Things I Keep Learning

You know those things that you learn, and every time you learn them you think, "I already knew that"? Today, I had a reminder of a couple of those things, so I thought I'd put my thoughts down here.

My current job is doing data analysis and internal audit. My title might be Program Controls Manager, but it should just be "Resident Bad Guy." A major chunk of my job is figuring out what was done incorrectly, who did it, fixing it, and educating the culprit. I'm the one who calls or emails you to tell you what you did wrong, why it was wrong, and what you need to do to make it right. Fun, eh?

I learned some time back that the nicer you are about it, the less likely it is that they'll get it right the next time. "Oh, she fixed it for me before, so it's no big deal." Wrong. My communication has, by necessity, become very to-the-point. The more you embroider flowers on it, the less punch it packs. This brings us to lesson one:

1) No one wants to take responsibility for himself. 

You might think that perfectly capable adults would grasp simple concepts like:

• If you don't put in your time, you won't get paid. 
• If you do the exact opposite of what you're instructed to do, you're going to get in trouble.
• When someone's doing something to help you out, even though it's not their problem, don't be a jerk to them.
• If you falsify data, you will get fired. 

I'll stop there, though I could keep going. If you thought that, you'd be wrong. The average perfectly capable adult (based on my control group of just under 500 of them) does not have any desire to take responsibility for things they know that they must do.

2) No one wants to get caught, when they do something wrong. 

It's uncomfortable, to do something wrong and have someone call you on it. It's unpleasant to be told for the 4th time in a row that you don't have the authority to do what you've just done, and this is your final warning. It's unpleasant to face the consequences of that action, whether it's just a conversation, a disciplinary action, losing the job, or something more eternal. No one wants to be the one in the hot seat.

3) Because of the first two points, most people have an immediate, knee-jerk reaction of blaming the person who caught them. 

This has been the story since the Garden of Eden. When we get caught, we immediately blame someone else, and often it's the person who's calling us out for our wrongdoing. It's so much easier to throw the spotlight at on someone else than it is to admit we've done wrong, seek to make it right, and not do it again. It's kind of a built-in default to make it personal-- "well you're just a jerk"-- because then maybe the thing we've gotten caught doing (again!) doesn't look quite so bad. If the other person is somehow to blame, then maybe I can get away without paying the price.

Friends, this reaction may be the most "natural" thing in the world, but that does not make it right. You see, there's no amount of blame-shifting or name-calling that can right a wrong. All that does is breed ill-will, and it puts you (or should I say, me) even more in the wrong.

This is one of the ways that my job reminds me of Calvary. I don't like being disliked, but to be honest, it's kind of my job. I don't want people to think badly of me, but it's not possible to hold the standard if people feel they have the freedom to do whatever they please, without repercussion or consequence. I don't want people to think of me as the bad guy, not want to take my calls, groan when they get my emails, etc., but it happens, and to be honest, I don't really mind. It's all part of the job.

Earlier today, when calling someone (for the 4th time in as many months) on a situation they knew better than to replicate, the person turned on me and started calling me names, shouting about how abrasive and what a jerk I am, until I finally hung up (because taking abuse is not part of my job description). It's times like that when my sin is fully before me. I remember how many times I've turned defensive and spat nasty things at the person who called me out. It's times like that when I remember that it took me murdering God to make my sin right. It's times like that when I'm so thankful that He loved me enough to not only take my venom, but also to take it away.

I don't always get it right. I know that. My current work schedule is averaging 60+ hours each week (my current record is 85 hrs/wk), and we're doing some other things, in our personal sphere that result in perpetual exhaustion. It's easy to react badly, especially when you're tired, overworked, and under- appreciated. I'm sure there are times I am abrasive. I'm sure there are times that people think I am a jerk, even when I'm just being straightforward. I haven't had a lot of spare time to sugar-coat stuff in the last few months. It's not an excuse. I should do better. I know that. I do my best to apologize when I realize I've been harsh.

I'm not Jesus, and as much as I yearn to be like Him, I don't generally stick the landing. Some days, He makes it clear that I don't have a right to get indignant with others who abuse me for doing my job. His voice speaks into my heart, "Remember the abuse I took? Remember the cross?" It may be my job to find the problems and deal with the trouble-makers, and they may react badly. But, it's no surprise to Jesus. Our Holy God decided that it wasn't enough for there to be punishment for sin, but that there must be a cure for it. So He came and stepped into the mess, waded through our filth, took it all on Him, and carried it instead.

I'm so glad that He reminds me of His grace, His mercy, His redemption. It makes it easier, sometimes, to be the Resident Bad Guy.

Blessings,
LL~

Writing Exercises: Declutter

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I'm skipping ahead to the eleventh writing exercise, because that's where I am with the actual work, right now. I will probably go back and do some of the exercises that I have skipped, as they become relevant, just in case you were wondering what happened to all the stuff on the list in between my posts.

Today is about decluttering, and that's part of the rewriting process that I'm in with my first draft manuscript. I have temporarily set aside my second book's development, in favor of rewriting the book that has all its bones in place.

Rewriting/decluttering is quite an interesting process. For me, it's not entirely about eliminating unnecessary fluff (as the exercise post would suggest), though there is some of that. For me, it's more taking the bones of the story and filling them out. I'm going through and identifying the questions that the current manuscript leaves unanswered. I'm finding loose threads and deciding if the thread goes or gets more fully woven into the book.

The biggest decluttering moment for me was deciding what the key component is of the story, and it was one of those "aha!" moments when I remembered that the story I was writing is God's story. It changed the impetus of the whole book for me and released me to make changes. I have been cutting things that I was very pleased with (at least writing-wise) because they don't work with the overall theme. It's very freeing.

I've decided to take one story line at a time and address each individually and entirely before moving on to the next story line. I found that there were questions leftover in each story, and the theory is that completing each story individually will most likely help me to end up with a coherent book. I'm down to the last chapter or so of the story line I was working on yesterday, and that feels pretty good. Yesterday, after a hardcore workday, I spent nearly as many hours rewriting as I had in my full-time job, and managed to work through draft 2 of five chapters. Let me tell you, I was fried, but in a good way, when it came to bedtime. My brain is still sizzling.

My estimate for the book is that draft 3 will go out to my test readers for review. The second draft should be pretty good, but the third draft should have all but the minutest of details addressed. My current intuition is that I'll be comfortable receiving feedback on that version. I'm hopeful that only copyediting will be needed at that point, and I'll be able to move on to publishing and focusing on book 2 (and the rest of the series).

