Perspective

During this week, I have been pondering the topic of perspective. The world appears differently, depending on where we are standing at the time. Several examples come to mind.

As part of our Flight Nurse training in the Air Force, we were required to go through three days of survival training. This was a wilderness experience in a geographical area unknown to any of us who participated. I could not find my way back there if my life depended on it! During survival training, I ate armadillo and rattlesnake which were cooked over an open fire. Your first reaction might be to grimace and say how unappetizing that sounds. But, I was coming from a hungry perspective. If armadillo fajitas or rattlesnake pizza were on a menu today, it is likely that I would not order them because there is an entire menu filled with choices that I might prefer. Different perspectives....

Last week I was talking with a man who had knee surgery a few months ago. He was sharing about how weather changes affect his knee and worsen the pain. When I told this gentleman that I hoped his knee would feel better soon, he replied, "I do too. It can't get any worse." From his perspective, the pain was as bad as it could get. But, the situation could be worse. Ask someone who has lost a leg in the war, due to a vehicle accident, or from complications of diabetes. Different perspectives...

During another recent conversation, I told a gentleman that I was glad he was able to get up and go to work each day. He quipped, "Is that a good thing?" Not a good question to ask someone whose husband has not been physically able to go to work for almost a year. Yes, it is a blessing to be able to get up and go to work. Ask someone who has been laid off from a job and is struggling to make ends meet. Different perspectives....

At this point in time, we see the world from our limited view from where we are standing. But, someday, we will see things from a very different perspective.

1 Corinthians 13:12 - "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

Words

On this Sunday afternoon, I am thinking about the old admonition to "say what you mean, and mean what you say." And, that brings to mind a memory from the early 1990s when I was stationed in New Mexico. At a nearby university, there was a secretary who had two very energetic little boys. I stopped by her office one day and asked how she was doing. She spoke of the challenges of working and keeping up with her rambunctious young sons. Then, she shared something that caught me by surprise. Her disclosure was that, every night when her sons were asleep, she thanked God that there was one less day to deal with them. I know in my heart that she would not have traded either of those unruly little boys for all of the wealth in the world. She had said something that she really did not mean.

A few months later, this secretary (31 yrs-old) was admitted to the hospital where I worked. She was scheduled for a tonsillectomy which can be much more difficult for an adult than it is for a child. On the morning of surgery, a chill went through my body when I heard "Code Blue" announced over the intercom, and the location was in the Operating Room. I ran to the OR, knowing that it was this secretary who had crashed. It broke my heart when I saw that she was hemorrhaging, and the surgeons were having a very difficult time getting the bleeding stopped. No one expected this wife and mother to die on that morning when she went into the Operating Room to have a tonsillectomy. But, she did. There would not be another day to "deal with" those energetic little boys.

I do not even remember the secretary's name. And, I am not suggesting in any way that she was punished for saying those words about her little boys. It is just a poignant memory which serves as a reminder that I need to say what I mean, and mean what I say.

Inflammations

I fell in love with Scarlet when she was four weeks-old. That is when we brought home the little furry red chow chow puppy. It didn't take long for Scarlet to become as attached to me as I was to her. She grew up loving me, tolerating Bob, and hating men in general. During those days, we had vehicle radios which had the knobs that you turned to change the station. If Scarlet was in the car or truck when a man's voice was on the radio, she would reach over with her paw and knock the knob around and around until she heard a woman singing or speaking. Then she would be ready to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Over the years, Scarlet sported a thick, beautiful coat of red fur. On a particular day when we lived in Illinois, I noticed something unusual deep in Scarlet's fur.

It appeared to be a bright red inflamed area about the size of the end of my thumb. My medical mind quickly assessed the situation and diagnosed that Scarlet had developed an abscess. She was licking the wound quite often. I didn't dare try to touch the area, as I feared that the pressure from my touch would cause more discomfort for my patient. So, I carefully began the process of regularly irrigating this inflamed area, hoping that it would clear up on its own.

