A Medieval EMG

Last November, my neurologist suggested I undergo another EMG.

I hate EMGs; those robotic looking, steel contraption, medieval, torture EMGs

I've had several of them, and only one, performed by a pediatric neurologist, confirmed myopathy. Dr. Goldstein, Sam's neurologist, offered the answer to years of wobbly legs in June of '09, after he stuck a few needles in my muscles - the same day he performed a full body EMG on Sam, consisting of at least twelve needle inserts from cheek to foot.

Goldstein is still my hero.

I took a record of his findings to my internal medicine doctor, sure a referral to Emory would get things underway. Two months later, Emory docs ignored his findings and insisted on doing their own study. More needles. After inserting and wiggling six or seven needles deep in my muscles, they decided their findings contradicted the former doctor's analysis. I'll never forget the head doc hypnotically repeating, "Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy; Mam, You Do Not Have A Myopathy." Four or five times.

Of course they couldn't tell me why my legs didn't work. But they were confident I didn't have a myopathy. I wept as I hobbled out on confused, wobbly legs.

[Personal awareness moment: I've cried a lot leaving doctor's offices.]

Within a few months, Kaiser hired their own neurologist and she decided to stick me with her own needles on her own EMG machine. I sang to her. Actually, I sang to the Emory docs. But they didn't appreciate it like my Kaiser doc did.

Amazing Grace, Be Thou My Vision, On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand. They help.

Neither EMG confirmed the pediatric doc's findings. But a muscle biopsy in July '10 did. So I thought my EMG days were over.

But last November, that same Kaiser neurologist suggested I try one more EMG to determine if my latest back pain is muscle deterioration or nerve damage. Wanting to do everything I can to keep the body I have, I made the appointment and showed up last Monday for the procedure.

Turns out I was the first patient for a neurologist just back from four months of maternity leave. As I crawled up on the gurney and handed her my left arm, I couldn't believe I'd waited two months and driven through rush hour Atlanta traffic for a torture test by someone who'd been out of pocket for a while.

But she was nice.

So when she cranked up the voltage to begin the nerve conduction portion of the test - forget the needle muscle part - I gave her the benefit of the doubt. When she asked if I'd dropped things lately, I answered, "Yes!" cause I drop things almost daily. When she explained she was having to double the voltage to get a response on the machine, tears flowed from pain and from the fear that my hands were deteriorating.

She poked three needles in my arm for the muscle portion soon after. The third hit something so painful, I fell apart. Having been unnerved during the nerve conduction portion of the test, I didn't have much pain tolerance left for needles being wiggled in my muscles. We agreed to stop the test and I went home.

The memories made for a long day.

The next morning, the kind doctor called. Turns out the machine was broken. (Audible sigh.) I've been invited back for another round on the doc's lunch hour. Whenever I'm ready. But I've decided to pass on another medieval, torture EMG.

I'm just going to live for a while.

Another doc affirmed that for me this week. It's time to stop searching for answers and live with what is. I think medical science knows all it can know. It's time to let the God of the universe be all that He is. The Creator of every cell and the true power source for every ailing mitochondria in my body.

Less poking from the outside. More healing on the inside.

Whatever that may be.

A Stained Glass Healing (part 2)

I submitted the original version of this story to an editor back in 2005. Lifeway's Journey Magazine surprised me by publishing it a year or two later. It's now saved on my website. So for a full read, check out: A Stained Glass Healing

For an abbreviated, updated version, continue here.

In January of 1996, about ten months before my first husband died, we started attending a church that was constructing a new building. A talented artist, Jason offered to design and construct a stained glass window for the new structure. Having never done stained glass work, he found a class, signed up, and was soon joined by his artistic father. The duo attended classes twice a week.

Within a month, however, brain tumor symptoms intensified and Jason began a ten month neurological decline that took him to heaven's door before the church window could be constructed.

As his hands grew weak and unsteady that spring, he designed and almost finished this piece for me; his father completing what he could not. It has hung in my kitchen ever since - one last Mother's Day gift from the father of my children.

As we held to hope during that long summer, Jason's dad purchased the necessary tools to have a stained glass studio in his home. The tools lay silent for over a year after Jason died the following November. But in time, Papa not only started making his own pieces again, but he worked side by side (for no compensation) with a local stained glass artisan who installed windows in churches all over the Atlanta area.


He crafted this piece as a house warming gift after we moved into our new home in February of 1998. This angel watched over my boys and me - a reminder of healing and strength.

As school came to a close last May, Nathan called from UGA, "Mom! I know what I want to do this summer during my free time. I want to learn how to do stained glass with Papa." And he did. Nathan spent a lot of time in Papa's basement studio cutting glass and crafting his first piece of work.


I don't' have a photo of it here. But I do have a photo of the three angels he came home with today. Cause he's been busy working with Papa during Christmas break, making gifts for friends at school.

For a moment this afternoon, three generations of stained glass hung on my kitchen windows.

And it was good.

Wonder and War at Christmas

While I watched numerous Hallmark holiday specials this month, the Christmas oriented show I remember most was the Dec. 13th episode of NCIS, titled "Newborn King".

I'm not joking. I found it when I browsed our "on demand" listings two days after it aired.

[I also found this Star Wars nativity photo while browsing flickr, copyright Larry Lars. It captures wonder with stars and war so well].

LEGO Star Wars Nativity, a photo by Official Star Wars Blog on Flickr.

No one was home and I was busy preparing dinner as the show progressed. But I left the kitchen and stood fixated in front of our TV when the bad guys got close and the end drew near. I even wiped a few tears before the episode concluded.

Yes... you can make fun of me now.

I'll skip a full synopsis and just explain what touched me. But you should stop reading here if you haven't seen the show and don't want to know the end - because it all came to a head in adjoining rooms of a run down gas station garage.

A blizzard raged. A simple rendition of "Silent Night" played in the background. Gibbs aided in the birth of a baby wanted by the government while Ziva fought Russian hit men in a fierce gunfight.

Wonder and war manifested right next to each other on a silent, holy night. And the picture presented the most accurate representation of the Christmas story I'd seen all month.

Don't get me wrong, I wish the story stopped at the end of Matthew chapter two and just skipped chapter three altogether. I would rather the Magi left Bethlehem and we never learn that "Herod gave orders to kill all the boys two years old and under in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi." (Matt. 3: 16) A Hallmark version without unbearable grief is far more palpable.

But life continues with wonder and war - even at Christmas - even during this Christmas.

Maybe it's because I'm still trying to decide if I should buy a mini-van or a mini-SUV so it can hold a scooter for me to ride on, accepting my legs aren't getting any better. Maybe it's because I had a shot in my back a week ago that scared me for two days when my leg cramped through two nights. Maybe it's because little Noah, a five year old boy who's fought mito all his life, almost didn't make it through the holiday (see: prayingfornoah.com) or because my friend Ann and her family have come through a tiresome journey as her husband recovers from a lung transplant.

