Tag: Faith

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Boots and Blog Sugar

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

So I went to a conference this last Sunday for mostly female bloggers with my writer friend/hero Dani called Blog Sugar. Strangely enough, one solo dude braved the dainty pink estrogen laden gala…not sure why???

But I had to erase my speculations because they weren’t uplifting or good and true and noble.  (They were snarky and bitchy and bad) and one of the things I learned was to be very careful what you put on the internet cloud.

(This is more difficult for some of us)

 Regardless, it was fun to network and scope out the ladies who were dressed to the nines and tens and maybe even elevens.  Seriously, I was in awe of their high fashion ensembles; the blown out hair, sparkly shoes and va va voom accessories. 

I had a small moment where I realized how little I think about fashion and maybe that’s bad and I should care more about my attire because I look rather dreadful a good fifty percent of the time. But caring requires effort, that maybe I’m not willing to give, except for an occasional party when I can pull my crap together.

 

Source: None via Samantha on Pinterest

 

I wore my new riding boots (not that I ride anything except for…right, hit delete now) which I was very excited about and a bright yellow necklace from Egypt my husband bought me on our honeymoon that can only be called a conversation piece.

So, I felt cute and confidant and for being a slightly socially awkward person, I fared as well as could be expected.  I learned some cool blogging tricks, made some new she-buddies, and ate way too many sweeties and got a tummy-ache.  It was awesome– in a girly, Princess of Genovia, Annie Banks sort of way. 

Source: None via Samantha on Pinterest

 

When I got home late in the evening, I spilled over with excitement to my husband and oldest son(who should have been in bed), about all the pretty women and the cotton candy and the decorations and how my new boots got many compliments.

My teenage son looked at me with a frown, “So let me get this straight, the conference was pretty and they liked your boots, but did they like your writing mom?”

 I glared back, steam rising from my nostrils. “Yes, no…it wasn’t like that.”

My husband and son fell over laughing.

 

And while I love my boys, they just don’t understand.  Blog Sugar was an experience different from the serious writing conferences I have attended in the past.  It was lovely and nurturing to the female soul and mostly, it just made me happy.

And someday, I aspire to have gazillions of readers and give motivating messages about just being yourself and using your blog for the greater good.  (Ok, what does that really mean people?  Not the good part, I grasped that despite my blonde hair, but all of the really successful writers say, “just be yourself” and the rest of us all scratch our heads dumbfounded because we are ourselves, it’s just they like you better)

Someday, when I am a famous novelist/blogger, I will give clarity to this statement. I’ll say, “Don’t suck, work hard, watch more Pink Panther, find your funny bone, take long walks and talk to Jesus…” Super clear, right? Actually what I think they mean when they say this is to find yourself, because many of us are still trying out and learning our voice and sometimes it takes us a while to figure it out.

In the mean-time, I think blogging rocks because it tells the unfolding story of people and we all need encouragement in our faith, an occasional slap in the face, and to our pee our pants laughing on a regular basis.

And that’s why I blog ♥

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Helga the Cleaning Nazi

Seventy-four days ago I decided to be a good steward, get rid of our bi-monthly housekeeper, and try to shave off some rather unnecessary expenses from the budget.  Seventy-four days ago I realized I have some big issues, and seventy-four days ago (I now acknowledge), I became Helga the cleaning Nazi.

I blame it on my step-mom, a darling German woman who believes tidiness is sacred and dirt is of the devil.  I grew up in one of those homes-the kind where the living room was off limits-and if the mere trace of an errant footprint was spotted on the carpet, somehow frau-mama knew who had done it.  I rarely saw her without a broom-seriously, I think she slept with it.

One time my best friend in high school climbed in through the window and had a small but secret soiree when our family was out-of-town.  My friend cleaned up so well, none of us could tell the house had been violated, but my step-mom knew instantly, like one of those canine narcotic bloodhounds, she could smell the perpetrator and discern that her vacuum strokes on the carpet were millimeters off the usual pattern.  It was CSI, Bourne Identity, and Murder She Wrote all wrapped up in her calculating sweep of an eye and I was in serious awe of her super-power cleaning prowess.