After a day or two of continuing with the irrigations, we took Scarlet to the veterinarian (a female, of course) for an examination. The vet listened with great concern and compassion. She then instructed the technician to shave around the inflamed area so she could get a better look. To our amazement, the inflamed area came off with the fur. The "inflammation" had been a sticky, red piece of hard candy that had become embedded in Scarlet's coat.

I guess it just goes to show that things are not always as they seem. Situations can become inflamed when we don't have all of the facts. When the truth is exposed, circumstances can turn out sweeter than we imagined.

Echoes

Here are my honest, "gut" thoughts on this Thursday morning. Sometimes I feel like I am writing out into a cyberspace void. In other words, I don't know if what I am saying is being heard. When I mentioned that to my dear friend in Texas (one of the Sandra Sisters, by the way, who is a gifted writer), she said that it was normal to need "echoes" so that we know that another human has heard what we are saying. So, I am asking for echoes. That does not mean that I am asking you to say, "Oh, that was great." I just need to know that someone is out there, and that what I am saying is being heard. I want to gain from your insight and experience. If you see the world in a different way, I want you to say so. Comments and feedback will also help me as I evaluate, at the four week point, if this is something that I feel prompted to continue. I committed to blogging for four weeks, and I am finding it to be a very therapeutic outlet for me. But, my hope has been that this "public journaling" would be a blessing and an encouragement to someone along the way. Thanks for hearing my heart on this morning.

Imperfect Pounds

Today I made a pound cake, which is my dad's very favorite kind of cake. My mom taught me how to make a pound cake from scratch when I was 9 years-old. At first, upon examination, I sighed because I thought the cake had turned out perfectly. But, then I was elated to discover that it wasn't perfect after all. In my mind's eye, I can see you scratching your head and looking confused, as that seems backwards. Why would I want the pound cake to be imperfect and flawed? Okay. Here is the scoop:

My dad's favorite pound cake is one that has fallen slightly. It has the dense, moist spots that we have always called "sad spots". I am not sure why he likes it that way. He just does. Some things you just don't question as there probably is not an answer. He can enjoy a perfect cake, but prefers the ones that are not perfect. It makes me feel good to please my dad, and the best part is that everything does not have to be perfect. That takes off a lot of pressure.

I am so glad that I have an earthly father, as well as a Heavenly Father who don't expect me to be perfect. I don't have to be a certain size (speaking of pounds :) or try to impress them with my accomplishments. Their love for me is not based on performance. Even when I fall, they love me right where I am, "sad spots" and all. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

Books

I love books. And, I love things that have pictures of books on them. It is so easy to look back after we have read the entire book and see how the chapters fit together to make the story complete. However, when we are in the middle of a chapter somewhere in the middle of a book, the story does not yet make total sense.

Our lives, in many ways, are like books. Some chapters are finished, while other chapters have not yet been written. But, there is a difference that comes to mind. When we look at a book, we can easily see how many chapters are in it. We can't tell that about our lives. We could be in the middle of our life book, or we could be writing one of the final chapters. It has nothing to do with age.

During the last couple of months, I have attended three funerals. The ages of the deceased were 40, 18, and 51 years-old. I have already had the privilege of living longer than either of those dear ones who recently passed away.

It occurs to me that I don't need to put off doing what I feel prompted to do, whether it is saying an encouraging word, singing or playing a song, giving a testimony, spending time with loved ones, or any number of other things.

I want to share an excerpt that I love from Florence Littauer's book entitled "Silver Boxes....The Gift of Encouragement":

"Do you know someone who has...

A song waiting to be sung?

Some art waiting to be hung?

A piece waiting to be played?

A scene waiting to be staged?

A tale waiting to be told?

A book waiting to be sold?

A rhyme waiting to be read?

A speech waiting to be said?

If you do, don't let them die with the music still in them."

