Today at Bible Study, my friend Peg shared the next stage in her earthly journey. Peg has battled cancer for 11 years and without a miracle she is entering her last phase of this life. It took a lot of courage for her to stand in front of over 100 women who love her. We sniffed out loud as she spoke. Our Peg has a lot of courage.

The thing that gets to me about Peg is her grace-filled life. She’s not perfect…but grace isn’t about us being perfect because Jesus already is. She spreads that grace around everywhere she goes. Bald and sick my friend sparkles. I sometimes wonder if it’s because she’s down to what matters most in life. Him. The love of her life. Jesus. Faith is not religion with Peg…it’s real life living. Jesus shines from her all over anyone standing in her sight. Then there’s the way she loves us…the way Jesus loves her. You gotta love that about a friend. A friend who knows I’m not perfect and loves me anyway. A friend who lavishes me with grace I don’t always deserve. She stands close to the Grace-giver - in fact I can say with great confidence…she is constantly in His presence and as He fills up her cup she splashes the abundance on us.

So what does a grace-filled life look like? A lot like Jesus when He walked this earth. I mean think of it…the baby born in the manger also hung on the cross…and asked God to forgive those who beat Him bloody, mocked Him, and then…killed Him. Not one of them deserved His favor but He gave it anyway. Really. He PRAYED for them. How many of us would do that or would we be more likely to curse them?

Peg lives like Jesus died…and you know what is absolutely amazing? In this grace-filled living my friend is free. I’m not talking about the kind of liberty we enjoy here in America. I mean the kind that shows she is free in every nook and cranny of her heart. She lives in total forgiveness and this leads to the freedom that is eternal and not based on a political party or a vote (although I so appreciate our freedoms and rights in this country!). She is free from regret, anger, malice, manipulation, or any other thing we humans can throw at each other. She knows the favor/merit/salvation she received from Jesus Christ is undeserved. She gave up on thinking she “deserved” anything long ago. In fact, she counts her suffering as a privilege - man…I am so not there!

And, she is forgiving. When I make a mistake, she isn’t quick to correct me…but she has this wonderful smile…that’s what she gives me knowing the Holy Spirit will be leading me to right behavior and until then, I’m okay with her!

We’re both ragamuffins…saved by a ragamuffin Gospel. (Check out author Brennan Manning and you’ll see what I mean)

Even though my friend’s illness is weakening her body…Peg is one powerful woman. You can feel it when she sits next to you and sometimes after a hug I feel like a tiny bit is transferred from her to me somehow. Her power is not of this world.

This time of farewell is the hardest thing her family may ever face and although her destination is heaven, she is glad for every day she can be with her precious ones. She told us today she lives in the now with her hands wide open. We knew that. We are eyewitnesses to this most wonderful woman and her grace-filled life.   While her life here may be winding down…it is not ending. Because she has accepted the Grace-gift of God, Jesus Christ, she is going to live forever…but it’s even more than that…she’s going to live in the presence of her Grace-giver while we wait to join her.  When that day arrives, we will mourn but I think it will be tinged with wonder…I will wonder…what is Peg up to with Jesus today? I’ll have no idea but I know it will be good. I know there are 4 things I will feel: 

-I will grieve for her family-I will be homesick for my friend

-I will be glad for my friend

-I will be glad for Jesus…His good friend will be with Him… I know she is delighting Him here so how much more will He enjoy her there?! Peg…I love you so much my grace-filled sparkling for Jesus friend!

(This is me in September 1963 - my first day of 1st grade)

Something got into me that day.  I remember it well. I was full to the brim with energy. It had to come out. And, it did.

I don’t remember what it was, but I had to tell Cindy Gilbertson something important and the teacher was so busy talking I didn’t have a chance…so I just scooted my chair closer to Cindy’s and talked in her ear.

The teacher moved my desk beside hers. However, I was not done telling Cindy so I whispered…really loud!

So, my desk was placed in the corner. Well, that freshly painted wall was the perfect place to write a few of my reading words along with a couple of flower sketches.

The teacher didn’t find my mural until after lunch. Returning to our room, I was led by the arm to the cloak room where my desk was set in a sunny corner. Perfect! Alone, I could sing. At the top of my lungs.

