I like Fall. I enjoy every aspect of this season which sometimes ushers out the long hot days of August, replacing daytime with cool breezes along with sunshine beaming through trees that are beginning to wind down from the lush months of summer blooms that provide harvests of fruit or nuts. I like the smell in the air, the sound of school busses getting kids to and from school, and the quietness in the neighborhood. I like taking walks in early fall that only require a long sleeved shirt or light weight jacket.  Today’s fall day did not disappoint.

I had a batch of outgoing mail that didn’t make it to our box for pickup today, so the next best option available to me was to walk to our main corner where a mailbox sits for late morning pickup. The walk to and back home is just over a mile, a good distance for getting exercise on a busy day. Today’s late morning venture out required a long sleeved shirt so I opted for a sweatshirt with pockets to hold my phone. The jacket was a good choice even though I found out after a while into my walk I could have made it with short sleeves. I’ll note that for another day sporting temps in the 60’s with full sunshine….

The road I live on is very familiar territory. The shoulders of the pavement are cracked, hunks of the asphalt broken in spots which create a maze along the edges. I’m always careful where stepping, especially if the breaks are big with chunks piling up where I need to walk. Today, one of the trees in a neighbor’s yard has begun to drop black walnuts, the ones that are big and green, almost the size of a tennis ball. The squirrels love them and evidence of them being opened for the yummy nugget inside is quite the array of debris in the area under the tree. Many of the nuts lay squashed from passing cars where the fruit has fallen in the lanes of traffic. It’s quite the mess, but a beautiful display of nature providing food for the little creatures that live in the wooded areas along our properties.

Further down the road, a new subdivision is under development. Trees have been cleared for the road in, lots are marked, sand has been laid down for future paving. Large equipment lies idle as the work seems to be a slow process. No workers there today. The only sound I heard was that of a deer moving in the woods as I passed by. We’ve lived in our  home for 34 years and I never tire of seeing the beautiful deer who visit our yard or near a pond south of us, as long as they stay off the road….

Returning home, I picked up my pace and ran about ¼ mile of my route in order to increase my heartrate, release some endorphins, and enjoy the benefits of cardio exercise. I like running and its many benefits but I also dislike it–it takes effort. Running changes how I breathe, how I place my feet and how I pay attention to oncoming cars….breaks in the pavement…holes in the shoulder…small branches….and those black walnuts along the stretch of the big trees that are dropping them. As cars pass, I wave to each one, acknowledging “I see you! Do you see me?” It seems a courteous wave benefits them and me so I do it.

I like fall. Soon, September will fade into October, which means less warm days…shorter days with more overcast skies…canvas paintings across tree lines as leaves take on hues of red, orange, and yellow before falling on the ground and swallowed up in puddles from rain or swept into piles for burning–and jumping! When the burn piles of leaves begin to happen in our neighborhood I will breathe deeply…the aroma of a burning leaf pile is one of my favorites, taking me back to childhood years when dad and my brothers raked our yard numerous times and turned the beautiful fall leaves into an aromatic memory, one I never tire of either.

Yes, I like fall. I’m grateful it’s tucked in right after summer. Relief from heat. Open windows. All things pumpkin or apple. Kids in school. Farmer’s markets. Burning leaves….and long or short walks dodging black walnuts or cracks in the pavement under warm skies with a cool breeze.

Lizzie

Her name is Lizzie, her shortened nickname from Elizabeth. Whenever I heard someone talk about her it was always “Lizzie”. It fit her well.

I first met Lizzie about five years ago. She’s the wife of my cousin Willie. I hadn’t seen him or his family–which included her–for over 50 years (that’s another story I’ll write about someday soon) When I met her on a Saturday afternoon, she was seated very comfortably in a wingback chair that swallowed up her small frame. She was dressed in jeans, an oversized sweater, and knit hat that came down over her face touching and almost resting on her glasses. With her arms folded as though she was trying to trap all her body heat and keep it from escaping, she smiled big, her white toothy grin spreading from ear to ear. We exchanged a warm greeting after our introduction and she told me “it’s so good to finally meet you….” That one and only Saturday afternoon family date was the only time I had the pleasure of being with Lizzie, thus shortchanging any future attempts to get better acquainted. It’s not that we wouldn’t have wanted to meet up again. Life happens. And, for Lizzie, life was hard. I found out later from my cousin Willie that she’d been ill with kidney problems for a long time which meant numerous trips to a hospital in Ann Arbor complete with dialysis treatments on top of whatever else came her way in the form of illness or attack.

