The Journey…

The process by which Good Grief?!? came into being was just that…a very long, difficult process. It started with the death of my first wife and meandered through the dark mire of confusion, pain, and grief of which no one is really prepared. It took nearly 2.5 years to write.

When I sat across from Carolyn on what I hoped was our “first date,” I asked her to paint the cover scene of my soon to be published book. God had given me a clear picture in my head the day before and I was excited to find out that He’d given her the same picture. (Some day soon, I’ll post about that first date!) I had no idea that progression of the cover picture would show the process of grief and my book in stages.

It began with a fog. The trepidation of not knowing what was lurking in the fog is similar to the trepidation of looking into the heart of fear and wondering what horrific thing awaits along the road I must travel.

As death lurks, the breath of life is gone. The beauty of life is gone. The color of life is gone. “What’s hiding behind that next tree?” “What could be waiting for me at the end of this path?” “Why must I travel this path… seemingly alone?!?” Questions that bring anxiety and stir up more fear.

Hope only happens when we turn our eyes toward God’s promises. And, just like life, those promises sprout up near the end of the path, illuminating the world, while driving much of the fog and darkness away. Just a bit of Hope seems to bring with it the light that previously was absent.

Through the witness of a few different family and friends, I was reminded that the story I’d lived was one to help others find that hope amongst the terrors of the walk through grief.

It was also at that time when I knew life had to begin living again. I couldn’t continue to walk numbly through everything. God gave me a new job. God paved the road for Micah to go to college. And God was beginning to pick up the pace of life again. The dreary was slowly departing, not completely, just slowly.

Once a few of those promises come into sight, the darkness recedes even more, and true sight begins to take form. The path gets clearer and easier to follow. The looming question of the fog no longer is in view. Yes, death is still present, but the pain brings memories of beauty, the memories of warm laughter, and the memories of hope begin to take shape. You realize that the memories are a gift. Yes, they are often painful, but God turns pain into beauty quite regularly. If that’s a hard pill to swallow, contemplate childbirth.

The day before our “first date,” after having purchased the “Streets of Gold” painting, I woke to a clear picture of a man walking down a path through trees in Fall, leaves of all colors and shades. My heart heard it as plain as day: “Thom, grief is like Fall.” God’s whisper might as well have been shouting. It all made sense.

In the Fall, when the leaves turn, our world erupts in beauty. The once beautifully bright, vibrant world becomes more cozy as leaves turn to darker shades of reds, and oranges, and yellows.

The work of grief is hard. It’s time consuming. And, I’ll clue you in on a secret people don’t like to talk about…it doesn’t just go away after a few days or weeks or months…the season of grief, like the season of Fall, stays around for what sometimes feels like an eternity.

When the trees release their pretty charges, our yards are filled with a beautiful mess. I’d never thought of it that way before God showed me the picture for the cover of the book. If we want our yard to be healthy, and the neighbors to not hate us, we take the time to rake the leaves. Then there’s the task of getting rid of them. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day, there is satisfaction.

We go to bed knowing we worked hard, but we took a shower and went to bed. When we wake up, we find that there are a few leaves that have wandered into our well manicured lawn. It’s a bit irritating, but we quickly pick them up so that our home looks pretty again, so no onlookers see anything out of place.

A couple days go by, a windstorm alights in the night, and we wake to more leaves on the ground than when we initially raked leaves at the beginning of Fall. It’s seemingly a never ending cycle, never knowing how many leaves we might have to deal with when we wake in the morning, or come home from work, or see swirling while we stare out the window during dinner.

Those leaves are like memories of our dearly departed. They are beautiful and rich with color. But they are also decaying, falling around us, causing painful work to be done.

When I shared my vision for the cover of Good Grief?!? with Carolyn, she understood it immediately and the picture in her mind was instant. Had she stopped at the above picture, I would have been happy. It would have been missing someone, but it would still carry the metaphor. When I saw the end product (below), it was as if I’d stepped into a vacuum of time and sound.

I was overwhelmed and instantly in tears.

When Carolyn unveiled the final picture, I felt like the horse blinders had been removed and I could understand more of the message God was using us both to portray, one in black and white print, and one in vivid brush strokes.

I was the one in the picture! Not a random man. Me. ME! That is actually my shadow walking in that picture.

The irony is not lost on me. I teach English to Middle Schoolers. Irony is part of my daily language.

It had never dawned on me that the person I “saw” walking through the grove of Fall trees was me. I often, like many romantics, look at the world with a bit of rose colored glasses. Why insert my actual image? That might tarnish the picture. That might awaken more pain. That might be a little too much reality. I’m sure that sounds absurd, especially since I’m the one who walked through the season of grief written about in the book.

I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now… I had never let myself be part of this space before (the space of oncoming blessing), yet I’ve encouraged many others to do just that…I mean…I’ve had a relationship with Abba God for a very long time. I know how good the God of Creation is. I know how much our Father God wants to bless us, I’m a father myself. I know how good Heaven/blessing sounds, but I’ve always pictured myself as a stable boy, worthy to only clean the stables of Heaven, and happy to be allowed to have the opportunity.

I stood for a beat. Then the tears began to roll.