But now here I am, years later, with a home full of mess-makers (i.e. my husband and three kiddos) trying to maintain the elusive façade of cleaning Holiness that was modeled to me in my tender and formative years. 

I have to be über clean like frau-mama. Right?  It’s my step-birth-right; my pseudo German legacy.

My husband pointed out that lately I have been muttering under my breath ferocious threats to the dust balls as I stroll around our home fixated on destroying suspicious specks with a Clorox wipey.  He says my obsession makes him feel like he can’t relax in his own home, because he might actually (gulp) mess it up. 

And if I’m really honest, he’s right. Sometimes when he walks in the door I just look at him and get mad. When he appears, it feels like he immediately starts creating havoc.  His backpack winds up on the floor and clothes too, his keys are dropped somewhere where he will never find them, cords are everywhere from iPhones, iPods, laptops and techie gear, cabinets are opened and never shut, dishes are left out,

And the best part is-he doesn’t even notice. I don’t know how, I mean it’s right there-this ginormous mess, like “how could you not see this?”  But he doesn’t. It’s like he’s blind to it.

And my kids do the same thing-all three of them.  It’s me against the dirt of the world and I’m so tired and it’s utterly exhausting being the only soldier in this battle, and I really, really…really miss my housekeeper, because she was my ally and I love her and I need her.

Because I miss being able to see a fully clean house (not half clean) and release it with a happy heart to get dirty again, because in the back of my mind I know it will be clean again in two weeks.  And I can still clean myself in between and then it will be really really clean. And cleanliness is next to Godliness-right?

Does anyone share my pain?

And does anyone have the number of a good cheap housekeeper? Because if I don’t get some help soon, the therapy alone for my cleaning neurosis will be more than the money I saved on getting rid of the help.

 

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OC Couple Fined $500 for Bible Study- Seriously?

An interesting article came across my inbox this morning from a  friend and I almost fell over. I guess the days of persecution and End Times Big Brother are hitting closer and closer to home.

September 20, 2011 – cbs2.com

MISSION VIEJO (CBS) — An Orange County couple has been ordered to stop holding a Bible study in their home on the grounds that the meeting violates a city ordinance as a “church” and not as a private gathering.

Homeowners Chuck and Stephanie Fromm, of San Juan Capistrano, were fined $300 earlier this month for holding what one city official called “a regular gathering of more than three people” that requires a conditional use permit, according to Pacific Justice Institute, the couple’s legal representation.

The Fromms also reportedly face subsequent fines of $500 per meeting for any further “religious gatherings” in their home, according to the Pacific Justice Institute (PJI).  “We don’t like lawsuits, but we have to stand up for what’s right. It’s not just a personal issue,” Stephanie Fromm told The Capistrano Dispatch. “Can you imagine anybody in any neighborhood, that one person can call and make it a living hell for someone else? That’s wrong … and it’s just sad.”

After city officials rejected the Fromms’ appeal, PJI, which represents both the Fromms and other Bible study participants, will appeal the decision to the California Superior Court in Orange County.

Neighbors have written letters to the city in support of the Fromms, whom they said have not caused any disturbances with the meetings, according to PJI.

Officials with San Juan Capistrano did not respond to requests for comment.

_________________________________________________________________

This blows my mind. A small gathering of people gathered in a home to study and worship God is breaking the law?

What about monthly poker nights, mothers’ play dates, bunko gatherings, holiday celebrations, wine groups, book clubs and my personal favorite, Monday night football groups?  Do all these count as a regular gathering of more than three people? I think so!!!!!!!

Or is it just the name of Jesus that get’s people’s panties all up in a wad?

Bit by bit, our freedom to worship God, is crumbling before our very eyes.

I am generally not prone to getting involved in politics, but I will be writing a letter to the City of San Juan Capistrano in support of the Fromms’ appeal because I certainly don’t want some yahoo calling the cops on me for my crazy Christian shin-digs; like ministry meetings, New Believers picnics and so forth. (wild…I know).

Very soon, Bible Studies may have a cover charge if we don’t stand up to this absurd ordinance. Next thing you know we will be meeting in underground house churches like the Chinese.