Yesterday, Sept. 21, I met Lizzie for a second time, only this time in death. She died on Sept. 13 and her funeral service was held yesterday. During her two hour long service, I got to know Lizzie and I can honestly say I feel cheated, robbed, deeply saddened that I did not have her in my life. But! More than the negative emotions I just listed, I feel elated, overjoyed and grateful beyond measure I “got to know Lizzie yesterday”. Though I did not have any conversations with her outside our one-time meeting, I got to know Lizzie through the family and friends who processed into the small church she belonged to, each individual, couple or family pausing at the casket to bid farewell. The procession took 30 minutes.

I got to know Lizzie as I listened to her sister talk about how Lizzie got saved at a young age (4 I think) and from that time on her goal was for everyone she knew or would ever meet to get saved too. She was relentless, not only with people but with God as she prayed and earned the title “prayer warrior” from many who loved and adored her.

I got to know Lizzie as a young man spoke how “If it weren’t for Miss Lizzie I don’t know where I’d be today. You see, she was a dreamer. She got visions from God. She KNEW things and when I wanted to leave her house she’d say not before you get on your knees right now and pray! Cuz bad things happen out there.” (the neighborhood)

I got to know Lizzie as I listened to her grandson (my second cousin) talk about how his mother was a prayer warrior and those same dreams and visions were used to woo him into a relationship with Jesus and keep him on the right path in life.

I got to know Lizzie when a man took the microphone and told us “I’m 72 years old and pretty much my whole life I’ve been doing things the way of the devil. Well, today, I think I’m gonna turn the direction to God cuz that’s what Lizzie would want me to do.”

I got to know Lizzie as two pastors and one deacon eulogized her role as a dedicated wife, mom, grandmother and great grandmother…a prayer warrior and a worshipper who every Sunday entered the small sanctuary with shouts of praise to her Lord and Savior.

I got to know Lizzie, not in life, but in a legacy of faith that was described yesterday through words, actions, tears, worship, dance, and songs. While I REALLY don’t feel cheated, I sense a connection as one momma and gramma to another, one praying woman to another, two women who put their hope and trust in Jesus at a young age–only Lizzie got a real good head start on that journey!

Lizzie looked frail in her beautiful white casket. This time, instead of jeans, a sweater, and a hat, she was wearing a white satin suit, a gold tierra on her black wavy hair, hands neatly folded across her bosom…hands that were well worn from lots of hugs, years of caring for her family and friends, and no doubt, countless hours wrapped up in her favorite role–praying. 

I’m honored that I got to know Lizzie.

September

Goodness, it’s heading into the evening hours and already as I sit down at the laptop to write, I’m a day late doing so. Not that I “have” to be on a legalistic schedule, but when I decided to make a weekly blog entry, I contacted a friend who agreed to hold me accountable. Our agreement was that I chose Tuesday to be my day to write. For the most part I’ve been able to keep to the agreement, yet this week I have obviously slipped into Wednesday. What threw me off? While I’d say I’m my own worst enemy at self sabotage I truly don’t have an excuse. Looking back on the start of the week, I can see where a variety of activities may have thrown me off kilter. But, truth be told? I’m not sweating the small stuff that caused me to wait until today to write. Furthermore, if I’m being totally honest a major factor to my delay is simply this….I don’t know what to write about this week! But, wait! I headlined today’s entry as September. There must be a reason and truly, without huge fanfare, this ninth month of our calendar year holds  fond memories.

When I typed the word “September” at the top, a faint memory from a conversation with my mother popped into my mind. Mom told me that when September rolled around and we kids returned to school she experienced a couple weeks of sadness and loneliness. You see, my mom was a stay at home kind of gal. She prided herself on keeping a clean home, preparing delicious meals seven days a week, three times a day, and when the long hot days of summer ushered us back to classrooms she missed us. I’m not sure she missed baseball gloves, shoes, and toys being strewn about the yard and house, or my brother Mark’s bike laying in parts on the driveway as he “investigated” how things work….or settling arguments between quarrelsome playmates. Looking back I know she enjoyed quiet, accompanied with a cup of hot tea–sometimes with a splash of red wine in it–and a cookie or two. In her bittersweet moments, the quiet created by a new school year made her lonely until we all settled into the September through June routine. Maybe her quiet days were a preparation for the ultimate reality of becoming an empty nester in the future as we three each took our turn leaving our home. I truly don’t know all of her secret thoughts, but I’m happy to know she missed us when school started. I can close my eyes and imagine her seated in the living room–everything finished until time to start dinner–waiting and listening for the back door to open as each one of us got home after school.

