicted to loving God and loving people.

Where ever she goes she takes the party.

Joy is her strength.

She has a story.

Her story is one of a rescue.

A rethinking.

And a repurpose that only God himself could do.

As an infant she was found in a little cardboard box 

abandoned under the shelter of a bridge. 

Then found.

Adopted into a family and years later found her true identity

as a daughter of the King.

From an orphaned baby to a found Princess.

Her heavenly adoption has changed her.

She was loved, wanted, longed for 

and sought out always but just didn't know it. 

I love to look at her smiling face.

To hear her laughter.

To see those brown eyes light up with kindness when she talks.

Just seeing her golden heart... her beautiful heart.

This is amazing love.

Amazing grace.

Until next time,

Deborah

stories, the why behind the what

stories: 

an account of events 

in someone's past life

or in the evolution of something

 overcome:

 succeed in defeating, to prevail

prevail:

to prove more powerful than the opposing force

testimony:

evidence or proof 

provided by the existence of something

Come along as we hear the stories of the rescued ones.

The once lost, now found ones.

The ones that have overcome and are overcoming,

Simple. Honest. Undeniable hope 

that changes the world one person at a time.

Have a Best {Honest and Honoring} Mother's Day

Ok, I might make myself late for church 

if I take time to write right now...

Happy Mother's Day!

This greeting was once a bitter, unpleasant phrase to me.

Hurts, wounds, losses. 

 They mounted up to a literal mountain over time.

They say you cannot give what you do not have.  

My mother's mother abandoned her and her sisters 

when they were toddlers.

Literally left. No trace. No communication. Nothing.

They were motherless.

Their elderly father did his best, as far as I was told,

 to raise his 3 daughters but soon poverty and lack in their lives gathered the attention of officials and they were placed 

in foster care.  A kind couple from a small community took the girls in and did their best.

Mom met dad. They had babies and I am one of them.

Mom left a lot. They did their best.

I resented more and more as I grew into my teen years.

I went to live with mom in jr high.

My resentment grew to a thick smothering forest.

I began to hate.

Hate her. Hate them. Hate me.

Her mother reappeared when I was in high school

just long enough for mom to take care of her 

and her husband before they passed away.

I was self destructing and no one knew how quickly 

I was dissolving except for God himself.

I was done. I had no best to give. I couldn't try if I wanted to.

I was suffocating in my own responses to life around me.

Then I was rescued.

The lights came on and I saw hope.

I saw salvation, repentance and love.

And I had a future.

So I embarked on this beautiful flower edged fragrant path...

And soon found thorns, rocks and dry places.

I went to counseling.

Wisely he asked questions, 

listened and gave me some practical helps

and asked me about my relationship with mom. and dad. 

and I thought: what does that matter?

I had no idea what bitterness, resentment, unforgiveness and unresolved pain I had carried and let grow

crippling my own ability to walk or run.

And so I began. 

 I did my best to be honest with myself, with God.

I journaled. I processed. I let God dig it up and bring it to light.

I dealt with things that were intended for destruction.

God began the process to use it for good.

I grew to appreciate my mom.

I looked for the God potential in her.

I saw a heart of gold.

A kind, giving heart with many thorns and hard places as well.

She was mom.

Scripture says love covers a multitude...

And as I cleaned up my own heart I could see hers better.

Happy Mother's Day became more real, more honoring, more.

Less about me. More about honor.

 Less about me. More about seeing the good in others.

And so I began to speak life to her and oh my goodness, apologize for those hate filled teen years that drove her to a psychologist.

Flowers, tiara's, kind words, pedicures, 

lunch at The Olive Garden...

Honor.

And then one day she passed away.

Right before Mother's Day.

I gave her her flowers early so she could hold them.

I gave her French perfume that smelled like a rose garden

and put it on her feet.

Two days after her death, I went to church. On Mother's Day.

"HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!"

friendly well meaning people would say.

And I thought

"my mother's body is in a refrigerator awaiting cremation"

yes.  happy mother's day to you as well.

She did her best.

What more could I ask?

I have learned to love.

And may I keep learning to love.

I want to do my best to love well.

For mom who did her best.

For Dad who I love deeply.

And my step mother who is a gift from God to me.

But mostly for the one who rescued me from hate.

"Honor your mother and father..."