(Then again, maybe we need a little persecution to light the church on fire and help us remember exactly who we worship) A Very Big GOD!

Thoughts?

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Signs along the Road

So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.

I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.

It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).

Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.

I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.

Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…

Choices, decisions, judgements…

I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)

I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)

I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).

I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s  until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.

I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?) 

I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign.  At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.

 Oh Jesus–I need HELP!

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No room for the homeless in suburbia?

 He caught my eye as I drove up O’Neil Parkway – straggly beard, matted hair, tattered clothes-it was the distinct look of the homeless and my head whipped around in a double take. He staggered down the street, eyes cast downward, muttering to himself.

For those not familiar with my So Cal neighborhood of Ladera Ranch, it is the Disney of master-planned suburbia.  It’s manicured, lush and disturbingly homogenous. Deviation, unless it’s in Christmas light selection is seriously frowned upon. The Ladera association won’t tolerate any brown spots on our lawns and when we left our garbage can outside our backyard fence for a couple of days it provoked an association letter referencing a bylaw stating that no garbage cans can be visible from the street. 

“Oh no…What are they going to do with this guy?” I groaned to baby Kolby in the backseat. She slurped on her pacifier in response.

I tentatively pulled my car over to the right thinking I would stop and talk to the man, but the vehicle on my tail honked at me for blocking the one lane road.  Flustered, I drove on home and told myself I’d stop the next time I saw him, which turned out to be exactly two days later.

I turned the corner on Antonio to grab some nosh before church at the golden arches (yes I know, I’m an egg McMuffin addict) and noticed there were three police cars on the shoulder with lights flashing. I looked around for the cause of disturbance, figuring it must be pretty big to garner soooo much attention, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. 

And then I saw him, the devious criminal in question and my mouth fell open-it was the same homeless man I recognized two days earlier, only this time surrounded by five policemen. The cops had their arms folded and were questioning the man. I stared in bewilderment.  Does it really take a posse of cops to deal with one guy?

After the recent death of Kelly Thomas in Fullerton, emotions are high, even in Ladera Ranch, and the police force are being very careful around delicate issues (like the mentally ill and homeless among our midst). 

I entered the drive-through and picked up my food, straining to see what was happening, and then quickly drove back around.  The police had cleared out and so had the man. I didn’t see him anywhere on the long stretch of road, so he must have been escorted in the back of their car to another location.

Now, Mission Viejo (which Ladera Ranch is a part of) doesn’t actually have a shelter for the homeless.  When perusing the Mission Viejo Homeless Shelters & Services for the Needy website, I noticed the nearest shelter is 13.08 miles away in San Clemente.  This alone is disturbing on so many levels because there is nowhere for the homeless man to go.  Did the cops drop him off at the city border or did they take him to the nearest shelter in another city that accepts the poor?

Ironically, according to a blog contributor from Watchdog.com, Mission Viejo doesn’t have a homeless problem.  “I’ve seen two people passing through who seem to be homeless, but I’m unaware of any homeless person living here. The homeless people I know of (a man and a woman) have mental issues, and they’ve already rejected the idea of going to shelters. The woman told me about her distrust for government and the system. She’s living on the street because that’s where she wants to live.”

In my opinion, if Mission Viejo doesn’t have a homeless problem, it’s only because the homeless are clearly not welcome here. Now, I recognize this isn’t about the police–the cops are just doing their job (and I am so grateful)–it’s a much deeper issue that goes to the very heart of humanity.

It’s as if we, in Ladera Ranch/Mission Viejo pretend the marginalized in society don’t exist, when the truth is-in this economy-we are all merely one natural disaster or bad decision away from being homeless ourselves.  It’s just that most of us have become so skilled in image management you would never know the true state of our financial affairs. 

Much of Ladera Ranch is in debt up to their eye-balls, properties are foreclosing every day and most people are desperately trying to hold onto homes whose value has plummeted by half.  The only difference between this homeless guy and many of us is a credit card and a job we are clinging on to for dear life.  And our coping mechanism may not be in a brown paper bag, but we find it in an old prescription for anti-depressant meds sitting in our medicine cabinet.