***

September is special for another reason. It holds the birthdate of our oldest child. We were blessed with her when I was 29. After about 10 hours of labor she made her entrance at 3:50 pm on a Thursday. Sarah was the first grandchild for my in-laws, number six for my folks. During evening visiting hours that evening, the four parents stood outside the nursery windows gazing at her lil face, body swaddled in a blanket, tucked in her small bassinet. Telling about the separation between grandmothers that the glass created, was one of my father-in-law’s favorites stories to tell, the agony of these two women anxious to get their hands on that new baby! My, how things have changed regarding visiting new moms and babies now. Visitors are allowed in the room while a woman is in labor. We can visit after the birth and hold a newborn within hours of being washed up and gathering of stats is completed. 

***

I’m sure if I were to think long and hard I could come up with other reasons I’m thinking of September….changes in temperatures….gardens drying up as harvest times come to an end…pumpkin this and pumpkin that advertised on billboards….school supplies disappearing from stores shelves…thoughts of apples, cider and donuts at a local mill….football games under lights….and quiet homes where children have returned to noisy classrooms and playgrounds, all while mom is now either at work or home, and maybe, just maybe enjoying a cup of hot tea…with a splash of red wine in it, hopefully with a cookie or two. 

Hugs

For me personally, there is something about a hug, whether receiving or initiating one of these warmth embracing that our arms allow us as I navigate emotions brought on by situations and circumstances. Let’s face it, “most” encounters and experiences we celebrate with family or friends are accompanied by a good, genuine hug. Most are brief while others may linger, especially when wrapped in sadness that comes with grief and sorrow. I’ve been thinking about hugs a lot lately, observing the benefits of this simple gesture that gives me contact with another human being.

Last week was hard for some folks in my church family. A married couple have been expecting the birth of twin boys in October. A few weeks ago mom was hospitalized with complications in the pregnancy and suddenly faced with the harsh reality that one of her babies died in her womb. Bravely, she carried both babes until their delivery last week. These precious parents shared their experience through social media posts–with photos–for the rest of us to stay informed. Mostly, they put up raw emotions that flooded them each day, complete with bittersweet photos of their boys after delivery. While one baby was in a NICU crib, the other was beautifully wrapped in a blanket and both dad and mom held him in their arms. I was later told that they were allowed two entire days with their deceased son. I can’t imagine…but I saw the hugs.

I felt the hugs of the young mother’s parents in church as I took a turn to wrap each one with one of my own. I witnessed countless others wait to give a heartfelt hug to these grieving grandparents. I saw love and concern in action. I was fortunate to give the father of these boys a hug, too. He was the one who initiated it with me. We held each other for an extended amount of time as I whispered “I’m so sorry” in his ear, followed by me telling him how much I admired the hospital for honoring the life of his little baby who did not survive the womb….and reflected on their own words in a post….”little Z____” is now with his Lord on his birthday…”  Yes, lots of hugs for this beautiful family here on earth and now to imagine, the Lord Himself embracing and hugging this precious little boy for all of eternity. I marvel at the image I am unable to create in my frail humanness….

***

A remote memory of hugging loved ones still lingers in my mind’s photo album. Whenever we visited my grandparents, our parents taught us kids to give grandpa and grandma a hug goodbye. For me this came quite easy, for my older brothers–especially as they got to be teens–was awkward. When it came time to go home their once active bodies stiffened at the mere thought of having to hug our grandparents, but they did so. Years later, after we were grown and well into adulthood, we often remarked how much we missed that loving pair of Jewells who never turned down a hug, even if it was from an uneasy “too cool for this grandchild”. Now that I’m a grandmother giving and receiving a hug from one of our four grands is a natural greeting or goodbye. They are all little now and don’t mind one of grandma’s hugs, but someday…..yes the “too cool days” may happen, but experience tells me those times will quickly pass. How do I know this? I’m witnessing lots of hugs being exchanged from our adult son and his dad….I’m thankful his “too cool” days are behind him.

