Everyday Ordinary Dawnings

What Can Happen at a Table Before the Lord

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Tue, 14 May 2013 13:36:00 +0000

Tonight I cooked dinner for a pastor visiting America from Cuba. He sat at my table and ate my cooking and was excited about having corn. It had come straight from the freezer at Publix, and all I did was warm it and add butter, but he was so excited to eat corn out of season, while Mike translated his Spanish and our English.

We ate dinner while Pastor Karel admitted his fear of speaking freely of his government, even here. It was no small thing to admit his trepidation when Mike took him to the capitol building in Columbia. It took some coercing to get him to ascend the statehouse steps, and he flat refused to go inside. He cannot imagine smiling faces at the door to welcome him in. Fear and intimidation is all this man knows from his government, and one moment on the steps of freedom isn't enough to undo a lifetime of suppression and control.

It never occurred to me to be fearful at the statehouse or excited about the corn.

Later, I washed dishes and cataloged the nations that have eaten in my kitchen at my table.

Pastor Karel, Cuba;
Pastor Cristian, Guatemala;
Pastor Garang, South Sudan.

I have fed the nations at my dinner table. The one with three white plastic folding chairs because Mike has broken the pretty ones from his continuous use. The table that has doubled as his desk for years. The one with cloudy, dull spots in the finish where the trapped glue fumes from Reagan's art project ate through the stain. The one where we've coaxed a cancer patient into a few bites of chicken noodle soup after chemo, his head hanging down.

This table where my family eats nightly.
Where the kids gobble their favorites, and complain about mushrooms.
Where we circle held hands and bowed heads over simple and extravagant meals with bountiful hearts.
Where global poverty has met American wealth.
Where communism has met democracy, black has met white, and persecution acceptance.
Where bondage has met liberty. Where fear has met love.
Where Christ unites, and there's really no translation necessary for that.

There was a wooden altar . . .

its corners, its base and its sides were of wood. . . .

"This is the table that is before the Lord."

~ Ezekiel 41:22

Joining #TellHisStory today.

Cindy

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Tue, 07 May 2013 01:22:00 +0000

Is there such thing as a weekend sister? Because that's how it started. We shared Friday nights and Saturdays when my dad was dating her mom. Together we set tables, made salads, and played checkers. Before that, we both only had brothers.

I think we became friends out of necessity—we were thrust upon each other. After Dad and Carol married, there were only so many bedrooms to go around under one roof, so we skipped ahead to becoming step-sisters and roomies.

But it was over before we were teenagers.

When she was in fourth grade, I was every bit the seventh grader—shy and unsure. I missed my mom something fierce, so I moved back to her, which was far, far away from them. I packed up my half of our room, my half of our fledgling friendship, and, by default, all of the sisterhood, and never returned.

Only a visit or two sprinkled the following decades because we lived so far apart. My raw, perpetually torn heart ached exclusively for my dad—his wife and her children an irrelevant extension of him. I liked them well enough, but over time they had become inconsequential to me.

At some point, Dad adopted Chris and Cindy, and it was official. We shared a father and a last name, and, really, nothing else. The sun rose the next morning or maybe it rained. Who knows. I'm not even sure I found out the same day.

I asked this stranger who was my sister to be a bridesmaid when I got married. She donned obligatory pink satin and tried to blend into the fabric of my otherwise closest human relationships. She hid well behind her fabricated smile.

When she was in college, Mike and I visited Dad and Carol and she came over for supper. I only remember that she was there because I found it strange to hear her call him dad, and I noted his concern about her getting an oil change and how he pressed a twenty into her palm when she left with that stern half-glare only fathers give. I remember thinking he doesn't even know what kind of car I drive.

It wasn't jealousy. I don't know what to call it other than odd or surreal. That night, I watched my father be her dad while I felt like his dinner guest. There was nothing mean about it; it's just how our family had turned out. No one had scrambled all these relationships intentionally, but every one of us was the sad and beautiful damage that comes with blending families. And there we were that night, all juxtaposed together over a shared dinner. Before I knew what to make of it, Mike and I had gone home.

We went on being strangers-sisters, Cindy and I. When Jeff died, she didn't come. When Chris died, I don't go. That pretty much sums up our twenties and thirties.

Five years ago she called late on Christmas night. We exchanged our most impressive highlights the way old friends who've grown apart do when they run into each other unexpectedly in the grocery store. She wanted to come visit. She stayed four days and was reaquainted with my children. We called her Aunt Cindy and built a puzzle of the Boston skyline on the coffee table. And then she went home.

Last week, she came again with her fiance. We sat across the dining room table with our dinner plates and different lives between us. I told her a little bit about my reconciliation with Dad, and then said, "It feels a bit strange telling you about Dad because you know him so much better than I do."

We talked about Chris and Jeff, and the sisters that we weren't and yet we were. We decided we don't want to be strangers, but we've been this bizarre nothing-something for so long, we really don't know how to become anything else. There's so much impossible space and disconnected connection between us. We've both lost much, so it finally feels right to try for gain.

Weekend friends in the late 70s became step-sisters and roommates, and then strangers to each other again. Adoption made us full sisters while time and distance kept us strangers still.

There's not a word for sisters whose brothers have died, like a wife becomes a widow, but we both are that nameless thing too—another shared complication. We've both lost a brother—heck, we've both lost two, truth be told.

Once, on Facebook, I shared a romantic, reminiscent blog post someone had written about growing up with her sister. I introduced it by saying, "I don't have a sister, but if I did, I'd want us to be just like this."

"Interesting."

Cindy's one-word, Facebook comment was loaded.

When people ask me about my siblings, I tell them about Jeff and Wayne

But I have a sister. She hasn't been a big part of my past, but I'd like her to be a bigger part of my future.

I have a sister. Her name is Cindy. She came over for tacos last Saturday. And I think that's as good a place as any to start.

Sharing in community with Jennifer.