And yet despite the overwhelming economic woes, I get the impression, though no one says it out loud, that having the eyesore poor (i.e. homeless) in plain sight might lower our home values (even more) or somehow destroy the neighborhood. I can only guess the film crew for my Real Housewife neighbor would take every precaution to leave the homeless guy out of the shots in our little paradise.

Why are we so afraid of poverty and brokenness? It’s not a contagious disease. Is this really who we want to be- people living in a gilded cage with no room for the less fortunate?

I understand the appeal of a place like Ladera Ranch. It woos me with its Mr. Rogers charm, but a nagging feeling remains, at what cost have we created our idyllic little utopia?

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Happy Mama

From somewhere deep within dreamland I hear the distinctive cry of my eighteen month old baby,” Maaaaaa Maaaaaa.”

I rouse and stumble to her room, pluck her out of the crib, and gently lay her down on the changing table for a fresh diaper. Slowly we make our way down the stairs to the fridge.

Kolby desperately cries and moans, “milka, milka, mama,” over and over.  I grab her sippy cup and pour the kiddie liquid gold.  She claps and squeals in delight. Then I put her on the counter and we grind the beans, and make fresh Starbucks coffee.

The house is quiet.  It’s a stillness so fragile, soon to be broken by the clambering steps of the older kids and daddy down the stairs.

With my treasured cup of coffee in hand, I hold Kolby close as we move to the sofa for morning snuggles.

I take my first sip…”Ahhhh” while Kolby slurps her sippy cup in delight.

I look at her and crack up at the absurdity of our morning addictions.  I need my coffee and Kolby craves her milka milka with a fierceness that border lines cranky. We are two peas in a pod, grasping our cups like they are a life force.

But today Kolby has a treat for me.

She places her chubby little hands on my face and cradles it. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Happy… Kolby happy mama.”

Did my tiny little girl just tell me how she felt? (I know right?  The kid is brilliant and reflective no less)

It took me about thirty years to be able to articulate my feelings and express them.  Quite frankly, I am still an emotional stuffer. And now here’s my verbal toddler teaching her mama to stop and smell the roses.

And then it hits me, our morning ritual is far more than milk and coffee, it’s a snapshot of our relationship.

A stolen moment of bliss between a mother and her child.

And we are content exactly where we are. 

SO HAPPY!

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Bumper Stickers and Hypocrites

Mark Twain once said, “If Christ were here, there is one thing he would not be—a Christian.”

I pulled my car up to the drive through at McDonald’s last Sunday before church to grab an Egg McMuffin and the black SUV in front of me caught my eye.  The car was rocking back and forth. 

I peered more closely at the vehicle and noticed a church sticker on the back window saying “You Matter to God.” There were also multiple banners representing the Fire Chief and Fire Department from a nearby county as well as a large decal on the back promoting a home-based business.

As I rolled down my window to order, I heard screams from the car.  Surprisingly, it was a woman shrieking so loudly at her husband the car was vibrating. She was berating him with a mouth worthy of the foulest sailor and pummeling him with her fists.

In my entire life, I have never heard such filth spew out of a human being.

She was going on and on about her husband going through the “f-ing drive through instead of eating her GD f-ing home cooking.” And on and on it went.

Nasty, nasty, nasty…in front of her kids no less. (I’d be afraid to eat her cooking too if I was him)

It was a slap in the face to my gender, embarrassing to the fire department and a devastating blow to their business. I’m certainly not EVER going to use them.

But most of all, it was humiliating as a Christian.

I’m thinking…please take down the God stickers.

Order the Happy Meal.

Back off your husband you evil troll.

 And wishing, with all my heart, that the man beside her would have the balls to tell her to zip it.

But he didn’t. He let the she-devil abuse him and go on and on.

I am left with more questions than answers.

What sort of anger has this woman so bent out of shape? Maybe the husband played a role in her diatribe and his passive behavior was simply guilt? Should I have intervened, at least for the sake of her children? Is she postal or just crazy PMSed?

I sat there in my car dumbfounded as tears rolled down my face. They were tears for the innocent kids, their marriage, and for the vicious cycle of verbal and physical abuse this poor family endures.

I pray they seek help.