I’m very grateful for hugs, for parents who taught us to hug, for a Heavenly Father who gave us the ability to wrap our arms around loved ones…to say hello…goodbye…to grieve and cry….to laugh and celebrate. Life brings many situations bathed in a rollercoaster of emotions. Hugs help to keep us grounded. Big or small, hugs make shaky times less scary. They allow us deep connection, too, when words escape us. Best of all, they’re free. Are you a hugger? Do you enjoy to be hugged? 

These are my thoughts today as I sit here remembering all the times I’ve been in a warm embrace…missing, too, some of my best huggers growing up…can’t wait to be reunited with them in Heaven. There’s some great huggers waiting for me!

Some common things in life make me chuckle. They are things maybe you’ve never given a second thought to when you see them every day. Let me assure you. You’ve seen them. They are in small towns, large cities, along  rural roads and speeding highways. What are these mysterious “things”? Signs. They come in all sizes, some new and many worn from standing through every change of the seasons for years on end (no pun intended) And they never cease to make me chuckle. Why? Let me list a few that are among my favorites:

• Food Like Mom Makes
• Cleanest Bathrooms in Town
• Cold Beer
• Hot Coffee
• Best Food Around
• Voted America’s Best _____(fill in the blank)
• Clean Rooms
• My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student

Do you see why I chuckle every time I encounter one of these signs in my travels? Think about it. 

• What if your mom was a horrible cook? What memories does that sign conjure up on your taste buds?
• Who would advertise “our bathrooms are the filthiest in town–come on in to relieve yourself! A few spiders in cobwebs and dirty towels on the floor never bothered anyone.
• Enjoy a warm beer! Well, maybe in another country where that’s the custom but last I checked most Americans want their brew to be cold and frothy.
• Ok, on Hot Coffee, I’ll relax a bit. With the onset of cold brews available at fast food restaurants and retail stores, I admit I actually enjoy a cold one occasionally (I still want my beer cold though)
• How does the restaurant owner know his food is the BEST around? Did he/she hold a contest to find out? Isn’t this the theme of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives?
• Voted America’s Best = there are SO many possible answers. Again, who’s holding all these contests and why haven’t I seen where to enter? I like winning a prize. Sheesh.
• Who would advertise Dirty Rooms? Goodness, I know from personal experience that I HAVE stayed in places where I questioned how thorough the housekeeping staff performed their duties. When I arrive at a hotel I DO expect a clean room and I appreciate the folks who make that possible for me.
• Ok–other than a fair fight, when did it become remotely humorous to brag that your kid is a bully, one who can beat up another student. Is this bumper sticker an indication of the slippery slope of bad parenting that has slid into some of our homes?

Ya. I’ve been wanting to write about signs for a while. Quite honestly, every time I saw one I said it out loud to my husband. ‘I NEED TO BLOG ABOUT THE IRONY OF SIGNS”. So, today I have done that.  I know that as soon as I click publish on my site, I’ll think of another sign that makes me chuckle. Every time. Seriously, it never gets old, seeing these well intentioned signs advertising what to me is common sense. Oh well, our world needs more laughter, less dirty rooms and more opportunities to vote for who’s got the best __________ (fill in the blank).

In case you’re wondering, my mom WAS an excellent cook so when I see Food Like Mom Makes…I get a bit sentimental. It’s a memory that tickles my taste buds and fills me with a warm feeling all over. Kinda like enjoying a cup of good, hot black coffee. On a clean table of course!

According to my oldest brother David, I took my “first” steps while our dad was installing hardwood flooring in the living room of our family home he built in 1954. David said I was sitting on a stack of the hardwood, stood up, walked from the living room through the kitchen and around through my bedroom back to where dad was working, and he added, I didn’t stop….my first steps were successful and now some 67 years later my feet and legs, though aged, still keep me going whether I’m doing errands or out for a long walk or run.