Broken Shells

I am going to share something that I wrote in March of 2009 while at Wrightsville Beach. In my mind, it just doesn't get any better than when I am walking along the shore (especially during the cooler, less crowded seasons), feeling the sand under my bare feet, listening to the crashing waves, smelling the salt water in the air, hearing the sound of the seagulls, and looking out across the ocean. It just seems to clear my head of all of the clutter. Anyway, here goes:

Broken Shells

There are shells which appear smooth and polished on the surface, glistening in the brightness of the noonday sun. Others are rough around the edges, giving a sharp, untouchable impression. Then there are the shells which are thin and fragile, beaten down and partially buried in the sand beside those which appear thick and strong.

As I walk along the ocean's edge, marveling at the gift of God's vast creation, I pick up pieces of shells which once were whole. I notice that some have jagged edges.

Then, something catches my eye. A hint of purple...shades of brown. Suddenly, the scarred, jagged edges have disappeared as I focus on the shell's beauty, rather than its flaws.

The fierce beating of the waves and the whirling sand have refined the shells until their unique, intended design has been realized and fulfilled.

We are, in many ways, like those shells. Some of us appear smooth and polished, while others are fragile, worn, or rough around the edges.

Beaten by the waves of life day after day, we eventually become the unique entities that we were intended and designed to be, in spite of, and more often because of the tossing and whirling to and fro.

Many of us have jagged, vulnerable edges which sometimes give us a sharp, untouchable appearance on the surface. But, sometimes a true friend will catch a glimpse of who we have become....a kaleidoscope of colors...and will choose to focus on our beauty, rather than our flaws. That friend can help us see ourselves as we really are, complete with a hint of purple and shades of brown.

As we bask in the warmth of friendship, our burdens seem lighter and our jagged edges less vulnerable as we joyfully discover that sometimes the broken shells are the most beautiful of all.

The Gift

Several months ago I received a unique gift from a creative, talented artist who has become an encouraging friend in my life. The gift was a small, hand-built ceramic box. After each piece of the box was cut and the sections joined, the box was fired in a kiln, glazed, then fired again. Due to drying time and firing time, it usually takes about two weeks for Jackie (the artist) to make a box.

There is an opening in the top of the box where an item can be deposited. But, there is no way to get the item out of the box without destroying the box. Stamped on one side of the box are the words "GIT God". This means Give It To God. A small card accompanies the box. These are the instructions on the card:

"When life gives you a problem too big to handle alone,

write it on a slip of paper and place it in the box.

You have given the problem to God.

You must never retrieve the slip from the box.

You must have faith that God will take care of the

problem on His own schedule.

You must accept His solution to the problem.

He knows what is best for you.

You can never question His decision.

He knows what is best for you."

What a wonderful, visual way to turn over our burdens to God! Those tear-stained slips of paper could hold words about wayward children, health issues, marital problems, abusive relationships, addictions, financial problems, an important decision, or hundreds of other things.

Here is the confession: My box is still empty. What does that say? Am I afraid to give God my burdens? Do I feel like I can handle things on my own?

Am I unwilling to give up the control?

I need to do some soul searching. Then, it is time to start writing on some little slips of paper.

p.s. Since I know that some of you will ask, Jackie's website is www.jdunford.etsy.com

Dirt

Yesterday I saw a sign that displayed two words. Before I reveal those words, travel back in time with me to the very early 1960s. I was about 5 yrs-old. My sister and I would walk up the hill to a neighbor's house to play. Here is the confession: Sometimes we would eat dirt. Yes, deliberately. Not because we were hungry. There was a perfectly good reason....It was our "medicine". We would take turns pretending that we were the doctor or the nurse, and we would take great pleasure in dispensing a heaping spoonful of "medicine" to the one who happened to have the misfortune of being the patient on that day. (Is it possible that I chose the nursing profession years later so that I could be on the "giving end" of the medications?) I can still feel the gritty, crunching sensation in my teeth. I find it interesting that we never ate dirt at home. In fact, my mom just recently learned that we ate dirt. She said that it explained some physical ailments that we contracted during that time. But, that is another story.

Now, let's travel back to the present time. The sign simply said, "Dirt Delivered".

