Tracey Marley

Technically this title is true every morning I wake up, but it’s truth holds particular significance for today. Like that first labor pain—the one you dread, but wonder if it will ever come—this morning I woke up, got dressed, fed my children, drove them 4 miles down the road, walked them down a long hall, helped them put away their things, passed out kisses, and then watched my baby start his first day of school.

In an instant Avery became a boy: smart, active and on the go. I’m pretty sure he came out of the womb talking. After all, the doctor’s first words were, “This boy is ready for school!” (No joke. He really said that. Avery weighed 9+ pounds.) Twenty-five pounds later, my baby no longer needs Mommy to dress him, tell him when to go potty, open the door for him or feed him. That’s big boy stuff.

That means today there will be no mid-day fort building in the middle of the living room floor, no slamming of the back door followed by an announcement that the dog has run away, nor a request for corn dogs and chocolate milk that can be eaten in an imaginary camper. We will not host a scavenger hunt for our shoes so that we can go and pick up Anna. There will be no fire trucks under the dining room table, just Mommy and me. No Legos to pick up before I vacuum. Today, even the cat will get to finish his nap uninterrupted. Yes, even Chester is confused by the silence that has descended upon our house.

Thank God for whoever had the foresight to make the first day of school a short day!

Ah, change.

Bittersweet are the memories that come as we cross from one stage of life into another. One day leads to the next, and suddenly you wake up one morning realizing you have lived out one of the most precious and treasured seasons of life. Am I holding on too tight? Or not tight enough? Maybe a little of both. I am so thankful I got to spent these years at home with my children. A blessing indescribable—one I would not trade for any amount of money or career.

If there’s but one thing I’ve learned through parenting thus far, it’s that just as those labor pains I remember growing, intensifying, and then disappearing altogether, I know—with the help of Christ—that I, too, will adjust, embrace this new change, and grow with my children from here. Today’s pains and uncertainties will pass and become tomorrow’s encouragement and strengths. I know this will happen because it’s the way God is raising me….still.

In the last year or so, I’ve been reminded of a few things about my personality. Lots of love to all you canine fans, but no matter how hard I try, I am not a dog person. I want to be. I’ve tried to be. But I simply am not.

The fact that I own a dog is also forcing me to come to grips with my temper. Yes, sweet little ‘ol me has a temper that can reach catastrophic levels with little to no warning. Thankfully I don’t get mad often, and when I do it’s rarely in public. This shouldn’t be surprising, or at least not to my family. I come from a long line of ancestors who were legendary in their orneriness.

Because writing has a way of helping me vent my emotions and heal, I’m choosing to write about some of my recent explosions, hoping to color them with a little humor because I don’t foresee the source of my aggrevation going away anytime soon.

Meet Tucker. Don’t be fooled by the big brown eyes, floppy ears and “please-take-me-home-with-you face”. I fell for it and two days later realized my name had become Sucker.

To truly appreciate what I’m about to write, you must understand that Tucker came into our lives during a very trying time. We were living in a small but immaculate rental house, on almost no land at all, were building our own permanent house, transitioning the ministry, all while I was suffering a really nasty depression. Bringing Tucker into our lives was not a wise decision for our family or for a coon hound who grows faster than summer grass and generates more energy than a wind mill. Tucker had nowhere to go, and I had everywhere to be. Between the kids in school and working on our new home, no one had the time to give this very attention-demanding dog everything he wanted.

That means he started to chew on everything. Stuffed animals, shoes, toys…anything that could not be swallowed whole got nibbled down until it was no longer recognizable. Eventually we moved into our new house and thought that having over three and a half acres of land for this dog to enjoy would solve his discontent.

We were wrong. Since February, we’ve lost many a things to his not-so-particular diet. This list includes all the outside chair cushions, numerous shoes, Legos, lipsticks, more stuffed animals, birdhouses, base ball bats, balls, a plastic wheel barrel…even a bag of tile mortar. He does all this before he scampers off to chew up whatever the neighbors own.

So we buy one of those fancy wireless collars. Great idea, only the dog has figured out the system. He knows when the battery goes low before I do. It takes a few hours to charge, so at night we put him in his kennel, or on a chain until the battery is ready.

Monday, when I am driving home from dropping Avery out at his last day of preschool, dreaming about what I will do with my last morning alone, I pull into our development and pass a dog. It can’t possibly be Tucker who was on his chain.

“What an ugly dog,” I think to myself. I pull up beside him. It’s Tucker. He is so sandy and muddy from the previous night’s rain I didn’t even recognize him from a distance. Furious that the expensive collar is so inconvenient and that Tucker has broken free from his leash, I roll down the window, and in my meanest mommy voice I yell, “Get back to the house!”

Tucker turns and comes over to the car window where I give him the stare. He hangs his head and follows the car down the middle of the road about fifty feet. Every so often I see him look back over his shoulder. It’s obvious he’s torn between the spanking that’s coming and pooping in the neighbor’s yard. He chooses the latter. Turning tail, he bolts full throttle back out toward the highway and to the neighbors geraniums. My anger doubles. I’m on the threshold of an explosion. I can feel it.

I drive back to our house way too mad to enjoy the quiet Bible study and cup of French vanilla coffee I’d been dreaming of. The sad thing is, I know if I don’t go get that stupid dog, I’ll worry about him all morning. Reluctantly, I grab the leash, get back in the car, and drive around the neighborhood looking for our prodigal.

I make several laps around the block, but there’s no sign of Tucker. I pull into the marina, one of his favorite hang outs. Still, no sign of Tucker. I finally give up and head back to the house. As I pass by a house, I catch a glimpse of something that is either Tucker or a German Sheppard standing in the edge of the woods. It’s Tucker. And he has a friend. They see me stop.

The German Sheppard starts barking at me—the stranger breeching his property line—and Tucker bounds over to the car as if to say, “Look mom! I’ve made a friend. Isn’t he great? What a great bark he has! Everybody in the whole neighborhood can hear a bark like that!”

I jump out and snap the leash on Tucker’s collar before the German Sheppard gets loose and chases me home on foot—that or someone comes out the back door of the house with a shot gun.

Because Tucker is so nasty, there is no way I’m putting him in my car. It’s simply not an option. I stand in the middle of the road and think. I can’t let go of him or he’ll run away, and it’s too far to park my car and drag him back home. Because that is what I would have to do: drag him. Suddenly the movie “The National Lampoon’s Vacation” comes to mind. I get an idea.

Toyota Corollas do not have steel bumpers, so I get in the car, roll down the window and commence to “walk” the dog with one hand out the open window gripping the leash and the other hand on the steering wheel. Believe it or not, there is an art to walking a dog on a leash and driving a car at the same time—especially if the dog is reluctant to the idea. No matter how bad I wanted to romp the gas, I knew I couldn’t. “God, I hope no one is watching,” I pray. “If they are, they’re probably calling the law.”

The next morning, Tuesday, Tucker is gone again. I mutter all the way to drop Anna out at school about how frustrating this dog is. “He’s the worst pet ever!” I say. “I wish he’d get really lost for good!”

