UFOs. The California Wildfires. Odd aeronautical disasters. Our failing bodies resulting from vaccines. Hypnosis of the masses through subliminal advertising. Reptilian humanoids running the government. The Illuminati. (Is it even okay to acknowledge the word “Illuminati”??)
America funding our national enemies. A mass deportation that rips away friends and family. Resources being diminished by undocumented immigrants. Nazis. Growing catastrophic natural disasters. Another Great Depression. Another World War. The right wing. The left wing. Giant meteors hurling to earth (and with Bruce Willis out of commission, we are SUNK.)
Social media can be the worst. With the world literally in the palms of our hands through our mobile devices, we cannot escape the speculations that mutate from small sparks of supposition blazing into all-consuming nightmarish infernos. For me, those fears can be overwhelming. Sometimes paralyzing.
In times when I feel myself tumbling down a dark hole of shadowy tomorrows, I have my Bible bookmarked to Isaiah 8:11-13 with a colorful stickynote peeking out of its pages for rapid access:
11 “This is what the Lord says to me with his strong hand upon me, warning me not to follow the way of this people:
12 ‘Do not call conspiracy
everything this people calls a conspiracy;
do not fear what they fear,
and do not dread it.
13 The Lord Almighty is the one you are to regard as holy,
he is the one you are to fear,
he is the one you are to dread.’”
Life is hard. Sometimes impossible. There are SO many things we can fear. We scroll past posts that inject “what-ifs” – or erroneous lies – into our imaginations, thrusting our emotions into overdrive.
But truly the only thing we should fear is life away from God and His will for our lives. Living a life bent on ignoring God and His direction also shuns peace and joy and purpose and hope. And for me, that is terrifying!
In truth, our world still scares me. A lot. I don’t believe my fear makes me ungodly or unfaithful. I think it makes me human. Even King David expressed to God, “WHEN I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” (Psalm 56:3) Fear likes me. It visits so often that I have had to spend lots of time keeping it at bay while trying desperately to learn how to chase it away. I have learned from all those trials that my only hope for survival is to cheer on my shaky faith and trust God. By doing so, I strengthen that spiritual muscle that makes the next time fear comes a-knocking a bit easier to fight.
But do you want to know what makes me MOST afraid? Living life without God. Trust me. It’s not pretty!
Someone needs to hear the words ‘Don’t fear what they fear. Don’t dread what they dread’. Fear cannot keep us from dying, but it can certainly keep us from living.
Birthdays. I had one WAY back on Wednesday, December 13, 1967. I hear it was pretty great, but I don’t remember much about it.
When I was a little girl, I loved celebrating the anniversary of that day. When I was a big girl, I loved it even more. But this year, I dreaded it. A LOT. I wasn’t anxious because I’m afraid of growing old. I was apprehensive because I was gifted a year that I didn’t deserve.
You see, my extraordinary sister-in-law was supposed to turn 57 in October, less than two months before I would, but it didn’t happen. She will never be 57. Twenty-two days before her 57th birthday, her body stopped dying and her heavenly life started. Her work on earth was done, and that beautiful, young soul is now ageless and celebrating EVERY day in Paradise.
Because I tend to cling to limited, earth-blinders, I prepared for my 57th birthday to strangle me in a warped type of survivor’s guilt. While Trayona was sick, I asked God numerous times if I could trade with her. I know I’m loved and appreciated here on earth, but I’ll be honest: Most days I tend to barely survive rather than live vibrantly in my calling. On the contrary, Trayona lived well and spent every single day striving to mold herself into a better person. She deserved life so much more than most of us.
(To my concerned armchair therapist, I know truth. I trust God’s will. I love my people, and I know I am loved by lots of people, which I realize is a gift in itself. Moreover, I know Trayona is the real winner in all of this, and that trading with me would mean I would now be living in glory and she would still be fighting through this challenging existence on planet Earth. But unreasonable feelings are really hard to fight, aren’t they?)
I would love to tell you that a moment of revelation or a Bible verse shined brightly on my 57th birthday, morphing me into a much wiser person. That didn’t happen, but it was a nice day full of lots of love and affirmation, and when I laid my head on my pillow that night, I felt thankful.
What does it mean to me to be granted one more year on planet Earth? It means my work isn’t done. It means I am still needed here and I still have things to do, people to love, and hope to spread.
And apparently, you’re still here too, so guess what? You have things to do, people to love, and hope to spread.
On a visit to San Augustine, Texas, way back in our blissful empty-nester phase, Clay and I went to breakfast at a cute little cafe with my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law. It was one of those endearing places where every spare inch of wall and floor space is covered in humorous sayings like “Practice thanking God for more than elastic waistbands”, pop art paintings of large-headed cows, and knickknacks of every type of whimsical fun.