#TellHisStory

How to Find Hope in the Aftermath of the Boston Bombing

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 14:15:00 +0000

The Saturday following 9/11 found me polishing my kitchen cabinets the way a ravenous lion devours a zebra. I cleaned the blinds and laundered the curtains in the family room too.

Last Monday afternoon, I was at work when Drudge Report started tap dancing on my phone. He did several encores before I turned my attention to it.

Thus began another dull, slow burn of trying to grasp the potential in the human spirit for evil. I shied away from the news.

Tuesday morning I sat in front of a television screen and let the tears come; my broken heart was already in Boston anyway. I changed my Facebook cover to the Boston skyline, a pretty pitiful offering, but all I could figure to do.

On Thursday, I donned my sneakers and grabbed my daughter, and we ran 3 miles. I broke two personal records according to my Nike Plus ap, and my hip flexors are still sore this morning. But it was worth it. I ran for Boston, every marathoner, every victim, and in defiance of terror worldwide.

Man, that felt good.

Then yesterday happened, a manhunt of historic proportions. I was reacquainted with Chechnya on the map and tried again to celebrate the birth of my son on a day that brought so much hatred and violence and evil to our nation's attention.

By the end of the day, evil was found cowering in a boat that belongs to someone else. Evil trespasses and squats on our property, wounded and awaiting his final blow.

Evil will be dealt a final blow, be sure of that. The time will come when Jesus will reign, and we--all nations, all languages, all tribes inexplicably together as one body--will worship Him, our head.

Forever.

This is how love wins.

In 2001, terrorism made me want to clean my house. In 2013, it makes me yearn for another house, one promised, where all will be right.

I imagine it will look and sound a little like this:

(Revelation Song in 8 languages representing 7 nations)

A Letter from a Son on his Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 14:36:00 +0000

My children were all born in the morning hours. In the evening of each of those days, while sitting next to rosy cheeks protruding from baby-blanket-cocoons, I wrote my newborn a letter on pink stationery with an embossed rosebud, sealed it, and brought it home to their baby book for safekeeping.

I'm not sure how safe they were. I've discovered throughout the years that they were all found, one by one, by the addressee. I guess a sealed letter from mom on the day of their birth was too much to resist. Seals were cracked, and hormonal, motherhood gushings were all licked up by precocious children exploring their baby books some ordinary day of their childhood, probably while I was folding laundry downstairs.

And now, I think I've been outdone.

Adrian wrote an open letter and posted it on Facebook, a gift given by the birthday boy rather than received.

His father, ever the pastor, had an equally profound response, so I'm posting them here—fair game, as they both already posted publicly.

I love my men, for all their strengths, for all their failings, and for all their vulnerable honesty.

As I verge dangerously close to more hormonal, motherhood gushings—again, I conclude my introduction.

I give you my son and my husbands...in their own words:

Dear everyone reading,

I turn 18 on Friday. Wow. Time is flying. All my friends are in college already, so I've always been a lot more mature anyway. But something about the big 18 are just "wow" to me!

Anyway, being 18, a "legal adult" has got me reflecting on my life. Situations, moments, people, past, present, future, etc. and I feel as if their are some things I need to reflect on, and some people I need to address.

1. My parents: I'm sorry that at 18 years old, I constantly leave my room a mess. I'm sorry that I disrespect the things God has given me and take for granted the things you do for me. I don't pull the weight around the house like I should. I'm sorry, and I promise to make steps to show you responsibility. Sorry it took this long.

2. School: I know my teachers aren't really on Facebook, but this is more to inform and encourage anyone reading. I'm sorry that I didn't show priority to my education and slacked off thinking I could catch up. It's easier said than done. I don't come a rich family so scholarships were the only way I could afford college, and I failed to get as many as I could because I've lacked the grades. Don't make the mistakes I've made.

3. Girls I've hurt in the past: This one is gonna be hard for me. I've always had an identity issue. If I didn't feel appreciated enough by friends and family, I needed girls approval. I have always been known as a "player" — one girl to the next. I admit that idea of me isn't too far off. I am SO sorry for the scars I've left emotionally on girls in my past. I was more concerned with title and appreciation that I didn't take into account the value of your soul, and your heart. Men, those are daughters of God, not trophies. Cherish and love the women God gives to you in His timing. Because when you go above Him and do it your own way, it reeks havoc on their hearts, your heart, and Gods. I promise to flee youthful lust and stay pure for my future wife because she is worthy of it all, whoever she may be one day.

4. My sisters: In follow up to number 3, I want to apologize for being an AWFUL example of what it is for a man to treat a women. I've failed in that department and now I find myself at a loss of time. You're both growing up just as fast as me. I love you, and I know that you both love God, but I can see that you are awe struck about getting attention from boys. I see the boys you talk to. Please stop. You're not at that season of your life to worry about that. "Seek first the kingdom of God, and all other things will be added to you." He will give you a man A LONG TIME from now. I don't want to see you be another one of the girls that I've disrespected. I know what guys minds are like and what they say and do to get your attention. I pray you stay strong in The Lord and I'm sorry I wasn't the example you needed. But I see you falling in love with youthful passions and I just can't turn a blind eye to it. It's not all its cut out to be. I have a lot of scars and broken pieces of my heart missing. Trust God, seek him now. You have much more time before you should be concerned with all that stuff.

5. My Praise & Worship director: I am sorry for the familiarity that I have so much complained about, but yet happily partake in. I always complain when it's beneficial to me, but quick to jump on someone when it's you or someone else. I am sorry for disrespecting your words and not giving weight to them because "Ah, he's just my uncle." That's not right and I apologize. I will strive to be not the best musician, but the lead worshiper! I want God to flow through me. A band is only as strong as their weakest link. I don't wanna be that! I will strive to be a good nephew, a good musician, but also a true worshiper and respectful to honor you as the leader.