It made me think about how "dirt" can be delivered right into our homes by way of books, magazines, TV, the computer, CDs, etc. As children, we always went to another home to partake of the "dirt" as there would have been no keeping it a secret in our own home. But, now it is not necessary to travel to get the dirt. It can be delivered directly to us. We have the choice to devour, dispense, or dump the dirt.

Lord, give me the strength to dump the dirt.

Believing

I love this quote by Pablo Picasso: "My mother said to me, 'If you become a soldier, you'll be a General; if you become a monk, you'll end up as the Pope.' Instead, I became a painter and wound up as Picasso."

My mother has always believed that each of her four daughters could do anything that we set our minds to do. And, she loves to volunteer us to do things that she is most confident we are equipped to do, even when we may not be nearly as confident as she is about it. Her volunteering could involve our speaking, singing, presenting a program, or any other volunteer effort that comes to her mind. Then there was the time when she needed a poem to put with an unfinished crocheted afghan that she was taking to a baby shower. And, I can't forget being asked to write a poem to put with the silk bosom purses that Mama makes and sometimes gives as gifts. (The disclaimer is that someone else gave that poem its title which is "Got Bosom?".) Mama says that she is paying me back for volunteering her for everything when I was a young girl. When the teacher would ask whose mother could drive on a field trip or dye eggs at Easter time or help with a party or any other number of things, my hand was the first to fly up in the air. I would excitedly say, "My mother can do it.....She doesn't work!" I had no idea just how hard my mother worked until much later in life when I became a mom.

It occurs to me that we need someone to believe in us. And, there are those who are starving for us to truly see them and to let them know that we believe in them.

1 Corinthians 13:7 ....Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Lessons from Pat

I am pondering some things that I learned from Pat during our "Sandra Sister project" in 2008. These are in no particular order:

1) It is never too late to learn ---

Pat was 77 years -old. During his final year, he started taking Hebrew lessons online. He laughed as he told me that he only ordered Phase I of the lessons because he didn't think he would live long enough to get to Phase II. After Pat described how difficult the lessons were, I told him that no one would live long enough to make it to Phase II.

2) Don't miss the miracles --

Pat talked about how everyone wants to pray for a miracle when someone is diagnosed with cancer. But, he explained that he lived a miracle every day. The miracle is not in whether you live for 6 weeks or 6 months or 6 years. Pat said, "The miracle is that I can wake up each morning and face whatever the day brings."

3) One kind action can make a difference in the lives around us--

During Pat's last year, he became involved in a Hospice support group. He referred to them as his friends who were also on the "short list". Pat talked about how he took a friend to Grandfather Mountain and to ride the Tweetsie Railroad as she had never done that, and wanted to go. (Side Note: If you have not seen the movie called "The Bucket List", I highly recommend it as it will change the way that you think and live.)

4) Never stop having goals--

Pat said that he would like to write a book entitled "Hospice Humor". He laughed as he explained that no one would appreciate it other than those who were dying. Even to his very last day, Pat had goals and aspirations.

5) Sometimes it is necessary to find ways to adapt...

Pat had read the Bible over the years. However, since his life expectancy was uncertain, he decided to explore the possibility of Bible Cliff Notes so that he could possibly read the Bible through several times. He was delighted to find a set of Cliff Notes which covered the Bible in 200 to 250 pages. Before Pat died, he had read the condensed version of the Bible three or four times.

6) Never hesitate to call or visit the sick...

Pat said that people are often reluctant to call or visit someone who has cancer as they may be resting or "not up to a call". He encouraged us to "Call! It means the world to them." They or their family can tell you if they are not up to the call or visit at that time.

This does not even begin to scratch the surface of what I learned from Pat.

With his humor, passion, and master storytelling abilities, he touched lives everywhere he went. I am thankful that our paths crossed in this life. Like Pat, I want to make a difference.

Making a Difference

In May of 2008, a group of women from all over the United States joined together in a "mystery project". I will back up and give a little history. In December of 2007, a precious lady named Millie died after an extended battle with cancer. Pat was her very loyal, loving, attentive husband who stood by her side to the very end.