Making progress,
LL~

{This writing exercise is the eleventh from "15 Habits of Great Writers," which I came across on Pinterest.}

Writing Exercises: Build

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My darling husband and I recently attended the premiere of a short film that was created to use as a conversational tool in the pro-life advocacy world. One of the things that struck me about the film was that the creators put in the work to build it to completion. It takes a lot of effort to create a film. It took a lot of people, a lot of time, and a lot of effort.

God often inspires us to do things, but what we do with the inspiration, at least in my case, is somewhat lacking. How many things has God given my brain and I let them sit until they're lost into the recesses of my memory? How many stories have I not written? How many gestures have I not made? How many gifts have I not given? Sadly, too many.

Well, I'm working on following through with my books. I haven't done a lot of the rewriting, for one thing because the uninterrupted time I have tends to go to my job. I am thinking about taking a few days off and just working on that.

I have, however, been writing. I've been writing back-story and descriptions. I've been writing things that may not end up in any of the books, that may not be seen by anyone by me, but that help me think in an amount of detail that, I believe, will help me create richer images in the books. Perhaps the story of the First Dark Queen's curse won't ever be shared. Perhaps no one cares about the geography of the continent(s) where the stories take place. It helps me, though.

I have taken some of my thoughts and created a map, which helps me mentally place how things need to happen. I'm not much of an artist, but it helps me visualize the story line. It also has broadened the possibilities to me, and I have begun a list of potential story lines I can pursue in future books. I'm building, however slowly, the foundation that I can use to build a series.

Yay, me.

Blessings,
LL~

{This writing exercise is the eighth from "15 Habits of Great Writers," which I came across on Pinterest.}

Writing Exercises: Practice

Or "practise" for those who hold with British English. :)

Specifically, the challenge for today is to "practice in public."

• Pitch a magazine you want to write for. Follow some of the templates in You Are a Writer. This article might help, too.

• Ask a friend (or stranger) to guest post on his/her blog. Here’s another useful post.

• Publish something on your blog you’ve never shared with anyone. Take a risk (we’ll be doing more of this soon).

• Submit that book proposal. Don’t “work on it.” Finish it. Send it off. And say a little prayer.

Well, I don't want to write for magazines. I don't know that I have anything to guest post about, and my books aren't ready for me to submit proposals, so blog it is!

Technically, I've already done this, since I basically announced on here that I'm a writer and that I have written the first draft of my first book. The thing is, I'm fairly certain that I don't have a blog following, so announcements in empty rooms (and equivalents thereof) don't mean much.

To be honest, blogging sometimes feels somewhat egotistical. Sometimes I feel that sitting down to type out a post is basically saying, "I'm so very important that you should know how wonderfully important I am, too! Look at me! Look at me!" And then, being the introvert/hermit that I am, I cringe and don't post anything. haha. So to write this post about my books is not comfortable for me. It is, however, practice.

Unknown Source

There are times that words well up in me, and I simply have to write them down. There are times that I have had the words, failed to write them, and then regretted it. I didn't want the story in my first book to be one of those things. I had thought of a piece of the story line (though I think "was inspired with" might be more accurate), and I actually followed through and started typing it out. It was actually pretty good, so I told my parents about it. They each wanted me to read it to them, and then they each encouraged me to keep writing. In a fairly short amount of time, I had 21 chapters and a decent story.

I recently visited my parents, and they had me read the entire book to them. On the trip, I began the second book. One of the beautiful things about reading what you've written out loud is that you find out where the flow is broken, where the ideas don't work properly, and where you need more or less explanation, so that process helped me see that the book would need a rewrite. I began the rewrite yesterday.

In the rewriting process, I'm not scrapping anything and completely starting over. I'm actually building more detail and fleshing out what I didn't realize was bare bone until I read it aloud.

I had already had a list in my book journal of questions that had gone unanswered, of ideas I'd like to develop, of story lines that didn't come into play, etc., so now I'm adding to that list.

There are several story lines that I know are percolating that were either tangential to the stories in the first book, or didn't come into it at all. Those are books yet to be written. There are questions that I could have answered in the first book, but never quite got around to answering, so now I'm looking for places to pull those answers in-- and this feels, to me, like working a snagged, loose thread back into the garment where it's supposed to be.

Toward the end of writing the first draft, I got so caught up in the momentum of the unfolding events that I failed entirely to explain what was happening, even though I could see it clearly in my head, so now I'm going back and writing those scenarios more carefully.

There's an entire running metaphor that I pulled out of the first draft, because it wasn't working, but didn't entirely eliminate from everywhere it was mentioned, so now I get to deal with that. Do I rework it and put it back in? Do I erase all mention of it (which is where I'm leaning) and not even try to explain it? It's a conundrum, surely.

The biggest problem I have at this point is the fact that I don't yet know the names of the books or the series. I'm not saying that they don't have names. I'm certain they do. It's just that they haven't introduced themselves to me properly, so we're carrying on these deep conversations, getting to know each other intimately, but we're both kind of referring to each other as "you" and "um" instead of by name.

Anyway, this is more information than I've shared with anyone about my writing process and my first book(s), so if there's anyone reading this, welcome to my world!

Blessings,
LL~

{This writing exercise is the fourth from "15 Habits of Great Writers," which I came across on Pinterest.}

Writing Exercises: Initiate

Alright, so I'll be honest. The challenge for yesterday was to get up 2 hours early and write, but I don't function as well in the mornings, and I didn't do that. I'm not likely to, to be completely frank. Well, at least not unless that's the only way.

I did, however, actually do some writing. I started the rewrite on the first book, and I hand-wrote in my book journal some of the backstory (8 pages worth) for the books. I also initiated a conversation with my husband about some plans which include the possibility of publishing, so there's that.

Since the key point about getting up early was to "make room" to write, I think I'll stick with making room during the part of the day that I'm mentally functional. Now, where will it fit today?

Blessings,
LL~


{This writing exercise is the third from "15 Habits of Great Writers," which I came across on Pinterest.}

Writing Exercises: Declare

I am a writer.

This is not a shocking statement to find on a blog, but it's one that I have been reticent to make. It's not, at this point, my job to write. At this point, my job is where I spend 40+ hrs/week and get a paycheck, and that involves little writing. What writing I do in my job is either email content or policy/procedure documentation or clarification.