Out in the hallway a few minutes later, the floor cool on my bottom and legs. Refreshing. Invigorating even. There were four classroom doors in that hallway…with three other students propped outside those doors. Well. That was a game of tag waiting to happen! I urged the others to join me and they did.

They were also far more experienced in hall sitting than I was. They sense the stealthy approach of Mr. Carlson and were seated by the doors before his large hand rested on my shoulder.

Sigh.

He asked what I was doing. I looked up into his eyes confident the truth would be best.  “We were playing tag.” He looked at the other kids and nodded. Together we walked back to my classroom as the end of day bell rang – it sounded very loud in the hallway’s now complete silence. 

I overheard my teacher and principal talking – they were going to call my mom.

It was a long ride home on the bus.

I don’t remember my punishment at home but I know my parents spoke to me. I went back to school and promised Mrs. (I don’t know how she spelled her name but it was pronounced Mayo) I’d be good. I’d really try.

I did try. And then someone else whispered during class from clear across the room and Mrs. M. assumed it was me. She didn’t let me go to lunch and called my parents again. I stood my ground at home and told them it wasn’t me this time. I wasn’t afraid to confess to them…but I really hadn’t done it and she made me mad!

Dad did an amazing thing for me. He went to school with me the next day and together we walked up to my teacher’s desk. His voice was respectful as we stood there – united. He believed me. She backed down although she was crabby all day. Who cared? Mom & Dad were behind me…nothing Mrs. M. could say or do that day could steal the shine off their faith in me.

I remember the first day I stood in front of her desk before school started. It was the old-fashioned orientation. I think that could have been the start of our problem. She asked me what my favorite color was and I told her it was lavender. She asked me how many colors I had in my box at home. Well, I had 48 didn’t everyone? I guess not in the first grade in those days.  Then I proceeded to read all the words she had up on the bulletin board – words she was going to teach us. Words I already knew. I do remember she raised her penciled eyebrows very high at our first meeting.

Well, and I didn’t win any  brownie points when she was teaching us to count and when it came to 3 she said “tree.” I didn’t know her dentures were loose and I thought she was being funny so I laughed out loud. She asked me what was funny…so I told her. One…two…tree! My imitation ended with me giggling alone.

Man…this truth thing was a challenge. But I didn’t give up. I kept trying.

Mostly I guess I tried her.

On the last day of school, she kissed me good bye and told me she loved me. That felt good. Then she informed me she was no longer going to be a teacher because of me. I’d worn her out. She also told me I’d be having Miss Schoenborn for my 2^nd grade teacher – it had already been decided that a difficult to teach child like myself needed Miss S’s discipline.

I felt guilty and ashamed. Some of my zest for life leaked out and continued to all summer. I worried like crazy about Miss S. She had a reputation for spanking children and yanking them around by their ears and digging her fingernails into tender scalps. In my 2^nd grade year I witnessed them all – only the fingernails in my scalp personally…and not for talking but instead she caught me day dreaming during a test.

I worked hard and tried to obey and mostly succeeded in being good at school although there was the day I kicked the tar out of Jimmy when we were in like the 4^th grade. That’s another story!

Years later, when I worked at Tempo in the ladies clothing department, Mrs. M. was one of my customers. She left without a purchase…upset by my very presence. I watched her go with a mix of sadness and anger. It had been a long time and she was not about to forgive me. I’d said I was sorry the last day of school and again that night. It didn’t matter.

The truth is, I loved Miss S. and as an adult she and I became friends. After a grade school class reunion, Miss S. and my 3^rd grade teacher (best friends for life) Miss B. (can’t spell this one either!) took me to lunch. We shared some sweet memories – they loved me as much as I loved them! They told me Mrs. M. went to her grave believing I was the naughtiest child she’d ever taught. They had disagreed with her vehemently. Yes, I was naughty, in a normal kind of way. They had a lot more trouble with some of the kids Mrs M. had no trouble with – like Jimmy and Tommy.

Maybe you had to be a boy to make the grade in her classroom.

I liked pleasing my teachers…I was never teacher’s pet – that position was held by other kids who got good grades and worked “up to their potential” which I guess I rarely did. (according to the old report cards I have tucked in our storeroom) I was a normal kid with normal grades and a passion for life, stories, and fun.