Besides taking my first steps walking, I’ve had other firsts in my life. Many are the same as most people–first day of school *first time riding a two wheeled bike *first time driving a car *first kiss *first job *first loss…..you see the pattern. Life is full of many “firsts” and all begin with “a next step…”

Last week one of my devotional readings asked this very question: What is the next step you need to take? The question followed a teaching on Psalm 37:5: “Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him and He will do this….” As I listened to the teaching I honed in when Brad took time to instruct the listener on the Hebrew word for commit. As he illustrated walking through a hiking trail in a wooded area, he laid out a word picture of being on a path and how Christians often think we are walking our own path, asking God to bless where we are treading. But, in Hebrew, the definition of “commit” is more, it’s actually asking God to “rollover” on the path we are on, thus joining WITH Him as we move along. Hearing that teaching was a lightbulb moment for me! In my years of being a Christian I had never heard this definition of the word commit. Furthermore, I’ve been quite satisfied to lay out my own desires or directions to take–sometimes selfishly or in pride–and asked God to bless my steps! I realize now how foolish my behavior has been.

I’m not sitting on a stack of hardwood flooring right now. Rather, I’m sitting at a crossroads in life. More specifically, it involves leadership, mentoring, learning, teaching….last week I wrote about my good friend, Tom, who died. He was not only a pastor in our church, he was the ministry leader of our Celebrate Recovery Ministry and I was his assistant. He was mentoring me. With the loss of Tom, I’ve been advanced to his role. Although I know much of the nuts and bolts to run the weekly meetings, there is a lot of behind the scenes stuff I hadn’t quite mastered. There are aspects to being a leader I’ve not tapped into, the path that I thought was fairly easy with no bumps or obstacles has suddenly changed to one that may be a winding trail, one that will require me to commit, trust…in Him and not in myself. There may even be some schooling I pursue–not by requirement but out of personal satisfaction in order to lead well. 

Tom leaves a big void. The path he walked is not my path although both are under that “rollover” protection and guidance of the God we both serve. Tom’s shoes are bigger than mine but not superior because in humility we both strived to lead others well, always pointing folks to Jesus, taking all focus off us. Yes, my feet are on my path. My eyes are on Jesus. As I make my strides along my path, establishing a healthy pace, every once in a while I will look up, down, or around me to make sure I’m staying the intended course. I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m confident. I’m apprehensive. I’m no longer a tiny girl sitting on a stack of wood, I’m older, and having found a “new” path to explore, I’m taking my “first steps”….

Sunday was not a day that I wanted to come around. Today is not a day that I wanted to write. Today is not the time that I want to talk about–just yet–all that he meant to me. Today is not a desire to begin living Sundays and Tuesdays without him–or any other day of the week encounter that may occur. Today is not my best day, but it is reality for me and for my dear friend Tom. Tom’s reality is that at 3:55 pm on Sunday, August 15 he entered the glorious place we Christians call heaven. My reality is that I miss him, I will miss him, and my life will eventually be redefined–already has–with his absence.

Tom was a friend, one of my dear pastors for the past few years, and a mentor in ministry. He loved Jesus and wasn’t afraid to tell anyone he met of his love and devotion to a savior who rescued him from the gutter of life (recommended reading: “From Gutter to Grace” by Pastor Thomas Tarpley, available on Amazon) I will let his book give justice and testimony to the man that I had grown to know and love, especially while serving alongside him in Celebrate Recovery.

Who else is Tom? If you had a chance to hear about how he came to Fowlerville MI you’d love the story. He was a black man, serving in the United Methodist Church, and Fowlerville’s UMC needed a pastor. They called Tom to the position. “Do you know who you’re talking to?!” he asked his superintendent. He was moved to a predominantly white community to serve in a church made up of all white folks. In his own words “it was the best assignment I ever had”.

After officially retiring from the UMC, Tom’s plans to move south were interrupted by God and he agreed to join the staff of Fowlerville United Brethren in Christ as its care pastor and quickly took the overseer and lead position in Celebrate Recovery, a 12 step program for adults. Tom was familiar with the 12 steps. Up until his death, he had celebrated 32 years of sobriety from alcohol and drugs. Everywhere he went he was usually wearing his CR shirt and telling people about two things–Jesus and CR!