Looking at the finished painting for the first time, it dawned on me that “I” was walking into the sunriseinto Streets of Gold. I wasn’t walking into death. I was walking away from it into the life that is brought with Spring. Me. Carolyn didn’t paint me at the bottom of the picture, just entering a dark and dreary Fall, with Winter in the background.… and she had painted ME!

When I first showed “Streets of Gold” to one of my best friends, she said to me, “Thom, look at the leaves.”

“I know,” I said, eyes downcast, looking at the ground covering.

“No, not those leaves,” she said. “Those are blessings God’s already given you. Look at the ones in the trees!”

Time seemed to stop. The ground covering seemed like a meager amount to the limb packed trees!

I’m still struggling to wrap my head around all this. If the leaves on the ground represent the miracles I’ve seen while walking with Abba God through many decades, the lifelong friends He’s paired my life with, the nearly 19 years of a marriage to Amy, 3 beautiful souls who call me dad, an incredible career, and many more things too numerous to talk about here, and that number pales in light of the blessings to come?!? Peace. The book. New life and new love. Carolyn. A future with my boys and the families God intends for them. Prior to the day I first saw the finished picture for the book, I’d never before felt this loved by LOVE Himself! I’d never really known Abba had blessed me and love me that much. I had just claimed it as a promise… that one day I’d finally FEEL like I hope my boys feel about me as their dad.

The book has finished the first editorial round. There are about 10 weeks before Good Grief?!? will arrive in stores on real and virtual shelves to be purchased, and it finally feels like it’s actually happening. Thank you for walking this journey with me!

Spring is coming!

“Streets of Gold” by Carolyn Walker

November 17, 2019, I woke to an incredible painting posted on Facebook: “Streets of Gold”. When I first saw “Streets of Gold”, God told me to buy the painting. It was to “represent the blessings” He’d given me “and the blessings I would be walking through.” Two days later I was picking the painting up from the artist.

When I woke the next morning, God gave me a picture of a man walking through a grove of trees in Autumn. Then He whispered in my soul, “Grief is like Fall.” My world exploded. I’d been struggling with the book’s introduction. I also knew the ending wasn’t quite right either. But the revelation about grief CHANGED everything… including the cover.

I contacted Carolyn and asked to meet with her the next evening. Exactly a week after picking up “Streets of Gold”, we were engaged.

It’s not the typical pattern we’ve all come to expect in dating. That pattern usually takes a lot longer. But God… There’s that phrase again (I wrote a post about it a year ago.) But God… in His infinite wisdom, overwhelming love, and endless fatherly gift giving… made it clear He was pushing the time table, not us.

Many have wondered how God took me from overwhelming loneliness and grief and turned my world around in literally the blink of an eye. One minute I was standing in a Starbucks, meeting the artist who painted “Streets of Gold”, and in the next… while still standing in that same Starbucks during that same meeting… I was talking with the woman God intended for me… and I knew it in that moment. (She didn’t, but I did.)

As we began sharing our whirlwind love story with our inner circle of mentors, family, and friends, the questions and worry presented to us melted away. Each time we met over coffee, tea, or a meal, we had confirmation – God was directing this love story and that was clear to all. One of my closest friends remarked, “Thom, look at that painting. Many blessings are on the ground, but look at the trees!” I got lightheaded. I’ve never known this level of blessing and favor.

On top of the confirmations, God has made it abundantly clear, many times, that March 20th is to be the wedding date. It’s been overwhelming at times and peaceful at others as we plan this wedding. Learning to “do life” together while living in two different zip codes, evaluating stuff (what do we keep, donate, or sell?), and finding time to date each other has made our schedule a bit of a whirlwind in and of itself. But God… Just acknowledging His divine hand changes it all.

Which brings us to the present. Last night while driving home, my son asked, “Dad, when does Spring begin? ” I was sure the equinox was in April, but just to make sure, Carolyn opened her phone to check.

“The first day of Spring is March 20th,” Carolyn whispered.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

“It’s March 20th,” she repeated, a little louder. Her revelation stunned me. “There’s your next book,” she added.  I found myself completely flabergasted.

There’s another part to God’s revelation from last night though. Twenty-seven years ago God told me to “Be a child” in a moment He burned into the fabric of ME. A wise man told me, “Thom, don’t grow up. People who grow up on the inside tend to get in God’s way. Be childlike in your faith and devotion. God will always be able to use you.”

I have attempted to be childlike for the last 27 years. Sometimes I’ve grown up and succumbed to stress and worry, especially since March 2013 when Amy was first diagnosed with kidney failure. Sometimes God has reminded me to play and the years of worry began to melt away.

Last night, Carolyn told me she refers to me as her “playmate.” Her mom has even counseled couples in the past two weeks, encouraging them with the concept of playmate – to play as a couple, to remember the joy of play, to be childlike, and to laugh.

We’d been talking about a realization God gave me in the car after learning when Spring started. I simply said, “I have forever felt less than… that people have settled for me.” From friendships to romance, I’ve thought people could have done better, including Amy. “I have often felt I could have been a better husband, father, and friend.” (I don’t need the sermons or the accolades, and I’m not fishing for compliments. God blew my mind last night.)  As I listened to Carolyn tell me about how her mother was using our story, I no longer felt less than. Last night was the first time I truly believed I was someone’s perfect match. I truly understood my worth in the eyes of others and in the eyes of God. And for once, I didn’t feel like I needed to apologize for wanting to play.

