The Mystery Dinner

As a mom, I was always looking for new fun ways for us to connect as a family. So, I proposed a Mystery Dinner. Each family member was to invite a friend for dinner on Friday night at 6:30. The boys’ friends were coming to spend the night. Everyone was to keep their guest choice a secret. We played “Guess the Mystery Name” all week before the selected date. My husband and I chose people who were new to our church. This was an opportunity to make new friends. Our boys had no idea who we might invite, but we both thought that we had our sons pegged. We fully expected them to invite their best buddies. Eight-year-old Matt’s best friend, Chris, lived up the street. He had been in our home almost daily since we had moved to Knoxville.  Robbie was Jonathan’s friend from church.

When Friday came, we were all excited. The dinner was informal. We grilled hamburgers and hot dogs with all of the trimmings. Everyone eagerly anticipated the arrival of our guests. When the doorbell rang, all four of us raced to open the door. The adult guests arrived first. We introduced them to our sons and again waited for the sound of the bell. We quickly responded to the next ring of the doorbell. As expected, Chris stood at the door with his things for the night, but we were a little confused that he had brought his little brother, 5-year-old, David. I said, “David, did you decide to join us for dinner tonight?” Twelve-year-old, Jonathan, said, “David is my guest tonight. He’ll be staying.”

I hope the astonishment, on my face, wasn’t too evident, but Jonathan truly provided the biggest surprise of the evening. Out of curiosity, I later asked him about his guest choice. He touched my mom’s heart when he said, “I knew Matt would invite Chris. I didn’t want David to feel left out.”

It was a fun night with new friends and old. Laughter filled the air as the children, five years to twelve, played together as if they were peers. Jonathan understood when he invited David, he had to play like he was one of the younger kids.

My goal was achieved with the Mystery Dinner, but real success was realized in a way I had not considered. I know the pain of exclusion. Haven't we all felt left out at some point in our lives? It hurts. But, on that evening, little David felt no heartache. He just had fun, feeling like one of the big boys.

Inspire!

Inspiration

What inspires you? Is it a sunset that leaves you breathless? What about a young child who asks you a surprising insightful question? Perhaps it’s overwhelming need: great poverty, a child with birth defects, or an abused woman. Maybe hearing a message from a professor or minister has provoked new thoughts or feelings.

If we are truly inspired, shouldn’t it motivate us to act differently in some way? We may talk about feeling inspired by the performance of a magnificent symphony orchestra, but if it doesn’t instigate some sort of change, was it truly inspiring or just a beautiful concert that provided an enjoyable experience for an evening?

Inspiration is rare, therefore, precious. I can count, on my fingers, the times I have been inspired, to act, as a result of something I have seen, heard, or experienced.

·       I was inspired to teach history after experiencing the story-telling style of my high-school American history teacher, Ms. Youngblood. She helped me understand the men and women of history. I could see them, in their time, and feel what they felt as she wove the tales of the past in a meaningful way. 

·       I was inspired, by a sermon, to pray for God to show me needs. It was a joy each time He revealed a need I could meet with His help. One day I said to my husband, “I don’t know of any need this family could possibly have, but as I was praying today, God said we should give money to the Richmond family.” Jack laughed and said, “God gave you the solution, but he presented me with the need.” The man had come to Jack that day, not asking for a hand-out, but asking for prayer. His family had come face-to-face with a financial roadblock, and he didn’t know what to do.

·       I was inspired by a phone call. My mother, in Michigan, was upset because her brother was in a Nashville hospital, with emphysema. She asked me to pray for him and his family. Mother was concerned for him, both physically and spiritually. I was inspired, to make the three-hour-drive across the state, to share the love of Christ with him. As a result, God saved him.

·       I was inspired to write, by a man who said I should be speaking professionally. He said writing usually led to speaking opportunities. He created an itch I needed to scratch. I started writing, and within the next month, I saw my second book published.

There are a few other inspirational moments I could point to, but I think you see what I mean. True inspiration leads to action. 

Years after moving to another state, I received a letter from Joel, a former sixth-grade student. He had just graduated from Vanderbilt University, and was continuing to work towards his Master’s degree. He discovered where I was living and wrote me a letter. He thanked me. He said that I had given him a joy in learning that inspired him to go beyond his original intentions. After his Master’s work was completed, he planned to earn a PhD. He said I’d given him a longing to learn all he could to be equipped to do all God intended for him to do.

The magnificence of inspiration comes in its inherent legacy. I knew something Joel didn’t know. If not for the inspiration I received from Ms. Youngblood, I might never have been in that sixth-grade classroom to inspire him. Had it not been for the inspiration he felt from me, he might never have made it to Vanderbilt. And, I believe Joel will likely inspire others to act beyond their dreams.