The list goes on. But deep down, holding to wonder felt harder than normal this year; the reality of the war all too real for me and many others.

Which is why it moved me all the more that Silent Night played through it all. Indeed, "all is calm, all is bright" rings true even on the darkest of nights when the fight is real and the heart ache true.

Jesus didn't come to complete the nativity scenes we enjoy. He came to die on a cross to bring ultimate life for us all. Life for me. Life for Noah. Life for all who suffer, struggle, and give it up to the one true God whose plan of Salvation only began in a manger in Bethlehem.

"For he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed." (Is. 53: 5)

Wonder. War. Jesus born. Oh come... let us adore.

A Tale of Two Nativites

Twenty years ago, this nativity set adorned a hand me down, beat up coffee table in a tiny upstairs apartment. My first husband's dad made the tall ceramic figures for our first Christmas back in 1990. My camera captured only half the figures that sit on my piano today.

It's still my favorite decoration to unpack.

After Don (husband number two) and I moved into his former home, we decided to go through his Christmas stash and combine them both. Days before the search, he inferred a nice nativity set lay buried in the boxes piled high in our basement. I smirked, knowing there was no way his set could trump mine.

It doesn't. But it's every bit as special.

When we found the box, I opened more than another nativity set. I found myself staring at a post card from God: a ceramic set just like my own.


Don's first wife's mother made the set for them about the same time my first husband's dad made ours. It sits opposite mine on a wooden chest in our living room today. Their set has a matte finish, two fewer camels, a very cool angel, and several more chips than ours.

Perhaps I should have let my boys touch our glossy finished set more! Our three giant camels and removable baby Jesus tell the story well.

Regardless, as the holidays approached last year and coordinating kids and families churned an all too familiar stress, finding our matching nativities symbolized a deep togetherness - even if it lay hidden in a box for the first four years of our marriage.

It's still complicated. Blending families, traditions, and schedules creates hurdles we can't always cross. But every evening the last few weeks, I've relished the two sets lit on either side of my small living room.

A piece of him. A touch of her. Together here in our home.














"Joy to the world the Lord has come."

Awakening Wonder

A woman from the care team at church called over a month ago and asked how they might help me with life. I struggled to answer but then blurted, "Do you think someone would help me decorate for Christmas?"

A week or two later she sent me an email. Three girls from my October Bible study group (Erin, Sarah, and Bethany pictured above) offered their time. They came over Wednesday night a week ago and started the unveiling.

They put my tree together and filled it with twenty years worth of ornaments. They hung ornate angels on my curtain rods, wrapped plastic, aging garland around my railing, and covered most surfaces in my living room with Santas, snowmen, and nativity sets.

It was a huge step forward.

Boxes still covered the floor, however, when I left for Athens the next day to hear Nathan sing in the annual UGA Hodgson School of Music Christmas Concert. My sister came to help with the driving and after a slow start in rush hour traffic, we were seated in the handicap section where my leg could stretch out with ease.

My tears began soon after the music started. The familiar songs performed with a full orchestra and 150-200 voices, carried me above the ordinary to the place where wonder awakens and hushed holiness prevails.

Between decorating with my memory filled Christmas stash and listening to the familiar story sung with musical excellence, I realized why I love this frenzied time of year. It beckons us to awaken wonder; to revel in the mystery of the divine.

"The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned." (Is. 9:2) "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be upon his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end."(Is 9:6-7)

During the intermission, a sophomore student leaned over to me and said, "This may seem weird, but I have to ask if you ever worked at Camp Greystone." Sarah had taken some of my Broadway music classes at camp when I served as Music Director there years ago. Surprised by the connection, we enjoyed old memories. She hung around after the concert and met Nathan and some of his friends. I enjoyed visiting with them almost as much as I enjoyed the concert. Pictured here: Nathan, Jenny, Devon, Sarah, and Grace.

As my sister and I drove through Athens on our way home, I checked my messages. Don had called during the concert. Our daughter-in-law, Misty, was in labor. Within the hour, she gave birth to a baby girl, Penny Louise. I ended my evening at Piedmont hospital where I got to see baby Penny, only hours old, whose birth reminded me of the one we celebrate now.

The King of Kings. The Lord of Lords. A tiny baby and creator of the ends of the earth.

It all just awakens wonder in me. And I'm grateful we sing, we decorate, we pause for a season to bask in the miracle of Emmanuel, God with us.

Colby Wren on CNN

Colby is a year older than my Sam and has battled mito for several years. Check out his story on CNN:

http://http//thechart.blogs.cnn.com/2011/12/06/human-factor-college-athlete-battles-mitochondrial-disease/#comments

How cool is that?

Nails, Turkey, and Church in the Round

Back in June of '10 I posted a picture of my nails. My nasty nails. I've prayed for years that I would stop picking them. And somehow in mid-October, it happened. I stopped. I realized it hurt to pick them and I was tired of hurting myself.

Some days I wonder if it has anything to do with increasing my B-12 intake. My B-12 numbers have always been low and in mid August, I decided to work on them. When they were checked last, they were in the 800's - higher than ever.

Whether God divinely touched me or God and high levels of B-12 calmed my non-stop picking, I'm amazed. I have nails. Ten of them. My cry was heard. After years of bloody cuticles, my nails look healthy and whole.

I still have a list of unanswered prayers - many that seem more important than whether my nails are long or short. But when I look at my white tips, I'm reminded that no matter what's on that list, my God will take care of it in His time, in His way.

As the holidays approached and Don and I haggled over how to manage our blended families, I got this crazy idea to host the meals at our home. I'd never hosted a Thanksgiving meal, turkey and all, just like I'd never grown long nails.

We worked together all day Wednesday so we could serve both a breakfast and a mid afternoon lunch on Thursday. I was tired, as in spastic leg tired. But we did it.







We gave thanks with Catherine and Hazel and their families at breakfast...










And with another round of family at lunch...







I rested in my PJ's all day Saturday so I could sing with our worship team on Sunday. Our church, Sanctuary, worships around a stage that represents the throne of God. Having not sung on a worship team in over seven years (until two weeks ago!), it feels like I'm living another first when I stand to sing.

Nails, turkey, and worship in the round all reminded me that He has His ways. He has His timing. And as we trust and walk with faith, transformation comes. Sometimes with a loud clang, but most often with a gentle whisper... and broken nails grow.

Sammy's Small World Homecoming Date

Monday through Thursday, I teach voice and piano for two to three hours. To represent this part of my life, I've decided to share a small world story in honor of Lili, a second grader, who insisted on singing It's a Small World for our recital this weekend.

My son, Sammy received a last minute invite to a homecoming dance a few weeks ago. I didn't know his date, Annie, so I looked forward to meeting her and her family.