This morning my heart was overwhelmed to realize once again that God has been at work to bring this family into a time of unrestrained favor and blessing. The metaphor of Fall became the introduction… or rather… the beginning of the book. Since many people don’t read the Introduction, I named it “The Beginning.” Carolyn finished painting the picture of Autum God had given me. He’d given her the same picture.

“Fall of Grief” by Carolyn Walker
To be the cover of my book Good Grief?!?

The last addition to the book was to add a final chapter to complete the metaphor. It explains how the Autumn of Grief turns into the cold, often lonely, dark Winter of the Soul. But it doesn’t stop there; it briefly talks of meeting Carolyn and leaning toward the future. Spring is coming. Truly. On March 20th, the day God picked for me to marry Carolyn is the first day of Spring literally and figuratively. This family is being ushered into New Life.

I’ve already started outlining the next book, titled Good God?!? It will further look at the metaphor of the Seasons in life. I will continue to update this blog as Good Grief?!? gets closer to store shelves. Thank you for continuing to support me and this book.

365 Days… later

A lot has happened in the last 365 days. It was Dec. 23, 2018, when God told me to take off my wedding ring. “It’s time,” was the resounding message. I waited until nearly New Year’s before making it somewhat public, blogging about it on Jan 1st. “You can learn a lot from someone’s hands,” I’d said in that blog post, hinting at, but not coming right out and saying my ring had been removed.

It’s been a difficult year, thinking that God asked me to take off the ring to focus on Him… which He did. And in this year, I started counseling because the counseling I was attending with my boys was no longer helping. The year grew darker and Dec. 23 further away. The loneliness became more overwhelming. I began to shrink from friends and family, throwing myself in any direction to occupy my time.

In March, God set me in front of a few pastors whom I call friends, and whose wisdom and care have comforted me through the darkest days. “God is at work in you. He’s preparing someone for you,” I was told… many times. I chose to not believe. I chose to say what I was supposed to say so they’d stop talking. I chose to not listen.

In August, I began to hear God remind me to turn to my pursuit of joy. At the end of September, He challenged my theology of gratitude. On my birthday (Oct. 1), I fully understood the call to gratitude and began starting each day with two “aloud” comments related to gratitude. That’s when the flood started.

Streets of Gold by Carolyn Walker 2019

On Nov. 17, 2019, I woke up to a picture titled “Streets of Gold” at the top of my Facebook feed. God said to me, “This picture is for you…to represent My blessing in your life and the blessings you will walk through.” I contacted the artist and made plans to purchase it. I was not expecting, nor was Carolyn, the twist in my story God was writing.

For the last 3 years, I’ve carried two candles at ther Candlelight service. On the same evening God told me to take off my wedding ring, He’d told me to blow out the second candle.

Thom and Carolyn Christmas “Adam” Candlelight Service 2019

Tonight, 365 days later, I stood in the Candlelight Service again. This time, however, I was standing next to my fiancee: Carolyn Walker. God is so very good!

Thom & Carolyn…Engaged

Update on the book

kisspng-fire-hose-clip-art-spa-figures-5ad8bf5a42e5a5.527138121524154202274Do you remember seeing kids running around in the summer, running till they were dripping with sweat and then drinking for a garden hose? The water was always so cold. So refreshing. However, it’s not a sight often seen since the 80’s. (I’ve just really dated myself!)

In the last 6 weeks, God has blessed me left and right, to the point that I almost feel like I’m trying to drink from a firehose. Don’t get me wrong! I’m having a blast and my heart is overflowing with joy. There’s just a lot on my plate right now.

Six days ago, officially linked arms with a publishing company. Yesterday, I received a huge download of data to read, a fist full of decisions to make, and a Paso Doble of steps to take over the next few days and weeks! Yet, in the midst of it all, my heart is at peace and joy is often plastered across my face as I work in the minute, to get the task in front of me completed.

Tonight I rewrote a chapter in Good Grief?!? that has caused me much grief. I’ve known the original design of the chapter about the Mom Mafia was not written well, or in a way that wouldn’t get me into trouble with the women God has used to encircle my family and help rebuild us with their gifts in mothering. God’s been showing me how to rework it since the beginning of last week, but I finally had the time to finish it tonight.

Next, I’m taking on the Introduction, which God gave me the vision for this morning on the way to work. The original pass at the Intro didn’t really fit the book, but I was spent a year ago when I finished the book and didn’t know what else to do with it.

Soon I’ll get to give you a glimpse of the metaphor of grief God bestowed on me this morning that has widely reshaped the Intro and a good deal of the book (guess what I’m doing over Thanksgiving Break!). I have 1 1/2 more chapters to re-write! I have to choose the pics for the publication. And put a sketch of the cover design onto paper…something that came with this morning’s download!

Thank you for your prayers and encouragement. When all the cogs align that need to align in the next seven days or so, I’ll be able to share the metaphor and picture God downloaded to me on my drive this morning! I can’t wait!

Mother’s Day…without any mothers

14241595_10210005510755555_7420952374523354855_o
Fun with “scarves” and Mom at Ikea

Mother’s Day comes as a wonderful day of celebration for most, or maybe only for many while the rest glue plastic smiles on and pretend the day is one of celebration. There are three ladies in my life who I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day, and this year, not one of them is here to celebrate.