I met Tom when he was the lead pastor at the Fowlerville UMC. I’d heard him preach at community worship services and loved the messages he gave, powerful scripture based words that flowed from his barrel chest, sometimes with or without a microphone. Tom never let an obstacle stop him from preaching. In fact, the last time he was scheduled to preach at our church he woke that morning to broken dentures. “Never mind” he messaged our operations manager..”if I have to super glue them together, I will. Guess ‘someone’ doesn’t want me giving this message this morning…” that was Tom. He was unstoppable, stubborn, a man doing kingdom work up until age 78. You see, part of Tom’s philosophy in life is that a Christian never retires. There’s always something to do and someone who needs to hear about Jesus’ saving grace. One of his best sermon lines was “if you were the only person alive on earth, Jesus would have died for you.”

Tom’s eulogy and other accomplishments will be honored at his funeral service. I’ll leave that obligation to those serving him that day. He didn’t like being the center of attention even though he easily took command of situations needing a leader. He LOVED worshipping God, singing at the top of his lungs and clapping his hands while shuffling and swaying to the music. I’m most certain he’s doing that right now, from the moment he arrived. Hopefully the heavenly worship band will play and sing “No Longer Slaves” (Zach Williams).

Tom attended the National Celebrate Recovery Summit in July 2020. He came home and developed a cold which turned out to be symptoms of the covid virus which escalated to pneumonia. The sickness was too much for his body and in the hospital on Sunday, after being there a week, he died. Wishing I could have been a fly on the wall, I like to believe that before heavy sedation was necessary to give him the rest his weary body needed, those doctors and nurses attending him heard about Jesus. Somehow I hope they knew that they had one of God’s mighty warriors in their care.

My last conversation with Tom was on the very subject matter of covid. We both agreed that “if I (meaning himself or me) get covid and die, I win, I’m with Jesus. If I get covid and live, I win, I’m with family and friends until my time comes.” We had that conversation, bathed in complete confidence and peace because of our shared faith and hope in Christ and a home prepared for us, for all believers in Heaven.

So, today, is not a favorite day but it remains a good day. Ministry is moving forward and yes, without our beloved brother and leader with us, but going forth. We–I–am doing so because it’s the right thing to do as I remember Tom. It’s what Tom preached and what he would insist upon.

I’m not ready to totally use all “past presence” grammar when referring to my friend. In fact, it I’m totally honest, I don’t have to. You see, Tom’s body has died. It served its purpose. Tom’s soul and spirit are now in Heaven where he IS living for eternity. So, I can smile and refer to Tom as “he is……” not “he was….” He WAS a lot of good things, flaws and all that drove him to substance abuse at a very young age and eventually drew him into a saving relationship with Jesus Christ and a journey of healing with his 12 step programs. Some writers might say “if you want to know more about this man Tom”. Nope! Tom would have THiS friend and writer say “if you want to know more about this man JESUS, let’s talk.” Better yet. Find a Bible believing church this Sunday and go! If you’re trapped in addiction, deep hurt or nasty habits, find a Celebrate Recovery. I guarantee you that both places may have its band play and sing “No Longer Slaves”. If they do, you’ll soon be swaying, clapping and singing the very words that exemplifies my friend, Tom.

This morning I chose to read Psalm 3. For what reason? Well, quite often I like to read the Psalm that corresponds to the date on the calendar. Pretty simple approach isn’t it? I like to think so, but always at no surprise to me, SOMETHING from the reading will hit me with an “aha!” Today was no exception.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, 2020 was dominated by Covid 19 and here we are in August 2021 and every news outlet or social media platform is STILL making this virus the headliner in current events. Admittedly, I am over the depth of concern covid has imposed on me. I am not in control regarding its spread or conflicting opinions at every turn in TV, radio, social media reporting. I’m saddened how family and friendships have been torn apart or destroyed due to ONE virus. I could easily compare other death tolls that have accrued due to other illnesses, but I won’t. I could research and tell you how many children have been aborted out of selfishness, but I won’t. I could also look into deaths caused by drunks, people texting while driving, but I won’t. Why? When 2020 brought lockdowns and masks, arguments and unknowns, I turned and remained steadfast with my eyes fixed on Jesus whether it meant reading Scripture or talking to Him audibly or through my journaling. In 2020 I devoured a psalm a day, found one or two truths in each one and shared them on my social media page. By doing so, I built up my hope and confidence in Him as well as finding out what I was sharing brought strength, courage, and renewed hope to others. I couldn’t ask for anything more, other than bringing new people into God’s Kingdom, but that’s an entirely different blog post.