After our initial greeting in the foyer of their home, we headed towards the back porch for pictures. As we walked past the roar of college football on TV, my husband, Don, asked, "Who's playing?"

Annie's dad, Skip, replied, "Navy vs. Notre Dame," and then continued with something like, "I'm a Naval Academy alum and a big fan."

I turned towards him and froze in my steps, "Which class?"

His answer made me smile, "65'"

Knowing my dad is also a class of 65' Naval Academy grad, I told him with total confidence, "You know my dad, Bob Snelling."

Skip seemed as surprised as I was at the connection. For not only does he know my dad, he knows him well. My dad delivered a singing Valentine to his wife just last February –with his barbershop quartet—in the very room we were standing in. He had also just sent a donation to my dad’s campaign since he’s running for state office again—something I haven’t talked about much.

But what got me most about the small world connection was that I learned the man in front of me; this guy called, Skip; the father of my son's date had been behind one of the most out of the box memories I have of my dad. Here's the photo:



I wasn’t there. No one from our family was. But while mom was singing with the Atlanta Symphony Chorus at Carnegie Hall, dad was rockin’ it out with Skip’s band in Annapolis at their 45th Naval Academy reunion. Dad even rewrote the lyrics to an old blues tune and pulled out the best costume apparel he could find. If only we had a recording. Still, the picture speaks volumes.

My dad is ever evolving in this small world that still surprises.

I enjoyed Sammy's small world homecoming date. Moments like that comfort me. They remind me that big, sometimes seemingly messy things, are intertwining into small moments that have a bigger purpose. So here's one more close up look at my dad at his finest. And kudo's to Skip for getting him out of his box.

Thursday Mornings and the Cereus Flower

Rather than begin another blog by chiding myself for not writing, I decided to share some of what keeps me from expression. Today, I'm thinking about Thursdays.

For over a year now, most Thursday mornings, I've met with three senior aged women for a voice/choir music lesson. Sue, Judy, and Nana (my first husband's mom) sing in their church choir and needed some vocal reassurance. So they called me.

When we started meeting, I think I needed them more than they needed me. They valued me and truth is, at that point in time, I really needed to feel valued. But beyond the fact they built me up while I encouraged them, I came to value how we intersected so well right in the messy places in each other's lives.

Only a true friend can handle the messy places.

All four of us have successes intertwined with places of deep pain. Watching them walk out their difficulties with faith has offered perspective and calm. Even at their age they hurt for their kids, struggle with relationships, and cling to the cross for help when there are just no answers.

And so I love my Thursday morning foray into a Catholic choir room with women who keep walking out their faith in God.

Three weeks ago, Nancy, an 82 yr. old alto, joined us. She came for two weeks and then shared she would be gone the next week. What she didn’t say was that her son was dying of ALS. The others knew, of course, but Nancy just smiled and went on with her day as usual.

When we gathered the next week for our lesson, without Nancy, Sue told us about a call she’d gotten days before. Nancy had phoned after dark on a cool, rainy night, insisting Sue walk down to see her cereus flower in bloom. Since they live on the same street, Sue obliged.

She put on a jacket, grabbed an umbrella, and hurried through the dark rain to see the flower that blooms—at night—only once a year. They huddled around the delicate, fragrant flower in honor of Nancy’s ailing son and quietly celebrated his fading life.

He died last Sunday.

A flower here and gone. A blossom for a night. What a blessing to have friends who walk through the dark to share the messy place—the place of deepest pain and greatest beauty.

Last Thursday, we didn’t sing. We just talked. Nobody had all the answers. Nobody had it all together. But we had each other in that large Catholic choir room and it was good.

Hope Flies

Last August, I met a writer who encouraged me to stay consistent with my blog. I left the encounter determined. Within a week, however, three creative endeavors unfolded that have distracted me ever since. I've justified my absence with the excuse, "At least I'm staying creative." But I'm not sure it counts.

Bottom line, the juggle remains a challenge.

After much prodding from my niece and nephew last summer, however, I decided to plan a coffee shop gig sometime this fall. Truth: I put off picking a date due to gnawing fear. Resurrecting music I hadn't performed in about five years overwhelmed my mito deprived brain fuses.

But as Labor Day weekend began, three affirmative emails arrived in my inbox letting me know a song I wrote will be used, a story I wrote will be published, and a local paper had decided to highlight mito disease, interviewing me for the article. Since the song was written for the Foundation for Mitochondrial Medicine, they asked if I'd schedule the coffee gig only a few weeks later, during Mitochondrial Awareness Week.

The concert deadline wouldn't have created as much stress if we hadn't already decided to take a trip to Philly the following weekend to see my 90 yr. old grandparents. The trip combined a college tour for Sam so the travel plus leg work required extra recovery time once home. (More on that soon!)

Suffice it to say, it's been a big month

I haven't blogged much, but I've overcome fears; I've walked far enough to end up in tears, yet rested again to take the next step. And that's where I find myself again today. Resting and waiting to take the next step.

I ended the concert Friday night by singing the song I wrote in honor of Hope Flies, a benefit held once a year to raise money to fund a cure for Mitochondrial Disease. And since I'm better when I'm singing and creating, even if my legs get tired in the process, I'll close by adding a recording of the song. It's my favorite right now.

Check out the event. Check out the song. Cause Hope Flies.

H o p e F l i e s C a t c h t h e C u r e

Hope Flies by SusanSchreerDavis

Music for the Day

Latest tracks by SusanSchreerDavis

I've known for a long time there's a way to sell music from the internet. Today I figured out how to make it happen. Haven't written a good post... but I can share the music.

As evening settles the day, that alone satisfies.

Yesterday

Yesterday I started the day early at an FCA meeting at Kennesaw Mountain High School.

Then I went back to bed.

I crawled out of bed at 6:30 am because Sam, my senior in high school, leads worship there on Friday mornings and invited me to come. I'm not sure when I'll be invited again so I wasn't about to miss the moment.

If you had asked me a year ago, or even six months ago if I expected to hear my son lead worship in front of over thirty kids this fall, I would have replied, "Huh? Sam? With a guitar?"

Looking back, the first clue came the day we left for Florida in June. After the car was packed and sweat was pouring down Nathan's face, Sam walked out with his guitar and said, "Hey, can you make room for this?" Exasperated, older brother rearranged the trunk so the guitar fit.

He should have mentioned it earlier, but still, Sam wanted the guitar on vacation.

Two days later, he sang his first solo during family worship. And we were all surprised. There are a lot of singers in my family. But Sam always held back. Now two months after my surprise at the beach, I watched as he led worship with a whole new group.

He's in His grip.

There was a time I had to pay attention to a lot of clinical details and ignore doctor's blow offs and fight for a diagnosis. It was not an easy process. Learning to live outside the grip of that intensity is an entirely different process. I followed maternal nudges and held Sam close to get him what he needed medically. And now God is saying, "Let him go. I've got him. See?"