"God is love"

"Perfect love casts out all fear"

"You will know the Truth and the Truth will set you free"

"He will give you a new heart..."

Happy Mother's Day to all who've had a mother,

been a mother, lived, lost, loved.

You are rich because of your kind heart.

So far today I had coffee with my half asleep husband,

 swept the dog hair dust bunnies that were blowing around on the hard surface floor (3xdaily)

self served a piece of left over cold quiche from yesterday while serving my 13 year old son a cup of coffee.

I heard a bit of today's sermon at church last night 

while I stopped by to check on a decorating project.

It hit me as honest and honoring.

I am going back to listen and hear better.

I'll do my best to enjoy today and to be my best.

So imperfect. In process. 

Until next time,

Deborah

images: random searches from the internet

a soda, a prayer and a beautiful soul

It was June. Stormy. Hot. Mild. Unpredictable. Midwest. June.

Our family became Mississippi State baseball fans overnight the evening that my husband was asked to serve as a chaplain to their team who had fought their way to a place on 'The Road to Omaha.' Their team chaplain and his family would join the entourage later in the games.

It was that time again for the College World Series and we jumped in with both feet to encourage and accompany a team, their families and fans to each game.  A couple of our daughters even babysat the small children of the Mississippi State's chaplain in the team's hotel. We related, connected and found that we had much in common with this community built around baseball and faith.

Instant bonds and forever friends, we met some of the kindest, most friendly people from the south during the series that year. We met proud parents, dedicated fans and many soon to be major league baseball players who were as down to earth as the soil they played on. Just good people.

A year later my husband was asked to speak at pregame team gatherings for the SEC semifinals and I went along to enjoy the road trip, the swimming pool at the hotel and the scent of Magnolias carried along in the southern warm breeze and of course a good ole baseball tournament.

A good friend in the auto business set us up with a BMW SUV rental and we were off on a 13 hour drive to the deep south.  I have traveled in, out and around the country and have enjoyed meeting all kinds of people.  One thing I notice as I travel is that people are people. From New York, California, Florida, Colorado, Texas, Michigan, North and South Dakota, Indiana, Minnesota, Georgia, New Jersey and even Iowa, people are people. Everyone has a story, has history and is equally important.   So interesting! 

It was a tournament.  And if you know baseball, a game can be played for hours and hours and hours.

The weather was beautiful, the stands were full, the games were competitive and after quite awhile of sitting I had to find a reason to get up and move so I went for a diet soda.  I know.  Not good for you. But neither would be complications from staying in that posture for 972 hours, or something like that.

So I went to the concessions.  And just like shopping for the best deal in a store I chose to view all of my options before I dropped $7 on a cold cup of toxins over ice, I mean soda. And it was a good walk.  As I walked slowly I peeked through the portals to the field occasionally to check on the game.  After all that is why I was there, right?

After viewing the menu at each concession as I walked by I would glance at the workers. They were all eagerly awaiting business at their registers with smiles.  Most of them anyway.  I began to see a pattern.  There were several groups with their own areas to offer concessions.  But they were divided not just with counters, types of food or refreshments or distance.  They were segregated by the color of their skin.  Light skin. Then dark skin. Light skin. Then dark. Then light and another light.

I am from a small town in the mid-west.  A very small town, actually classified a village now.  You were either Catholic or Lutheran and it I remember that it seemed to be a divide to many.  But not to me.  Dad was raised Lutheran and mom, Catholic so I saw both worlds. But one thing was the same in that small community.  All were light skinned. 

I went to a little Lutheran church in a nearby town down the farmland highway where a missionary came and told stories about  hungry children in poverty stricken regions. Until that moment at the age of 8 I was completely unaware. Unaware of a different kind of suffering and unaware of this Jesus who cared so deeply for all including those malnourished dirty faced little children in the photos that were taped to a cardboard display in the stale basement of this little gathering place.  I had heard some stories about this Jesus in Sunday School at the Presbyterian church down the road from the house I called home but I was confused a bit.  Santa? Easter Bunny? Noah? Esther? Daniel? Jesus?  What is true? What is a tale? When as a child I would sneak out of the house on Sunday mornings when I heard church bells and go see my friends at this fun place called church. And there were always itty bitty servings of crackers and a tiny cup of juice for a snack.  How thoughtful.

#communion? 