6. My youth pastor: I'm sorry that I have not been the forerunner of our youth group and not come alongside you in the way I should. I am so looking forward to becoming a youth leader next year and helping you with the youth group. I love the impact God has used you in my life for.

7. Everyone else: I am sorry for taking my Christianity casually and not representing Him the way I should. I have blown my witness so many times. But I am sick for flipping sides like a coin, living a double life. From now on, you are gonna see a surrendered life for God.

One last thought, I know these are just apologies in word form. I know it's gonna take putting it into action for you to see a change. But I am surrendering all of me to Christ to be His servant and witness to the world.

You can dress a pig up all you want, clean it, shampoo it, put a nice bow on it; it will always return to the mud because that is his nature!

I'm done dressing up and grooming my life to appear appeasing like I have everything together. Lord, change my nature, fix my life and set me on the right path. I trust in you! It's gonna take action in faith. But I can do all things through You.

Okay, I'm done rambling. So much more I could address, but I think I said what needs to be said.

Thank you all so much,
I just want some money for my birthday ;) ,

Adrian.

: : :

And a father's response: (It's not always easy having a pastor for a dad. I should tell you some time about what it's like to give birth with a pastor for a husband and birthing partner.)

Thanks for sharing, son. I know airing out your failures and sin is not something most people are comfortable with. Most would rather keep things hidden and give appearances that they are living right. Others are quick to judge the actions of others but fail to see their own faults, or see the weakness of others and not their own.

You display a sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, a willingness to confess your sin, a judgment of yourself which will keep you from being judged, "For if we would judge ourselves, we will not be judged." (1 Cor. 11:31). Also, when you confess your sin, you walk in the victory that Christ gave us over sin and you then can walk alive to God and bear His fruit (Rom. 6:11).

The important part of this confession is to surrender all to Christ and allow Him to make the changes in you that He is making. So many times we fall short of this process. We confess, but then digress, instead of progress. Why? Because when we confess our sin, there is a feeling of relief, yet that relief is not transformation. Transformation happens when after confession we surrender our will to God and He does an inward work of supernatural proportions that we will later come to understand to be only by His hand.

Thanks again for sharing, for being transparent and for encouraging me to live the same. Now go, and obey the Lord. Love you.

He that reproves a boy concerning the beginning of his way,

even if he becomes old

he will not turn away from it.

~Prov. 22:6, Aramaic Bible in Plain English

When God's Answer is No

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 09:53:00 +0000

Easter may seem like a distant memory already, since it was 5 days ago, and we pack so much into our days in the 21^st century. But there’s a part of the Easter story that’s lingering with me. It’s the Garden of Gethsemane part.

Jesus was about to face the express purpose for which he came to this planet, and basically, he was having second thoughts. He had previously volunteered to leave heaven to be born a helpless babe to an imperfect mother in a primitive time for a gruesome reason. The proposition was to squeeze Eternity into the burial clothes of human flesh and die a torturous death he didn’t deserve. It took some humbling of himself, but Jesus did it willingly according to Philippians 2:2-5.

And we know from Hebrews 2:2 that he endured the cross for the joy set before him, the joy being the reconciling to himself the crowning creation crafted in his image.

But in between the humbling of himself and the joy set before him there is this mess in the Garden of Gethsemane.

No one gets through this fallen life on Earth, or even the abundant life for that matter, without facing hard things. And even for Jesus it didn’t look pretty. He was sweating it out. He begged and pleaded for Plan B. It kept him awake that night.

But God ultimately answered his prayer with no. He does that sometimes, and it can be a real bummer.

You can read the rest at Laced With Grace. Come, and let's figure out what we're supposed to do when God's answer is no.

The Ugly and the Beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 22:01:00 +0000

My children’s bible had three pictures in it. One was of the crucifixion, and, I confess, it mesmerized me, so I flipped to it often and stared long and hard. Baffled, I would wonder,

who
would
do that?!

Crucify someone?

Who could inflict such gruesome torture?

What’s worse, it looked pre-meditated, which made me wonder something else entirely:

who
would
do that?!

Be crucified?

When He could have called ten thousand angels?

I graduated from my children’s bible never knowing what to do with that troublesome image. At least I didn’t have to look at it anymore. That is, until Easter week rolls around each year, when I grapple with these questions anew and revert to the little girl with inadequate answers.

The cross makes me squirm.

I never know what to do in the days leading to it. Living ordinarily seems all wrong. I attempt to observe, acknowledge what unspeakable, singular thing Jesus did on that cross, but that makes me wholly aware that I’m injured beyond recognition by my hideous sin and gross need.

I am undeserving.

Every feeble attempt at a response feels unworthy, as it should, I suppose. I am undone, at a loss for word or deed. My inhibitions are stripped away by the shocking spectacle, and I do the unthinkable: I draw near to the bloody cross with the beaten Man, the One unrecognizable as God, and yet He is.

It’s all so ugly and beautiful.

Not knowing what else to do, I fall flat before Him; I am rendered righteous by Holy.

And I stare, baffled, uninhibited, drawing nearer still.

The Difference Between Anthony and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 11:12:00 +0000

Finishing my impromptu "to do" list in the corner of my notebook of sermon notes, I looked up in time to see him. Anthony, holding his father's hand, galloped slowly to the altar and tossed a dollar bill into the air. It float gently down into the offering box on the altar, but he was already trotting down the opposite isle and out the door to children's church still holding his father's hand. Anthony is four.

I know. I'm not supposed to make a "to do" list in church, but sometimes that's all that goes through my head when I bow for prayer, even the offertory prayer on Sunday morning sometimes.

I figure if I can get it down on the page, I can get it off my mind:

Reagan's costume
schedule interview for article
fold clothes
groceries
Adrian's work schedule
call Mom about Easter lunch
baby shower gift

While I'm gathering all my responsibilities into one neat, doable Tower of Babel on the page, Anthony's tossing his paper bill up to God not bothering to wait and see if God's basket will catch what he exuberantly let go of.