The thing about that is even though it is not my job to write, I take the writing I do for my job very seriously. I edit for grammar, punctuation, spelling, and content. I read and edit for fluidity, and with an intent to make things as easily comprehensible as possible. I write policy like a writer, and I read it with a critical reader's eye. So even in my job, where I don't get paid to write, I'm still a writer.

I have two blogs, to which I seldom post. That sentence is one of the main reasons for my reticence about calling myself a writer. Because I don't post often, much less every day. I post what I want to post, when I want to post it, and I don't have a substantial following, if any. Oh, I often INTEND to post, but I rarely follow through on that intention. I am not disciplined in my writing, and that frustrates me, even though I have the tools and ability to change that.

It's like being fat. Everyone knows that to cease (or keep from) being fat you have to eat properly and exercise, finding the right balance of both for your individual body. Discipline is self-driven when it comes to the things we want for ourselves. In adult life, few things are disciplined by external forces, and for me, both my weight and my writing are where they are because of a lack of self-discipline.

Yet, I still say, I am a writer. I have written the entire first draft of my first novel and have started on my second novel. I have multiple thoughts about the rewrite that is coming to the first book, but again, the lack of discipline in this area is what keeps that from materializing. My parents, both great readers, have both enthused about my book, but I tend to chalk their opinions up to parental pride, rather than actual excellence in my writing. I do a disservice to both them and me, though, when I do that. My book is good. It's not as good as it will be, but it's a good start.

There are a thousand and three things (at least) that I should be doing right now, as my housekeeping (or lack thereof) will attest, but I sit here, completing a writing exercise. Because it's important to me. Because it's important to ME. I want to be a disciplined writer. I want my writing to outlive me. I want to reach people through the words that God has given me. I want my words to pour out of my heart which is filled with praise for the Creator who fashioned me to bear His image, so that others will see Him and know Him, and to do that, I must write. I must write whether or not it's convenient, because I need to develop the discipline.

I am a writer.

LL~

{This writing exercise is the first from "15 Habits of Great Writers," which I came across on Pinterest.}

A Tiny Little Life

This is the story of a life. It was a tiny little life, though not as tiny as some others. To some of us, it was a very important one. This is the story of Zoe, my precious sweet-faced baby girl. She had lots of other nicknames, but those are the things that describe her in my mind, more than anything else. She died, Saturday morning.  (11/3  -- I've been having a hard time finishing this post.) Zoe means life, and that's why she had that name. She was so FULL of life and energy, just bursting to explore and snuggle, and run, and popcorn, and play. (Piggies popcorn-- they hop straight up in the air, just for the fun of it, when they're happy.)

Zoe, as a baby.

I say it was tiny, because it was short, and because it belonged to a little animal, not because it didn't have value. It did. It mattered. She mattered. She still does. To me, anyway. 

L-R Zoe, Zelma, Zephyr

In the spring of 2010, I decided that I needed a little animal to keep me company. I lived alone and telecommuted, so my interactions with others were fairly minimal. I visited a local pet store, which was advertising a free guinea pig with the purchase of a cage. (I think.. Maybe vice versa.) 

I picked the one that made me smile most, because of a full-body mohawk and white rear end, and took "him" home. They told me at a store that this piggy was a boy. He turned out to be a pregnant girl. Smile.

Babies were so little that they sat in the food dish. :)

On 7/22/10, I was in my office about 3 feet away when my precious little mama pig gave birth to 4 babies, one of whom didn't make it. One of the remaining pups was a boy, and the following Thanksgiving, he went to live with his cousin in Kansas, the boar who belonged to my niece. He still lives there, fat and healthy, today. (Though, sadly, his cage-mate has died.)

The two little girls and their mother stayed with me, and they all got names: Zelma (mama pig), Zoe (brown baby), and Zephyr (pink baby). They were so stinking cute, and I watched them grow up and turn into fat, healthy piggies with individual personalities and tastes. It's kind of funny, because there are times when I forget that all kinds of critters have personalities. These three are very different. 

Zoe was a people person. She always wanted to know what the people were up to. If I was working at my desk and it had been awhile since I'd said anything or interacted with the girls, she would come over to the side of the cage closest to me and watch me until I noticed her and spoke to her, or came to pet her. She was very naturally curious and always wanted to know what was going on. 

She seemed to really enjoy being held, and was always curious about whatever the holder was wearing, smelled like, or was doing. She didn't care about watching movies or TV (the mama pig is a movie watcher), but she'd snuggle right in under my jawbone and nuzzle my neck. She always licked and tasted everything, and the first thing you'd see of her, most of the time, was her little pointy nose, up in the air, checking out her surroundings. 

She liked cucumbers. (Zephyr always chokes on cucumbers.) She was the vocal one of the group, and if she thought it had been too long and they needed weggies (that's piggy speak for vegetables), she would speak right up and send me after them. (Now Zelma asks, sometimes.) She was the first of the babies to figure out how to use the water bottle. (Something Zephyr still makes harder than it needs to be.)

I called her my punkin pig, because she looked like a piece of pumpkin pie. The reddish brown looked like pumpkin. The dark brown looked like spices-- nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice. And the little wedge of white on her side looked like a dollop of whipped cream. 

Little noses, sniffing out weggies.

When she got sick, I may not have noticed right away. I kick myself for that. It was a weekend. I spend all week in the office, ordinarily, which is where the pigs live to keep me company, and especially during my busy season (Sept-Nov) I don't even want to SEE the office when I'm not working. I take care of the pigs, and I'll go get them to hold them, but I don't spend time in the office on the weekends, if I can help it. I didn't notice her being unwell until Sunday night, but she could have been struggling for awhile, by then. 

You see, guinea pigs are prey animals in the wild. Being weak or unwell is a strategic disadvantage, if a predator is anywhere nearby. If one gets sick, it masks the symptoms until whatever illness it has kills it or goes away. Most piggy illnesses are fatal, unless they're treated quickly. I tend to be around them enough that I would notice if one was in any way acting unusual. 

Last fall, Zephyr got sick. We got her to the vet, put her on medication, quarantined her, and a week later, she was well enough to return to the herd. 

Not so with Zoe-pig. Zoe wasn't eating at all by the time I knew she wasn't well. I should have immediately started her on the critical care food, but I waited until I got her to the vet the next morning. I kick myself for that, too. The vet gave her shots of vitamins and an antibiotic, put her on oral medications, told me to feed her the critical care food (which I already had from Zephyr's illness), took an x-ray and sent us home with a plan to get her well. 

Piggies nap a lot.