Inspiration is more than a beautiful moment spent enjoying a sunset or concert. It is beauty, a need, concern, or a message that seems meant for us alone. It leads us to think or act differently than we had previously intended. It makes us a little better than we were before we were inspired.

I bet you have enjoyed a legacy of inspiration. Pass it on.

Are You Up to the Task?  

I didn’t ease into a state of wakefulness. It was almost as if someone had shouted. In my mind, I heard, “Are you up to the task?” It was dark; I looked at the bedside clock which read 5:22. My immediate thought was, No, I’m not up to any task at this hour. The question repeated itself in my head. I spend time with the Lord every day. Like any good friend, I know His voice when I hear it. I laid there for another couple of minutes, but I heard His voice again, with a slightly different emphasis, “Are you UP to the task?” I got up.

The change of emphasis made me realize something that is actually quite obvious; I can hear your, “Duh!” now. We do have to get UP before most anything of significance can happen in our day. God’s word says, “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad.” I am glad that I got up, but I wasn’t until I actually took that first step.

If you struggle to take that first step out of bed in the morning, remember, this day is a gift to you. God has a special task in store for you today, but you can’t discover the day’s treasures until you first GET UP!

Decisions...Decisions...Decisions!

Each day is made up of hundreds of decisions: what to eat, what to wear, what’s the best route to take, etc. Most of them are not likely to have any great impact on our lives, but some are potentially life-changing decisions. Where do I go to school? Who do I marry? Which job do I take? Where do I want to live? These decisions can have us pacing the floor, biting our nails, or keep

us up at night. Fear of making the wrong choice brings on worry and stress.

So, how do you choose? Do you make a pro/con list? Do you seek counsel from friends, family, or professionals? Ever just toss a coin? Or, do you pray and trust God to give you direction (Proverbs 3:5-7)? Is that your first or last resort?

I’d love to say that I’ve always gone to God first, therefore, I haven’t needed to go further. But, it would not be honest, and you’d probably realize it. After many years of critical decisions, I have learned it’s not when all else fails go to God. I’ve come to understand that all else will fail, if it’s not God’s will.  Through His constant faithfulness to guide, I now know when I pray, He listens. When I listen, I hear His answer. When He answers, I can trust the decision will work out for my good and His glory. And...there goes the stress.

What Does Connecting Mean to You?

Growing Up

As a child, I thought it was peculiar to hear “old” people talk about their childhood days as if they were somehow preferable to the childhood I was experiencing. I was having a pretty good time. What was wrong with it?

Now I realize there was nothing wrong with it. Today wasn’t part of their set of memories. Today they lacked the energy to enjoy some of the things they did as children. Maybe their memories were clouded. They didn’t remember complaining about the heat when there was no air conditioning in their youth. They didn’t remember arguing with their siblings over what radio program to listen to, as my brother and I argued over television selections. They didn’t remember complaining about the chores their parents expected them to do just as I did. The chores were different, but the childhood resistance was likely the same.

Today young parents, and especially grandparents, experience the same sense of nostalgia my relatives had. The attitudes are the same; it’s merely the actions and devices that have altered with time. It’s no longer the radio, TV, or even computer; it’s the I-pad, cell, or social media. Are any of these wrong? I think we would all agree that they aren’t. Are any of these preferable? Maybe. But, these are essentially each generation’s way of connecting with the world. This is important, regardless of the time. It’s important to stay current and relevant with the culture in which one lives.

Perhaps, what we are missing, is a link of understanding. My mother had a wonderful gift of relating to me when I was caught doing something wrong. She would recall a time, from her own young days, when she had done something similar. These stories brought laughter to an often tense situation. It was a comfort for me to realize, whatever I had done, wasn’t so bad. Mom understood. This didn’t get me off the hook. Punishment was still coming, but it eased the pain.

If we could accept our commonalities, we might begin to appreciate the ever progressing way of attempting to reach the same goal of connecting. If grandparents could share their stories of childhood joys, as well as frustrations, grandchildren might just feel free to open up about theirs. Recriminations shouldn't be allowed. The shared experiences can bring laughter and tears while creating new memories and new opportunities to grow as family. And, that might be the best definition of connecting.

Spring into Change

Change hurts. I know. I just tried on my spring wardrobe in order to see what I might need to discard and what needs to be purchased. Conclusion? If it goes around my waist, it has to be replaced. During the course of the winter, my mid-section has expanded to the point that the waist band ends don’t even touch. Ouch!

Change hurts. Just ask any minister trying to lead a church to be more contemporary or progressive. Though some support him, there are always those who staunchly hold on to the traditions of their childhood, even as they verbally proclaim they want to reach the younger generation.

Change hurts. Just ask any new CEO, school principal, or hospital administrator who wants to incorporate new technology or new service ideas into training employees, and they’ll testify to the hue and cry they hear from their staff.