I ride by the lake on the way home, alerting the marina staff that my dog is missing—again. “Oh, yeah,” the old man says, “you’re the one with the dog that was down here the other day. He was out on the pier.”

“Yes, that’s him,” I say humiliated.

The old man laughs. Thankfully, Tucker doesn’t know a stranger and is completely impartial to whoever will give him attention. “I’ll give you a call if I see him,” the man tells me. I don’t even have to leave my number. He has it on speed dial.

I drive back to our house and surprisingly find this dog wrapped around the bushes and stuck up under the tractor. In his attempt to escape, he’s wound his lease and corkscrew tie-out tight around some bushes. Of course I tell him just what’s on my mind while he’s helpless, trapped and forced to listen to my angry tirade.

I crawl in the bushes and under the tractor to free him before tying his leash to a cinder block seeing how the corkscrew that goes in the ground is no longer an option now that it’s bend at a weird angle. I have to do this because the over-priced wireless collar is on the blink….again. I give Tucker food and water and instruct Avery to “entertain” his dog or else.

All is well until the next morning, Wednesday. I leave to take Anna to school, and lo-and-behold, Tucker is gone. Go figure. “This is ridiculous. Why do I even try? We should’ve name that dog Houdini!” I pull out the end of our very long drive and turn onto the road that circles the development and there he is.

Tucker is at the very top corner of our yard, cinder block and all. He’s dragged that thing over a tenth of a mile and it’s stuck around the neighbor’s flagpole! I shake my head and keep driving like I don’t know who’s dog he is. The kids are waving, screaming, and laughing because this crazy dog has anchored itself in someone else’s yard. Me? I’m thinking, too bad he didn’t try for a swim in the lake. (Shame on me, I know.)

After I drop Anna at school, I came back to our neighborhood and went about what is now my morning routine. I hooked Tucker’s leash to the flag pole, lugged the heavy cinder block to the car, and then went back to get him. I got in the car, arm extended, new flip-flops all wet and ruined and we proceeded home—me driving and Tucker walking beside the car. This time I drive a little faster, a little more careless. I’m mad, but even I can’t bring myself to floor it like I want to. “Our neighbors must think I’m crazy. I’m sure they see me driving by and say, ‘There’s that lazy woman in the white Corolla walking her dog again.’”

Truth is, I came in the house feeling like I’d run a marathon. My heart was pounding, my arm was bruised and bleeding, I was covered in mud and so was the inside of my car. My new shoes were nasty… “Oh, God,” I say, “what is wrong with this disobedient animal? What does it want from me? My sanity? Why won’t it listen?”

And somewhere deep, deep, deep in my heart, I realize Tucker is doing this to get attention. And that when I want attention and don’t get it, I do the same things. God points out to me, much later after I’ve calmed down and can laugh about this, “How many times have I had to go get you? You’ve been known to drag your baggage much farther than a tenth of a mile, and it was much, much heavier than a cinder block.”

And it’s true. How many times, like Tucker, have I been tempted to run off to indulge in my own desires? To run ahead, or lag behind  while carrying something as cumbersome as a piece of concrete around my neck when God was really working to get me where I belonged? There have been times in my life when I’ve been where I shouldn’t and got some real spiritual dirt on me while I was there—so much so I don’t know if I was recognizable as a child of God or not at the time. Just like Tucker, I have been that sandy, dirty, stinky dog eager to prowl through someone’s garbage simply because I’m human and that’s what I’m prone to do. And what did God do with me during those times?

You’d best be believing that Tucker got some real discipline when we got home that morning, but later…later I’m sure he got a treat. Thankfully my Master cares enough to discipline me, too.

Some of you may be wondering where I’ve been. To clear things up, I’ll give you some background. Over the last year, my husband and I sold our home of ten years, moved into a small rental house, bought another house, cut it apart, had it moved 30 some miles to where our land is located in Ramseur, put it back together again—only in a completely different configuration than its original design, and then moved in it. On top of this, the ministry we’re involved in has completely changed shape. Confused? Basically, I’ve just endured one of the hardest and most stressful years of my life.

Our House Before Move/Renovations

So many times my emotions color my writing, and honestly, I’ve been too scared to write much of anything for the fear of messing up everything. My bout with depression has lasted longer, ran deeper and been more exhausting than I ever imagined. Naturally, my hope is that by seeing God’s hand draw some things together with us settling into our  new house just last month, I will once again be able to regroup and focus on what He’s called me to do. That is to write.

Our House After Move/Renovations

One of the threads that seems to be woven into to my complicated year of change started to show itself last April when my sister and I were sitting outside her Florida home, anxiously watching her new bird feeder. With baited breath and absolutely no movement whatsoever, we waited for the pair of returning cardinals to show themselves. They were beautiful, true love birds. We were privileged only a few seconds to view the spectacular birds before a flock of noisy children ran into the front yard, scaring them away. Yet, somehow, from that moment on, I found myself intrigued by these feathered friends.

I came home to our rental property, which backed up to a farm and granary, and watched as warm weather graced the Carolinas. To my delight, our trees and yard filled up with birds. Robins, some type of little brown bird and cardinals. They were everywhere. For Mother’s Day I requested my own bird feeder so I could sit on my patio and be amongst the birds.

All spring I enjoyed watching the birds. Early in the mornings, I’d open my Bible, but before I would turn to scripture, I would sit and watch my backyard wake up. The birds took turns on the fence, the feeder and in the trees. My favorite was a beautiful red cardinal. He always perched on the swing set, patiently waiting for his turn at the feeder. I admired him and his stark contrast to the world of green exploding around me.

Summer came and with it came the heat and the harder months of what eventually turned into a fierce emotional and spiritual struggle. It became the evening time when I would sit outside with the birds. Each night as dusk crept over the pastures, I would listen as the birds went to bed and the nightlife began to stir. I would sit there thinking of God and how he took care of his animals, how they were provided for and sheltered every day. How even after vicious summer thunderstorms, the birds would always return, chirping and singing their Creator’s praise in the morning. I wondered if I would do the same when my own thunderstorm had passed.

Fall blew in and the only change I could gauge was in the weather. Days grew short while a sadness and longing crept over my heart like the deep shadows cast by an early sunset. The trees in my yard were empty and bare.  The birds had gone south, and despite all the prayer and Bible study I had done, my depression got worse. It quickly became too cold to sit outside. Despite the fact that I was working nearly every day on what would become our new home, something felt lost and incomplete in my heart. It felt like God had gone south for the winter, too. For the first time, I couldn’t write—not that I wanted to. Something just wasn’t there anymore. It was like the dramatic and spiritually in-tune person I once was had died. I felt like I was living out my life as someone else—the old me…the old and fleshly me.