San Augustine is a tiny town of maybe 1000 people so far east that it’s 23 miles from the Louisiana border. It is the type of small town where everyone knows everyone, and because my brother-in-law had returned to San Augustine after playing professional baseball, he remained the hometown hero. Entering that cafe with him was akin to playing the entourage of someone famous: invisible because of his presence yet important through association. We were escorted to a table quickly as he made his rounds shaking hands and kissing babies.
On the floor, not two feet from my chair sat the cutest decorative concrete pig. He was about a foot tall, he had a smile that warmed my heart, and out of his shoulder blades sprouted dainty angel’s wings. He was the very best companion while I ate my omelet, smiling up at me from his permanent place on the floor, and we bonded.
I don’t collect pigs on purpose. My very small pig collection was given to me by my sister and mother – one pig at a time – as a joke to remind me of the time Clay gifted me with a pot-bellied pig a week after we had replaced the flooring of our first home. I did NOT appreciate Clay’s gift as its hooves scratched across my new linoleum, and he (the pig, not the husband) was sent back before we could name him.
But that concrete pig with wings? I fell in love with that pig. Before we left the restaurant, my sister asked if we could buy it. It was not for sale, and the owner couldn’t remember where she had purchased it. I had to leave my pig friend, but that charming concrete pig had nestled itself into my heart.
For the next couple of years, I looked for a pig just like that one. It became a game with a bit of obsession sprinkled on top. The price didn’t matter (well, a somewhat REASONABLE price anyway). If a store we passed looked like there might be a remote possibility that they would sell concrete flying pigs, we stopped to ask. No luck. The online shopping world at my fingertips didn’t help, either. Amazon may sell live tadpoles but not my particular concrete flying pig.
When your family and friends know you’ve been looking for a concrete flying pig for two years, you are gifted all kinds of flying pigs. Flying pig mugs and socks and iron paperweights and Christmas tree ornaments and tote sacks. My mom even found me a flying concrete pig, and though it was adorable, he wasn’t “the” pig. Time ticked along, and the tug of that concrete flying pig settled into resolution: That chubby, smiling, winged concrete pig wasn’t mine to own.
The long journey from the first day I met Margo at my school until the day the kids moved into our home lasted almost two years too. I NEVER would have fathomed that she and her siblings would be ours one day. If someone had told Clay and me that we would start over with four children birthed by strangers, our reply might have been something like, “When pigs fly!” (but probably something much more colorful).
From the first “what-if?”-glimmers of the kids, the path Clay and I journeyed was done with the tiniest baby steps. We were clueless about what we were doing. We didn’t want to change our world. We didn’t want to give up the plans we had nurtured for years that started with the phrase “When our kids are grown and gone, we will (fill in the blank). In retrospect, the best way to describe it was that God placed a curtain in front of us, allowing us to only see, question, react to, be obedient to, and prepare for what was right at our feet at any given moment. Saying we inched our way forward would be inaccurate: We millimetered our way forward.
Can we handle four new kids? Do we WANT to forever change the trajectory of our lives? Do we really want to give up our current, peaceful, fulfilling life and pour chaos on top? Are we okay with the deaths of so many of our dreams? Moreover, are we the best parents the kids can get?
Our answer to every question could have been answered, “When pigs fly!”
The kids were living in their group home when the seed of maybe was planted within us. I was merely their old school librarian who brought them pjs and books. I knew there was no way they could come live with us. I had looked up home specification requirements for fostering, and though our house was large, we did not have enough bedrooms for legal foster care. God’s answer HAD to be “no”. Right?
But then, at the encouragement of the kids’ court-appointed advocate Kari, the kids’ lawyer Vicky called and asked if she could visit our home. I said yes, no harm, no foul. I told her that I had researched the rules, and my home wouldn’t work.
But she visited anyway, and she told me otherwise.
I told her we had no foster license.
She suggested approaching the court as “fictive kin”. Fictive kin has close, personal ties with uprooted children even if they are not related.
I reminded Vicky that I was only their librarian from a year ago. She brushed me off and said the court could decide.
I could have said “no” when Kari asked if I would buy them new shoes and deliver them to the children’s home. I could have said “no” when Vicky asked to visit our home. I could have said “no” when she mentioned fictive kin. But I did not. At that point in the process, Clay had left everything in my hands because, ultimately, that man is up for anything I drag him into. If I wanted to purchase a zoo, he would make it happen.
Every day I prayed for wisdom and for signs and for any solid answer I could embrace. More decisions came our way. The possibility of inviting those children to live in our home became more real every day. Clay’s opinions and decisions became necessary. GOD’S decisions became necessary
Please, God, show us! Scream your answer into my spirit. For the sake of these kids, I NEED TO KNOW your will! We cannot – we WILL NOT – let any of this go any further if you do not give us an answer! Give us a sign, God! A sign we cannot ignore!