Yesterday was another step in that letting go for me.

And it was good.

Seven teens and the Smurf movie

I smurf these kids. They made my summer. And even Josh, the youngest, says he'll never forget the night Aunt Susan got everyone to wear blue t-shirts at a 10pm showing of the Smurf movie.

[Truth: It was a 9:30 pm showing. But Josh insists on counting it as 10pm.]

Growing up, we traveled during the summer. This Delta pilot's daughter set foot in several European countries and saw her Hawaiian birth place more than once before leaving for college. Flying about was the norm. Sitting still was not. And I loved it.

A lack of finances limited travel when my boys were young. Unreliable legs and fatigue keep me home now. So by summer's end, after months of rest and rehab from a busy spring, I get edgy and dream of adventure. A trip to White Water would satisfy at this point, but I can't climb enough stairs to justify the price.

So as Nathan's departure for college drew close a few weeks ago, I felt crazed by the fact we hadn't made much of a family memory. I about gave up and then God wrote one for me.

Nathan returned from a family reunion he attended with my mom in Pennsylvania (only three days before he left for UGA) with tales of late night UNO and unconventional rules. Audrey, a friend of Sam's whose mom died this summer, expressed interest in joining us to reenact those games. Within 24 hours, my house filled with almost a dozen teens who gathered for White Chili, brownies, and crazy games.

I love a good party. The chatter. The laughter. Life buzzing in my home.

As the day came to an end, we started brain storming for one last outrageous something. We thought about singing in Walmart but my hip hurt too much for me to walk far. So we researched movies and found the Smurf movie offered the best times and locations. Since none of us would ever have opted to see that movie on a night we weren't vying for the outrageous, it worked. We considered buying blue paint to color our faces, but didn't have time. When I mentioned the t-shirt potential, Sam ran upstairs and dug through his t-shirt stash and found seven blue t-shirts, enough for all to wear. That was outrageous enough for me.

We sat in a row, all eight of us dressed in blue, and watched the Smurfs take on Manhattan. And after the blue characters found their way home, my family even let me take a photo.

So I smurf these kids. On this last day of August, I still really smurf these kids.

"Life gives us brief moments with another... but sometimes in those brief moments we get memories that last a lifetime." Author Unknown

The Day After

We did it. And I feel a deep smile inside.

Sam and I loaded a rental van with Nathan's belongings and drove them to Athens yesterday. Between the three of us, everything made it to his room in his new apartment in almost mint condition.

A few weeks ago, I decided to rent a vehicle for Nathan's move back to school since I began to wonder if a mini SUV type ride would be easier for my bad leg to maneuver. I drove one for a few months last fall and have had more trouble driving since changing back to a compact car. So I decided to take on the move with the different car to test my leg. It proved a worth while experiment.

The nuance of change helped.

I didn't get a mini SUV due to a mix up at the rental place. But sitting tall in the driver's seat of a new Chrysler van proved the same point. The change in position relieved the stress my ankle doesn't manage well. The main point here: change relieved stress.

I often think of change creating stress. But sometimes change diffuses the very pressure we can't seem to let go of ourselves. Or at least that's what I'm thinking today, the day after I moved my oldest son into his first apartment.

He needs to fly, to bust loose, to leave this place called home. Because if he stayed, the pressure would build.

So Sam and I packed it all up, drove to the new place, and even smiled when we were done. And today I'll thank God for change, and growth, and good things to come.

Figuring Things Out

This is a picture of Nathan and me taken on his 19th birthday after a concert at UGA last spring. He performed his first solo that night and blew all my musical fuses.

I drove him to college for the first time a year ago this weekend - and just took him back again yesterday. It was goodbye again - which has me reminiscing.

When I came home last year, I filled a new prescription and swallowed a medicine that changed my life for about two months. Leucovorin raised the metabolized folic acid levels in my spinal fluid, helping my legs work like well oiled hinges - better than they had in five years.

Sorrow and joy together again.

As I adjusted to Nathan's absence, my body adjusted to the meds. They were still helpful, but they weren't quite full proof. Truth is, damage from my fall in 09' might be the reason I ended up reaching for my cane again last January (and leaning on it to make it through concert day with Nate). Regardless, as the year went by, I went from thinking I could rebuild muscle strength and live with my sickness on the back burner to accepting it impacts every day and almost every decision I make.

Years ago, I wrote to capture God's fingerprint in my day to day single parent life. I often recounted action stories, involving my two young boys. I've struggled to write ever since I remarried five years ago and at times blamed that change for my loss of words.

Somewhere in the last month, however, I figured out that medical drama isn't nearly as much fun to write about as elementary boy antics. And since the last five years have contained a lot of medical drama, it's just been hard to write.

But after meeting the "smell the color nine" moms, I realize there's an underworld of folks battling chronic illness like me. And while I never planned to share my experiences as a widowed, single mom, I never contemplated having an impact as a disabled writer either.

But that's what I am. And if I can stop apologizing for it and just accept it, I might actually write a few things worth reading.

Nathan's in a hotel in Athens for the weekend during band camp prep. When his apartment's ready, I plan to help him move in. I'm home resting, hoping the nerves in my foot calm down so the drive won't be so painful. And I skipped out on a visit to Don's family farm in south GA this weekend because I knew too much car vibration would further irritate said nerves, limiting the little help I can be later this week.

See? Every choice has to be weighed. And when Don and Sam left today, my heart was sad. Car vibrations - too much? It sounds crazy. Yet if you walked on my foot you'd understand.

When I've written about this stuff before, I've felt like a whiner. Today, I write to commiserate with others who live with less than desirable limitations. You're out there. I'm not alone.

While our hearts continue to grieve on some level, I know this is true, "Lord you assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance." (Ps. 16:5-6)

And so I will write.

The Smell the Color Nine Moms

This is a picture of a mitochondria. We have many of them in the cells of our bodies. Sadly, mine don't work very well. And since I tried to do more than I can last spring, I've spent most of the summer recovering from a "mito crash" I experienced in late May.

I think I'm finally getting somewhere.

In past years, I've counted on a Beth Moore Bible Study or a good hour of worship for spiritual grounding and inspiration. Last week, however, renewed peace filled me at a Mito Social held in a Cobb County Library only minutes from my home.

Having never attended a support group (even after my first husband died), I was surprised at how much the mere presence of other moms facing my similar disease transformed me. Their stories, their tears, their overwhelm, and their desire for hope all mixed into one giant cocktail. And I drank deeply.

A pile of old CD's caught my attention this morning and soon the music of Chris Rice had me dancing. These words have played in my head ever since:

"I can sniff, I can see
I can count up pretty high but these faculties aren't getting me
Any closer to the sky
But my heart of faith keeps poundin'
So I know I'm doin' fine
But sometimes finding You
Is just like trying to
Smell the color nine."