I wish I could say there was some dramatic revelation, some miraculous encounter that turned it all around, but I can’t. Thanksgiving came and in order to get our house complete while interest rates were at the lowest, my husband and I developed tunnel vision. Every spare moment was spent painting, hanging drywall, wading through mud, and doing electrical work. That time took a toll on our marriage, our children, and my sanity. By December, I felt personally responsible for the hike in the economy and the end of the drought in North Carolina. Come Christmas, we still were not in our new house and it was a huge disappointment.

Instead of sending my blues out the door with a holly, jolly Christmas, January brought more snow and even more rain. Our home sat in a 3.5 acre mud puddle. Anyone who knows me, knows I hate mud and we had lots of it. Then came February. On February 1st, we got our certificate of occupancy. If you don’t know what that is, it’s the golden ticket that every self-contracting homeowner strives for. It’s the paperwork that says a home is a safe place and that it can be lived in. So we moved—again. This move, however, didn’t come with the same tears and worries that our previous move had. This time it was exciting. I knew the end result because I had planned and worked hard for it. The state of pure and utter bliss I was in felt strange after being down for so long.

Come moving day, rain or not, I was ready. Ice made for a delayed start to school, and by the time we were on our way out the door, I was in high gear. I bounded out the backdoor, eager to say the least. As soon as I opened the screen, something red laying on my doorstep stopped me. “No!” I said as my heart took a nose dive and I focused in on the object at my feet. Anna, my daughter, confirmed my fears. “Mama, it’s a cardinal! What happened?”

The beautiful red cardinal was dead and immediately I assumed finding it was a terrible sign.  The bird, what does this mean? And why now, God? On moving day? What are You saying? I scooped the bird up into a paper towel and examined it. His eyes were open, his feathers in perfect shape. Brown feet arched in a circle, tiny crimson tips on his eyelashes.  The bird was perfect—there was no obvious sign for a cause of death. Again I questioned the Lord, “Why God? What does this mean?” All I could come up with were the words, “it’s over”. I was desperately hoping the words meant the horrible season my soul seemed to be trapped in was over. I was reluctant to believe such news.

I laid the bird aside to take care of once I got the kids to school. I cried all the way there and all the way back. My husband kept wanting to know the reason for my tears, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. Not until I had a definite reasoning from God could I share the hope that was in my heart.

It wasn’t until lunchtime that I found myself alone. I shrugged on a coat, grabbed a shovel and made my way into the back yard where I would bury the bird. I looked out across the pastures, remembering how just days earlier I had taken a walk and stopped to lean against the fence. It was then that a red cardinal, possibly the same one, had landed in a bush across the field. Things were so quiet that winter day, I had been able to stand there listening to the movements he made on the branches. The bird had been the only color in an otherwise gray mass of  tangled thicket he had landed on. Crimson against the ugly, I thought.

I stood there thinking of how, unlike the other birds, the cardinal had stayed behind for the winter. I was then reminded of God. He, too,  was still there—even in the midst of my winter. “Where should I bury him?” I asked the Lord, unable to bear the memory any longer without tears. Receiving no answer, I tried to dig a hole in the middle of the yard. Despite all the rain, the ground was too hard so I stood there in the cold dreary rain, wondering what to do. Then I knew.

I moved to the soft earth of the flower garden that surrounded my patio—the place where I had spent so many mornings sitting and reading my Bible. Hovering over the bird wrapped in a white paper towel, crying so hard I could barely breath, I knew that was the spot. That was when God gave me the answer I had sought all morning. “His purpose has been fulfilled,” the Lord seemed to say. The words were to my heart but as clear as if spoken out loud. Understanding dawned. I believe with all my heart the Lord created that one red cardinal just for me—a small reminder that would turn my attention to Him and His provision for the small and defenseless during a brutal season of life. Times had been hard, and I had questioned, but I honestly could not find a time in the previous months when the Lord had failed me. I believe that bird’s life ended because God purpose for creating it had been fulfilled. I was moving on.

With a humble and thankful heart, I dug a hole and bowed before my Creator. I praised from a place, though long forgotten, was not dead. I bowed in the rain, battling the emotions of grief and awe. I grieved because, good or bad, something familiar was once again changing and there was a loss. I was in awe because of what or Who had known and stood by watching me endure one of the hardest times of my life. I found that the Lord had been incredibly mindful of me in the midst of my pain.

“Lord, remind me,” I breathed through another onset of tears. “Every time I see a cardinal, I want You to remind me. I want You to remind me of what You’ve done for me. Crimson against the ugly.” My thoughts were not on the bird at that point, but on Calvary.

I went about burying the Lord’s small treasure to me there by the patio where I had sat watching the sun come up in the mornings, and set in the evenings—by the place where I would read my Bible, often not hearing or feeling anything, only watching life going on around me.

The cardinal’s grave covered, the shovel set aside, the Lord spoke again. “Lift up your face,” He said. “The time for grieving is over. Lift up your face.”  I turned my eyes to sky as the cold rain washed away my tears. I probably looked like an idiot to the cars passing by, but I found I had cared about appearances for far too long. I closed my eyes, threw back my head and smiled—again worshiping from a place long forgotten, but not dead. I felt the Lord’s presence with me that day. An image even came to mind of how He must have looked standing over me with a hand to my shoulder as I buried the bird He had created. I still cry when I think about that image.

Before this post, the only person I’ve shared this story with was my husband, who upon hearing it, cried with me. It was our secret until weeks later when it became everyone’s. Do I find it ironic that within the days following the death of that cardinal we received not one, not two, but three new birdhouses as house warming presents? Those people had no idea of this story. For that reason alone,  I know the Lord will fill those bird houses, maybe even with cardinals, just as I know He will be faithful to fill my heart and mind with the reminders I’ve requested of Him. Crimson against the ugly. Crimson against the things I don’t understand. Crimson against confusion, hurt and sadness. Crimson again loneliness, disappointment, rejection, and failure. Crimson against lies. And crimson because I know regardless of the season my soul seems to be stuck in, I know He has a plan.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose” Romans 8:28 NIV

Red for a Reason

I once heard it said that you spend the first two years of a child’s life teaching them to walk and talk, and the rest of their life telling them to sit down and shut up… My babies were late walkers but early talkers. The first words, “Da, da” were followed by a constant chattering that eventually became a one-sided dialog that never ends.

Avery, my youngest, enters a room mouth first and doesn’t have a shy bone in his body. Much to my worry, he never meets a stranger, nor does he hesitate in blurting out exactly what’s on his mind. One morning before school, we were putting in a load of wash. When we came to the bras and underwear, he was full of questions. Instantly, in my mind’s eye, I could see him describing my intimate apparel to his teachers and classmates in vivid detail. “Avery,” I said, “there are some things we don’t talk about to others. Mommy’s underwear is one of them.”

I’m sure my son found something else just as fascinating to talk about that day (thus far, I haven’t gotten any snickers or weird looks from the preschool staff). But that is Avery. Always rambling about something. And when he doesn’t know a word for something, he makes one up. I know not to depend on him if I’m looking for complete accuracy.