I don’t know if Mrs. M. will be in heaven when I get there…I hope so for a couple of reasons…it beats the other place for her sake…and I’d be forgiven.

It’s really hard to be unforgiven. Even after all these years.

I enjoy the taste and smell of fresh corn on the cob, dripping with butter and sprinkled with salt. I don’t mind the mess when the butter and sweet corn juice run down my arms to my elbows planted firmly on the table. I savor each kernel. I also like popcorn, corn chips, corn dogs, and corn muffins.

Last year I discovered I can also delight in what I now call corn on the stalk. With its roots still firmly planted in the ground, the cobs fully attached, and its blond tassles blowing in the breeze, corn smells wonderful.

Another corn delight is when I get to sit quietly near the field and listen to the wind on its way. I can hear it washing across the field of green stalks anticipating the moment it washes over me and to the field on the other side. It sounds like an ocean wave on approach and departure. I whisper to Jon, “Here comes another one,” as the breeze catches the leaves and passes over us again.

The puppies sit with their faces into the wind. Tucker opens his mouth as if to taste the passing current. Sophie raises her little nose higher to catch the fragrance better. I sit with my eyes closed, my hand in Jon’s, and my nostrils and skin on high alert.

In the winter I can hear the wind blowing through the downed and drying stalks. It’s a little like hearing the ghost of summer rattle around in the fields restless for a warmer season.

So each day I can, I head for the field where I take a moment to stop and smell the corn on the stalks.

Downed stalks are evidence that the local deer and raccoon populations are feeding on its crispy bounty these days. Then soon, the harvest will come and the farmer’s cows will be fed all winter.

I’ll wait out the dusty days of harvest, the cold days of winter, and the planting time in the spring, looking forward to corn on the stalk! When I can inhale humid breezes full of the fragrance of earth’s golden crop.

When Jon bought me a brand new Monte Carlo in 1999 I was determined to drive it with care and to let my light shine. I immediately bought a fish symbol. I stood back from sticking it onto my shiny burgundy bumper and realized…my fish looked like it was swimming up-stream.

Not long ago, after going through a car wash, I notice my fish had a broken tail.

I could carefully remove the old symbol and get a new one. And, that one could swim with the current. I considered it. Maybe my fish tarnished my witness. It’s certainly a less than perfect fish.

Then looking at that broken and backwards fish I saw me.

While I bought the fish to declare to anyone behind me, “I believe in Jesus,” a broken fish represents me pretty good these days. The PTSD and depression still hound my days and nights. As I pray and do what I can to get better, it’s a hard swim…a lot of it up stream – against the flow of depression, fear, and anxiety.

I’m a broken believer with a broken fish.

I know there’s something wonderful in this. Somewhere. I’ll keep seeking and when the time is right…I’ll find it. In the meantime, I will trust. And keep my fish. And pray for healing. And wait. One day I’ll get my eagle’s wings. God said so.

I mean those words with all my heart but there’s another side to my heart and it’s very human. Some days I’m okay waiting. Some days I’m not. My seeking is even of the broken variety. It involves begging and at times pleading. I’m not into bargaining and neither is God but it’s crossed my mind. I want to promise “to be good” and have the hurt that feels like punishment (even though I know better!)  go away. On these days, I am no longer politely knocking on the door…I’m banging on it with both fists.

Then like a fish with a broken tail swimming in circles, I come back to Psalm 34 verse 18 (NIV).

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

It is to this truth that even in my PTSD/depression filled moments, my heart turns and then lingers gasping for breath…taking in God’s truth and embracing it – hugging it so hard I can feel it becoming part of me a little bit at a time as if infusing itself into my DNA.

I’m a bit tossed about these days but I am extremely glad I know the One who walked on the waves.

We sat around the table in Grandma’s kitchen. It was hot inside and out. I was passed a dish and in the days when I was a child, you took a little bit of everything offered. You also ate it even if you didn’t like it.

When I asked what was in the dish, my dad said, “Turtle soup.”

I took a small portion and an even smaller bite. It tasted suspiciously like tuna.