 (Ironically, that is my lunch that I'm eating as I write this)

Call me naive? Uncultured? Ignorant? That's ok. But I'd rather be kind.. I want to be part of the solution.  I saw the movie Roots on tv when I was only 10 years old. 1977. January.  It was so cold.  I couldn't do much else.  I watched the whole series.  It was eye opening to this little girl sitting alone in front of the tv.  That was the same era that grandma had me watch Billy Graham Crusades with her. The Reverand Billy Graham did not allow segregation at his gatherings. He once asked a head usher to remove the ropes that divided color in the 50's  and was met with a firm no so the Reverend Billy Graham did it himself.  The head usher quit and much like anyone who goes against the grain of the common in a culture, Reverend Graham took a lot of flack for it.  But I'm guessing he didn't mind.  He was a good friend to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and I am sure he counted it an honor to do the right thing.  Roots by Alex Haley changed me. Shocked me. Broke my heart. And placed an insatiable need in me to apologize for something that I had no idea that I could be even remotely associated with until that point. I felt responsible because of the color of my skin. 

I walked up to the counter and with a smile asked  "May I have a Diet Pepsi please?" 

With the bow of her head glancing down to avoid eye contact she muttered quietly "Why Yes, Ma'am" and slid away sheepishly to the others who stood in their places' also with their heads so low that their chins were on their chests.  The kind woman quickly returned with the cold cup of soda and nodded as if to say "Go on. Take the cup."  I handed her the money.  She bowed again avoiding eye contact and said "Thank you Ma'am" as she moved away from me.  I thanked her, smiled at all of them and went for another long walk.  

I was disturbed.  So many thoughts.  So many questions. I walked for another inning or 2 and then asked God to give me opportunity to have a conversation with a gray haired woman who is an African American concession worker.  I walked.  I waited.  I peeked through the walkways to the ball field just to prove to my husband that I was kind of watching the game and to let him know I was still there at the stadium. The game was close and it was the top of the 9th inning.  The crowd got louder and louder.  "Lord, I'd like to talk with a gray haired African American woman."  

Another loud smack of the bat and loud cheering from inside the stadium.  I walked to an entryway to check the score.  Still so close.  I turned to my left and there she was leaning against the wall almost as if she were holding the wall from falling.  She was leaning, hanging onto the dusty wall tightly to stay out of the way of people passing through.  "Hello How are you?"  I said with a smile.  "Oh, fine" she nodded as she looked to the cement floor.  "Close game"  I added attempting small talk.  "Yes Ma'am" eyes still on floor.  "I think you were the one I bought my soda from.  Do you work here for all the games?"  "Yes, Ma'am"  As we continued the conversation the gaze of her eyes began to lift from the floor to the wall. Then from the wall to my shoulder. I asked open ended questions.  She told me about the all black community that she lives in.  She told me about all of her children.  Her work. And her Jesus.  Finally as we continued to converse she looked me in the eye and as she talked and she was careful to keep a straight expression on her face.  And then something changed.  Her face lit up, a huge almost toothless smile broke out across her face and she said "I can't believe you are talking to me! I just cannot believe you are talking to me.  I just can not..."  "Why?" I asked.  "Why? Why wouldn't I talk to you?" 

Years ago my husband and I had lunch with Coach Ron Brown, at that time a coach with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Cornhusker football team.  He was talking about missions work with American Indians and one of the things that he was passionate to communicate is the fact that the ground at the foot of the cross is level.  No one stands higher than anyone else.

I told that beautiful soul that I love the same Jesus as she and He says "Christ is not divided" so why should we be?

I thanked her for the opportunity to get to know her and hear her stories and that I was honored that she took time for me.  I think she was honored, too. 

...I looked, and there before me was a great multitude

that no one could count, from every nation and tribe

and people and language, 

standing before the throne and before the Lamb.

clothed in white robes 

and were holding palm branches in their hands

Revelation 7:9

We have a friend who once said that a person changes by the books you read and the people you meet.  I have to agree. What books or people help you grow? I'd love to hear your stories!

Until next time,

Deborah

{invisible} fence

{invisible} fence 

I found an invisible safety fence the other day

while standing at the kitchen sink.

The house was unusually still as I quietly scrubbed dishes.

I found myself thinking about each one of our children 

and what they are currently doing, how they are, etc

and then there it was.

I bumped right into it and it jolted me like a

low voltage electric wire.