Finding God of late has indeed felt a little more "like trying to smell the color nine". And if I'm honest, it's probably because trying to understand mito disease is also "like trying to smell the color nine". This elusive illness, that causes full body energy shortages, shows up in different ways in each child, teen, or adult. I know what to watch for; I know what meds to take; but I can't really wrap my head around what's happening deep in the cells of my body any more than I can smell the color nine.

Last Saturday, I sat in a room with moms who've lost children to the disease, with moms who are scared of losing a child to the disease, and with others who are trying to keep a medical crisis at bay, navigating life with normal looking kids who have very abnormal insides.

And I belonged. My 17 yr. old son and I both belonged.

We're not as bad as some. But as one mom pointed out to me today, "You were the only one in the room with a cane, Susan!"

OK. OK. I get it. I belong. We belong. And today I think we should call our club the "Smell the Color Nine Moms".

And maybe now that I understand my life isn't going back to what it was but rather moving forward towards this elusive unknown, I will get back to dancing and singing... and writing yet again. Will that ever really happen? I sure hope so. This adult onset mito patient has some stories to tell.

Thanks Lauri for the social and thanks Shawna for a fun call today. We can do this thing.

The FOLR 1 Gene

Early last month, Michelle Obama spent time in Atlanta promoting her "Let's Move" campaign. As she stood in front of an audience, encouraging exercise and activity, I sat in an office across town, listening as a Dr. Shoffner explained my need for rest. "For every fifteen minutes of housework you do," he said, "you should rest for thirty."

Do the math. It's complicated.

Instead of moving, I sit. Instead of engaging in activity, I watch NCIS, House, and sometimes even Bones. I'm a crazed TV head hoping that months of shortened activity will allow for more movement down the road.

Further testing by Dr. Shoffner found a mutation in my FOLR 1 (or the folate receptor) gene. That gene serves as the carrier molecule that transports metabolized folic acid across my blood brain barrier. Due to the mutation, it's not doing it's job well. So the med that worked wonders in August (by boosting my metabolized folic acid intake) isn't quite as effective in the long haul. Couple that with mitochondrial disease, and I find when I really pay attention to my body, it requires a much slower pace than I like.

I'm the mom who once smuggled Bibles into China. The mom who roller skated, boogy boarded, and rode bikes on vacation. I'm even the mom who once flew to LA with her young boys in the middle of the night and had to sleep in the terminal lobby on baggage boxes (with strangers) while waiting an early morning departure that would get us to Phoenix. And all that to avoid termites back home... another story for another time.

Bottom line, this TV head lady drives me crazy.

I've tried to write about it a few times but have shrunk back instead. It's hard to put words on paper when I don't feel like the me that I am. But if I don't put it out there, if I don't face it in print, I'm afraid I'll never get to the stories that count.

Phillipians 4: 12-13 states, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want..." (whether living large or sitting still...) "I can do all this through him who gives me strength." (NIV)

I hadn't considered until just now that sitting still requires as much strength as living large and that accepting limits is as challenging as managing endless opportunities. No matter what end of the spectrum we live on, in plenty or in want, living with contentment can only be accomplished when we're plugged into the source of true strength.

Somehow that helps today: plugging into strength will help me rest.

It's not the same as roller skating, but I think I can lean in and let Him be my strength in weakness.

Thin Places

I stumbled to my coffee maker and began my morning ritual. I ground beans, measured them into a filter, and reached for the glass coffee pot - only to discover a roach had died in it over night.

Dead roach in coffee pot. That's how I felt this morning.

It's the third Sunday in advent and I was home alone, battling pain. Last weekend I battled a cough that tired my ribs. An inhaler settled it down, but by mid week, one last little cough popped something in my side that has hurt ever since. A doc will read the x-rays tomorrow, but whether a rib is fractured or not, I'm slowed again, maneuvering with pain.

Dead roach in coffee pot.

I gave up on the coffee and sat down on our sofa to attend TV church in my pj's. The pastor from Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church delivered a message that gave me what I needed to clean out that pot, make fresh coffee, and move on with my day.

He talked about thin places, moments where the veil between earth and heaven becomes translucent, thin, clear; our awareness of the divine poignant and true. He said that Christmas is a season ripe with thin places, which is why I feel like I'm missing out.

I spent last Christmas season recovering from ankle surgery and preparing to move. And just when my cough seemed to settle after a month of sickness this year, my rib gave way and I'm struggling to keep my day to day schedule going, let alone participate in extra Christmas fun.

Dr. David Snapp reminded me that to encounter thin places, we must be willing to have our lives interrupted. And once interrupted, we must learn to wait with patience and anticipation. His words helped me see my current challenge in a different way. For everyone who was in the manger in Bethlehem were visitors to the town. Their lives had been interrupted and they had taken a journey to a foreign land - and there they encountered the divine.

My journey through advent is different again this year. But it's still my journey. It's still a walk through the ordinary in search of the divine; a thin place, the place of wonder and awe. For God became man and dwelt among us.

A Birthday Blog

As I watched football with Sam in the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel this weekend, I surfed the web, searching for info on Mitochondrial Disease. My 82 page muscle biopsy report arrived in my in box ten days ago and while I know it confirms I have adult onset Mitochondrial Disease, there's a lot more I don't know.

My search led to the mito action web site where I read, "When facing a diagnosis of something like Mitochondrial Disease, it is important to acknowledge feelings of grief. There is the grief of the parents over the life they had dreamed or imagined for their child, and there is grief for the adult of the loss of the life they thought they were going to have. Do not underestimate the impact of this grief, and the time that it takes for a person or family to heal... First there is the crisis stage which usually lasts only a short time and is followed by isolation - the person is exhausted by the crisis and now just feels totally alone and wants to be alone..."

Stop right there! It wasn't until I read those words that I understood what I've been feeling the last few months. Yes, my new med is helping a great deal.
But while I've enjoyed relief, I've also grieved continued limitations that may never go away. Trying to filter the good with continued loss made it easy to shrink back into isolation.

The article continues, "Then there is the stage of reconstruction; life is not like it was before but you can reconstruct your sense of self, or your sense of 'normal' for your family." (By Cristy Balcells RN MSN and Joanne Turco, RN, MS)

www.mitoaction.org/blog/coping-mitochondrial-disease

Sometimes I think writing about all this is blah and self focused. But then I read this quote from Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic who is now battling cancer, "God's up to something big. How can I showcase Him to others?"

www.worldmag.com/articles/17198

Armed with her words and numerous facebook birthday well wishes, I've decided to come back out of hiding and try to get faithful with writing... again. For "we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved." (Heb 10:39)

The above photo was taken at a fund raiser for a mito clinical drug trial. Yes, that's me, a poster child for mito disease. Its' not exactly where I thought I'd be at this point in life... "But we are not of those who shrink back..."