In all the years since then…40 some in all…Turtle Soup has been a favorite of mine. I tend to save it for summer lunches or suppers. Lots of people call it Macaroni Tuna Pea Salad.

My family will gather at our house this Sunday and among the salads, meats, olives, pickles, and cake will be a bowl that will make me smile. I’ll invite my dad to have a 2^nd helping of Turtle Soup and he’ll grin.

Here’s our version…

2 cans of albacore tuna in water, drained

1         small box of ring macaroni – cooked, drained, and cooled

1 cup of celery

½ package of frozen peas thawed by not cooked or 1 can of peas, drained

A pinch (or more) of salt

Mayonnaise or miracle whip – you pick the amount that makes it all the right consistency for you

Mix, chill, serve.

(I’ve been known to add diced green peppers and onions on occasion…but the original recipe the family used is the one above…I call this version Green Turtle Soup!)

I was about 5 years old when I tasted it. I didn’t expect it – in fact I was anticipating something far more wonderful like a hug.

Some big kids in our neighborhood taught me a few new words. I was told my mom would be so proud of me for using these simple to repeat and remember phrases. I could hardly wait to bask in her happiness.

Not wanting to keep the good stuff to myself I shared some of the words with my younger brother who was about 3 at the time. We stood together in the upstairs hallway. I enthusiastically told my mother where to go and my brother called her a name.

Suddenly we were in the bathroom with slivers (although they felt like boulders!) of gold Dial soap melting on our tongues. In a little while we were brushing our teeth and tongues and spitting with as much power as we could muster.

I should have known better I guess. I’d heard those same words used by other people (usually adults) and they didn’t seem to mean good things. I told the big kids that. In tender innocence I believed them when they told me I’d misunderstood what the words meant – that they were very good words instead.

I don’t know if my little brother was angry at me or not. I’ve always been very sorry I got him in trouble. I remember vividly standing in that bathroom with soap laden spit running down our quivering chins. We were partners in crime and punishment.

Memory of that day brings back a lingering sadness. The kids I wanted to trust lied to me – intentionally. I believed that lie and passed it on to my even more innocent brother. In my desire to be accepted by kids I thought were so cool, I ignored my instincts.

You know…I tried those words and others out again in the coming years. They never “fit” – even before I came to Jesus. I also continued my efforts to please people when it was in no one’s best interest. Even now, with all my warning bells clanging and my red flags flying a full-mast I sometimes choose to ignore the internal Voice of the Holy Spirit and listen to people over Him.

Maybe a bit of that soap embedded itself in my DNA. Putting the pleasure of people before God is similar to cursing for me. In the moment between confession and forgiveness I’m sure I can still feel those bubbles on my tongue.

When I was little a “do” was directly related to hair or a reprimand, “Joy, what did you do?”

The only thing a person didn’t “do” was windows.

Now we “do” and don’t “do” a list of things based on our personal preferences.

I used to think only people with lives full of wealth and influence said, “Let’s do lunch.”

Imagine my surprise when I heard myself say it. The words were foreign slipping off my tongue. They also surprised me a bit – I thought I sounded so…well you know…so.  So not me.

This experience reminded me of the way it feels when I try on a pair of shoes that are the wrong size and aren’t my style. Shoes like that are uncomfortable and a bad investment. They also say something false about me. (I guess there are certain shoes I don’t “do!”)

I was immediately aware of the flippant way I sounded. I meant the words – I really did want to meet my friend for a long, leisurely lunch full of authentic talk and delicious food.  Instead of sending a cozy message the invitation sounded very surface – like a hard veneer.

I don’t remember intending to use the phrase. These popular words left my lips with my breath behind them and I heard a different version of me…the one trying way too hard to sound sophisticated.

In hind sight, I realize that when I offer words of encouragement, comfort, knowledge, or Scripture in a popular way (popular = saying the words and/or phrases I’ve heard over and over) I distance myself from people seeking hope, consolation, and truth.  I also create a barrier between my heart and their pain. It’s like saying, “I don’t do your pain.” I offer up some words I think should help and retreat. In a way (a very sad way) I become a spiritual snob.

That’s not who I am.

Flippant little phrases that sound normal coming from some people sound artificial and stilted when they escape my mouth.