And I am convicted all the more to seek my Savior in all things…in the hurt, in the anger, and in the pain of life. I know my own heart and it’s capability for depravity.  On some level, aren’t we are all capable of being monsters?

It makes me think about the moments I argue in public with my husband-loudly. I guess that makes me a hypocrite too.

I certainly don’t ever want people to notice my sticker (or worse point me out as the pastor’s wife) and scratch their heads in confusion.

And then call me a hypocrite, one of “those Christians,” or worse, a Pharisee.

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The Text Monster

 

Text Log of My Kid at 11:00 a.m.

Nate-“Want to come over ?”

Kyle-“Sorry dude! I can’t come over until I finish the laundry.”

Nate-“Just put some music on and bust it out!”

Kyle- “I can’t. My mom won’t let me listen to music.”

Nate- “Wow! Really?”

Kyle- “Yeah, and she said I have to stay here until 3:00p.m.”

Nate-“Bummer”

Kyle’s mom sounds like a real B…. (Oh wait, that’s me!)  To my almost thirteen-year-old there’s nothing more embarrassing than a parent, even when the parent is ridiculously cool like me. (ok, maybe not so much)

I know my son adores me, but in his defense, I’m also the biggest obstacle in his pursuit for independence. One day he needs me (usually for food or money) and the next day he pushes me away. Bagging on his mom in a text is a great example.

It gives me such an indescribable thrill when my son rips on me with the same phone I pay for every month. This would be on his new latest and greatest phone he was so excited about last month when we bought it for him. Oh wait, I remember, that’s the day when he said I was the best mom ever. 

Sometimes it feels like my kid is one of those passive aggressive dogs that licks you in the face and simultaneously pee on your foot.

So how come Kyle conveniently forgot to mention the details in his text dialogue?  Like the reason he’s doing laundry is because he acted like a jackwaggon on the last day of school.

Kyle came down to breakfast with his pants sagging halfway down his posterior and his yellow boxer shorts predominately displayed. My husband Tim caught a glimpse and sent him back upstairs to change.

When Kyle came back downstairs, Tim asked him, “Did you change?”

Kyl e replied, “Yep!”

In the car on the way to school, Kyle started wiggling and squirming in his seat.  I asked him what was wrong.

Kyle gave me a defiant look, “Mom, why does it matter what I wear? Now, I’m totally uncomfortable.”

“Why are you uncomfortable?” I asked.

Kyle lifted his shirt to reveal his boxer shorts still on, with the addition of a pair of boxer briefs over the top. Of course it was uncomfortable!  It looked like he was wearing a leotard over his shorts and underneath his jeans.

I shook my head in disbelief. Really? It must be mentally draining to come up with moves this smooth.

Dishonesty, in our house means extra chores-thus Kyle got to do the laundry. I guess he forgot to tell his buddy that part.

Then there’s the music reference.  Yes…we do allow our kid to listen to music, even good music.  But we don’t allow him to blow out the speakers on booty smacking, boots with fur, getting slizzard like a G6 gangsta rap.

When I read Kyle’s text message log back to him he chuckled and admitted he had indeed been rather harsh with his mom. Honestly, I don’t even think he realized his disrespect until I pointed it out.

I’m convinced puberty causes brain damage and the only cure is growing up, moving out, and paying for your own stinking phone.

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Big Judgement and Short Sticks

I opened up my tattered Oswald Chambers’ devotion early this morning for a little Holy Spirit self-examination. There is something about this old guy, some super-duper Jesus power he has to make me feel both wretched and sorely convicted every morning.

It’s my favorite masochistic book; I feel terrible and yet continue to come back for more.  Today’s lesson did not disappoint. It was on judgment, something I barely struggle with (yes that was sarcasm).

“Judge not, that ye not be judged.” (Matt. 7:1)

Whoa, now, slow down there Mr. Chambers, are you telling me God says the stick I measure others with will be used to measure my faults? Because I have a pretty short stick for those I deem to be idiots.

Now in my defense, my measuring stick has certainly grown over the years for family members and friends.  I am far more patient and loving then I used to be, but I must confess passing criticism on my enemies far too often then I would like.

“Sam, what sort of enemies do you have?” you ask. Generally, sweet pastor’s wives aren’t out marauding or pirating and making enemies.