Life with Legs

More than a month has passed since my last entry. I haven’t written for two reasons: depression and awe.

As summer wore on, my body wore down. Knee instability complicated normal ankle and hip weakness, leaving me overwhelmed by everyday tasks. Three rounds of transforaminal shots spread over seven weeks (of summer) helped post surgical nerve damage (from winter). The day after I completed the procedures, however, my insurance company approved a muscle biopsy and spinal tap. Nagging symptoms required further testing, but I had no desire to face more needles or procure another scar. So I watched House marathons unfazed by his cynicism.

Two weeks after my spinal tap, and many more before I expected results (muscle biopsy results take up to two months), the doctor’s office called. Tests run on my spinal fluid revealed low levels of 5mthf, a necessary ingredient in fueling central nervous systems. I was told a prescription med could make a big difference. And after a mere weekend on the new meds, my legs worked better than they have in years. The one-eighty turn, from thinking I was headed to wheelchair to walking with liquid legs in less than a week, left me in awe.

I’ve been pondering the change ever since. A few highlights:

I haven’t used my handicap sticker in three weeks. I can walk through Target without spasticity slowing my step and escort my voice and piano students from one building to the next without a cane. I can grocery shop, carry in the bags, cook dinner, and still walk. And it’s probably hard for most of humanity to understand how big a deal that is to me.

I’m living life with legs, relishing them a new.

Entering His Rest

When I watch the sky fill with color, I feel small in a good way. Bent rays twisted through the atmosphere create masterful evening canopies under which I rest, mindful of our Creator.

It's easy to rest by the ocean under a brilliant sky. It's another thing to enter His rest during the day to day toil we live as life.

At one point this summer, I told God if He would just do such and such, I could rest. And I needed rest. My body was stressed enough. Due to recent physical limitations, it made sense to me that God would want to decrease my stress level in the ways I desired most.

He offered a simple reply, "Enter my rest now."

"There remains then, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his. Let us, therefore, make every effort to enter that rest..." (Heb. 4:9-11 NIV)

The Message translation states earlier in Hebrews 4, "If we believe, though, we'll experience the state of resting. But not if we don't have faith."

I've stood at this cross road before, the place where I can stew over uncertainty or rest in the reality of God, my Savior, my Lord. It's never easy. But the option is real. We can enter His rest. Trust in His goodness. Watch Him provide.

Or pick our nails.

I long to enter His rest.

Happy At My Feet

My family knows my favorite place in San Destin- the ocean's edge. I carry my sea blue chair to where the water washes over my toes. And I sit. For hours. Sometimes with a journal. Sometimes with just an open heart.

We've shared a week in Dad's time shares for about ten years. At some point on our trip, a related someone will ask something like, "Why do you enjoy staring at the water for hours on end?"

My mom asked this year. And the best answer ever came to me later.

I love watching happy at my feet... where the water bounces, collides, and forms patterns of lace as quick to vanish as a falling snowflake. Bubbles float. Waves dance. And a smooth, thin rush of water washes gently over my feet, cleansing.

I couldn't sit in my chair as long this year. And the water was full of June grass a few days - even at the water's edge. But last Wednesday, crystal clear waters soothed my soul for a time. God was big. The world beautiful. And eternity real.

And as the sun set, I found this happy at my feet...

Be Still

I heard a sermon over a week ago that caused me to face the stark level of anxiety in my soul. WordNet.com defines anxiety as "a vague unpleasant emotion that is experienced in anticipation of some (usually ill-defined) misfortune." When I looked deep inside, deeper than my normal deep, I recognized worry, nervousness, and that "vague unpleasant emotion" that fights fear.

As I thought about it all, the still small voice spoke, "Be still..."

I'm not exactly a fast mover these days, but I pick my nails. Almost constantly. Frayed nails expose my anxiety. Just last Sunday, someone commented on the less than desirable state of my ring and pinkie fingers, especially. I smiled. I used to cover them with acrylic nails, but eventually gave up on the beauty routine and prayed for peace. A peace that would show on my nails.

I looked up the Hebrew definition of "still" from Psalm 46. I read, "abate, cease, consume, fail, faint, forsake, idle, leave, let alone..." At the end of the long list of words, small letters referred me to a related definition a few numbers back. There I read, "cure, heal, repair, thoroughly, make whole."

I expected the first list of words, but not the second. They still resonate deep. In stillness there is healing. In letting alone a cure. In ceasing I can be made whole.

Two months of summer lie ahead. I hope within a few weeks to post a photo of healthier nails as I soak in the Psalmist's words, "'Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'" (Ps. 46: 10)

Adventure Mother Driver

A few years ago, I realized why I feel fidgety by summer's end. As the daughter of a Delta pilot, summers often included vacation adventures that started when I was eleven. We traveled to a remote Bahamian island that year where my dad "lost" our passports and later hitchhiked with my sister when our rental car broke down. A few summers later we met Gertrude the Cow in Southern Bavaria when a dirt road ended in her pasture.

I've longed to share those type of adventures with my boys, but have not the resources, or at this point, the body.

So when Sam asked about swimming this summer from 5:45-8:15 am, I struggled a few days before figuring out how to mentally tackle the overwhelming request. I'm not heading to Europe or Hawaii or any other exotic location this summer. No, I'm adventure mother driver, alert in the wee hours, toting my man cub to and from the place of physical challenge. With bra in purse (in case we have a traffic altercation), I grab pillow and blanket and walk bleary eyed to the car. On my more alert days, I brush my teeth and even potty before heading out.

While Sam speeds through currents of chlorine, I let down the windows just a tad, hide my face from the rising sun, and protect the mother ship in the fetal position. When my man cub returns from his morning foray, we travel home for a mid-morning nap.

On day three this week, I woke from said mid-morning nap and proceeded to get ready for a Transforaminal lumbar shot in my back. I made coffee, pulled out crunchy Jif and a power bar, and ate while the pot brewed. Only after the bar was down did I wake enough to remember I wasn't supposed to eat before my Transforaminal shot procedure.

I don't know if the nurses understood how much energy it takes to be an adventure mother driver. But I had no other excuse for my mental lapse and had to wait an extra day for the shot.

I may have a host of mishaps ahead which is why my sense of adventure is heightened when I drive before sun up and sleep in the corner parking lot, communing with nature, supporting my swimmer son.

Green Again

I just opened a daily reading from Ransomed Heart Ministries and read, "Can it really happen? Can things in our lives be green again? No matter what our creeds may tell us, our hearts have settled into another belief. We have accepted the winter of this world as the final word and tried to get on without the hope of spring." (Desire 110-111)

Two weeks ago, I listened as a neurosurgeon offered his assessment of my leg issues. He said there are two things going on. One he could help, the other he could not, since from his perspective, the images from a recent MRI do not explain why my hip is so weak. He concluded permanent muscle damage is the likely cause.