Growing up in the 70s I could say the word “cool” and sounded okay while the words “groovy” and “far out” sounded weird in my voice and “dig” sounded even worse. There were kids in my school who could pull off these hippy style words and even swearing and the words sounded like their natural language. I confess: I tried them all and none of them fit. Kids who knew me would raise their eyebrows and shake their heads and wait for the real Joy to return to her right mind.

You’d think in a new millennium I’d have conquered this verbal silliness. I guess there are times I sure wish I could “do” words better than I do…but I don’t.

These birds arrived at our house tonight…but I missed the “fly-in!” They are part of a fundraiser for the Senior High Challenge 08 in Utah.

The birds arrived when I was busy in my office and Jon was walking the puppies. The delivery van was leaving as Jon crested the hill…the bird’s keepers got away.  Perhaps the van seen leaving the scene was being driven by my very good friend – the one who ordered the flock…ahhhh…a mystery to be solved.

On my desk sits this little flamingo left at my door.        I’m glad for the bright reminder to pray for this venture and more important…for the kids.

So…we’ve been flamingoed! And goofy woman that I am…I’m delighted.

I’d been feeling better…then while teaching in my mini-congregation at church something went very wrong inside me.

At first it felt like a little rumble I wrote off as nerves…then it began to roar as chaos swirled in my brain…it became an emotional earthquake. With God’s help, I did okay externally but internally I was falling apart in an avalanche sort of way.

On the way home, a deeper darkness settled over my growth once again. Fragile, weak, and afraid, I shared with Jon and then emailed some close friends asking for prayer.

There were some things I knew and held on to…God was there in every single second of my implosion. I didn’t hear or see Him…but I knew He was near. Nothing could change the Truth that He is. Jon and my friends steadfast love was like sunshine and fresh air…although I only got glimpses and small gusts amidst the fog and heaviness I seemed to be breathing.

Now a week and a half later I realize there is a holy rain falling over my soul. God’s presence is soaking into me…all the way down to my fragile roots. This invigorating immersion is replacing fear with peace – even as the darkness lingers.

And guess what? I’m growing in the dark!

Ideas, dreams, and plans fill my head.  I hurry to my office, fire up my computer, and immediately need a nap! All my excitement drains away when my mind calls out for the energy to create.

So, I pray, take a walk, and resist fatigue. I get a drink of water and fill up my coffee cup. Then, I give the computer another try. This time weary wins. My eyelids slip to slits, breathing becomes shallow, my head feels leaden, and my fingers sit on the keyboard – motionless.

All the things I’d like to write (except this blog) are held in PTSD captivity.

 I shut the computer down, head for a comfy place to rest, pray for refreshment, and  fall asleep before the “amen.” My dreams are not sweet so I wake up still worn.

I picture this captivity lined with a barbed wire fence. We have some of this dangerous fence on our property – it once held cattle back. Jon is carefully removing each strand of rusted and twisted metal so the land will be safe to roam. I like the sound of the cutter makes as it expands the wonderful possibilities to roam out here.

It’s easy to find things to do in place of writing and it still counts. I can write down an idea (a sentence or 2 will usually preserve the idea before it evaporates) and promise myself someday I will flesh it out. There’s always research I can collect and file away for another time. I try to convince myself  that this time of simmering is good…and maybe it is. If I get to add a sentence to an idea…I’m encouraged. These blogs take 2 and sometimes 3 hours to write before I have the courage to put them “out there” for you all to read.  Even then I find errors…my weary eyes and mind missed the other 10 times I read each entry.

Ping!

Each of these steps is me cutting down the dangerous fence that traps my creativity.

Writing these blogs has been an exercise in diligence. I usually need a nap halfway through and then again before I can even attempt an edit. The rest of the edits demand more rest. The accomplishment (in spite of the mistakes) is sweet reward for the effort. 

Ping again!

I wonder if perhaps writing these entries is a bit like lifting weights. Maybe I’m putting my creative muscles through a kind of physical therapy and when I get strong enough I’ll be able to cut through the barbed wire that seems wrapped around my creative abilities. 

Ping! Ping!

I am starting to believe a breakthrough is near and wonderful possibilities not only await me as the barriers come down…they are happening as the fence comes down.

Ping!