Unfolding Soul Prints

Now that my children are all grown up, I find that I'm missing a lot of the things we use to do together. I miss art projects, camp-outs, a house full of silly girls playing truth or dare and making some wacky video. I also miss watching all the cartoon movies we'd watch together: Robin Hood, The Little Mermaid and Winnie the Pooh. So, guess what I did yesterday . . . I sat down and watched Piglet's Big Movie! It was wonderful. I had forgotten how much I missed the hundred acre wood. Why am I sharing all this? Well I was reading the first chapter of I Timothy, and there were several verses that talked about a "good conscience", and I started thinking about Pinnochio and Jimmeny Cricket. I wonder how much my conscience influences me compared to how much I influence my conscience. I know from experience that I can out run it, and just like my remote control, I know exactly how to mute it. The writer of I timothy says divine training should instruct us to love from a pure heart, a good conscience, and sincere faith. Chapter one ends by saying . . . Fight the good fight, having faith and a good conscience and tells us of the danger of rejecting conscience. Little cricket I'm listening!

Yesterday I had the honor of being a part of one of the greatest funerals I've ever experienced. I was a little hesitant about it in the beginning. It was for a 72 year old woman that I had only met once. A lady in our church invited her to join us for our Christmas Eve service. We chatted for a long time afterwards and she told me with great energy and passion how much she loved the service. I went to her home twice, but was never able to catch her at home, so I left notes, a visitor's packet, and even a church cookbook. She passed away last week, as an only child she had no brothers or sisters, she had buried three husbands and had no children. Her friend had agreed several years earlier to take care of her funeral and be executor of her will. When she asked me to officiate the funeral she explained that it would be an AA funeral. I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but I knew that I was to keep my remarks to a minimum, and go light on the amount of Scripture. I decided that my prayer would talk about remembering, celebrating and grieving, and that I would reference the creation narrative where God said that it wasn't good to be alone. I shared that because I was a person of faith and a minister of the gospel that I believed the the God who knitted her together in her mother's womb was the same God who held her hand and kept her company as she took her last breath. I talked about the family she had in AA, and in her female pilot's club (the 99ers) and with her colleagues and students in the various schools where she taught math. I then invited her "family" to share. I was amazed that for a woman who had no children, siblings, or inlaws....The room was packed. One by one people stood to tell how she had touched their lives. The retold stories and remembered meals shared and lessons learned. There was talk about her love for music, cats, flying, water skiing, motorcycles, and people. There were students who had her as a teacher 47 years earlier and when they saw her obituary in they paper, they had to come. I sat in awe as I listened to what was shared about this amazing woman, and I left wishing that every funeral I participated in could be like that one. I left inspired to live a life that can truly be celebrated in the end.

Don't ask me why I'm thinking about this. For some reason it just started unfolding in my mind as I drove to work. I started thinking about the fairy tale about the princess who kissed a frog and he turned into a prince. The thing I started thinking was this. Kissing frogs can be a dangerous thing. Let's say one DOES turn into a prince. The way I see it the only way that could happen is if he had been a prince to begin with. That's cool, because the kiss of love helped him to become who he truly was. I guess that's what real love does. It empowers us to be ourselves. The princes we were originally created to be. But, there's also the chance that the frog who is truly a frog is transformed into the image of a prince because he is seen as one.....Loved as one....Kissed by a princess who sees a prince in the eyes of a toad. That's a bad thing. Because somewhere along the way the prince becomes who he truly is, as we all do I think, somewhere along the journey. And so the day comes when you look into the eyes of your prince and see a frog. Then what are you suppose to do? What's even scarier to me is.....What if YOU'RE the frog and you look into the eyes that a staring at you in your mirror only to see the eyes of a toad. Weird thoughts, huh?

sarah 

This morning I sat in a hospital room and held a new born baby. It seems like only yesterday that Sarah was a new born, and now she's graduating from high school. It amazes me that all three of my daughters were uniquely different from each other. Of the three Sarah was the one from the very beginning that HATED change. Even as an infant if I nursed her or held her in a different position she would throw a fit. As she grew older getting rid of an old toy or a stuffed animal that was losing its stuffing had to be done very gently and usually with much ceremony. I was hoping that it was something she would grow out of, but I'm still waiting. As her older sisters have moved away from home, our holiday traditions have had to change a bit, and with each change Sarah would dig in her heels and fight for things to stay the same. Now she's packing up her room for college, saying good-bye to teachers and friends, and every step requires deep courage and is bathed in tears. The other night she pulled out one of her childhood books and asked me if I'd read her a bedtime story.
Change is difficult for a lot of us. There are times when I want time to stop and just for a moment for everything to stay like it is. That is one of the reasons I love to journal and take photos. No matter how much changes I can open a journal, read an entry, or flip through a photo album and I'm immediately transported to a moment that no longer is and I can remember and rejoice in the change that happened and find the strength to face the changes that are happening now.

I took 20 high school and college students to Oklahoma Saturday for a day of hiking, rock climbing and rappelling. It was a perfect day. I'll have to confess that I didn't make it beyond the first tree that was sticking out of the side of the cliff. After spending several minutes in an intimate embrace with that tree, I decided that I had experienced all the rock climbing I wanted to experience for awhile. I spent the day watching the others. I watched them hang on and keep going even when they were exhausted. I saw them lose their footing and slip down the face of this stone wall of rock, losing the last several steps they had struggled to obtain. I saw their eyes widen with fear as the clung with their fingers and toes, trying to hang on. And they never quit. It didn't matter how tired they were, or how slowly they inched their way to the top, or even how frightened they were along they way. How did these young people find the courage to hang on and eventually reach the top? Well, some of it was the strength of youthfulness, but I think some succeeded because they were constantly being encouraged by people who knew them and loved them and believed in them. I kept hearing people say, "Hang on! Don't give up! You're almost there! I have the rope, I won't let you fall." I couldn't help but think of how many people I've been blessed to know, who have done the very same thing for me when I was hanging off the cliffs of life.

May 8, 2004 

This Sunday is Mother's Day and my thoughts are filled with the impossible task of it all. I think about the millions of scarred adults who limp through life wounded by what they did or didn't receive at the hands of their mothers. Wounds that were sometimes infected by the illusions of what a "good" mother looked like on TV sitcoms and fairy tales. The sorrow that enfolds those who see through filtered lenses into the homes and families of friends who seem to have the perfect mom. I think about children who grow up with moms who are sick from disease, mental and emotion illnesses, or simply handicapped by the wounds of their own childhood. I think about myself. I think about the things I longed for as a child that I never received and the holes that were left that still ache to be filled. This Sunday is Mother's Day and my thoughts are filled with the impossible task of it all. I think about my daughters who limp through life wounded by what they did or didn't receive at the hands of their mother....ME.