Those words echoed in my head for days, souring my mood--"permanent muscle damage." The finality of it all squelched all hope and left my heart cold.

Four days later, I met with my ankle surgeon. He looked through each image and offered another explanation, speculating that a small protrusion in the disk may be causing the weakness. Both doctors agreed I should schedule an injection from a pain clinic, but only one believes the injection might help the hip.

When I left the second office, I marveled at how much hope helped. Logically, I knew neither doctor really knows why my hip is so weak. But on that Thursday, Dr. Royster took me from winter to spring.

The Ransomed Heart reading from this morning ended with these words, "We make a nothing of eternity by enlarging the significance of this life and by diminishing the reality of what the next life is all about."

If the mere hope of something fixing the weakness in my leg could lighten my mood to such an extent, I wonder what would happen if I anchored my hope in the reality of what's to come verses the tyranny of now. I've not been very good at that lately. But even the Psalmist sang, "Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God..." (Ps. 42: 5)

Last night's storms left a sweet green outside my window today. I found these two blossoms in Donna's flower bed hanging heavy from the wet. But even their sweet smelling beauty,as enticing as it is, doesn't compare with the spring that's yet to come.

Donna's Colors

I lived at 3750 Apple Way for almost twelve years. In all those years, I grew only a small patch of Impatiens. They were dear to me. A sign of hope. A small victory in an otherwise unkept yard.

I live across town now, in a home I tried hard to avoid. My husband and his former wife shared this abode for well over a decade. But God had other plans and we moved in a few days after Christmas, in a deep mid-winter that stretched well into spring.

As the weather thawed, however, daffodils grew and yellow blossoms lined my driveway. Dogwoods and azaleas lit up the front yard soon after. As I took photos today, I discovered a deep burgundy iris I'd driven past several times without noticing.

And all the while I've thought about Donna, her life of color, and the beauty she left behind. Every spring an array of color will unfold in this yard. And every year, the colors of her soul will shine through those who knew and loved her well.

She left a kaleidoscope of color - which leaves me wondering what I will leave behind.

"Therefore as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience... Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues, put on love..." (Col. 3:12, 13, &14)

Donna wore love and God's colors showed.

Starting Again

An entire season has passed since I last wrote. I fell on Nov. 14th after months of concern about my weak right ankle. It encountered a small stick or a pine cone, I'm not sure which, and the ankle rolled. As I lay on my front sidewalk in pain, I became well aware that at least one surgery was imminent.

About the time I began to recover from ankle surgery, we sold my former home and moved from the east to the west side of town. Within a week of the move, pain in my back intensified and I realized it needed care. After two trips to the ER on the same day (one in an ambulance), I was admitted to the hospital where the docs discovered a large herniated disk.

It's been two months since back surgery and I'm still recovering. In some ways I have more control of my walking. But my right foot is quite numb and if I lay on my left side with bended knees, I can't lift my right leg. It won't budge. An MRI of my back has been ordered to check for bone fragments which means one surgeon wonders if I might require a third surgery to heal.

It's been easy to hunker down in silence during the long winter months.

But the birds are singing today. It's seventy degrees and the sky is crystal blue. I'm wearing a spring skirt over freshly shaven legs which is no small feat. And the view from the shade of my covered front porch includes a landscape dotted with bright yellow daffodils.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come..." (Song of Songs 2: 11-12)

Today, I can join with the birds, delighting in a new season, a new time, a new day to just celebrate the Good King is on His throne and has it all under control.

No, it's not easy. But He is good.

Laughing with Lily

I've read about therapy dogs and even watched a show once called, "Miracles Pets." But I'd never experienced the healing impact an animal can have in your life until this week. As I giggled in the dark, waiting for sleep last night, I was so glad my parents have a new dog.

Thirty minutes earlier, I'd sat on the stairs and scooted up backwards, one step at a time. By the time I reached the top, my right hip muscle burned with fatigue. Drained from the monumental effort, I didn't know how to stand.

Lily, my mom's new puppy, darted around my tired body. Reaching the second floor of the house was an adventure for her. She sniffed the carpet around me and ran up the hall, urging me on. I tried to stand, but couldn't figure out which body part could handle my weight.

Befuddled by the predicament, I was thankful when mom turned the corner with a rolling chair. I pulled myself into the chair and laughed as she wheeled me down the hallway to her guest bedroom. It was funny - almost.

Mom and Lily said goodnight and headed back down the stairs. As I lay in bed with my foot high on pillows, I began to wonder when I'll be able to return to normal life. Since getting up one flight of stairs had wiped me out, I worried about how I'll manage once home. I've spent days and nights on my mom's sofa to avoid the stairs. But I've almost been gone a week. The ankle is healing, but other joint issues have been exacerbated in the process.

As I lay in the dark trying to turn my thoughts to prayers, I heard the soft pitter-patter of Lily's steps. She'd escaped from mom's bedroom, run across the living room, and bolted up the stairs. She scurried down the hall and with a flying leap, landed on my face, licking me as if she'd found her long, lost friend. I forgot my worries and laughed as Lily celebrated her escape.

Soon I heard mom's soft movement on the steps. With her own smile, she took Lily back to her room where she sleeps for the night.

And after a good nights rest, my legs worked a little better today. I've still a long road to recovery. But laughing with Lily and cuddling close to her soft fur has added a distinct sweetness to the journey.

Chasing Shadows

I've been staying at my folks since surgery last Thursday which has given me ample time to bond with Lily, their new puppy. Lily can be calm and cuddly or comic relief - depending on her mood. We've napped together several times. She's licked every corner of my face and hands more than once. And I've watched her chase shadows for much longer than I expected.

When sunlight pours through the windows, reflections on the oriental rug next to where I rest captivate her. She races around the rug chasing shadows, digging at shadows, and even barking at them at times. I'm humored by her persistent pursuit of grey adumbrations. It's cheap therapy.

But while I watched her the other day, I thought about all the mental shadows I chase, all the worries I entertain. And I imagined God being as stumped by my obsession with worry as I am with Lily's need to dig at shadows.

It's easy to shake my head and say, "Silly girl, your digging at nothing! You're mesmerized by mere sunlight dancing on the floor." But then I wonder what God would say to me,"Oh princess daughter of mine, trust what you can't see. Trust this day to me. Don't allow simple shadows to disrupt the flow of peace I long to send your way."

So as I heal during this busy time of the year, I'm going to try to stop chasing shadows of doubt and purpose to trust the God of light who shines on us each day. Laying on this sofa nestled close to a wall of windows, I will bask in His light instead of fretting in the dark.

"Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you."
(Is. 60: 1-3)

Sweetness on Turkey Day

I had a bona fide meltdown last Sunday. After a shower, church, and lunch in a restaurant with a very slippy floor, I arrived home exhausted. My leg hurt. My heart hurt. And I wasn't sure I could make the trip to South Georgia to celebrate Thanksgiving with my husband's family. So I cried and prayed and asked God to show me what to do.