My mother still lives, however, by her own choices, is no longer part of my life. I’ve struggled since childhood with the “Ideal of Motherhood.” I’ll be the first to admit fault and broken humanity makes for trying times; however, the woman I knew to be my mother did not exist. I could deal with the duality when we were apart – it’s easier to hold onto a dream when there’s distance – but, each time our paths crossed, each time we were in the same room, the pain was undeniably immense. When my own children began to experience pain with which they never should have had to deal, I sought pastoral counseling. It was a difficult process, a difficult time of soul searching, and a difficult decision. We laid ground rules. I reached out with an olive branch. It was clear she didn’t want a relationship with me or my family anymore. I mourned that day almost as if the angel of death had come to visit.

A few years prior, my mother-in-law was on the angel’s pick-up list. Ten years prior, on the eve of my wedding night, God told me we would only have a brief 10 years with Amy’s mom. A few months later, Susan was called upon to pray over a family friend’s son who had been in a severe skiing accident that should have taken his life. Susan asked Amy and me to go with her. We gathered at the friend’s house and prayed. I learned how to pray that night – to really pray – at the knee of a warrior woman of God. That night I became Elisha to Susan’s Elijah. In my spirit, I knew I wanted a double portion of her blessing. At the end of the night, when we’d returned to Susan’s house, I asked her for something I knew I had no right for which to ask, but I also knew I couldn’t NOT ask.

“Mom,” I started, searching for the courage to finish the request, “can I have your Bible when you’re finished with it?”

“Thom, you don’t know what you’re asking for,” she started. “I mean…I won’t be finished with it until….” Her words fell away. She looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Today you have truly become my son.”

I didn’t really realize the gravity of that statement for a very long time. Nine years later, while she lay in a hospital bed after her first of many heart attacks, I stood trembling.

“Mom…” Amy stepped out of the curtained area to give us privacy. She knew what I was going to ask, and she felt she needed to leave us alone. “Mom,” I started again, “I’ve come to ask for that double blessing,” I finished just above a whisper.

“Thom, it’s not up to me, but I’ll ask,” she said with a slight smile. Then she lay her hand on top of mine and prayed. A little over a year later she was gone. That loss rocked my world. It rocked Amy’s world. It rocked my boys too. The realization of my request has grown inside of me in ways I had not anticipated…especially in the past two years.

The last woman I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day was Amy, my dear wife. Two years before we’d even met, I’d been diagnosed with a pituitary tumor and a disfiguring growth disease. The doctors told me I would never sire children. When Amy and I began dating, it was one of the first things I disclosed. For many, it would have been a deal breaker. We began talking and planning for an adoption…five actually. Eight months after we were married, Amy was told she could never carry a child. Three months later we learned that doctors only “practice medicine” – they haven’t perfected it.

It was my 25th birthday, and I was standing in the bathroom of our little apartment holding the pregnancy test strip Amy’d used in the night. When she went to bed, it was negative. When I pulled it out of the trash, it was positive. Fearing a false positive, Amy used the second test strip and then we headed to the doctor’s office for confirmation.

I never saw Amy happier than when she held each of our three sons for the first time. She was a natural at motherhood; she made it look easy…very easy. The first time she held each one, Amy prayed an incredible, warrior mom prayer. I wish I’d had a way to record those prayers so my boys could hear her voice and remember her fierce determination for their souls to know God. Each prayer was unique. Each prayer was expertly fashioned for the child she held. And each prayer was prophetic, asking God to watch over her son(s) through trials, specific trails, she intuitively knew were looming in the shadows of each boy’s future. The only similarity between the prayers was the admission, “God, thank you for loaning us this child, Your child, to raise. Help us do so with Your wisdom and Your Word.”

A tremendous gap was created in our family when God took Amy away from her physical pain and sickness.

Yesterday, I was overwhelmed with the “looming onset” of this matriarch holiday. I didn’t know how I would navigate the day with my boys. Our first Mother’s Day without Amy happened to also be my oldest’s 18th birthday. We spent the day celebrating the women in my boys’ life who stepped into the vacuum left by their mother. It was a happy and sad day. Last year was an awful fight between one child and the rest of the family. This year, I wanted a different day. But I didn’t know what that day would look like. My youngest wanted to bake a cake and then hole up in his room after church on Mother’s Day…to “get through it.” My angel with Autism wanted to watch his mother’s memorial service and then “do everything Mom would have loved to do with us!” My oldest would still be on campus in Southern California, spending Mother’s Day with an empty dorm and a few other RA’s stuck on campus for the 48-hours-after-checkout duties. I couldn’t think of a plan because I couldn’t think of a way around re-watching the memorial service and walking around with a shredded heart for the day.

When I find myself up against a wall, unable to move, in this season of parenting, I’ve learned to reach out for help. I sent a text out to a few of the women God’s firmly planted in my sons’ lives with my dilemma. The result was astounding. I found myself marveling at God’s miracle. The Mom Mafia spoke – many of them replied to my text – with the same message: this year is to be about making new, fun traditions – Amy wouldn’t have wanted us to all be locked in the house sobbing, unable to keep on living.