And while this is true, I certainly don’t go looking for trouble, I do have opposition.  Every writer pisses someone off eventually. 

In my case, I have the atheists who hound me with nasty comments, the puritanical swim trouser folks who find me indecent, and a few random blokes who spam me incessantly. (Ok, maybe they aren’t true enemies, but I don’t like their evil antics.)

Then there are the worst offenders, those few who simply don’t like me for no reason that I know of. This is where my judgment button kicks in to high gear.  I don’t really care if they don’t approve of me, because in recourse, I simply write them off as having ridiculously poor taste. 

Bang-judgment!

I’ve read the biggest reason people don’t like other people are because they sense the other person doesn’t like or appreciate them.  Yep, that rings a bell.

Oswald reminds me, “There is always one fact more in every man’s case in which we know nothing.”Basically, he’s saying to give them the benefit of doubt. This is so hard!

I can choose to give the atheists grace, because though their words are poison, it’s obvious I have been given grace far beyond measure. And the bikini bashers, I will choose to love them but not agree with them. (By the way, I’m not referring to the modesty crowd here, I’m talking about the over the top ones who steal my articles and insult me.)

But to give the haters mercy, well…this one is more tricky. I have to acknowledge most importantly, what an idiot I was until God picked me up out of the miry pit, delicately brushed me of, and set my feet back on solid ground.

I’m glad Judgement Day won’t be here until October now, because Oswald and me have got some more work to do.

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How to get old gracefully

 

“Did you see that woman over there?” my husband asked.

I turned my head and tried to subtly glance over to the woman he was referring to.  Her back was against me, but from behind she looked amazing.  Slim, toned and curvy in all the right places.  Then she turned her head and I gasped.

Her face looked like the crypt-keeper.  Pale and taught ghostly white skin was interrupted by strangely exaggerated eyes turned up at the corners.  Her lips were huge and plumped full and it was obvious she had undergone multiple cosmetic procedures to the point of resembling a freakish Michael Jackson wannabe.

I shuddered. Tim smiled at me, “I’m glad you aren’t’ afraid of aging and you would never do anything drastic like that.”

“Hey now,” I said.  “She looks pretty good for a hundred.”

Tim laughed and walked off to lift weights.  But the scary lady didn’t leave my mind.

I secretly stole a few more glances and then thought about my own insecurities regarding getting old. Certainly it’s inevitable and a natural part of life, so why the resistance, the flat-out denial by some folks to step up to the plate and surrender to gravity?

There are certain parts of getting older which I adore. My emotions no longer rule my heart, wisdom has snuck up on me after a multitude of hard knock lessons, and I have an appreciation for relationships and life, like never before.  I have more confidence in my identity, my voice and don’t really care if people like me or even agree with me anymore.

But the parts I don’t like are the parts which resonate with the plastic gym lady. I want to be pretty and in a world and culture that reveres youth, looking old and haggard is less desirable.  I don’t like the weird little age spots appearing on my body, the aches and pains that seem to appear out of the blue after thirty-five, and my metabolism, which is getting slower by the day. These things make me long for my eternal body.

One component of aging that sometimes makes it easier or harder depending on the season, is the personal expectations or goals I place on myself for age thresholds. 

 Twenty-five-married and college degree-√

 Thirty five-have kids-√

Forty-be a successful writer (working on that one)

Fifty-five-grandma-TBD

As I hit the birthdays with my goals checked off, I feel better about myself.  But the year I hit thirty-three and found myself a divorced, single mom, getting older didn’t feel so good.  In fact, the ache was deep and I felt somehow inadequate.  Happy Birthday didn’t feel so happy that year.

I hear the pain in my friends voices when another year passes by without a husband or a child. It’s the same hurt-another year slipping by and another reminder of unfulfilled dreams.

Isaiah once said, “The flowers fade and the grass withers, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

I know in life there will be good years and not so good years, but the years will come, no matter how I try to halt the ravages of too much sun and the gravitational pull on my behind.

But when I keep an eternal perspective and focus my eyes on the road before me, ageing isn’t such a scary place.  If anything, it’s just one step closer to Jesus.

Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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