About a week before the day the kids would eventually arrive at our home, my sister called me. The strangest thing had happened. When she opened the front door of her home, my winged pig – THE winged pig, was sitting on her porch, staring up at her with a smile. Two years after I sat beside that pig at breakfast, the owner of the restaurant – a complete stranger who I had never met – remembered how much Pam Winfield’s sister loved that pig. She left that pig on my sister’s doorstep for me and refused a dime of payment.
How is that for a sign? An unmistakable sign announcing to Clay and me that pigs were flying and that we were inviting four new children to live in our home.
I signed up for a women’s Bible study at my new church. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but after a few meetings, I’ve got to be honest: My thoughts are in a mixed-up, battling jumble right about now.
The problem (if you’d call it a problem) isn’t the study itself. We’re trekking through the book of Philippians, and I’m learning tons. My favorite thing I’ve encountered so far? The Message version of the Bible translates Philippians 1:21 like this:
“Alive I am Christ’s messenger; dead I am His prize. Life vs. even more life! I can’t lose.”
Good stuff right there!
Another definite win is that I finally solidified the spelling of “Philippians” into my longterm memory. One “L” but two “P”s. Now if only I can learn to spell “definite” without spellcheck since I definitely use “definite” all the time (though, in all actuality, it’s really not that difficult to spell!).
The study is great. My soul-fluster surrounding my new Bible class arises solely from my own insecurity and anxiety of creating longish-term connections with strangers.
Most of the people in my life have been there for decades. Every so often, a new person is taken into the fold, but for the most part, my people know me. They know my strengths and like me. They know my weaknesses and like me anyway. I am quite good at setting boundaries between myself and those who stir up trouble, consequently, when I step out into my world, confidence in my relationships isn’t something I battle. I love my people. A lot. And they seem to like me okay as well.
When I signed up for the Bible study, I did so because there is something profound and powerful in studying God’s Word with a small group of seekers. The first week, I left the class floating on Cloud Nine from the study AND my new spiritual comrades. Those twelve-ish women are encouraging and inspiring and they love Jesus. They were so fantastic, in fact, that the hope of new friendships corded with God left me three-strand-gluttonous and (a bit too) excited and eager.
Time ticked on, and week one of Bible study unfolded into week two.
When I left Bible study that second week, I was… euphoric. Those women acknowledged me and my struggles, and they lifted me up in a way only a great group of friends can. It didn’t matter that the only one I heard call me by name called me Dėserėe instead of Deidre. New friendships showed shadows of beginnings, and my soul was happy.
But last night was week three, and I’ve got to tell you, I’m not so optimistic. Don’t misunderstand me. Those gals are great. They’re smart and godly and encouraging, but my hope of friend-hoarding went AWOL, and I’m kind of sad about that. The wall I felt between them and I was palpable.
Who put the wall up? Though I’d like to point fingers, I am sure it was unknowingly me: my wall of weirdness. I am well aware that I can be irritatingly odd, especially when I try in my own strength to make someone see good in me. I take up more than my fair share of space in this world. I try so hard to remain authentic and real, but my unchecked enthusiasm punctuated with my humongous, toothy smile is way too much for most, and some only see manufactured zealousness and swiftly label me a phony. Yes, I know how I come across. I tend to be a cartoon, especially if you don’t know me.
Blog posts in and of themselves don’t generally cure cancer or end wars or fix personality flaws, and I don’t feel pressed to have all the answers for you or for me. The only way I could convince myself to dust off the old blog is by reminding myself that putting my jumbled thoughts down into words often has the magical ability of unraveling some of my anxieties and unsurities and insecurities. I don’t expect answers here, and you shouldn’t either. But I think I have settled into some truth from this particular rollercoaster.
First of all, this sideroad of the past three weeks compels me to remember how many healthy, encouraging friendships I already have. To have even one good friend is a huge blessing in this broken world of ours, and I generally don’t take my people for granted. I truly am so grateful for what I already have. Why am I so greedy in the friendship arena? Because I’m human? And I like friends? I don’t see that changing any time soon.
Another profound revelation from my muddleness is that it’s not fair to place giant expectations (or even smallish ones) on others I barely know. Those poor women at the Bible study went there to learn more about Jesus with others who love Jesus. They did not sign up to coddle a needy, pitiful ruffian.
So there you go: Regardless of all of the miracles I experience daily, I am still a needy pitiful ruffian wanting more and more and more. God is working on that, and to help Him out a bit… I think I’ll go back to Bible study.
Flying Pigs 