I felt a familiar cocktail of emotion 

that I have noticed a few times before:

 excitement, hope, high anticipation and yet, playing it safe.

Some fences are intentional.

 Healthy. 

For an example, our backyard fence.

We let our dogs out the back door and the planks of cedar wood

serve their purpose.

The dogs run and play and bark and chase bunnies and birds

and occasionally a neighbor brings his dog through

and we have dog races with our dogs inside the fence

and the neighbor dog running along the outside.

The fence keeps things in and keeps things out.

The first time I noticed this emotional self protection

 I was about to have a baby.

The nurses rushed into the delivery room 

wheeling large sealed containers and an incubator. 

In a fury they ripped open the plastic and sat the sanitized necessities in their place and suddenly

 I could not breath. 

For the first time in my life, my breath 

was literally taken away by emotion.

I was gasping for air but overcome by 

excitement, hope and anticipation, no longer playing it safe.

I was going to have a baby.

I knew I was going to have a baby for about 8 months

but I had played it safe.

I miscarried at 4 months along a few years before

 when our oldest was 2 years old

and after trying for another and being so disappointed

month after month after month, I gave up.

I chose to be content with 1 child.

I chose to be grateful for whatever God had planned

and I let go.

Several weeks later while volunteering at a crisis pregnancy center

I decided to take a test after my shift was over.

I walked down a long beautiful hallway 

framed in soft sunlit french windows in careful hope

that I may expecting.

A few minutes later it was + 

and my mind suddenly became a swirl of numbing emotion

as I walked back through the hallway. 

But I self protected. Played it safe. 

I didn't want to feel such sorrow and grief again.

"What if I lost this baby, too?"

"Will I be able to carry this child to term?"

And thousands of other thoughts and questions

railed my mind for the months that followed.

I waited and waited and did not let myself feel.

I had no idea how shut down I was 

until I hit the invisible fence when it became real.

It's a girl!

Years later that round, healthy, baby was a beautiful, tenacious, adventurous, athletic 13 year old 

running in her first cross country meet.

I stood along the dirt path to cheer her on.

I chose a spot over a hill, by a fence.

She didn't love running and was way to kind to want to outrun others and make them feel bad

so she ran in the back of the pack to cheer them on.

I waited and waited.

Lots of runners went by and still no daughter.

I began to wonder if she stepped in a hole and twisted her ankle?

As I looked around waiting to cheer her on 

I noticed people began to leave.

O.K. Now I'm a little more than worried.

Where is she? The sun is setting and it will be dark soon.

Oh wait! Here comes another group!

You can tell by the dust cloud over the hill.

I peered into the cluster of runners to find my daughter.

I don't see her. She's not with them?

A few more minutes go by.

I started to feel valid concern...

and then in a distance I could see a few dots.

As they drew closer and came up over the last hill

I could see her!  I recognized her by her clothing!

She was running alone...

I was so proud of her.

She had 2 runners following her.  The last 2 of the race.

She got closer and closer and at last, here she was 

so finally with all the compressed, 

 sheer parental enthusiasm saved for this moment, 

I opened my mouth to shout for her and...

nothing...

nothing but gasps for air.

I could not breathe. 

I could not make a sound.

She ran by, eyes focused straight ahead.

She didn't even see me.

But I was there, right by that fence.

And more dishes to wash.

Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

 My mind was thinking about one of our children in particular

and a situation that they were in a few years ago.

It was hard.

Very, very difficult for everyone.

And at minimum, it was a test.

A huge test.

And I thought about what is happening

in that child's life today in contrast 

to those days and I was overwhelmed.

 "Really?  Really, Lord? 

It's just so... beautiful. So healthy.

So right.  Really Lord?  Could it be?"

And I felt another safety fence that I had built around 

my thoughts and emotions. 

I'm not sure that any of us will ever perfect 'fence removal'

and have a completely fence and pothole free terrain

but for now I will just keep on walking, running or even crawling

trusting the One who knows the course that I am on.

I think I'll keep the excitement, hope and anticipation

while I toss the 'play it safe.'

Psalm 112:7

His heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord.

 deborah

write

write v  (rait)

to form with letters, 

to compose, 

describe, 

to show clearly, 

to transfer,

 express,

 communicate

 Amazing grace.

how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost but now am found.

was blind

but now, I see.