My answer came in a phone call Monday morning. After a short conversation with a family member, I knew I was supposed to go.

So I packed lots of pillows, rode in the back seat, and propped my foot in Sam's lap - all the way to Bulloch County. While I enjoyed several sweet moments with family, this one remains my favorite.

We arrived at the "River House" about thirty minutes before meal time. While all the other women scurried to prepare the food, I sat with my achy foot on a stool. Before long, Lawrence, our nephew-in-law, walked over and handed me his new born son, Tripp. Tripp is only about two weeks old and as I gently traced his tiny fingers, I marveled at the miracle of life.

Soon after, Baby Catherine crawled over to meet tiny Tripp. Baby Catherine is a miracle herself. Doctor's didn't expect her to live. But after months in the hospital, she defied the odds. When I'm close to her, I feel like I'm connected to a concrete miracle of God.

So as I sat holding Tripp while Baby Catherine checked him out, I was overwhelmed with wonder, and thanked God for all that's good in life.

Nikki, my step-daughter, caught us film and posted the photo on Facebook.

The Psalmist once said, "But as for me, it is good to be near God." (Ps. 73: 28) As I cuddled with Tripp and Catherine, I felt near God and it was good.

New Shoes

I have two new shoes. The right one provides stability for my loose ankle. The left one anchors the weight bearing ankle and foot. Both have made my life easier this week.

It took me a while to remember that this morning. While my right ankle seems to be calming down, I'm still overcoming painful memories from last week. The slightest motion in the wrong direction pulled on a tendon no longer stabilized, triggering an intense spasm of pain several times. I taught all my lessons and even showed my house twice to potential buyers, but this morning I was just wearied by it all.

So I put on some make-up, drank some coffee, and took a picture of my feet on my colorful Guatemala throw. And since it's that time or year, I'll take a moment to count my blessings.

For one, Nathan's at Lee University today, playing with their honor band. My first in-laws drove him there and have spent two days toting him to and from rehearsals. I had plans to be there today, but other's are there for me instead. He's in good hands.

Sam is at the Dreamer's Conference at Riverstone Church. So while we're both dealing with odd physical issues, he's still dreaming big, swimming like crazy, making good grades in school.

And as I've struggled to get around this week, I've often thought of those who don't have access to special boots or doctors or surgeons who can tighten their loose ligaments. I'm inconvenienced. But I have hope. Imagine being crippled with no hope.

Some other blessings... Baby Catherine is thriving (see www.letterstocatherine.blogspot.com). Baby Hazel (grandchild #2) is adorable. Our store, "Go Fish" has survived during the economic downturn thanks to my husband's relentless dedication. And the God of heaven that we serve is simply more than able.

As I wobble through another day, hoping not to ignite that tendon, I will "hold unswervingly to the hope that we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Heb. 10:23)

Changed Hearts

Meet Lily, the Cavalier King Charles puppy my parents recently acquired. She's adorable, a ball of happiness that flits about chasing shadows. She runs like the wind and then collapses like a blob of jello molded to your lap.

There's nothing unusual about someone liking Lily, except when that someone is my dad.

Growing up, we always had a dog. Pele, an Airedale Terrier, ran long and hard for sticks but lost two litters of puppies, the last of which died on an Easter Sunday morning. Pepper, a small Cockapoo, filled our home with flees on more than one occasion and loved to tear up trash when left alone for too long. Still, both dogs brought humor and fun to our home well into my adult years.

But after Pepper died, my dad vetoed another house pet. He bought my mom dog statues and paintings, but wanted to live pet free after years of animal maintenance. And they did, for almost thirteen years.

Then came Lily.

My niece, Jessica, was asked to sell Lily and her sibling after their owner tired of caring for them last summer. Farm girl Jess was the right babe for the job and carried the two pups to the Marietta Square on July 4th, hoping for a sale. No one would have guessed Lily would melt my dad's heart, but she did. Within the month, she began life in my parent's abode and I continue to hear stories that amaze me.

Lily greets my dad with a flying leap to his lap after he returns from work. Then she climbs up his chair and nestles like a warm scarf around his neck. And he loves it. I even heard a rumor this week that she slept in my parent's bed, nestled on a soft fleece.

And I wonder who this new man really is...

But just about the time I got comfortable gloating about dad's changed heart, God did a radical work in mine. I'd sworn I wouldn't move to Don's old home. Living where his former spouse radiated God's glory through her life and death seemed a hurdle not worth trying to jump. The blended families textbook scenario strongly suggests we should to sell both homes and start over with a new one. But just when the house was about to sell, we stopped by and God changed me. In fact, the realtor had called that very morning during church and my heart lept at the thought that someone had made an offer on the house. Little did I know that by sundown, I would be planning a move, trusting an inner peace I still can't explain.

Are you up against a wall? Can't see beyond the brick and mortar you face? So was I.

Take heart. Be of good cheer. God changes hearts, yours and mine.

"The Spirit of the Lord will come upon you in power... and you will be changed into a different person." (1 Sam. 10:6)

Turning Forty

I woke up at Barnsley Gardens on my fortieth birthday. My sweet husband planned the surprise trip almost six months prior to my big day. We have history at the historic resort, thus it was a perfect place to celebrate the milestone in my life.


After loading our bags as we prepared to leave, we took a stroll on the grounds. We'd been there before, crashed a wedding reception once. But I didn't learn the history until that weekend.

Barnsley Gardens is a resort area centered around the ruins of an old mansion built in the 1840's. Godfrey Barnsley, one of the ten most affluent men in the south at that time, built the mansion for the love of his life, Julia. Sadly, the mother of his six children died of a lung ailment before construction was completed. Godfrey abandoned the project until she appeared to him over a year later and told him to finish the home.

The Italian villa came to life by the late 1840's, complete with marble floors and formal gardens. In 1864, however, just over twenty years later, the Civil War caused irreparable financial damage to the estate. When a tornado took the roof off the home in 1906, there were no funds to pay for repairs. And by 1942, the home was sold in auction. Piece by piece, local thieves stole the marble floor. The second floor collapsed. Vines grew thick.

As Don and I walked the grounds, we came upon the family grave site. There, on my fortieth birthday, I thought about what was left of one man's life and legacy: the ruins of his dream. He'd enjoyed all the money in the world for about twenty-five years. But a war changed all that.

In 1988, Prince Hubertus Fugger (A German Prince) purchased the land, opting to revive the gardens and restore the ruins. While a walk among what's left of the house is a peaceful step back in time, it's also a haunting reminder that nothing lasts.

That's what I thought about on my birthday.

Life came and went at the ruins. And similarly, my life will come and go. As I turned forty, the thought made me want to live my life fully now.

"For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light." (Ps. 36: 9)