She should have gotten better. She didn't. She got weaker. I fed her every hour or so. I gave her one medication twice a day and another 3 times a day. I had alarms set on my phone to remind me what time she needed which treatment. We went back to the doctor, and she was very concerned. Zoe should have gotten better. We added a pro-biotic and an anti-inflammatory. She seemed to get worse, every time I gave her medicine. I finally decided that I wasn't going to give her more medicine. I would just feed her. 

I went online to see what I could find out. I should have done that sooner. I kick myself for that, too. One link led me to a forum string that said that a few guinea pigs have an intolerance for the main antibiotic administered to guinea pigs. That was what she was on. That day, Friday, she had developed the symptoms of that intolerance, continuing to weaken, and had gotten to the point that she couldn't walk. She was barely moving at all. She had started having muscle spasms, which eventually seemed to be brief seizures. 

I know it's a stupid look on my face. I think I was
frustrated with my phone camera at the time...

I went to bed Friday night, sick to my stomach. I couldn't sleep. She was barely even lifting her head. With my husband sleeping soundly, I sneaked back in and carried her back into the living room with me. I tried to feed her. I gave her some water. I held her. I napped with her. I cried when she twitched and seized. I prayed for this precious little life. I asked God to show me how I could help her. 

It got cold. In our living room, we have several large windows, and it got very cold on the couch next to those windows. I wrapped us in a blanket, then covered us with a down-filled throw. I kept her warm. I held her. I kept praying, as I dozed in and out. 

Forgive the poops & the red eyes. This was the last picture
I took of the three of them, before I found out Zoe was sick.
It was taken 10/26/12.

She was so soft, so weak. My heart ached for the little body resting on my chest. Finally, she had a massive seizure that seemed to just go on and on. I cried and prayed for God to save her, to make it stop. It did, eventually, and she took her last couple of breaths, then died. It was about 2:30 in the morning. 

I went in and woke my husband. My poor little punkin pig who had been so sick wasn't sick anymore. I went to bed, broken and sick at heart.

After I woke, my husband built her a little coffin, and we wrote on it. It says:

Zoe

7-22-10

11-3-12

Blessed be the Name of

the Lord.

The Lord gives, and the 
Lord

takes away. 

She was a precious gift.

Sweet faced li'l bown baby girl.

We buried her in the corner of our back yard, in the mum bed. We went out and found a new mum to look over her grave. It's darker-than-blood red. Almost black, in some lights. It was covered with buds, when we bought it, but only a few had opened into blooms. Now, it's mostly covered with flowers, and they stand guard over that little lifeless body buried in a box that was built with love.

Very few days have gone by, since then, that I haven't gone out and spent at least a few moments in that quiet place. Few days have gone by that I haven't cried at least a few tears for the loss of this precious little animal.

I kick myself in circles that I didn't do more, do better by her, treat her sooner, have the vet change her medications, or just appreciate what a gift she was quite as much when she was alive.  I don't know how many times I've said I'm sorry. To her grave, to her mother, to God. The truth of the matter is, she was my responsibility. While I didn't succeed in helping her get well and live, I hope that I wasn't such a horrible steward of her life and care.

My husband assures me that I treat them well. He says that it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have known or done anything better, that I tried everything I knew to do to save her. He says, "You're not a vet, and you were treating her the way the vet said to treat her. You couldn't have known. You did the best you could." And I just keep kicking myself. And missing her.

The grave, the day she was
buried. 11/3/12

I try to pay more attention to the two remaining pigglies, now, though truth be told, I have given them lots of attention all along. They remind me how much she loved people, just by being less interested. The first time I held Zephyr after Zoe's death, when I took her back to the cage, she spent several minutes looking in all the tunnels, making the mama pig move so she could see behind her, and basically asking, "Where's my sister?" it was heartbreaking. I broke down and wept.

When I feed them, I still subconsciously look for that little nose, then sadden when it's not there. She used to sit in this almost perfectly round ball with her hair puffed up when she'd eat. If you'd pet her while she was eating, she'd scoot straight backwards really fast to get away. It was ridiculously cute. No one does that anymore.

Sometimes, when I'm working, I look over, half-expecting to see her little face pointed my direction, wanting to know what I'm doing. It's not there. I wish I had a picture of that.

Maybe it's ridiculous for an adult to have little pets like these. Maybe I'm a little too crazy about them. Maybe I should be less emotionally attached to animals, who have such short life spans. Maybe. 

Maybe my grief should be easing now. Maybe it is. Maybe she has become a bit of a symbol of more regrets than just my care for her. Maybe the fact that this was my first close experience with death as an adult has made it all hit harder. Maybe.

Here are some things I know. I understand more about how God feels about me because I have little, helpless animals. I know that eternity is real and that death is unnatural. I know that my husband is the kind, caring, considerate man that I thought he was when I married him, because he has treated my grief and love with such gentleness and respect. I know that God understands my grief, probably better than I do.

And one final thing I know is true. 

Tiny little lives matter. 

Much love and many tears, 

LL~

My Best Friend(s): Daddy

Daddy officiating my wedding.

This was the moment when my husband placed my wedding ring on my hand. This was the moment when my daddy willingly surrendered my care and keeping to someone else. This was a moment for which I'd been waiting a long time. It was the culmination of a lot of things in my life, and the first stone laid on a foundation that my parents started more than 31 years before.

(Random side note: I just realized how the not-quite-profile in this picture makes my nose look HUGE. Weird. Anyhoo...)

Dad on DJ

My parents raised us in a Christian home. Mom and Dad each came from a different brand of dysfunction in their homes of origin. Mom grew up in a Southern Baptist home. Dad had been given a Bible at the age of 6, and had learned a lot about who he wanted to be from it, but as I understand the history, it wasn't until they were married that they truly began their relationships with the Lord. When they married at the tender ages of 17 & 18, they moved across the country, then across an ocean from those homes, and they started a new life together. In many ways, they grew up together, and learned as they went. In the course of some desperate days, they turned to the Lord for help, and God brought an Army Chaplain into their lives, who pastored them and helped them to grow in understanding and pursuit of the Lord.

By the time my older brother was born, they had matured quite a lot in their faith. We were in church every time the doors were opened, and attended Christian schools from Kindergarten all the way through college. Dad was the provider for the family, sometimes working exceedingly long hours and traveling extensively during some seasons of our family life. He has always been a firm believer in working hard, with excellence, and playing just as hard, with excellence, when there was time to do so.

Daddy/Daughter ski trip to El Dora, CO

The greatest thing I ever learned from my dad was how to learn. He's a learner, a study-er. (OK, yes I know it should be "student," grammatically, but I'm trying to say something different, here.)