20190512_1425141377485683111685808.jpg
Pig ‘N Pancake (Seaside, OR)

So today, this Mother’s Day, without any mothers, my youngest two headed to the beach to laugh and make new memories.

20190512_1600398892550417637002630.jpg
On the beach together

Tonight, I marvel at the wonderful day that was had (even by Micah). I want to celebrate the Mom Mafia who, nearly three years later, are still offering wise warrior mom prayers, who are still seeking ways to love on my boys and speak into their lives, and who are continuing to impart wisdom and encouragement to this tired dad, in spite of the parental load they already carry. May God richly bless this army of women (and their brave and wonderful husbands).

-C, -J, -J, -K, -L, -M, -M, -M, -N, -S — “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace” (Num. 6:24-26).

It’s Time.

20181223_1716091791040643912346633.jpg
The last “two-candle” candlelight service

December 23, 2018, was an important night for me. I was in the middle of the Candlelight service at my church. I was holding two candles like I’ve done each Christmas Candlelight Service since my wife died. While waiting for the rest of the candles in the room to get lit, I asked God, “Abba, how do we move on into this next year?” It was a prayer I’ve asked many times when a new year is staring down the barrel at me. Usually, I feel God direct me – sometimes immediately, but most times, as the days go on, His plan falls into place. This time was different.

“Put out a candle, Thom.”

It wasn’t audible, but it was distinct. I shook my head. That can’t be right. I’ve been holding on to two candles since Amy died, to honor her. I’m sure that wasn’t God. 

“Yes, Thom, it’s me. I said, put out a candle. It’s time.”

Not wanting to give myself time to talk me out of God’s directive, I licked my forefinger and thumb and pinched out the flame. There was a finality to it. I immediately felt a difference, as if something tangible inside of me happened when I snuffed out the flame.

I remember shaking my head slightly, looking down at my hand that held a lit candle and a used candle. I wasn’t sobbing. I was at peace.

“It’s time.”

There is a lot of meaning in those two words. I’m wondering what all God has in mind, but He didn’t take long to start me down the path of change.

A few days later, I was asking my sons’ counselors about the process of redecorating the house. I’ve been very antsy about helping my boys and me move out of the season of grief caused by the daily reminder of loss.

“It’s high time for a Bachelor Pad,” one of the counselors said. “Don’t do it all in one weekend, but be intentional. Have a box ready to store things you and your boys do not want to give away. Put the things of Amy’s in the box that you all want to keep, but that really don’t have a place in a bachelor pad. Put the box somewhere safe so everyone can go check on it when he needs to make sure Mom’s things are still there. Then put the lid back on the box and put it away. Tackle one room at a time. It’s time.” The other counselor agreed and said something similar. She too ended with “It’s time.” I felt confirmation in the continued reminder.

One week after the candlelight service, I was talking with some close family friends. I filled them in on God’s directive and told them I was praying the boys’ transition would be positive, even if it was painful. A week later my phone rang. One of the same friends I’d been talking to was on the other end.

20190109_2118454413682024751766343.jpg
Out with the old… (complete with 2 dressers, an armoire, and 2 side table dressers)

“Thom, my mom’s getting rid of her solid oak bedroom set. I sent you an email with pictures. Check it out and let me know if you’re interested.” I opened the email to look at the pictures. I was overwhelmed. The bedroom set I’d been using was the one Amy and I purchased two weeks before we got married. Climbing into it each night brought with it a sense of loss, a reminder that I would wake up alone in the morning. I’d been wanting to purchase a new set, but knew it would be too costly. I was trying to figure out how to purchase a new set, but God had a different plan.

When the arrangements were made for the new bed to arrive, I offhandedly asked another friend of the family if she knew of anyone who might need a bedroom set. She did. It was another confirmation of God’s divine plan. The following Saturday morning, the new bedroom set arrived after the old one had been brought downstairs. Two hours later, a packed U-Haul left my home on its way to bless someone God wanted to bless. I slept soundly that night for the first time in years.

had no idea God was going to start the “Bachelor Pad Makeover” in my bedroom, but He did. For the last three weeks, I’ve slept in a new sanctuary. Little by little, the rest of the house is changing too. And my boys…they are helping to create the Bachelor Pad.

20190112_2213444255272615541069641.jpg
In with the new…

Two Sundays ago, one of the pastors at my church said, “God is never late, but he sure does miss many opportunities to be early.” I remember chuckling, thinking about my impatience, but tonight, I realized that I’d rather be in God’s timing than mine. If it had been up to me, I’d be making payments on a new bedroom set for the next three to five years, struggling to figure out how it would all work out financially. The next time I’m impatient, I pray I remember to be patient and listen for “It’s time” from on high. God’s timing is truly perfect.

 

Hands

My left hand.

You can learn a lot just by looking at someone’s hands.

For instance, you can tell if someone works in an office or in manual labor. You can tell if they’ve been painting or cooking recently. You can also see signs of sickness and age.

A hand is the first contact most people will make with another person. Are the hands rough? Smooth? Cold? Nervous? Sweaty? Slender? Massive?

When you look at someone’s hands, there are many other things you can learn as well:

  1. Has life been good to this person?
  2. Do they place importance on taking care of themselves?
  3. Have they battled anxiety, gnawing and picking at their nails until there’s no quick, just a slight change between soft fingertip to hard nail, marked by dried blood droplets?
  4. Have they found love?