Anna, on the other hand, doesn’t talk near as much. She probably figures she’ll never be heard with Avery in the room and therefore limits her comments for instructing her little brother on what he should and should not be doing. This always causes a fight meaning the noise in my house is a constant. It starts right after school and escalates until bedtime. Throughout the supper preparation, I’m usually found to be saying everything at least three times and to no avail.By the time my husband gets home, I’m yelling and don’t even realize it.

That’s why one morning last week, I rose early to snuggle on the couch with my Bible in the quiet stillness that says everyone is asleep. The Lord lead me to the book of Ecclesiastes, chapter 3, where I found the chapter titled, “A Time for Everything”. I had no more got started when I looked up to see fuzzy eyed Anna entering the room. I fought the disappointment of having my quiet time interrupted. She got under the blanket with me and I read through the chapter with her. We talked about some of the verses, and I asked her for life examples of what the verses described.

A time to be born was described as a time when you are young, a time to die was when you were old, a time to plant was in the spring, and a time to uproot was during the fall harvest. A time to love was all the time, and a time to hate, I described as hating evil and sin. We finished our study that morning, but days later, to my surprise, I heard her repeating the verses to her chattering brother. “Avery, there is a time to speak and a time to be silent. This is the time to be silent,” she said. Needless to say, I did a double-take. Not only did she remember our reading, she was applying the scripture.

Knowing how extremely frustrating I find it to speak without being heard, this verse combined with my child’s excessive need to be verbal, leads me to question how God feels about my “quite time” with Him. Often I’m the one who does all the talking. And often all I have to say is about me. Do I ever stop to listen to what it is He wants to say? What He’s already been saying that I’ve been too busy to really listen to? Many times He will put a scripture or person on my heart in a way that I’ll notice, but never do anything about.

Just this week, I felt a strong burden to call a friend. Something came up and I got distracted and never made the call. The next day she called me and I could hear it in her voice. She needed my undivided attention. Not an easy thing to find in my house, so I went to the bedroom where I hid beneath the covers and listened as she poured out her heart. There was a crisis occurring in her life that I had no idea about. The situation she found herself in was causing feelings of guilt, inadequacy, disappointment and fear—and she was reaching out to me. Immediately I felt I had to say something, yet words of wisdom seemed to allude me. “I don’t know what to say,” I replied. “It’s going to be okay. God is still in control.”

“I know. I don’t need you to say anything. I just need you to be there.” She was incredibly relived not by my words, but just to know I had listened. We talked some more and I did end up quoting Romans 8:28 as encouragement—not as a means to minimize her crisis with a “quick fix”, but to remind her of the things the Lord has already turned around for good in her life. She thanked me and later confessed that she clung to the verse all day.

I can’t say I was obedient to the Lord by being the one to make the call to my friend, but I feel like He worked it out in spite of me. So what is He saying to you? Is there something or someone He is repeatedly putting on your heart? A message you are to give to someone? Consider it a call to act, but only after you’ve taken the time to be silent and let Him speak what it is He wants you to say.

“There is…a time to be silent and a time to speak,” Ecclesiastes 3:1,7  NIV

Many of you have inquired, “When is book two coming out?” and I usually respond with a vague answer like, “I’m working on it.” I wanted to give my readers an update and let you know what is going on with the story and in my personal life. I actually finished the bulk of Forgiveness for Yesterday back during the spring. Since then, however, I have been diagnosed with depression. There have been so many changes in my life this year, for some reason my brain isn’t making the right chemicals for me to process them. Things are slowly turning around and I praise God for that. In the mean time, I’m continuing to wrap the story up, listening for God’s direction on the specifics, and marveling at the way He is pulling things together.

On top of the many changes our family has undergone this year (selling our home, moving, losing a family pet, changing the direction of our ministry, starting to build a new home, and getting our youngest into preschool) I find myself sick….again. I’m sure stress is a major contributor, but with the allergies and all, the whole family is sick with me. I share the following story to offer a glimpse into my everyday life. Maybe it will help you understand why writing a book takes so much mental energy—the kind I can’t seem to find.

Tuesday as I picked up Anna from school and piled her and her brother, Avery, into the car, my life seemed to tailspin into crazy at a moment’s notice. Avery, who is extremely accident prone, climbed into the car as the arm rest of Anna’s car seat broke off. Because he was using it to hoist himself up and into the car, he tumbles backwards and out of the car head first onto the pavement. Now keep in mind school as been in session for two weeks and Avery has averaged one injury per week while we’re picking Anna up. The first week he fell up the steps and skinned his knees. The second week, he walked into a parked car and bruised his face.

I see Avery make this tumble, and like some kind of mommy ninja, I jut my foot forward between his head and the asphalt just as it makes contact. My foot is crushed, but I was able to break Avery’s fall and miraculously avoid adding head injury to our list of mishaps. I scoop him up and sooth the hysterical child all the while trying not to laugh, and thanking God we made no more of a scene than we did.

Eventually we make it to Wal-Mart where I have to pick up a handful of key survival items, namely contacts and laundry detergent. We make it as far as existing the car when Anna gets slammed by the door. I shift all my attention to her, but notice she is particularly whiny. This time we make it as far as the buggies. I put her in (she never wants to ride) and she complains of a head ache. I feel her forehead. She is burning up. She’s had a terrible cough, but no fever and hasn’t acted sluggish or sickly. I decide that a trip to the doctor was in order—immediately. Accomplishing such a feat could take hours. Anna is a child who has a serious phobia of doctors. (Last year’s visit to the health department for a flu shot left the staff traumatized.) Forgetting the groceries, we head back to the car and across the street to Urgent Care. Anna is sweating and her hair is all over the place. She looks terrible.

We check in amongst many tears, complaints and more hysterical crying. Finally the doctor arrives and starts to check Anna out. He leans in to look in her ear. Just as he does I see him stop and his eyes go large. “No!” he says to my son who is standing directly to my right. I turn. Avery has picked up something off the floor and is about to stick it into the electrical outlet.

Avery pauses, hearing he’s in trouble. The doctor grabs his chest like he’s having a heart attack. “He scared me to death,” the man says. Anna is still crying. I give Avery the look that says to knock it off or else. Turns out Anna has early pneumonia. The feelings that I’m a terrible mom wash over me. I should’ve picked up on this sooner. We have to do chest x-rays. More crying and fretting from Anna. We go down the hall where Avery entertains the nurse with chatter about a farm that he will one day own and operate. He’s chatting on and on about a litter of dogs we do not have and chickens  he plans to raise. “He is so cute,” the nurse exclaims. I don’t deny it. There is no telling what he’s confessed that I didn’t hear or what he will say if I get on his bad side.

Ten minutes later  we return to the first room only now it  has been fully equipped with safety plugs on every outlet. The doctor comes back in as Avery is examining the change. “Has something changed?” the doctor asked. Evidently Avery considers it a challenge. He starts trying to bump the magazine holder off the wall by jumping up and down under it. He hits it with his head while dancing a jig. The doctor is going over Anna’s prescriptions while Avery chatters like a chipmunk. To no avail, I tell Avery to stop. I give him “the look” again and the kid actually has the nerve to smack my hands away. I’m dumbfounded. He’s never hit at me. In a demonic voice only Avery can hear, I inform him what’s going to happen when we leave. I honed back in on the doctor’s words with my completely congested ear. Something about two tablespoons every three hours.