I wondered about the difference between Anthony and me. ...

I'm writing the rest of the story at Laced With Grace today. Come on over and let's ponder our differences.

Spontaneous Friday Dance Party

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 15:29:00 +0000

Just for fun, I'm talking pop music today.

I have three teenagers, so it's inevitable.

It happens in the car, in the kitchen, behind bedroom doors, into Adrian's microphone even, and up little wires into their ears.

Their music is only "off" when they are in school.

And, yes, some of it is Passion Band, but some of it is Taylor Swift.

Mike was playing his Christopher Cross Pandora station while the family was foraging through the kitchen for a snack before bed.

And although he is a teenage boy and not a whole lot trumps food (especially when it's been two hours since he last ate), Adrian closed the refrigerator door still empty-handed and stepped to the glowing screen. He began typing a list of songs from the Christopher Cross channel into his phone for downloading at a later date. And then he said this:

"When I'm old, I won't be able to share my music with my kids like you guys did. Every one of these songs is real music by real musicians with real instruments and real talent."

Thus began an impromptu retro dance party in our kitchen at 10:30 one night not too long ago involving John Travolta and a flashing neon dance floor.

Since then, singing along to a few of my girls' Taylor Swift songs, I was beginning to agree with my son.

"Oooo--oooo--oooo-oooo-oooo, we called it off again last night.
But oooo-oooo-oooo-oooo-oooo, this time, I'm telling you, I'm telling you,
We are never, ever, ever getting back together."

are a pretty sad excuse for lyrics, no matter how much fun that is to sing. Whole lines are missing, so she just sings ooo, oooo, oooo. That's supposed to be the back up singer's job, not the solo line. Goodness.

Then there's trouble with another of her songs when she repeats the phrase "you found me" (or some derivative) three times and then finishes with the next four counts extending the word me: ee-ee-ee-ee. Oh, oh. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Lazy lyracist.

I'm not hating on Taylor Swift. She's clearly a successful business woman with earning power stratospheres beyond mine.

And besides, she did write "Mean." It's fun, clever, artistic, and sometimes—sadly—true. I'm not trying to be the object of her creative prowess on display in that song.

Then I heard—and really listened to—"Fifty Ways to Say Goodbye" while I was trapped in traffic this morning, and I felt hopeful for Adrian's future children.

That song is true music with real instruments and a surprisingly light take on how God really meant a love affair to last a lifetime via marriage. Even the world knows this. But I digress. This is a post about pop music, not theology.

So, just in case you'd like a spontaneous Friday dance party in your kitchen or office or wherever you are today, click through to the You Tube vids and then Pandora. Just type in Christopher Cross and enjoy a mellow afternoon to recuperate from the disco.

Pandora

Happy Friday. Keep dancin' and singing. Especially with your teenagers.

And, Adrian, if you're reading, there's even a purple Scion in the lyrics. You can tell your those kids of yours your dream car story.

Related Post: Dedicaiton Dilemma

Passing Through the Desert

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 15:42:00 +0000

We equate the forty year wilderness wanderings with punishment of Israel's lack of faith, and we wouldn't be wrong. But we aren't entirely right either.

I've been struggling with discouragement. There. I said it.

It's the wilderness, and, though it may be my discipline, it is so much more.

As much as I'd like to forget this dry and barren time and move quickly into the land of milk and honey, God is asking me to remember this place and time, because its in the desert that God humbled, tested, and determined whether or not Israel—I mean, I—would keep His commands.

Since God already knows all things, this knowing must be for me.

The only other possibility is that the facts changed over those forty wilderness years. Where there was no faith, God systematically constructed some.

A faithless people can find faith in the desert, so what started as a gaze at the circumstances and believing what they saw rather than what they heard from their Almighty became, slowly over time in the desert, a shift in focus from circumstances to Adonai.

This shift happens when God places us in need. He let Israel go hungry so that he could become their provider. He did it because Israel needed to be fed, but also because Israel needed to know God provides. Is there a better way to learn this Truth than to be in need and God provide?

I think not.

So God fed Israel manna day by day, morning by morning. Each morning a new hunger, each hunger met by new provision. When it happens over and over again, strength for today becomes bright hope for tomorrow.

What appears to be aimless wandering is, rather, a straight pathway to knowing God's heart of love.

A voice is calling, "Clear the way for the Lord in the wilderness; Make smooth in the desert a highway for our God (Isaiah 40:3).

God's faithful provision, time after time, creates in us hope; faith, where there was only doubt, fear, and discouragement before.

God, the great provider, creates circumstances that elicit from me a listening ear to Truth, an eye to the Provider, blind to my circumstance.

This is manna. This is God's provision in the desert, in the discouragement.

He wants to be the God who gives good gifts. What better gift is there than the one we are in desperate need of?

Of course, this necessitates our desperate need.

I want to be in desperate need of God. Not just for a time, but always. Even if that means having to pass through the desert for forty year or just over and over again.

I have nothing to fear, and everything to gain. Discouragement becomes hope because God is faithful.

And the land of milk and honey that I long for? Well, milk and honey feed the hunger within because they are the Words of Life. God is teaching me that man doesn't live by bread alone. Not when you're passing through the desert and not when you've reached the promised land.

Sharing one part Sunday sermon, one part Holy Spirit travel through scripture, and one part testimony with Michelle's Hear It Use It community.

Defining Sexy: One Secret to a Long-Lasting Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 18:21:00 +0000

The heart-shaped box was bigger than a dinner plate. Noelle's Valentine chocolates from a school boy evoked a glowing 15-year-old grin and a dreamy look in her eyes. I told her it was bigger than any I had ever received, even from her father, and she was the full moon lighting the sky.

I just returned from a Caribbean cruise, an extravagant vacation of a lifetime for us. It was romantic and decadent. We celebrated two anniversaries: ten years of remission from cancer and twenty-four years of marvelous, magnificent marriage. We didn't wait for our twenty-fifth to go on a cruise, because, after cancer, every year is a milestone.