Within a month of Millie's death, Pat was diagnosed with lung cancer. The doctors predicted that Pat had less than a year to live. Of course, no human knows for sure how much time we have remaining in this life. But, that was the prognosis that was given.

Pat had a wonderful, quirky sense of humor. For many years, he had laughed and talked about his imaginary girlfriend named Sandra. Millie had also been in on the jokes, and had laughed about Sandra for years. If anything happened, it was Sandra who had done it. Even right after Pat's diagnosis, he was asked if he needed anything. His response was, "Oh no. I am fine. Sandra is taking care of everything." Weeks later, he mentioned that Sandra had not been checking in on him.

That is where the mystery project began. A small group of women from NC, Wyoming, Texas, Tennessee, Arizona, Missouri, and Florida (I hope I didn't leave anyone out) joined together to become what was soon to be known as the "Sandra Sisters". We thought it would encourage Pat to hear from Sandra over the coming months as he was going through chemotherapy and possibly other types of treatment for the cancer.

Pat initially received a note from "Sandra", explaining that she would be traveling extensively with her job over the next few months. We put together a calendar so that Pat would receive encouraging and intriguing mail each week from wherever Sandra was working in the United States. He even received a note from Sandra when she was in Korea (one of the sisters was on a mission trip there).

The "Sandra Sister" project became a true labor of love. Everyone who was involved shared the gift of encouragement. Our gifted "techie sister" offered to create an online calendar for us so that we could readily see when others were signed up to write, as well as when someone was still needed. Another sister owned an embroidery shop, and made beautiful Sandra Sister shirts for us. After we "came clean" with Pat and revealed our identity to him, this precious sister made Pat a matching shirt which said, "The Sandra Sisters love me." Yet another creative sister offered to make a scrapbook so that we could give it to Pat when the time was right for revealing our true identities. We mailed items to her, and she created an absolutely beautiful scrapbook which was given to Pat months later as his health continued to decline. Every sister was unique, and was willing to do her part.

Why do I suddenly feel compelled to tell you about this? It was a project which could not be done by any one of the Sandra Sisters. We needed each other. When we joined together, we were stronger. It seemed that anything was possible. As women of faith, we committed to pray for Pat and to try to encourage him during some very difficult months in his life. Pat lived exactly one year from the time he was diagnosed. In the next posting, I will share about some things that I learned from Pat during that year.

If any of the Sandra Sisters are reading this message, please know that you blessed my life in a powerful way. You made a difference in Pat's life, as well as in mine.

Beginnings

I read something this morning that just blew me away. In keeping with the idea that Christmas is never over since the spirit of Christmas remains in our hearts all year long, I will share it with you. It is called "Let the Stable Still Astonish". Here goes:

"Let the stable still astonish:

Straw - dirt floor, dull eyes,

Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;

Crumbling, crooked walls;

No bed to carry that pain,

And then, the child,

Rag-wrapped, laid to cry

In a trough.

Who would have chosen this?

Who would have said: "Yes,

Let the God of all the heavens and earth

be born here in this place"?

Who, but the same God

Who stands in the darker, fouler room

Of our hearts

And says, "Yes,

Let the God of Heaven and earth be born here -

in this place."

The author is Leslie Leyland Fields (a new person to me). Reading that was very humbling for me. It made me very aware that my heart could be an even darker place for Jesus to take up residence than the lowly stable.

Welcome!

Welcome to my first blog posting! I am trying this for at least a few weeks on a trial basis. It is really beyond my comprehension that anyone would be interested in my rambling thoughts. But, some dear friends have encouraged me to try blogging. So, here we are. It actually makes me feel a little vulnerable as I am accustomed to sending my messages to friends who know and love me, and who accept me "as is" (flaws and all).

Maybe I should explain the "Autumn Notes" part. Autumn is a nickname that a few friends call me, and Autumn is my very favorite season. The notes can refer to the notes that I write, or the notes that I play as a pianist. I have been playing the piano since I was 7 years-old (Let's just say it has been a LONG time!:). Thanks for joining me on this blog journey. We'll just see where it takes us over the next few weeks.