One of my favorite mental images of my daddy is this. In our home in St. Charles, MO, the living room and dining room flanked either side of the front door entry. Just inside the living room was a window, and just past that was the fireplace. Under that window lived my dad's recliner, with a reading lamp and small end table next to it. In my mind's eye, I can see my dad, sitting in that chair, Bible open in his lap, Matthew Henry commentary open on the arm of the chair, and a lined, yellow legal pad under the pen poised in his hand. I can clearly see this picture in my mind, because it was something he did often.

Daddy with my sister Maria

My dad taught Adult Sunday School for most of my growing up years. At that time of our lives, he was the Sunday School Superintendent at the church we attended, as well as being on the church board.

(Mom was the World Missions committee chair, so when I say we were at church every time the doors opened, I really mean it. I can't even begin to tell you the number of times my brother and I would be finding ways to keep occupied in that building late into the night during board meetings. That's how I learned how to slide down banisters.)

Dad was always studying. He was always preparing, weeks in advance, for the lessons that he would teach. He never went into a Sunday School class not knowing what the lessons were about or unprepared. He could never learn enough. He may have stuck with the denominational quarterly Sunday School curriculum, but he always learned all he could about the Scripture passage, and took it as deep as God would lead him. As a result, his classes were always PACKED. People flocked to his class, not just because he truly taught, but because he taught with energy, with excitement! For my dad, the Scriptures live and breathe, and he lives IN them and shares them every chance he gets.

Daddy with his first grandchild, Anna.

Now, before you start thinking that Daddy is some kind of spiritual oddity who knows everything and has it all figured out, here's the truth. He has had struggles. He has had things that God has had to teach him, and some of those lessons, he's had to learn many times in many ways over the years. In those days, he was learning and growing at a crazy fast rate, and still had areas where he didn't always succeed. I can tell you that we saw flaws in him, as kids growing up, but we also saw how hard he worked on those flaws. We saw the softness of his heart to the will of God. We saw him apologize and seek forgiveness when he messed up. We saw him learning and growing, studying and trying. We saw him counseling with others, either in person or through the written word. We saw him pursuing the heart of God.

If there was a time when he was frustrated or stressed out, there were a thousand times when he was on his knees, praying for guidance and wisdom. If there was a time when his temper was short with mom, there were a thousand times that he did something amazing for her. If there was a time when he was working 80 hour weeks to provide for our family, then there were hundreds of times that he would play 80 hour weeks on vacation with us, take time off to attend EVERY game, recital, play, or important event in our lives.

Daddy with the bulldog.

I can't remember a single piano recital that Daddy didn't attend. I can't remember anything that was important to me that he wasn't a part of. I can remember his presence in my life. I can remember daddy/daughter date nights, trips, and dance lessons. But most of all, I remember Daddy reading the Bible in our daily family devotions. I remember him praying over us, with us, and for us. I remember him leading us, providing for us, protecting us, and teaching us.

For these reasons, when I had pitifully navigated the time of my life that I was in total rebellion against God and His appointed authorities in my life, there was a time that came that the Wild Goose chased me in relentless pursuit of my heart. My parents were, to some degree, responsible for that via their intercessory prayers. When the time came that God was teaching me about submission to authority, He directed me back to my earthly daddy, who was His appointed authority in my life*, until my husband came along. Though I lived across the country from my parents, I began to seek the counsel of my dad, to be not quite so independent in my thinking, and to submit my will.

Daddy escorting me at my
sister's wedding.

When my parents came to visit me over Mother's Day 2010, they brought with them a blessing. My daddy gave me his blessing, as only a father can give, and prayed that God would bring my husband to me. Daddy said that I was ready, that my heart was sure, and that I'd learned how to place myself under the protection of his authority. That was the time when he felt I could be a blessing to my husband, and God moved swiftly in answer to this prayer.

You see, God puts authorities in our lives so that we learn, in a very practical, earthly sense, how to submit to God. He gives us daddies to teach us about His Fatherhood of us. Just because some of those dads don't always show us God doesn't mean that the lessons God intends us to learn are irrelevant. He gives us authorities over us in churches, who are responsible for our spiritual well-being. He ordains positions of authority over us in government, via police or public officials, authority over us in schools, via teachers and administrators, and authorities in pretty much every area of life. Even those in authority over others are given authorities to whom they must answer. We have to learn that those authorities protect us, and they have a responsibility for us. They are the ones who have to answer for how they lead us and what they do with that authority, and we have to answer for how we submit to them, and ultimately to God. Not every individual in authority may have the quality character and spiritual development to fulfill those positions properly, but the lesson must be learned by us, nonetheless. We are God's creations, and He is ultimately the one who is responsible for our well-being. Aren't we glad that He is so good at taking care of us??

Dapper Dad, in front of our fireplace
in Raymore, MO.

So, I've watched my daddy learn and grow and be a man after God's own heart. When I married, I married a man who was learning and growing and becoming a man after God's own heart. Daddy felt comfortable handing over his authority and responsibility, because my darling husband was the man that God had appointed, ordained for the position of husband in my life.

Daddy and I have become friends. That friendship looks different than any other relationship that I have. I see him, even now, seeking God, wanting to learn more, to understand better. I see him dedicating my parents new home to God, posting the 10 commandments on the wall of their home, raising the Christian flag on the flagpole out front, staking a claim for the God who owns him. It inspires me to follow in his footsteps, to understand better what God requires of us. If he's still growing, then I must, too.

When we talk, we talk of what we're studying, what God is teaching us, where He's working in our lives. We talk as friends, as siblings in the Lord, as joint-heirs. While he'll always be my Daddy, in recent years he has become something more, and different, too. We're alike somewhere on the soul level, and the depth of understanding we have of each other is something I don't know how to explain. I'm so thankful for this man that God has put in my life as my dad, my first authority. I'm thankful for his heart, his friendship, and his example. I'm thankful that he used his influence to draw me closer to the heart of God, and I'm thankful that we'll have all of eternity to marvel over what God teaches us next.

Dad & I fishing off the dock of a lake in Canada.

Much love,
LL~



*I am very aware that not everyone has been blessed in their families of origin in the same way I have. I know there are dads out there that aren't safe to trust. I know that there are circumstances that don't allow for little girls to turn into women under the protection of a man of God, and I'm sorry for that. That we live in a broken world is readily obvious. But, God's ways are higher than man's ways, and His intent is clear in Scripture, that men will protect and provide for their wives and children. 