We had cake with a single flickering candle and singing servers. It was chocolate, like Noelle's Valentine's box.

But I've come to learn that twenty-four years of marriage is sexier than a box of chocolates or a cruise. I'm thinking fifty-six years with its thinning hair and sagging sun spots is even sexier.

It may start with chocolate, love notes pinned to the windshield by wiper blades, and bouquets delivered to your office. It starts with grandiose dreams of perpetual hand-holding, him opening the car door for you, and nary an argument. But it can't end there.

If your idea of what's sexy doesn't change over time, your love won't make it.

After twenty-four years with the man of my dreams, I've learned a few things about what's sexy and what's just empty calories.

Our first full day home from turquoise saltwater and a chef's culinary creations gracing my dinner plate included these ordinary things I now deem sexy anyway:

dressing for work quietly in the dark so I can hear Mike's rhythmic breathing from our bed.
clean undies to wear this week because he did the first load of laundry when we returned.
a text message that says, "call me," and when I do, he asks if he should pick up some milk.
picking out a new TV together because the old one finally gave out.
that he stayed up into the night to get it hooked up and the remote control working.
that he comes to find me asleep in the bed when he's through, just to put his fingers through my hair.
that, even though it roused me from sleep, he didn't speak.
that he came upstairs just for that, then returned downstairs to await our teenager's arrival home from work.
that he loves our mostly grown son that much.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped opening car doors for me. Wooing me gave way to working together as one, both of us opening car doors for babies and toddlers who needed help with car seats. Chocolates and roses gave way to oil changes and stripping wallpaper in the dining room, and I'm more than okay with that.

Sexy now, is finding a Dragon Tales cassette tape in our 14-year-old truck that we sold yesterday and the conjured memories of singing "Shake Your Dragon Tale" for our babies in the car. They've since become teenagers.

Now, that's sexy.

Boxed chocolates and Caribbean sunsets from a cruise ship's balcony might be romantic and surely have their place, but dirty laundry and our14-year-old truck and looking forward to dentures, so long as we do them together, is even sexier.

With marriages failing regularly, even Christian marriages, I join Jennifer's community this week to glorify God with marriages that last the long haul. Until death do us part.

Called By Name

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 13:24:00 +0000

She greets me every Sunday, sometimes twice, because she forgets.

She kisses my cheek, holds my face between her cold hands, hugs me,

and says some of the few words she can still string together. "I love you."

Today, for our second greeting, she caught my eye across the room, came toward me and said, "Dawn."

A kiss, two hands, an embrace. I love you.

She called me by name.

I was unaware this had become no small thing.

~ ~ ~

But now, thus says the Lord, your Creator, O Jacob,

And He who formed you, O Israel,

"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name; you are Mine!

Isaiah 43:1

Sharing in community with Michelle, Laura, and Jen.

Walking and Talking: A Tribute to an Unfinished Friendship

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 17:15:00 +0000

It was a warm Friday in January, much like the one a year ago almost to the day. It was then that an old friend and I walked the dam back and forth until I finally left her walking alone to begin her ninth mile. She was preparing for a half marathon the following weekend. She walks them.

I was catching up on an old friendship; we both were as we walked and talked. It started in 1993 on a late September afternoon when Mike and I arrived in Cacyce, South Carolina for the first time. We were delivered to the home of Rick and Vicki Stilwell, who would host us for the weekend and impact the entirety of our lives thereafter. The oak tree at the back corner of their house was glowing yellow in all its Autumn glory and cast a surreal gold through their window, into their living room, and over four lives. It baptized a friendship golden that has lasted 19 years. A friendship that was injureded and forever altered in 2004, and then again last Friday.

Rick was on his way to work on an ordinary day when God called him home. His brother Jeff called Mike with the news. Shattered in a million pieces, my body raced to Vicki's side, to her children, her mother, Rick's parents, his brother. But my mind went back to 2004, back to when none of us knew we'd only have eight more years.

Being with Vicki last Friday afternoon, I knew 2004 didn't matter. Then Mike preached a very private and intimate graveside funeral for a friend who stuck closer than a brother, for iron that sharpened iron. And at Rick's graveside, next to the excruciating pile of freshly dug earth, Vicki and I embraced. She whispered in my ear, "Thank you for today. For this weekend. For 20 years," and, in those words, we buried 2004. If we hadn't already.

But this week I've needed to go back and reset what was broken so long ago, like a bone that didn't heal properly. I needed to rebreak our friendship, and let it heal all over again. I went back to the wound, knowing grace can still be enough. I did it through Rick's blog, where I found this, Rick's own post about walking and talking. He wrote it about a month after the breech in our friendship. He would have loved that his words are healing me now.

Walking & Praying
by Rick Stilwell, September 24, 2004
From one of Rick's old blogs

I went for a walk last night, around 9:30pm. My wife was on the phone, catching up with college friends who'd just moved back to the area. The kids were in bed, the chores mostly done, and frankly I had no excuse to not go walk. I need to exercise, make activity more a part of my life. So I went for a walk. Not the first of an extended exrecise regimen, not starting a new thing that will change my life - just a walk. I can talk about "going for *my* walk if it stays a habit for a few weeks. For now, it's just *a* walk. And I'm planning on taking another one tonight.

As I walked, I noticed things. The neighborhood was quiet, except for the slight breeze in the trees and an occasional dog in the distance. It was late enough that I didn't pass anyone else walking, late enough that all the lights were already out in some homes, a dull blue TV glow visible in the draperies of others. It was dark in the spots too far away to be illuminated by the streetlights, except for the just over half-moon that did a decent job reflecting light to see for the next stride. It was actually a very nice night, and while I didn't walk that far - only about a mile or so roundtrip - I did appreciate the layout of our subdivision, the peace & quiet, the calm after the storms.