Avery starts jumping again, seeing I’m occupied and the magazine rack all but comes off the wall. Finally the doctor looks at Avery and kindly tells him not to break the magazine rack. The doctor then looks at me and quips, “He’s a busy little thing, isn’t he?” My reply? “You have no idea.”

If that isn’t enough, later during the week, my husband and I had an appointment to close on a construction loan for our new house. My mother was having eye surgery and could not babysit. I had to be at the signing and because Anna is sick, to my utter dismay I ended up taking both kids with me. I give them a lengthy lecture on how to behave, yet expecting the worst. Being that close to the jail, they will be able to walk me right over should I end up killing one of them.

Anna and Avery go in, see their dad, sit in the chairs their father instructs them to, and don’t utter a peep as Chad places a piece of chocolate in front of each of them. “Now if you behave,” he explains, “you can have the chocolate when we’re through.” The kids sit like angels. Even the guy from the bank comments twenty minutes later, “Those are the best behaved kids I’ve ever seen at a loan closing!” I’m thinking, “Boy have they got you snowed!” They eat the chocolate and experience the sugar high as dad goes back to work and leaves them in my care.

By the end of my day, I am sick, exhausted, and trying hard to muster up rational thoughts to get things in order for the next day. That day would be today—Avery’s first day of preschool. As the other mom’s stood outside their preschooler’s classes this morning, snapping photos and wiping tears, there was a song playing deep in my heart as I skipped from the building. I love my children, but this morning, I teared up and then quickly recovered. Parenting is hard work.

With that said, maybe you can appreciate the busyness of my life, the chaos that seems to find me, and how it is imperative that I seek out the Lord to write anything that has any sort of depth on a spiritual level. All my days aren’t as crazy as the ones described, but a lot of them are. I’m human. I write from where I am. If you’re there too, then my prayers are for you, sister! Anything good I’m able to accomplish is certainly by the hand of God!

I covet your prayers as I continue to transition through major changes and hopefully bring this story together in a way that will best honor God. Till next time,

Tracey

Lately I’ve been witnessing what seems to be an explosion of the media regarding the topic of exercise, yet no matter how many ads I’ve read, commercials I’ve viewed, nor cellulite-reducing products I’ve bought, nothing has prepared me for what I experienced this weekend.

On the way home from Sophia Friday night, Chad and I decided to pop into one of our favorite pizza joints in Randleman. I had a cold, felt rotten and couldn’t have been less enthusiastic about coming home and preparing a nutritionally sound meal for my family—regardless of what All You magazine had to say about it. I wanted pizza and I wanted it hot, greasy and I wanted it immediately!

We piled into the booth at Sir Pizza, and as my husband reached for the menu, I realized that on the big screen TV behind him, they were airing All Star Workouts. I thought to myself, this is seriously messed up. A workout show is on? At a pizza restaurant? Ridiculous.

I looked around to the other booths and tables. I was the only one who seemed to notice the absurdity. I considered making a joke to the waitress, but seeing how she was a sized two teen, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Throughout the wait, I could feel my marketing mind trying to take over. Eventually I gave in to analyzing the marketing strategy of what I thought was a gross oversight. I watched the silly smiles on the people working out in front of me. They looked so stupid. No one smiles like that when burning calories. They smile like that when they’re eating them!

My cheesy pepperoni pizza arrived and I proved my point. It was piping hot, delicious and puddled in grease (sounds disgusting, but come on, you’ve had one too, and loved it). I smiled ear to ear. A few slices later, I take a look at the woman on the second row in the show. She’s in really good shape. My thoughts digress from the pizza. I wish I had her backside. No cellulite whatsoever. And she’s smiling. She’s happy. I reach for another slice of pizza. Her legs look good too. That is so far from what my legs look like….I lick the grease off my fingers.

We finished off the entire pizza and my husband says, “Well, that was good! Are you ready?” I wiped my mouth, now staring adamantly at the screen and the sweating but smiling bodies displayed in high def. At this point I was actually doing the workout in my mind. “Yeah, just one more power crunch and I’m done.” Chad laughs and I feel the burn. “‘K. Let’s go,” I say.

I got up from the table feeling more tired than when I sat down. It dawned on me the feeling had more to do with eating an extra four pieces of pizza than I normally do instead of having just completed a mental workout. Suddenly, I’m ever so aware of the marketing strategy and how effective it is. I felt robbed. I came home and had a snack to comfort myself.

I considered turning to my copy of All You to see what it says about situations like this. Surely I’m a goner. (Ever notice how all the popular ladies magazines have the first half of their pages filled with clothing styles, hair ideas, and makeup suggestions while the back half is filled with delicious recipes? Yeah, me too, so I passed.)

I’m not saying Betty Crocker is the devil, but what are we thinking? I actually ate half a pizza while toning someone else’s thighs! The media is so good at making us believe. Half the time I don’t think we realize what it is we’re doing or considering doing until we’ve given way too much thought to the idea.

Satan is a master-mind at sculpting what it is we deem as truth. Just recently he’s tried to convince me that I should commit a sin that would not only destroy my testimony, my ministry, as well as wreck my entire family so that I could experience a new depth of Christ’s forgiveness and grace. Looking back, I find I’m appalled by his audacity to try to manipulate something as divine as grace.

I’m not ashamed to admit it. He was so crafty, he actually had me, a student of the Bible for almost thirty years, pondering something blatantly spoken against by the Scriptures. After a day or so of his ideas pounding in my brain, I asked my husband about the concept. “Do you think it’s the Lord’s will for Christians to willfully sin so that we can be humbled, forgiven, and restored… again? You know, as a reminder to appreciate all it is that Christ has done for us—like we did when we were first saved?”

Based on Romans chapter 7 alone, of course Chad’s answer was a resounding, “No”. For the sake of argument, I kept on. “Why not? If I indulge in something I know is wrong—grievously wrong, but tempting—surely I would experience a closer walk with the Lord when I had confessed the sin, repented, and experienced the cleansing power of forgiveness and restoration.” Then I realized I’ve already had that experience.

I might not have committed what the world would classify as terrible sins: murder, armed robbery, terrorism, but that doesn’t mean my sin didn’t play a part in nailing Christ to the cross. I didn’t need to knock off a bank or commit adultery to be guilty of something. I experienced a closer and more in depth walk with the Lord the day I realized my sin was sin and repented of it. Period. The lie was a trap.

I feel God’s grace when I lose my temper and yell at the kids. I feel it when I fall asleep without reading my Bible. I feel it when I envy having other women’s shapes and do bad things to my body like eating greasy pizza to make up for the fact that I don’t have perfect thighs. I feel God’s grace when I say I’m sorry—and mean it.