Modesty Begins in the Heart: Part 2

Source

See Part 1 here.

I have been brought to, God only knows how, blogs written by a couple of lovely ladies who have, in gentle loving-kindness given me much to consider. I say "God only knows" because I wasn't searching for these blogs, but just came across them while web-surfing. I couldn't tell you how I found them, only that God brought me to them because He wanted me to hear His heart in a way that each of them are excellent at communicating.

The two blogs in particular are The Modest Mom (Caroline) and Large Families on Purpose (Erika), though there are also others that have helped me think through these things. Both Caroline and Erika are homeschooling moms with multiple children. I can tell you from reading their blogs that they each love the Lord, and their hearts are all about their families, and the women that they can love and serve through their writing.

The thing that struck me about these two beautiful women was that, while they have strong, unwavering, unshakable beliefs, they are so loving and kind that they present their beliefs in ways that make you want to hug them and know them better, not in such a way that you want to punch them in their respective noses. That is, in my experience with "church people" over the years, a unique grace, and one that I hope someday will be true of me. These women are living examples of that old saying about tact. You know the one. Tact is getting your point across without stabbing someone with it.

I know, as I read their blogs, that no one will ever convince Erika or Caroline to change their minds on something that God has taught them. I also know that, when either of them is confronted by people who have convictions opinions that are contradictory to what God teaches in His word and through His spirit, that she will love that person well, and instruct her in righteousness with grace. I know this, because I've read it. You can hear their hearts in their words. Modesty's not just a rule they live by, it's an outpouring of their love for God and their desire to live as God's woman, regardless of what others may or may not think.

The reason I'm talking about that here is that it is foundational to what modesty is all about. As C.J. Mahaney discusses it, modesty is about three things: the attitude, the appearance, and the allegiance of the modest woman. A woman who is truly modest, is modest in her heart first, due to the transforming effect of the gospel. This affects her appearance, and it conveys her allegiance. What Caroline and Erika write on their blogs is evidence of this transforming effect. Their hearts, their attitudes, and their allegiance are all evident, and the love they share is poured out visibly in their modesty of dress and appearance.

Caroline from The Modest Mom and Amy from Raising Arrows did a series called She Wears Skirts that bounced back and forth between their blogs. The series talks about why they wear skirts, and not pants. It talks about the convictions that God had given them regarding the modesty of their appearance, and it goes into much more detail than I will here, about why they believe it's more modest and less distracting, more feminine and less lust-provoking to wear skirts.

The bottom line of these ladies' personal dress codes? They are motivated by love. They want to love their Christian brothers well, by not distracting them from what God has for them to do, and by not inspiring in them anything that would cause them to fight a battle with sin and lust.

As I began to say in the first part of this series, I have been realizing that my personal clothing choices are evidence of the state of my heart, and that has become a matter of great concern to me. I'll tell you this, it's hard to look attractive, and be modestly dressed, when you're busty. Even if the rest of me is appropriately attired, sheer volume in the chest area can be an issue. It's difficult to find shirts or dresses that fit properly in the chest and don't look like a sack of potatoes on the rest of me. I'm growing resigned to the fact that I fare better wearing skirts and blouses/shirts than dresses, in most cases, and many times more than one layer on top.

It's tough, for someone who is as warm-natured as I am, to wear multiple layers in the summer without overheating. I've learned that certain fabrics are more comfortable than others, and that tighter layers are often less breathable. Nobody wants to sweat all the time. Want to know something funny? I've found that wearing sleeveless or strappy shirts doesn't create as much of a wicking effect as wearing a couple of layers. I actually sweat less, and look (and feel) fresher if I'm wearing a shirt with sleeves, and more so with a cami or tank under it. All that moisture gets absorbed and dissipates faster. I don't know how it works, but it does.

My personal opinion on this is that when I make modesty a deciding factor in what I choose to wear, God honors that, and He takes care of my comfort, too. He knows when I'm doing right, when my heart is right, and He honors it. If it wasn't important, it wouldn't be addressed in the Bible. If it's important to God, then it should be important to me. If I seek always to please my heavenly Father, then why not do something He's already said is pleasing to Him?

Let's look at a little bit of Mahaney's sermon, taken from 1Timothy, chapter 2:

The 'women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel.' That would be her appearance. And her attitude is emphasized... 'with modesty and self-control.' All respectable apparel is the fruit of a godly heart. Ladies, your wardrobe is a public statement of your personal and private motivation. And if you profess godliness, your motivation is to be distinct from our culture... It is to be motivated by modesty and self-control... 

A modest heart always precedes modest dress. Modesty is humility expressed in dress, a desire to serve others, particularly men, and not promote or provoke sensuality or lust. Modesty, self-control... Moderation for the purpose of purity...

John MacArthur has written, 'How does a woman discern the sometimes fine line between proper dress and dressing to be the center of attention? The answer starts in the intent of the heart. A woman should examine her motives and goals for the way she dresses. Is her intent to show the grace and beauty of womanhood? Is it to reveal a humble heart devoted to worshiping God? Or is it to call attention to herself and flaunt her beauty, or worse, to attempt to allure men sexually? A woman who focuses on worshiping God will consider carefully how she is dressed, because her heart will dictate her wardrobe and appearance.'

Whose attention do you desire, and whose approval do you crave?...

Is your wardrobe modest, evidencing self-control and respectable apparel? Every outfit, no exceptions?

...what is to be noticeable about a woman professing godliness is not her wardrobe, but her good works. There is to be this observable lifestyle of serving others. That is the appropriate... godly adornment for women who profess to be Christians. That is, in effect, the transforming effect of the gospel...

What is most eye catching about you-- your clothing, or your character?

See, Paul isn't simply advocating modesty in dress. He is insisting that more time be devoted, more energy be devoted to spiritual adornment in the form of good works. And he is warning about excessive attention devoted to appearance to the neglect of good works. 

Please, please do not misinterpret. Do not misunderstand. Do not misapply this message. Paul is not a conservative... This isn't some general appeal for morality. This, modesty, it is about the gospel... That is the transforming effect of the gospel. Modest hearts, respectable apparel, good works. The woman who loves the Savior avoids immodesty because she doesn't want at any time to distract from or reflect poorly upon the gospel.

That is the godly woman's concern-- that her attitude and her appearance reveal her allegiance to this Savior who was her substitute and provided her the ransom from her sin. And so, there is to be no contradiction between her profession of godliness and her practice of godliness. 