Sometimes hands can show the excitement of a new beginning or the grief of an end.

With our hands, we cook, give directions, and help our fellow man.

Some people gesticulate wildly while talking and you might have to duck a wild hand…especially if they dab (which I honestly believe should never be done by anyone).

Parents and teachers use their hands to teach, direct, and discipline the lives of the next generation.

Children play patty-cake, peek-a-boo, and create special clapping rhythms amongst friends while on the playground. Some children create secret hand-shakes and give each other high fives as a standard of approval. Some of these childish hand behaviors follow on into adulthood, and if they haven’t, they often should.

Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it (Mark 12:15).

With our hands, we sometimes massage painful muscles and joints at the end of the day – sometimes our own painful muscles, sometimes muscles belonging to someone else. Our hands are used to caress a lover, and make lifelong commitments (’till death do we part).

The next time you meet someone new, re-connect with a long lost friend, or simply have coffee with your best friend, take a moment to read the stories their hands can tell you.

Hands show the world more than many realize.

Shooting Iced Tea Through My Nose and Other Mistakes…

Applebees-Logo-1024x569
Logo courtesy of Applebee’s Restaurant

Our first date began at Noon and ended at half past midnight! At each possible ending, it was clear, neither of us wanted the date to end.

We started at Applebee’s restaurant. The conversation was going well. We talked about everything, but we were constantly interrupted. We had one of those perky waitresses, who, when she found out we were on a first date, stopped by the table every six minutes to check on us. We timed it. After two hours, the waitress asked us to pay the bill because she was working a split-shift and needed to close out with management.

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually rush customers. This is just a unique situation. You can stay as long as you want.”

I paid the bill and we continued to talk. We talked about childhood, we talked about hobbies and interests, and we talked about the future – about goals, and careers, and kids. At one point in the conversation, I took a drink while Amy said something funny. Somehow, the liquid which usually quenched my thirst was now rocketing out my nose. And it didn’t stop. As I tried to stem the flow, Amy sat there giggling. She didn’t run in terror.

“I’m sorry,” I finally squeaked.

“For showing me you’re human?” Amy replied with a giant grin. Then she changed the subject and the conversation resumed. At 5:30, a familiar voice interrupted us.

“You’re still here?!?” our waitress announced. Amy’s eyes grew large. I shivered.

“We’re just leaving,” I managed as we both bolted for the front door.

“Now where?” Amy asked as we buckled into the car.

“I could take you home if you wish.”

“No, I don’t want to go home,” Amy said with a grin, “Let’s go see a movie.”

While waiting to purchase tickets, Amy’s cell phone rang. She looked at the display, cringed, and whispered an apology.

“Hi, Jen. What’s up?…No, maybe next weekend….Will you be at church tomorrow?…”

Realizing Amy had previously set up this call to get out of a “messy date”, I stepped back to give her some space, grinning from ear to ear. She wanted to spend more time with me.

During the movie when the bedroom scene began, I started counting popcorn kernels on the floor. Half-way to 100, Amy nudged me.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just tell me when the scene’s over,” I muttered. Amy told me much later that she knew at that moment.

When we exited the theater, we couldn’t remember where I’d parked. We looked everywhere.

“Found it,” I announced with chagrin.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, then followed my pointing finger.

“I left the headlights on,” I answered. Why? It had been daylight when we parked. I had no explanation. Amy called her best friend for a jump-start.

“You’re supposed to stage this at a dead end where we could make out and get to know each other,” Amy quipped. Instantly I was flush with embarrassment.

“Um…I didn’t do this on purpose,” I managed, glad for the cover of night.

“I’m just kidding,” Amy replied. There was an awkward pause.

“Um…” I began, “I’ve never kissed a girl before. I…uh…wanted to wait until the pastor said ‘you may kiss the bride.'”

Amy was at a loss for words.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I just thought you should know in case this relationship continues.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. Amy’s look was a mix of appreciation and fear. Recognizing the struggle within Amy, I continued. “I’m not looking for someone who’s made the same decision. I just knew I had to make that decision when I was in middle school.”

Shortly after the awkward conversation, Temple arrived with her trusty fiance in tow. As Jason and I connected the two batteries, Amy took Temple a safe distance away.

“How’s it going?” Temple asked, loud enough for me to hear.

“Fine,” Amy replied through clenched teeth. Temple took the hint and began to whisper.

Once my car started, we parted ways.

“Now where?” Amy asked. It was after 8:00 p.m.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Yes, and I know the perfect place,” she answered and began directing me to an incredible Italian restaurant.

Half-way through our meal, Amy pushed her plate away.

“Do you want the rest of mine?” she asked. I was very hungry, having only eaten lunch that day.

“Thanks,” I answered, before accepting her plate. Amy later told me I had passed her test.

We talked for the rest of the night.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we closed half-an-hour ago,” our waiter stated apologetically. I glanced sheepishly around the room. We were the only patrons in the restaurant. I paid the bill and we headed for the car.

“Now where?” We drove around for an hour before I dropped Amy off at home.

“How are you going to top that date?” a very close friend asked me when I described the date. “Are you going to wet yourself?” I laughed, and still chuckle today when thinking about it. There were a few mishaps that might send most girls running, but Amy didn’t run. She saw a real human, not a fake front, and began falling in love with me on that date. I’d snort iced tea again if it’d bring Amy back for even just a laugh. Good grief.