Unfortunately if we’re not careful, Satan can blind Christians to what it is Christ does for us on a daily basis. He was hoping for a big and public stumble in my case, which he then would’ve used as crippling evidence for the rest of my life. The devil is so good at playing both sides of the fence! We have to be vigilantly careful to watch what it is we let our minds dwell on. If truth is the antidote for Satan’s lies, then the Word of God is a pharmacy.

After being tested for forty days in the wilderness, Scripture in Luke tells us that Christ was hungry and Satan tempted him. Just thinking about the extremity of Christ’s hunger makes my mouth water. I can almost see the neon lights of a Sir Pizza sign flashing across the desert. “If you are the Son of God, tell this stone to become bread,” Satan said. Yet Christ’s words to Satan were not, “One extra large pepperoni coming right up!” They were, “Man does not live on bread alone.” How tempted Jesus must have been to not only relieve his physical need but in the process prove who He was! He was starving, yet prioritized His Father’s spiritual agenda over His physical one.

If Christ would’ve turned the stones into bread as Satan suggested, a lot more would’ve gone down than just a meal. By taking the bait of pride, Jesus would’ve bought into the lie that it’s all about us as humans. The decision would have changed the course by which we receive salvation. Thank God He didn’t!

I don’t know about you, but the longer I live, the more I discover it’s not about me. In fact, it has very little to do with me. Whether or not we admit it, in reality it’s all about Him. My advice is to watch what it is you find yourself dining on and trying to digest. Self indulgence makes for terrible heart burn.

They say once you learn to ride a bike you never forget. I find that to be true, however, I feel like the old adage should be followed up with something like, “but that dosn’t mean you should expect it to be pretty.”

For those of you who know me and know me well, you know that at best I’m an indoor kinda girl. Reading, shopping and writing take precedence over hiking, gardening—or any activity that causes the body to sweat in general. Another peek into my personality reveals that I love presents and fun surprises.

It was one day back in May when, much to my surprise, my husband came home saying he had a present for me and that it was waiting out in the yard. Because this was also Anna, my daughter’s birthday, I couldn’t retrieve my gift until all of her birthday hoopla had passed. My husband was so excited during the wait. He kept dropping hints and smiles. I was really anticipating something fantastic until he said the words, “keep an open mind”.

Having been married for ten years, I could easily translate. He actually said, “This is more for me than it is for you but act excited anyway”. And I was right. When the time for my surprise would no longer diminish Anna’s moment, I exited out the back door of the house to find a bicycle. Not just any bicycle, mind you. A  1950’s something JC Higgins antique bicycle.

Now I love antiques just as much as the next person, but this particular antique was a rusty piece of metal with some flecks of blue on it, two flat tires and a seat that had been spray painted glossy red. “Wow,” I said as my husband beamed, “for me?”

“Yep! I saw it on the back of a pickup truck at the dump. I chased the driver down and offered him four bucks for it.”

How nice. A present from the dump. And he had to chase the guy down to get it. At this point I’m thinking Chad not only got ripped off, but that he went out of his way to make it happen.

A little research on ebay and we find that the bike in restored condition is worth a lot more than four bucks. It’s worth hundreds to be exact. The discovery sends Chad into all kinds of plans for his four dollar find. Not a day later, he  disassembles the bike and totes all its 5,000 pieces to the nearest bike shop thirty miles away where the owner looks at him like he’s crazy. “Man, you can go down to Wal-Mart and spend $100 and get a much nicer bike,” the guy advised him. Chad wouldn’t hear of such a thing. We spent at least a hundred dollars in the bike shop that day and came home with only handle bars and two new wheels. Obviously, I was dealing with a man on a mission.

Everyday for a couple of weeks, my husband fiddled on this thing, thus satisfying his need to tinker on a new project. When it was finished, Chad was so proud of his vintage JC. He even had new decals custom made. I will never forget how he wheeled it up to the house, ready for me to take my first ride.

Sparkling blue powder-coated frame, new handle bars, American flag stickers on the spokes….The bike looked like a 4th of July picnic. I suppose this is a good time to remind you about me being an indoor kind of girl. Toss in my tendency to be a klutz and you get the idea. The seat of my pants haven’t connected with the seat of a bicycle in years…and years. Seeing my beloved standing there gushing like a proud parent, it was do or die.

I mustered up my courage because I knew this moment was coming. I made one pass around the drive, wobbling as I went. I jerked. I weaved. I all but hit the basketball goal. I over-corrected. I jostled. I finally stopped in fear. Chad was watching so I tried again. After displaying what I thought were the extent of my skills, I pulled up beside him, relieved not to have crashed on the initial take off.

I expressed my gratitude and excitement over having something to ride with him during our upcoming vacation. Chad didn’t say anything, but I could tell. He was nervous. His lack of words were probably due to his making plans to purchase a helmet, elbow and knee pads along with additional life insurance.

Later that evening when he was safely out of sight, I decided to take the bike for a spin around the yard without an audience. After all, I wanted a little practice before I had to ride this thing in public. I climbed on the tall black seat, positioned my foot on the pedal, scuffed my ankle on the chain guard while kicking up the kick stand, waited for the throbbing to stop, and then set off to cruise the small and bumpy strip of asphalt beside our house.

I jerked. I weaved. I all but side-swiped Chad’s truck. I over-corrected. I jostled. I stopped in fear…again. Chad wasn’t watching this time but I tried again anyhow. Ride number two came to a close and I didn’t take a nose dive.

It wasn’t until a few days later when we were on our way to the beach with the new bike in tow that Chad and I were talking. “I’ve decided to name my bike Lady Bird,” I said. “I”m going to look like a lady flying on a bird!”

My husband cut his eyes and said to me, “The other day, when I was in the house and you were riding? I was watching you.” There was a pause. “Have you ever ridden a bike before?”

The observation was honest, but it was embarrassing to know he’d been inside watching me look more like a clown riding an ostrich than a lady flying on a bird, and that it was a sight he’d seen more than once. “Of course I’ve ridden a bike!” I said in defense. “I’ve ridden lots of bikes.” Just not within what? Five years? “It’s been a long time. I’ll get better!”

“I know,” he confirmed. “You’ll get better.” And I did. All week long I rode Lady Bird, and the more I rode her the better I got. By the end of our vacation, I could do hills—up and down, grass, concrete and asphalt without the sound of circus music playing in my head. I even crossed a secondary street on her while wearing a bathing suit. Talk about risqué! All kinds of things could have gone wrong with that maneuver!

Also, the more I rode Lady Bird the more fun I had. Couldn’t take my hands off the handlebars or divert my attention for a split second, lest I crash and burn, but I had fun. Chad even pointed out my progress. “You’ve gotten a lot better on the bike this week,” he said. And then God pointed out something to me.

Although I would like to think my walk of faith is smooth and flawless, especially to watching eyes, I have entered into a season where I feel my spiritual moods are jerky and anything but smooth and graceful. Due to Satan’s handiwork, I feel myself wobbling to the left and then cutting sharply to the right, tossed about by temptations and insecurities and trying to keep my balance. A lot of people look at me and think I have it all together. That I am literally “flying like a bird” when it comes to all things spiritual. The truth is, I’m really struggling with something right now. I know it’s a trial that the Lord will use to refine me further, but I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say there wasn’t a voice beckoning me to pursue the more adventurous trails of life.