~Excerpted from "The Soul of Modesty"

C.J. Mahaney

29 January 2008 

Moderation for the purpose of purity. The fruit of a godly heart. A public statement of my personal and private motivation. Humility expressed in dress. There is to be no contradiction between my profession of godliness and my practice of godliness.

I can tell you, when I've ever thought about modesty, before now-- in all those high school conversations, in all the teaching I've heard-- it's always been about rules. It's always been about meeting some standard, measured in inches. Inches of length on skirts or shorts. Inches from the collarbone on the necklines of blouses, and heaven forfend you should even consider a halter top. Those are OUT. (Funny how some halter tops are more modest than some blouses with sleeves or tank-tops with the required one-inch width straps.)

1 Timothy 1:9 says that "the law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate." In all those debates about the letter of the law versus the spirit of the law, we somehow missed this point. Modesty of dress is outward evidence of the state of our hearts. Immodesty is an expression of arrogance. Modesty is an expression of humility and love. It's not about the rules defining modesty as certain length or width. It's about being humble and loving, as Jesus is.

As I continue to pursue holiness, as the Holy Spirit brings to mind things that He wants me to address, I pray for humility. Pride has always been an issue for me. I believe it's the most ubiquitous and insidious of sins for all of us. It's what Lucifer embraced and got him kicked out of God's presence, and it was there in the garden of Eden. It's the seed of nearly every kind of sin I can imagine. As God continues to work in me to purge me of this, I have to keep addressing different areas. Now, modesty is the main one that God's working on in me.

I put a yellow sticky note in my closet where I can see it each time I dress. It says, "Immodesty is an expression of arrogance." I pray, when I see it, or when I think of it, that God would kill the root of pride in my heart. That He would overcome my arrogance and give me humility. I try to dress in ways that reflect the character that God is developing in me. I don't always succeed completely, but I'm learning as I go. God is faithful to teach me, each day. He is producing holiness, His holiness, in me. I pray that He would make me pure so that I can bring glory to His name.

Much love,
LL~

"This is good and acceptable in the sight of God our savior who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth... that the women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with propriety and moderation, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or costly clothing, but which is proper for women professing godliness, with good works."  ~1Timothy 2:3-4, 9-10 (NKJV)~

Modesty Begins in the Heart: Part 1

(Created here)

I just finished taking 5 pages of notes on the sermon "The Soul of Modesty" by Pastor C.J. Mahaney (sermon audio and transcript available at the link), which is excerpted in the video I embedded in this post. (Video found, courtesy of The Modest Mom.) I hadn't realized that the link to the entire sermon was in the description on the video's youtube page. I'm SO glad I found it and was able to hear the entire sermon.

I grew up in a Christian home. My parents sent my brother and I to Christian schools. We were at church every time the door opened. We learned to volunteer, to serve, to have manners, and to live differently than those around us. 

I developed early, probably linked to my Polycystic Ovarian Disease. I was wearing a bra (not a training bra, mind you, the real thing) by third grade. I remember wearing a sun dress to my brother's baseball game one evening, right after getting bras. My mom looked at me, at the field, and said, "How come you're not wearing your new bra?" My response was, "I could see it through my dress." The dress was pretty, and girly, soft sunshine yellow and the front of it had white eyelet lace on it. She replied that if I could see my bra through the dress, then it was also possible to see my body through my dress. I think that was the first time that modesty, in an adult body sense ever dawned on my brain. 

Source

At some point around the time of junior high, I suppose, I became aware more fully of the issue. My parents were always careful with my appearance. They made sure what I wore was modest, and I vaguely recall that being something discussed with clothing choices. 

In High School, I remember conversations about legalism in relation to modesty. Whole class periods were sometimes devoted to "discussions"  about the spirit of the law versus the letter of the law, legalism, what an appropriate standard should take into consideration, exceptions to the rules, etc. Sometimes I wonder what the teachers were thinking, letting this stuff rage on and never addressing the heart of the issue.

Our school had a policy that skirts (which were worn every day) must touch the floor when you kneel. Another school had a policy of 3" longer than fingertip length (which I thought was really odd, because especially during puberty when bodies are changing, arm-length doesn't always change at the same speed as height & leg-length...). Kneeling-length made sense to me. The rule even applied to our cheerleading skirts (which were actually skorts), and some people tried to play the "That's dangerous! They'll get tangled up when they do stunts!" card. (Which is ludicrous, I might add. We were never endangered by the length of our uniforms. Besides, if a stunt couldn't be done safely, we wouldn't have been permitted to do it.)

Having slogged our way through these murky waters, and having conformed to the touches-the-floor-while-kneeling standard, I (and probably most of the girls from my school) thought I had a pretty basic understanding of modesty. Got it. I'm good. I know it when I see it. No, really. That is, until God started bringing it to my attention, just this year.

I'm thirty-two years old. I'm a very visually-stimulated person. I have to be very cautious with shows that I watch, pictures I see, books I read, because I get mental images in my mind that I can't get rid of. 

Source

That creepy scene from that movie? Yeah, it may not give me a nightmare tonight, but 6 years from now, I might have one. It stays in there. I've learned that if the preview is creepy or seems dark or twisted, it's better that I don't see it at all. I've learned that it's safer for me to avert my eyes when I see a guy jogging down the street shirtless, because I don't ever want to compare my husband to him, or have that image of him pop up at a time when my focus should be on something else. I've learned that my mind will construct images to go with things I read, so I need to restrict my reading habits to things that are going to give me good mental images, not sinful ones.

In this way, my brain is wired much more like a man's than like most women's. Part of that is probably due to the over-production of testosterone and androgen in a woman with polycystic ovaries, but whatever the cause, the end result is the same. It makes me more aware of what men deal with on a daily basis. So I've become very protective of my mind and my imagination over the last few years. 

Yet, I still thought I didn't have any misunderstandings about modesty, even while wearing clothing that showcased my cleavage, my hourglass shape, or was simply too tight. God has been systematically revealing to me, over recent months, that the things I know I have to guard my mind from and avoid are the same things that I have exposed my brothers in Christ to, and that they must guard their minds, eyes, and hearts from me. Whoa. 

Stay tuned for Part 2.

Much love,

LL~

My Best Friend(s): Mumsy

Mumsy by our pool in Raymore

Yes, I really do call her Mumsy. Or, occasionally, Momma. Mumsy can be abbreviated Mmz, but if your phone (or other tech gadget) has the feature where it announces who is calling, or a voice recognition feature, it will NOT, I repeat NOT recognize MMZ as "Mumsy," just in case you were wondering. A few phones back, I had the caller announcement feature turned on, and it always said, "Incoming call from M. M. Z." She calls me "Tootsie" which gets abbreviated as 2tz. Aren't we cute?