Sometimes, change causes physical pain. Just ask a thirteen-year-old boy who can’t sleep because of the knee pains he’s experiencing from his rapid growth or what about the seventy-year-old whose knees keep him awake at night because of the arthritis that has set into his very being?

Though few seem to embrace it, change is inevitable. To paraphrase what John Maxwell said in The Difference Maker, change = growth or change = grief. The choice is yours. As for me, I think I’ll just go shopping.

Are You Someone's Little Chick?

                                                                   

     I thought that everyone should know my Uncle Jimmy, so when I was in first grade, I took him to school for Show and Tell. He was my favorite uncle for a number of reasons. He loved me and showed it in a multitude of ways. He listened and laughed at my childhood jokes.  He was patient, and my father wasn’t, so it was especially nice to have a male family member who was. He didn’t have children of his own, so he and my aunt invited me to spend summers with them in Michigan. Uncle Jimmy was a milkman, and his truck was full of treats. He always had chocolate milk, ice cream, and even soft drinks. At the end of my day, after riding my bike or playing in the sprinklers, he’d return home and let me ravage through the back of the refrigerated truck. I could get what I wanted and we would sit together on the back porch. While I enjoyed my treats, he would tell me about the people on his route. He always had good stories. And for some unknown reason, from my earliest days, he always called me his little chick.

     He and my aunt often took me on vacations with them. We went to the World’s Fair in New York City and to the International Exposition in Montreal, to Niagara Falls, and other places of interest. Uncle Jimmy saw each excursion as an educational opportunity. At each site, he would ask a plethora of questions. In turn, he passed his new understanding on to me. He also taught me how to drive, and attempted to teach me all about the Stock Market.

     Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Kaye traveled to be part of every big event in my life. They came five hundred miles for my high school and college graduations. They paid for my wedding dress and were present for the big day. They traveled to Texas when I had my first child and later came to Tennessee for my second.

     My sweet uncle wiped my tears when life became difficult for me, and then it got difficult for him. It was just the little things at first. You know how we can become a little forgetful with age. So, it didn’t seem a worry in the beginning. Then, my brother, his golf partner, noticed that his game was a little off. Uncle Jimmy was a great golfer, and Billy seldom approached his score, but that began to change. Then, one day, Uncle Jimmy left the course, and couldn’t find his way home. The police found him on the side of the road in tears. He was lost and could not remember his address of thirty years. It was Alzheimer’s. It broke my heart to see his decline.

     Because I lived so far away, I didn’t see him but a couple of times a year. I called my aunt every Sunday to check on him and visited when I could. The changes became more evident with time. Many Alzheimer’s patients become belligerent, but he was an exception. He kept his sweet gentle attitude. One obvious change was that my uncle was singing. I had never ever heard him sing. Now he was singing funny commercial ditties from the 1940’s. His favorite was a Pepsi jingle. He would sing and laugh, and I’d laugh with him.

     As the condition worsened, my aunt had to do more and more for him. The time came when he could no longer bathe or shave himself. He couldn’t feed himself or even swallow without help. Uncle Jimmy could no longer walk on his own. There was nothing wrong with his legs, but his brain could no longer give his limbs the needed signal.

     Before I made my last visit, my aunt prepared him. She told him that I was coming and showed him old photos, hoping to spark a memory of me. I arrived at their home at night, and he was already in bed asleep. My aunt said that though she’d been trying to help him remember, I shouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t recognize me or remember my name. The next morning, my aunt saw him trying to get out of bed by himself. She asked what he was doing. Uncle Jimmy said, “I’m going to see my little chick.” He remembered, if only for a little while. That night, after supper, my aunt settled him into his favorite chair in the den and turned on the TV. She left me to keep an eye on him while she washed dishes. After finishing, she brought him a cup of coffee. He thanked her. Then, after she left the room, he looked at me and said, “You’re my little chick, and you know I’ve always thought you were such a pretty little thing. But, isn’t she the most beautiful woman in the world? She takes such good care of me.” At this point, my aunt was white headed, somewhat bent over, and they’d been married for over 60 years. His lucid moments were few at this point, but his love and appreciation prevailed until the end.

     Our family history is a collection of stories. There are many who help shape our lives. If we evaluate those relationships, we realize that there is something to be learned from each of them. Uncle Jimmy has been gone for years. Yet here I am, over a decade later, bringing him for show and tell.

     It occurs to me that we all impact the lives of those we touch. I need to be cognizant of that, so that my touch will be gentle, kind, and supportive. I want to be remembered with love and laughter as stories are told. I want to sing silly songs and show gratitude for kind acts and be remembered as a woman of faith. I will be part of someone else’s story; so will you. How do you want to be remembered?