Right now, the devil seems to have an all access pass to use things that have the true potential to not only stump me, but send me into the dirt face first. Just as I wobbled and careened on Lady Bird, always a moment’s notice away from a wreck, I can compare the feeling I had on that first and second ride with my present spiritual battle. Scripture tells me how to steer around and get past the mental bombardment I seem to be suffering, but unfortunately I can’t seem to do it with the true fluidity I desire. I want it to be effortless and it’s not.

I know better than to take my hands off the handlebars or divert my attention for even a second when it comes to fighting spiritual warfare, and that it’s going to take the exercise of actually putting the Biblical truths I’ve learned along life’s way into practice, coupled with the grace of God to make a victory possible at this point. I’m telling you. The heat is really on.

Forgive the comparisons, but it’s hard to strain toward the goal of spiritual fruit when the devil keeps offering me potato chips and telling me it’s more comfortable and convenient to sit on the couch and be content. In other words, he’s feeding me junk. Sadly enough, there have been moments during the last few weeks when I’ve chosen to dine on Satan’s garage instead of reaching for the meat of God’s Word that will produce the fruit of His Spirit. I can’t help but to wonder if God isn’t watching my spiritual progress these days and is asking, “Have you ever done this before? Have you ever experienced Me before? Do you not remember what it is that I’ve done for you ?”

Then I remembered. The great thing about Lady Bird is that she has several new replacement parts that have made her whole and working again. Yet at the same time, under all her new finery, she is still a 1950’s something bike. Her frame is still original. Under all my accomplishments, successes and achievements, I am still a sinner—a mere human saved by grace. There are feelings in me that are still very fleshly and no matter how much good I do to cover them up or how badly I will them to go away, they are always there waiting for something to knock a chip in my polished veneer to once again make my flaws visible.

The good news is that while Lady Bird still bears the base of her originality, she has been stripped, sanded, repainted, and adorned. Chad started at the base and worked his way out. She is solid. Deep down where it matters, so am I. Not because of who I am, but because of Who’s I am.

Chad didn’t go out and buy a new bike for me when he easily could have. It would’ve been faster, easier and much cheaper. God could’ve done the same. He could have made Christians perfect, mindlessly obedient workers for  his kingdom who are never swayed or bothered by life’s storms starting the moment we’re saved. But He didn’t. Instead, He chooses to hand craft us, increasing us from “glory to glory” (2 Corinthians 3:18). Both Chad and God chose to make an investment of their time, covering their projects in love and paying attention to tender detail. The result? Bringing forth a one-of-a-kind. I find it amazing that both of them could see the finished product before it was yet to be.

That is why my greatest hope these days is knowing that while I fight against my own evil desires, my Daddy is running along beside me with His steadying hand on my back saying, “It’s okay. I’ve got you! This is the way,”—even during the times when I can almost taste the bitter concrete of failure in my mouth.

Knowing that God is there to catch me in His surpassing grace gives me the courage to let Him sand away the parts of me that need to be further refined—even when it isn’t an easy nor painless process. Skinned knees and bruises are to be expected if I truly want to be great.

August 5th, 2010— I wrote this post some weeks ago, but didn’t find the nerve to post it until today. Since it’s writing, I’ve also come to discover that if we all hopped on this ride of faith with God expecting us to do everything right and on our own the first try, there would be no need of the spiritual armor mentioned in Ephesians, and that a perfect performance would lessen the magnitude and expanse of forgiveness that can be found in the cross. If we were made perfect the moment after surrender, there would be no need for a Heavenly Father to watch over His child as she makes her way from one stage in her spiritual life and into another. But thank God there is a need—an incredible need at times. More than that, I’m thankful that God has proven faithful to meet it.

My husband and I recently made a trip to Rutherfordton, NC, in Polk County where the Green River Plantation House is located. Of course, Green River is the house that inspired the house in this series, and although I made the trip to find out details that would make our Heritage House seem more real, I had tons of fun while my imagination ran wild! Below is an article I wrote for the newspapers regarding my stay. Enjoy!

In an effort to finish up the research I’m doing for my latest romance novel, Forgiveness for Yesterday, I made a trip to Polk County where my husband and I stayed at the Green River Plantation House. Having never stayed at a bed and breakfast before, we didn’t know what to expect beyond quaint accommodations and a breakfast made from scratch.

I must say that after spending the weekend with the eccentric Ellen Cantrell and her daughter, Amanda, I was not disappointed. Not only did I dine on the best French toast ever made, by the time I left  found myself wanting to take the plunge and invest in an old house here in my neck of the woods. Despite Ms. Cantrell’s honest words of struggle, there is a passion she possesses for Green River and its history that is rather contagious.

Although the house is more than two hundred years old, I scheduled the trip after stumbling onto its website. As it turns out, the Green River Plantation is very similar to the plantation house in my Christian Fiction novels belonging to The Heritage House Series. Promise for Tomorrow is book one in the series and was published through Tate Publishing of Mustang, Oklahoma in September of 2009.

Promise for Tomorrow is the tale of a young widow who has spent years caught in the cycle of grief and depression and has finally come to the point where she is ready to move on. It is a story of hope and promise and of learning to love and trust again. The characters in book one visit the fictional Heritage House where Chris Lanning, a real-estate developer, falls in love with the plantation and makes plans to renovate the property and convert it into a bed and breakfast.

Forgiveness for Yesterday is book two and is the story I’m currently working on. It tells how Chris goes about the daunting task of renovating a home built in 1823 and how he learns an important lesson on forgiveness during the process. I use the renovation of the Heritage House to mirror changes going on in the main character’s hearts and lives. My interview with Ellen and her experience with the real-life Green River Plantation was so that I could bring life and reality to some of the problems Chris will encounter during that process.

Ellen had lots of information to share, allowing me a private glimpse into the life of a person who turned out to be quite a character herself. From discovering squirrel fur in the well water to the dreadful day her beloved Eugene passed, Green River painted the backdrop for many of her memories. The way she has painstakingly gone through the house preserving everything to the best of her ability, and against all types of odds, testifies to her dedication and love for the property. She gave me the ins and outs of what it was like to run the home as both a museum and bed and breakfast, as well as the responsibilities associated with updating and keeping maintenance on a piece of property that is 9,000 square feet in size.

With each tale she told whether is was voiced with laughter or in sorrow, she had a deep and personal connection with everything and everyone there. To me the Heritage House is fiction, but to Ellen Green River is real. The passion I found her to possess was not imagined, and something I can only hope to capture on paper.

Living in a society that has the mindset we should have the newest and have it now, I fear we will continue to move forward in a world of high-speed internet and texting, never stopping to appreciate those who have a fervor for preserving the treasure of our past. Far too few Ellens grace my generation and the ones behind me.

Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Green River and the experience it gave me. I am so excited to channel the southern charm that I discovered during my stay onto the pages of The Heritage House Series, and the enthusiasm and zeal I found in Ellen into the character of Chris Lanning, our imaginary investor. I may even borrow a tale or two from Green River’s history—with Ellen’s blessing of course.

To learn more about Green River Plantation, you can visit: www.green-river.net

With Mother’s Day coming up, I wanted to post something about my mom. It’s an article I wrote some time back. I hope it will encourage you to make your own Mother’s Day To Do List and then carry it out. Enjoy!

My mom loves shoes. Not a style in particular, but shoes in general: brown, red, white and gold, high heels, sandals, loafers and flip-flops. They grace the walls of her closet in clear plastic containers. Occasionally I’ll sneak into her bedroom, squeeze my feet into a pair that are all a half-size too small, and prance around wishing they fit just so I could borrow them.

My mother also loves the color pink. Pink dishes, pink roses, pink fingernail polish and of course—pink shoes. It’s her signature color and I must say it’s one of my personal favorites too. We have even been known to go into a store and unknowingly buy the same pink sweater.

My mom also loves chocolate, cats, seashells, summertime and pocket books. She is the most organized person I know. She keeps a meticulous filing system for everything from recipes to taxes. She loves to sew and can work a jigsaw puzzle within hours.

Although there are thirty-five years between us, the older I get the more I realize I’m becoming just like her. Aside from the sewing and the puzzle working—which are things my sister favors—I’m already there.

I remember clearly how one day not long after I married, I was cleaning and my husband was standing nearby. “You sound like your mother,” he said.

I stopped while holding the rag and looked at him. “How do I sound like my mother? I wasn’t even speaking.”

“It’s the way you’re breathing—the way you exhale when you’re stressed. Your mother does the same thing. You sound just like her.”

Of course I denied such nonsense and sighed again to prove his point. What I didn’t want to say was that while the teenager inside of me was screaming in denial, I knew in my heart he was right. I am very much my mother.

Since that day my husband so kindly pointed out just one of my inborn tendencies, I’ve mentally tried to prepare myself for what time will more than likely do to me. Years later, however, I’ve discovered that I still don’t have a handle on this, but also that it really doesn’t matter. There have been many instances through the years that point out I’m not the only one who is changing.

One day I went as far as to ask my husband if he could envision his father being married to my mother in the not so distant future.

“Uh, no. I can’t,” Chad said. “Why would you ask such a crazy question?”

“Well, in about thirty years it’s going to happen. I may be turning into my mother but you, my dear, are turning into your father.” I got a very solemn look much like the one I’d given him years earlier, but I know he can see it too. We’re turning into our parents.

If this is inevitable, what is the best thing we can do with our newfound knowledge? I know what I need to do but can’t find the guts to put into motion. I need to ask this older version of myself some questions. Some heart-wrenching questions while I still have the chance.

For starters, I need to know where she found the strength to put her last baby on the school bus to attend the first day of kindergarten. And when she realized the house was quiet for the first time in years, did she smile with joy or did she cry in sorrow?

I need to know how she wiped noses, colored pictures and bandaged boo boos until they turned into broken hearts, big hair and bad grades. How did she find time for herself when she never missed a game, never failed to cook supper and how did she still have enough sense about her at the end of the day to help with eight-grade algebra? More importantly, how did she handle watching the children she nurtured and loved make bad choices and proudly stand in defiance during their teenage years? What is it like to have a voice that isn’t welcomed or heard by those you love the most?

I would also like to know what makes a marriage work after forty some years. Is it the same thing that makes it work after only ten? Does she ever think about what life was like before Dad came along? Does she wish she could have done anything differently? Gone to school or made a career instead of staying home and raising three children?

And lastly, the one thing I would ask above all the others but will likely never find the courage to ask is how did she get through losing my Mamaw—her mother. How did she tend for and then bury the woman who spent a lifetime raising and loving her? And how am I to one day live without the woman who still knows the perfect shade to buy, what to do to bring a smile and is the one who never fails to make my favorite chocolate ice cream pies on every birthday?

All these questions are things I could ask a dozen or so women in my life and get an answer for, yet there is only one answer I really want and need to hear. It’s the answer that would be given in the voice of my mother. Hers is the voice that’s laced with heredity, the wisdom of experience and is always spoken in the resounding tone of love.

I am so excited to finally be back working on Forgiveness for Yesterday, book two in the series. It’s funny how God uses real life circumstances to help me tie a story together. The entire time I’ve been writing, I’ve felt my attention particularly drawn to the topic of pride, a major theme in this book. Just last week my Bible studies brought me to the fourth chapter of Daniel where I studied the lesson King Nebuchadnezzar learned regarding this peculiar evil. King Neb was sitting high and mighty on the palace throne of the greatest kingdom on earth, Babylon, thinking me, me, me and yet the Lord still managed to bring him so low  he was completely humiliated and remained that way for seven years. Seven years! I praise God not all of my life lessons and punishments have lasted that long!

I, like everyone else, have at one time or another experienced the intoxication of this sin in my life. It creeps in undetected and smelling as sweet as honey. The problem is, before long we’re so indulged with ourselves we can hardly breathe! Mercifully the Lord has always been quick to convict my heart and clear the air before I start to stink. I have, however, learned a thing or two during my seasons of self righteousness.

One, pride is quick to blind and two, it’s sure to bind.

Pride is an evil that blinds us to our own faults and shortcomings while redirecting our sight so that we may find fault in others. It’s excellent at creating justifications, exceptions and excuses that lure as well as producing criticisms, judgments and foolishness that harbor. There is no sin quite like it. Once we are blinded by our glorious state of self righteousness, we are more apt to hold to our stubborn opinions and concepts, never admitting a mistake nor forgiving a wrong. It’s a trap—a carefully baited and comfortable trap, but still a trap. Oh that we may have a careful eye to watch and guard ourselves against it!

Scripture tells us in Proverbs 16:18 that, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” That was certainly Nebuchadnezzar’s case. Can you image a higher distance from which to fall? Surrounded by opulent wealth and power, surely there wasn’t an insecurity in his mind! Or was there? I’m still pondering the relationship between pride and insecurity. At first the pair seem to have very little if no relationship at all but the more I study, the more I find a deep and embedded connection between the two. Often, I find mustering up a little pride goes a long way in dealing with my insecurities. I guess my question now would be, is there a balance? What part do our insecurities play in keeping us humble? I’m sure there is more to this line of thinking, and something tells me the Lord will reveal it as I work my way through the situations happening with Bret, Karen, Chris, Amanda, and Laurie. Yes, Laurie makes an appearance in book two. I can’t wait for you to meet her!

Till then, please pray diligently with me that the Lord will bring all the details for this story together like only He can. I love this stage of the process! It’s like pulling the cord on a mini blind and watching everything come together and work as one.

All my blessings, Tracey

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? … You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”" Matthew 7:3 and 5 NIV