{Random sidenote: a few weeks ago, I had my phone on the car dock while driving and somehow it decided it was going to read incoming text messages to me. My husband responded to my most recent message (sent before driving, by the way) with "Kk" and it sounded like it was clearing its throat. It was hilarious! "Message from Husband: (gagging sound). Say 'repeat' to repeat." Of COURSE I repeated it. Half a dozen times. "(gagging sound)" "Repeat!" "(gagging sound)" "Repeat!"...}

I just got off the phone with her and was thinking about how I needed to write this post. Part of the trouble I've had is deciding where to begin on the posts about each of my parents. There's just so much to say, and it's so personal, and important, and heart-felt. How do you begin to say all that a parent really means? Where do I start? Childhood? Now? Parenting? Friendship? What aspect do I feature first, and how do I begin to cover all that I mean to say?

All that, and a snappy dress-er, too!

Last night I finished a book (shocker) called "Managers of Their Homes" by Steven and Teri Maxwell. I was telling my Mumsy about it, and after we hung up, I started getting a little teary-eyed. You see, she has always been the very best example of what godly womanhood looks like. I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak badly of her, or even neutrally of her, for that matter. She is a woman of honor and grace, kindness and gentility, an embodiment of the fruits of the Spirit, if ever I've met one. I've never known a person, male or female, who was as caring and considerate as my mother. If I've ever needed an example, a word of encouragement, good advice, or listening ear, she's the one who could provide each of those things best.

I may have mentioned previously that when I got married last year, I had high expectations of myself. Part of the reason for that is due to the fact that this beautiful lady has shown me all my life that it's possible to have an organized, clean home, deliberate relationships, be calm, cool, and collected, yet warm, open, and inviting, and look good doing it. Let's just say that I found out that takes practice. Lots, and lots, and lots, and LOTS of practice. I'm getting there, little by little, and she's my own personal cheerleading squad, encouraging from the sidelines, handing out compliments, encouragement, and even the occasional (much-needed, usually) kick in the pants. *Smile*

Momma visiting me for my birthday,
my semester in Europe.
Zurich, CH airport.

My mom was amazing when I was a kid. She managed our home with aplomb, baking homemade bread on a weekly basis, keeping up with countless correspondents, volunteering in the church, and creating such a welcoming environment that we seldom went to friends' houses. They all wanted to come to ours! She taught me songs like "Ferdinand the Bull" and "Summertime" (from Porgy & Bess), Bible verses and lessons, and poems that taught me more about who she was and how I want to be than she might ever know.

"I have wept through the night

For the shortness of  sight

That to somebody's need made me blind,

But I never have yet

Felt a twinge of regret

For being a little too kind."

No wonder no one has anything bad to say about her! What mean thing can you say about someone whose whole mission in life is always to be a little kinder to everyone around them?

And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you. ~Ephesians 4:32, NKJV~

There was this one time that she was trying to get us to read this book ("Enthusiasm Makes the Difference," by Norman Vincent Peale) together as a family. I don't remember where she got it, or why she wanted to read it to us, but it, for whatever reason, wasn't something we wanted to read. I still remember the little cheerleading cheer she used to do around the house, trying to get us excited to read this book. I also still remember some of the places we used to hide that book from her. :) When I called her to ask if that was the right book, she said, "Yes, why? Would you like me to send it to you?"

Mumsy, my sister, and I were
bridesmaids in my sister's wedding.
August 2005

Back to the Managers of Their Homes book... This book was written for homeschooling families, to help them develop a livable, functional schedule when there are many people doing many things in what is sometimes a very small space. It is an EXCELLENT book. I actually bought two, one for me, and one for a gift for someone else. It's going on my favorites list.

So I was telling Mumsy about this book that I had just finished, and how excellent I thought it was. I sat there and read her a few of the parts I had underlined, over the phone, and then told her how well I felt it fit in with how she had taught me to order my homemaking to-do items.

I'll probably write a whole post on this later, but when I was in elementary school, Mumsy taught me to keep track of the things I need to get done, using an index card file. I'm naturally a "creative" type individual. (Yes, in quotation marks.) In other words, I don't naturally fall on the organized-and-squared-away side of things. That doesn't mean that I don't have order around me, just that my version of "order" may not appear orderly to any outside observer.

I, like my father, tend to live in piles. They drive me bonkers, but that's my tendency. My mother, on the other hand, lives by lists. She's a very squared away individual, but she's so warm that it's not a condescending form of order. (My mind goes to Martha Stewart, here.) When I got married, she (Mumsy, not Martha) spent a whole day with me helping me prepare and organize a new index card file, because I asked her to. I knew that if she could do it so well for so many years, that she could help me do it, too. She did.

Correspondent Extraordinaire!

This is the woman who remembers to send greeting cards for all occasions to most of the people she's met in her life. Birthdays, Anniversaries, Condolences, Easter, Thanksgiving, St. Patrick's Day, Tuesdays-- all are worthy of cards. Anytime she travels anywhere, the kids and grandkids get postcards. She travels often, though not usually very far.

I have no idea how much she spends on postage and cards each year, but I'm betting it's its own line item in my parents' budget. She taught me her secrets to that, too. Now, my husband's side of the family are surprised to have begun receiving mementos and cards as times and seasons pass. It's something he says I do well. I know better. It's something I wouldn't think to do at all, but my Mumsy taught me to make others in my life a priority.

So, the woman who has told me regularly for the last however many years that I'm her hero, is really mine. If the subject has ever come up in conversation, you've probably heard me say, "I hope that someday I can be half the woman that my mom is." And it's true. She's the truest of friends, the noblest of mothers, the most honorable of women, the most steadfast of prayer warriors, and the humblest of Christ-followers. When I look at her, I see all I want to be, the goodness, the honesty, the love, the kindness, the faithfulness, the (yes) enthusiasm, the organization, the intentionality, the awareness, the loyalty, the humor, the delight, the dignity, the hilarity, the joy... The list goes on and on. This is the woman I am blessed, beyond belief, to call my Mumsy. My Best Friend.

Much love,
2tz~

Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things. The things which you learned and received and heard and saw in me, these do, and the God of peace will be with you. 

~Philippians 4:8-9, NKJV, Mumsy's favorite passage~