As I walked, I prayed. I talked with God out loud, being alone and in the seclusion of the darkness and the rustling breeze. I thanked God that He saw fit, as un-understandable as it is for me, to make us need each other, to build into us a need for community and compassion and companionship with Himself and with each other here in this life. I thanked Him for friends & family, for people He's placed in my life and who I've grown accustomed to in community and real heart-to-heart fellowship. I forgave people, people I've loved and who've loved me and who've hurt me while loving me. I asked for forgiveness for being a putz, for taking things so far, for hurting those I love, for holding onto hurt more than grace, for asking too much and not giving in return. I asked forgiveness for not forgiving myself, for not walking in God's mercy & grace, for relying more on my own understanding and pseudo-intelliegence than on the Almighty and His everlasting brilliance. I asked for strength to move on, to be strong and courageous, to choose life & blessing in the course of human events. I asked for restoration of relationships, reconciliation on so many fronts that are out of whack right now. And I thanked God for the walk, for the steady pace and next step that always seemed to come.

I was sweaty and hot when I got home - from the walk, and maybe from the conversation.

Our friendship continued after 2004, but it was different. The balm that has soothed all these years since is that, although our friendship changed, the love at its foundation never did.
1 Corinthians 13:8 says love never fails. It was true: our love remained. The years we walked together, and the years we didn't.

Vicki is about to start a new mile in another long, slow marathon. This time, I don't want to leave her in the ninth mile.

A friend loves at all times; And a brother is born for adversity.

Proverbs 17:17

~ ~ ~

While so many are writing beautiful tributes to Rick's life, what's on my mind right now—selfishly—is our friendship, a rare and exquisite treasure. Like Rick did years ago, I, too, am asking "for strength to move on, to be strong and courageous, to choose life and blessing in the course of human events."

The Spirit-Waif, the Flesh-Storm, and Authentic Christianity

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 14:43:00 +0000

I'm getting tired of the buzz word authentic.

If my sinful self is a harrowing storm and the spirit-child God created me to be is the waif with the shawl clutched tightly, leaning into the howling wind and pressing ever forward, it wouldn't be too far off as far as metaphors go.

But what if the we have it all wrong?

Join me over at Laced with Grace today, won't you?

What an Aching Heart Can Do at Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 16:16:00 +0000

The day after Jeff slipped into eternity, Mom, Wayne, Mike and I went to the funeral home to buy a casket. Our hollow bodies walked through a showroom, and we searched for something simple and dignified. How could we possibly be doing this?

Mom, Wayne and I sat at a conference table making decisions. Mike, seated on the sofa along the wall just behind us, reached out and placed his strong, life-warm hand on my back to bolster me.

I shrugged and flung him off.

I couldn't afford to be bolstered. I had to hold myself together, not lean into him, or I would fall apart, break into a million pieces.

I haven't been that sad in a very long time.

But December collected one sadness after another like my Christmas tree collected gifts. Auntie Lynne left this earth and her cancer for Glory. Old friends buried their three-year-old grandson who died suddenly and quickly from an undiagnosed infection. Sandy Hook happened. My former sister-in-law will remarry, burying my last hope that there might have been reconciliation after all. My nephew's wife abandoned him on Christmas day for the lust of another.

This December, I yearned for a brand new Savior in a manger more than any year prior. My injured flesh and spirit need to eat the Hope in the feed trough, even in January.

December's sin, death, and sorrow, they point me to the manger as well as any star in the sky looking down where He lay.

I limp to the stable, bend beneath the pain, and celebrate. How could we possibly be doing this?

Celebration does not come naturally this year. I command it of myself because it is the fitting response to God now in flesh appearing. Bending before Him is always appropriate.

I feel His strong, life-warm hand on my back to bolster me. This time, I do lean. I lean into Him, and I let myself break into a million pieces.

I took the decorations down early this year; It hurt me to look at them. But I will be on my knees beside a manger for quite some time yet before I will be ready to rise. But rise I will, because a Baby in a manger came to put a million pieces back together again.

The righteous cry, and the Lord hears
And delivers them out of all their troubles.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
And saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
But the Lord delivers him out of them all.

Psalm 34:17-19

Linking with The True Vine Challenge at Oikos, because sometimes abiding is all we can do.

Pianos, Passports, and Politics: Why You Need to Vote Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 14:04:00 +0000

My husband left his country of origin with his parents and three siblings. He doesn't remember; he was only two. But they were empty-handed, especially my mother-in-law, who was stripped of even her wedding rings. They were Cuban refugees seeking political asylum in the United States. It was the beginning of a family, although united in Christ, being divided by political boundaries much like the Berlin Wall. Mere brick or ninety miles of gulf water: so close, yet so far. Only within the last year have the remnants of his extended family been able to get out, some forty years later. Many never saw one another again face to face.

Mike's dad was an accountant and an opera singer. He rode motorcycles and was the choir director at church. After the Revolution and Castro made known his communist intentions, the government instructed those who wanted to leave the country to come to a government office to register. Mike's dad felt betrayed and siezed the opportunity to leave. The father of four found himself jobless the next morning at 8:00.

He turned his kitchen into a black market bakery and sold cakes on the street to support his family: his wife, his mother-in-law, his brother-in-law and his four children ages 7, 5, 2, and newborn for two long years of waiting before they could leave.

Government officials came to their home to take inventory of their personal belongings, which somehow were no longer personal or belongings but had become confiscated property of the Cuban government. The day before they boarded a plane with only a few clothes to their name, inventory was taken again. All had to be accounted for. Their piano broke in the meantime, and they had to replace it before they could leave. A farewell gift to the Revolution, I suppose. Even family photos were denied them. Why? They left stripped of their dignity, their belongings, and their freedom.

They adopted a new country, and, gratefully, a great country adopted them. I was there when Mike swore oathed allegiance and became a naturalized U.S. citizen twenty years later.