A First Date?!?

 

 

“You have a hot date tomorrow with Amy Standley!” Rob announced entering my office.

Date?!? I began freaking out in my head. It’s just coffee.

“Y…e…s…,” I tried to cover, hoping Rob didn’t notice. Dating and I never got along. Most of my first dates landed around 9.0 on the Rhictor scale. I spent much time leading up to first dates worshipping the porcelain throne, heaving everything I’d eaten for the past few weeks. Then I struggled to hold conversation with the girl with whom I had no trouble talking before and when I asked her out. The cold sweats began.

“It’s not a big deal,” I continued after a beat. “Just coffee.” My voice cracked like a pre-pubescent boy.

“You can’t do just coffee on a first date with Amy.” Rob said it like I should have known that rule. In college, Amy lived with Temple, about a mile off campus. Temple’s boyfriend (now husband), Jason, introduced Amy to his best friend, Rob. The four spent much time together. Amy and Temple’s house was a second home to Rob. After graduation, I just happened to be hired as the youth pastor of Rob’s home church. So, that’s how we ended up staring at each other on that Friday afternoon.

“Amy said coffee when I called, so coffee it is.” But Rob’s “encouragement” changed my mind. On the way into town – I lived 72 miles from Amy at the time – I stopped and picked up a floral bouquet and a copy of The Oregonian newspaper to get some destination ideas (it was well before SMART phones and Google Assistant).

Apparently, after leaving my office, Rob called Amy with a similar proclamation. She’d been just as confused as I had been. When I arrived for our “date”, Amy was on a long-distance call to her sister Lisa in full freak-out mode.

“It’s just supposed to be coffee!” she’d told Lisa.

“If he’s got flowers, then it’s a date,” was the bit of wisdom Lisa gave her before hanging up the phone. (Amy filled me in on our third date.)

I was so nervous after talking with Rob that I spent the evening futzing over outfits and plans. In the morning, before the date, I changed clothes four times! I settled on stone-washed denim jeans and a mustard yellow button-down shirt. Amy would confide in me years later that she hated that shirt. I’m glad I showed up with the flowers, or it may have just been coffee.

Eight months had passed since I declared to my college roommate I would marry Amy Standley. In that time, many things happened to ensure we would never meet again, but God had a bigger plan. I believe God gives us choice in whom we choose to love and marry. The romantic in me still believes that sometimes God moves Heaven and Earth in order for two specific people to meet. When I take into account all of the things working against us becoming a couple, my head swims. Good grief!?! All the head-swimming ceases, though, when I remember two incredible words: but God.

But-God-365x365
Graphic Credit: WaveChurch https://wavechurch.com/store/but-god/

Those two words are so powerful. Amy and I wouldn’t have met, but God convinced Amy to go to Eugene Bible College for a one-year Bible certificate. Amy and I wouldn’t have had a first date, but God prompted Rob to drop a few hints. Amy and I were both separately told we couldn’t have children, but God decided to confound the doctors…thrice! There are many more instances in my life where those two small words change the direction of the narrative.

As I sat pondering these two words, God took me on a trip through Scripture. I found forty-one chapters in the Bible containing this powerful phrase. One story stood out from the rest. One man – who happens to be one of my favorite characters in the Bible – stood out from the rest. In speaking about this man, Stephen said, “Because the patriarchs were jealous of Joseph, they sold him as a slave into Egypt. But God was with him” (Acts 7:9). At the end of his life, when his brothers came to him in fear for their very lives, Joseph said, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done” (Genesis 50:20). I pray I will see “…but God…” strung through the narrative of my story and will be able to speak blessing and not curses when all is said and done.

First Encounters with Amy

1Amy

Today, I wanted to focus on the moment I met my wonderful wife and the moment I knew I would marry her. Only a month separates the two moments, and we barely spoke during that month, but those two moments are forefront in my brain this morning as I ponder the wonderful way God works to bring a family together. I miss her, but not all my memories are connected to tears. What follows is an excerpt from chapter 2 of my book.

____________

“Is that a good book?”

It was an unexpected question while I was sitting outside the gym my college used for P.E. It was almost 8:00 p.m. and I had gone outside to read a textbook for which I had to write at least a five-page essay by Friday. It was Monday and I had just started reading the book a few days prior. Being a slow reader and highly distractible made reading very difficult for me in a loud gymnasium. My volleyball team was participating in a round-robin event and we were sitting out the current round awaiting a winner. I had asked my teammates to come and get me when it was nearly time for us to play again.

“Huh?”

“Is that a good book?” the feminine voice asked again. I looked up to find a beautiful blonde looking down at me. I didn’t know her name. She was on one of the opposing volleyball teams, and I had seen her around campus, but I didn’t really know who she was.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve just started reading it and I have an essay due on the entire book by Friday.” It being Monday, I thought I had dropped a pretty important hint.

“It looks interesting,” she said sitting on the steps next to me and arresting the book from my grip. I cringed. I didn’t know what page I was on in the book. Finding it would take precious time.

Realizing that this girl, who I didn’t really know, was going to stay and chat, I decided to swallow my frustration and try being civil.