So, back to Psalm 3 and today. The verse that I gleaned in today’s quiet reading was 6: “I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on every side.” How does that apply to me, having survived 2020 and finding myself midway through 2021? 

With each directive, I’ve done the mask thing. With each confirmed exposure, I’ve done the quarantine thing. I’ve washed my hands. I’ve taken my temperature when requested.  I’ve been socially distanced. I’ve used the disinfected shopping carts. I’ve stayed home if I didn’t feel well. What I didn’t do was take fear off the clothes hanger in a closet filled of unknowns and wear it. Fear is one of Satan’s primary weapons to keep a Christian from fully trusting in God; it’s a garment he carefully crafts hoping people will crave to wear and make a permanent part of their wardrobe. Fear is a state of mind that is easily composed in the minds of the wrong people who accessorize it with control and manipulation. It’s a driving force among throngs of people as evidenced by daily news reports driven by statistics and experts who sit among the “tens of thousands” trying to make me feel afraid. I’m not doing it. I will be smart, but more so I will be wise. I say I will listen to directives, but I will question. My questions won’t be directed at a person but rather addressed to God in prayer. I will pursue health. I will pursue being informed. I will pursue God. In that order? No. I will chase after God FIRST. Everything else I need will fall in line behind Him. 

If anything, 2020 was a year that drove me to ask more questions. Evaluate priorities. Take comfort in quiet times and unknown times, to see the folly of men and women trying to orchestrate continued chaos tied to a virus. While I certainly don’t ignore anyone’s  grief due to deaths connected to this illness, I am offering my voice as one contrary to the effects of living in constant fear and hardship. My bottom line in 2020 and to this day is a montra I’ve coined: “If I get covid and die, I win, for I am with Jesus. If I get covid and live, I win, for I am here with family and friends until He DOES call me Home.” Whatever scenario, you won’t catch me wearing a garment of fear. You’ll see me living each day to its fullest. I’ll continue going about my day to day activities, my weekly commitments, and being out in my community shopping or joining in a social event. My TV and radio will be turned off for the majority of my waking hours; the pages of my Bible will remain open, especially to the Psalms. “I lie down and sleep; I wake again because the Lord sustains me”. (verse 3) Who or what is sustaining you? Is it time to update your wardrobe? 

She was my best friend, the kind that no matter how much time is spent together whether it be a day or a week, it’s not enough. It’s also the kind of friendship based on similar core values, the ability to keep precious secrets or share laughter over a silly memory or inside joke. It’s the kind of friendship that spans 50 years that include awkward teen years, leaving home, getting married, having children and suffering losses. 

We met in sixth grade but really didn’t hang out with one another or necessarily “do” things together since it was a fair walking distance between our childhood homes. Our friendship didn’t truly form and blossom until 8th grade when I was told Luann was home one summer day, acting all bored when her mother suggested that she “call that nice Susan Jewell…..” Her phone call changed the direction for both of us and little did I know, or her for that matter, the beautiful path we’d walk on for many years, only to become broken when we turned 40, repaired in our 60s and finally severed in 2019.

When I look back over our 50 years of friendship, I’m amazed at the experiences we shared. A few are:

• Being confirmed together in our Lutheran faith at the time
• Singing in the church choirs
• Attending church youth group together which included a trip to New York City when we were in high school
• Participating in Honors Choir in high school
• Participating in high school musical productions
• Double dating with our boyfriends (she married her high school sweetheart and so did I)
• Standing up for each other’s wedding (she did twice for me, more on that in another blog session)
• Writing and calling each other when she moved to Illinois for her husband to attend law school; I flew for my first time to visit them in June 1975
• Visiting them for Thanksgiving in their first home in Illinois after the birth of their first child
• My surprise visit to her in Peoria when she turned 40; I took our daughter with me who was 10 at the time, the same age as Luann’s daughter
• The loss of her parents, then eventually mine
• Short vacations at their family cottage on Lake Huron in our 60s
• Hard conversations in person….social media

Over the course of our early years of friendship, when I described our relationship to people I used to brag that “we never have had a fight or argue” and that really was true. Luann and I had SO much in common and her bubbly sweet personality didn’t give way to anger or being easily offended. Her infectious smile lit up her face and made the sparkle in her blue eyes shine bright as she giggled at almost everything that was said. Looking back, I think it was her defense mechanism to avoid confrontation. For her, I think people pleasing was far easier than taking a stand that might cause someone to feel uncomfortable. I don’t say this to be critical, rather I’m able to make a valid judgement based on my own observations and learning about behavior and boundaries in healthy relationships.