Stories like these are not just movie scripts or six o'clock news. They are the burden and heartbreak of people I love, and countless others worldwide that remain disconnected from me by the peace, security, and freedom I expect rather than treasure in this nation of mine.

Freedom is a responsibility, one I no longer take for granted, and one I exercise every election day. We Americans have an obligation to participate in our own governance.

I am thankful for a free nation. I am thankful for the right to vote. I am thankful that our shores attract the hurting, the oppressed, the sick, and the needy. Because of a free society that promotes prosperity, we are able to meet the needs of others who turn to us, and I'm thankful for that too. I am thankful for one lonely stamp in a baby's passport that sent him from oppression to freedom and changed his life, and mine, forever. And I am thankful that He whom the Son sets free is free indeed (John 8:36, ESV).

Politics matter. Let your one voice be one voice that is heard tomorrow.

Ministerio Del Interior, Inmigración, Cuba, Salida [Exit], Diciembre 7, 1967

An edited repost from the archives as I think on this election day.

When Pipe Dreams Come True

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 13:30:00 +0000

I've always been a follower. A middle child, I became a people pleaser early in life, content to walk in the wake of another. But right here where the dawning happens, this blog that I began on a whim, this is where I have found my voice and courage and who I really am all by myself when I'm not in the wake of someone else, someone bigger, better. This space is just me here, thinking things out, figuring life out, learning how to not be afraid and how to have something to say.

It has led me into things I never thought would happen. Oh, they were dreams alright, but they were held prisoner by insecurity and low hopes and an inconspicuous lack of confidence. What I had were pipe dreams.

Ann Voskamp once said, "Sometimes you don't know when you're taking the first step through a door until you're already inside." I find that to be true in this blog that I've been writing for almost three years now, because here I am with the cover story for a local Christian magazine for the second month in a row.

This is God's doing and not at all what I had set out to do myself when I began this blog. God gave my captive dream feet with His plan. He built my courage and gave me a voice right here, post by blog post. I just needed the legs to stand and the heart to step into what apparently was a door.

And of course, if I can do it, you can do it.

What is it you've always wanted to do? Why not start now, on a whim. God will take it from there.

Reach Out Columbia's November Cover: Mark Hall — Just Making Disciples

This is a 5 Minute Writing on Friday.

Today's prompt: Voice

Revelation and Not Being Afraid

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 13:16:00 +0000

John's my favorite of the disciples. He's thoughtful, tender and sweet, rare traits in manly men, but endearing nonetheless. He's humble, too. Wouldn't name himself in his biography of Jesus considering it bad form to brag blatantly. There was a beloved disciple for Christ, John just didn't say it was himself.

He was there for Jesus after the others had left him alone on the cross. No doubt he honored Jesus' request that he care for Jesus' mother.

Was it that he was the only disciple there to charge with this duty?

Or could it could be that Jesus knew even from the cross that John would be the last disciple standing?

Perhaps it was by design that John be the last so that he might be available when the time came for Jesus' coming Revelation?

Jesus seems to have hand-picked his beloved disciple for the big reveal about the future.

Just the sight of a heavenly Jesus in his full radiance and majesty was enough to overcome Jesus' most intimate friend, causing John to fall at his feet as though dead. John may not have recognized his old friend. Eternity had treated Him well, after all.

Perhaps a less acquainted companion would actually die of fright before Jesus could explain Himself.

Yes, I think He chose John purposefully.

This heavenly Jesus must have barely resembled the earthly Jesus, although I'm sure it was hard for John to see much of anything discernible with all that blazing, golden, white, fiery, glowing Light shining in his eyes. Perhaps if John hadn't fainted from fright, he might have felt the nail scars on those burnishing bronze feet at which he fell and recognized Him then.

But I doubt John ever recognized his old friend because this risen Jesus has to identify Himself. Again.

The risen Jesus always had to identify himself.

Apparently the earthly no longer recognizes the heavenly. And holiness now scares us so much we don't want to see Him.

But if Jesus chose John specifically, then their history together bleeds all over this scene in my mind's eye.

Jesus touches him and says, "Do not be afraid." (It's me — Jesus. This is just like when I walked on water and the Mount of Transfiguration. Remember? You were afraid then, too.)

"I am the first..." (It's me, — Jesus. Remember the fishing boat so full it was sinking and how it changed your life forever?)

"...and the last," (It's me. Really. Remember my post-resurrection visits? Our last times together? Surely you recognize at least some of that version of Me?)

"...and the living One;" (Which reminds me. The Resurrection!)

"I was dead," (You alone were there. Calvary. Golgotha. In all the most important times, it was always you and me, John.)

"...and behold, I am alive forevermore." (And the tomb? You entered it, but I wasn't there. That tomb held forevermore in it, not death. It's me, John; look a little closer.)

"I have the keys to death and to Hades." (And John? Look what I have. It's important that you don't lose sight of my victory in all that I am about to show you. You're going to find it a very comforting truth.)

***

Much of Revelation 1 is devoted to reminders of who Jesus is: v.4-6, v.8, and finally the very personal words spoken straight to John in real time, v.17-18.

These words are hope, reassurance and a comfort. Not just to John, but to me, another disciple that has a history with Jesus. A history that involves my being afraid in light of his power or his holiness. I've wrestled publicly with my fear of God here, here, here, and here just to name a few.

But Revelation is convincing me not to be afraid of Him.

Now that's a sentence I never thought I'd write.

World View Teaching With World Class Views

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 15:37:00 +0000

From Mike: One of the benefits of traveling throughout Guatemala training and teaching pastors is that I get to see beautiful places. Though I don't have much time at my hotel because we train intensively all day, I was able to take pictures in the evening. This is the only safe and secure hotel we are able to stay in in Puerto Barrios, since this is an area of high crime, prostitution, drunkenness, and theft.

I pray that as God moves on these pastors, they and their churches will become the vehicles of God's outpouring of grace to transform this city.