“My name’s Thom,” I said.

“I know. My roommate’s Temple Simmons.” I cringed. I had gone to school with Temple for three years, but I didn’t really know her well, and we were not part of the same social circles. This conversation wasn’t starting out well. “I’m Amy.”

We talked for about ten minutes about random things, then my teammates came to get me. Amy followed me inside. As it turned out, my team was playing her team. Since I was frustrated about losing ten quality minutes of reading (yes, I was being that petty), I decided that I would play hardball. In college, I was a pretty good volleyball player. Other intramural teams hated playing us because we worked well together and I had a wicked serve. I never started as server – we didn’t think that was fair. I was usually the third or fourth to serve. By the time I was standing on the line, ball in hand, I’d realized that this girl who had interrupted my study time was not very good at fielding a serve, especially a powerful serve. I aimed right at her. As the ball rocketed toward her, she squealed and ducked. Her teammates dove to try and recover the ball, but their efforts were in vain. I kept serving. Most of the time, I aimed right at Amy. To throw the team off, once I dropped a serve right over the net, and another time I drilled the back foul line. Amy was standing in the back of the court, a little afraid of the ball, waiting for her teammates to field the serve before she would get in the fray. She never did. My serves were not ever returned, and my team dominated the game, 21 to 0.

Two days later I passed Amy in a hallway.

“That was a really good book,” she said, stopping right in front of me.

“What?”

“The book you were reading on Monday. I got a copy from the bookstore yesterday and read it last night. It was fantastic!” I wasn’t even halfway through it yet. The frustration began to build.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I managed while trying on a fake smile. “I gotta get to class. I’m running a little late.” As I said, I am a painfully slow reader. So far, from what I read of the book, I agreed with her. But who does that?!? Who goes out and buys a new 275-page textbook, a month from the end of the school year, for a class they’re not even taking and then reads it in one night?!? Those two encounters with Amy began to burrow under my skin. When I talked with my roommate that evening about it, he just listened, grinning.

“Sounds like Thommy has a crush!”

“You know I hate that,” I said flushing blood red.

“Yep, it’s a crush all right.” Andrew started laughing.

“Why would you say that?” I asked emphatically, a little perturbed.

“You didn’t deny it,” he answered.

I threw my pillow at him and went back to reading the same textbook. It was a long two nights as I finished reading the book and writing the essay.

One month later, two days before my graduation, I was coming out of the waiting room of the girl’s dormitory, headed for my dorm room. It was just after 10:00 p.m. Curfew was less than an hour away. When I crested the top of the stairs into the parking lot, a car pulled in and parked right in front of me. Two girls popped out of it. One was a Freshman girl who lived in the dorm, the other was Amy. I waved and she beckoned me to come over. I was holding a novel I had just begun reading.

When I stopped next to her car, she nodded and pointed to my book.

“Is that a good book?”

I laughed

“So far. I just started reading it.”

“Do you have to write a paper on it?” I could tell her voice was coy. She was playing with me. I guess my frustration in our previous exchanges had been a bit more obvious than I would have liked to admit. I grinned sheepishly.

We stood in the parking lot talking until 2:30 a.m., 3 ½ hours past curfew! We talked about life after school. I was graduating with a four-year degree; she had just come to take a one-year Bible and Business course, then she was returning home to a suburb of Portland, Oregon. I was unsure where I was headed, having not heard the results of my interviews the previous week. We talked about movies, plays, high school, and the future. Nothing was off limits.

No one bothered us the whole time. Amy’s friend found the boy she wanted to flirt with and they were nowhere to be found. When the campus security guard passed us for the umpteenth time, I guess I was getting nervous.

“It’s way past curfew,” I said, not really wanting to break away from this girl I wish I had met the first week of the school year.

“What are they going to do, hold onto your diploma?” There was that coyness in her voice again. I felt as if I were the great tactician, Odysseus, who’d lost his wits at the sound of Siren Song.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” I asked with a grin.

“Do you have something to write on?”

I handed Amy the 3×5 index card I had been using as a bookmark. She scrawled her name and phone number on it before handing it back.

“If you end up near Portland, look me up.” I took the card and grinned. Amy turned, ducked into her car, and was gone before I realized what happened. I tucked the card back into my book and slowly headed for the men’s dorm. My roommates – who had been standing outside on one of the walkways – saw me coming and ran to our room giggling. When I arrived, all three were posed as if they hadn’t just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Our dorm rooms were divided into two living areas, each with two bunks, separated by a common bathroom (which had a separate room for a shower and commode). I lived in the back cubicle but had to enter through the front and go through the common bath area to get to my room. When I entered, the two roommates who lived in the front were lying on their bunks, pretending to read a book while trying to stifle the giggles. My roommate was seated on a chair opposite the bunks, also “reading a book”.

“What’s her name?” Josh asked.

“Oh, shut up!” I said, not stopping on the way to my room. Andrew followed me into the back. Once we were both in the room alone, I locked the door. I slumped into my desk chair, leaned back, and propped my feet on the desk.

“I’m going to marry that girl, Andrew,” I whispered.

“Oh really?” he asked, trying to keep himself together.

“Yup. I’m going to marry that girl. Mark your calendar. June 5, 1996, is when I said, ‘I’m going to marry that girl.’”