During the visit to surprise her for her 40th birthday, our relationship was strained followed by a brokenness that lasted for six months. When I returned home from that visit, I wrote to her apologizing for my part in a conversation that caused us to argue and not agree. It was six months until I heard from her in a letter back to me. She assured me that all was well after much self examination, but truth is, it was not. Phone calls and letters back and forth ceased. The only time I heard from her was a birthday card, Christmas and Easter cards. The years when our children were growing through middle and high school were pretty much silent. 

I can fast forward to the early 2000s and fondly recall one of our trips north to Mackinac Island. We had an out of state friend visiting that week and we were taking her to enjoy some island time with us. To enhance our drive, we drove the shoreline of Lake Huron which took us past the very driveway to Luann’s cottage. As we made our way north on the two lane highway, I kept my eyes peeled for their cottage sign at the end of the road. I was thrilled when I saw it, proof the original sign still stood boasting a new paint job to make its appearance bright and inviting. Seeing the sign stirred countless memories inside of me and I knew at once what I would do when I returned home…I would write to her. I would keep it simple and not bring up anything from our stormy or silent past. My card merely told her that we had driven past their cottage property and seeing it caused me to smile and think of her. My card was dropped in the mail and I waited for any response that may or may not happen.

Shortly after my brief note to her, I received a card from her. What a joy it was to open and read! She thanked me for writing to her and went on to give me several dates that they’d be at the cottage and “would love to see you and have you spend some time with us”….A trip to Mackinac Island opened the door for us to reestablish and explore our friendship. Visits with her happened for a few days each summer for the next three years. When her daughter was married, we made the trip to their home in Peoria and celebrated with their family and friends. We had occasions to have them in our home for short visits and I was thrilled when she and Brian made the long drive up to attend my father’s funeral.  

So, mending took place over those three years. I was able to ask for forgiveness and make my amends for past hurts, all of which were given with assurance “that all is good”. Walks along the lake shoreline made for perfect settings to dig deep below mere surface talk. Those conservations showed me how different our life paths had taken us, while still reflecting many similarities with a few red flags waving in our midst. I used those red flags to steer clear of creating anything that would cause another fracture to our friendship.

Enter social media. I’m not going to disclose exactly what happened other than to say that Facebook can be a good thing or it can be bad. For our friendship, at first it was perfect. It was an easy format to share photos of our families, post silly comments or mainly stay in touch. Our major turning point happened in 2016 and for the next three years teetered until we finally bottomed out in 2019 when Luann and Brian chose to sever our friendship. I refer to it as being “divorced” because of how it was done and the hurtful words behind their reasoning. When they both communicated with me separately, in written form, I allowed myself time to ponder and pray for a proper response. I did so in my own letter back to Luann and a separate letter to Brian. I made amends for any wrong on MY part and did not make any accusatory statements. My words were rooted from two sources 1) my own feelings and thoughts and 2) scripture to back or explain my core beliefs that both of them had challenged.

This was a difficult entry to write. Why? Luann was the only 50 plus years friendship I’ve had. We won’t grow old together. I’m not able to see her grandchildren grow. There’s no more opportunities for seeing photos. There are no more long walks on the shoreline of Lake Huron. No more cards on birthdays, Christmas and Easter. The death of our friendship was not of my choosing; I am living with the consequences of two people who have each embraced differing ideologies and Christian doctrine. I am content with my choices, my beliefs. I miss our friendship, I do not miss the red flags that warned me “don’t drift in and challenge that thought…” I can still see and remember those red flags that waved between us as we walked and talked along the shoreline. Now they serve as prayer reminders for me to lift my “old friends” for God’s will in their lives….and mine….whatever He has planned for us as we push towards our 70s, so be it. I am at peace. If God allows the red flags to be replaced by white ones, I am here living and waiting for His perfect will to be accomplished.