From Eugenia, our pastor's wife and director of our Children's Home in Coban, Guatemala: We have a beutiful country, with mountains, hills, valleys, beaches, lakes and rivers. We enjoy our two seasons each year: summer and winter. We have a variety of flowers, trees, birds, and beutiful places like this.

God has been good to our precious nation.

The biggest problem is that for many years we were indifferent to some very important things like education, in every sense of the word. When you teach the word of God, when you teach others how to work their lands, when you teach people to respect others no matter their social status, you will see a difference.

But now, we are saying, "Why are so many girls having babies? Why so much crime? Why so much poverty?" And they keep asking why, why, why, And I ask, "Why has there been no concern until now?"

Please, pray for our beautiful country and for the ones who are trying to make a difference by teaching the truth with the guidance of our dear Lord.

And from me: a scripture verse and a dedication song.

Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. I know how to get along with humble means, and I also know how to live in prosperity; in any and every circumstance I have learned the secret of being filled and going hungry, both of having abundance and suffering need. I can do all things^]through Him who strengthens me (Philippians 4:11-13).

Tammy, Books, Life and Death

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 14:15:00 +0000

I'm reading The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe. I'm not sure there's ever a good time to read this book, and now is certainly not a good time for me. My husband is a cancer survivor. I lived it—I don't need to read the book. My aunt has one of those types of cancer that, as Schwalbe's mother says, "is treatable but not curable." Auntie Lynne has done eight years of "treatable" and recently progressed to "not curable."

My best friend will kill me when she finds out I'm reading it. She—Tammy—is Auntie Lynne's daughter, my cousin. She will want to kill me again when I tell her she needs to read it, too. I know she will love it. But she won't. Read it, that is. At least not now.

That's because Tammy's a normal person who can only take so much sadness at once. I, on the other hand, am not a normal person at all. I am the kind of person who grabs Angela's Ashes off the nightstand to take to the hospital when her two year old is running 105.5 fever for five days without being able to detect the cause. Yes, I read it at Noelle's hospital bedside, as depressing as it is. I cried for poor little Frank McCourt, my sick Noelle, and the beauty of them both in their respective diminished states. They both would rise.

I've done this on many occasions, heaped sadness upon sadness, with books to my life. I read Walking Taylor Home, a father's account of losing his young son to bone cancer mere weeks after my husband's bone marrow transplant. I have never been good at looking away from pain. I cried mourning for Taylor's loss and cried relief for Mike's victory in the same tears, and they healed me.

It's funny how an honest story can do that.

Maybe that's why I do this to myself and read through grief and joy and pain and promise. Books dot my life: John Jakes on my honeymoon, Billy Graham's autobiography Just As I Am while Mike's chemo dripped slowly, The Other Bolyn Girl jockeyed for position in King Henry VIII's court while my children found their own pecking order wrestling each other in the pool that hot summer. A skyped bible study over Beth Moore's To Live is Christ laid on top of Auntie Lynne's hospice care.

The End of Your Life Book Club is a son's story of his mother's cancer and the books that wove their lives together tightly through all the years and her last battle.

The son is a book publisher and knows good writing.

He describes a close family friend, thusly:

He [Bob] was the smartest and best-read person any of us had ever know, but he wore his learning so lightly and had the ability to make everyone around him feel smart and well-read.

Having lost my brother too soon, and now watching from afar Tammy let go of her mother, I embraced this passage wanting it to never to leave me:

No one in the family has ever really gotten over Bob's death. We talk of him daily, recounting stories and imagining what his reaction would be to new books and recent events. He remains for my family the perfect model of how you can be gone but ever present in the lives of people who loved you, in the same way that your favorite books stay with you for your entire life, no matter how long it's been since you turned the last page. When I talked with Mom about Bob, I wondered if I would be able to talk about her the same way when she was no longer here.

And this:

[Books] help us talk. But they also give us something we all can talk about when we don't want to talk about ourselves.

Books can make us brave enough to stare back at life. They complement our lives and interrupt them. They soften the blow and twist the knife. Both books and life are bitter and better when shared with someone you love.

Tammy and I have been reading books together and swapping reading recommendations since Nancy Drew on Girl Scout stationery, our whole lives just like this mother and son. We are the book club with the dying mother.

Schwalbe says:

Hospitals are interruption factories. ... Mom didn't like being interrupted. ... I don't like being interrupted either—but I interrupt other people. I often forget that other people's stories aren't simply introductions to my own more engaging, more dramatic, more relevant, or better-told tales, but rather ends in themselves, tales I can learn from or repeat or dissect or savor.

So, Tammy, if you're still reading (which I'm sure you're not—only I would do such a peculiar thing), I'm here for the interrupting. If you don't want to talk about life, we can talk about the books. Both life and books, even when ridiculously in sync with one another, will bring us tales we will learn from, repeat, dissect and savor.

A Day In the Life

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 13:38:00 +0000

He arrived home yesterday with two band aids covering the gash in his shin that probably should have stitches. He has a few bruises on his right shoulder from her boxed belongings being hefted high from the U-Haul to his sister's new house four states away. He hates moving, but he loves his sister.

When he gets home four days later, it's Saturday afternoon and he still had a Pulpit Freedom Sunday sermon to prepare, so I started a pot of coffee. I did the dinner dishes, started a load of laundry Mike would finish for me, and went to bed.

I stirred when he came up, and the clock tells me he's been at it more than a few hours: 1:51. He drops softly in the bed beside me, exhausted. I hear him breathe, "Thank you, Jesus," as he wriggles his head into his pillow. I count the days since last Tuesday, his last full night's sleep, count them like sheep, think my prayer Let him rest Lord, and am fast asleep again.

From the shower on Sunday morning, he tells me he still isn't quite finished preparing his sermon, and I tell him I am putting "Do Not Disturb" signs on his office doors this morning. He usually has an open door policy, but he lets me hang the signs. He knows his limits, and I love him for this wisdom and that he lets me be protective sometimes.

We worship with leaders like this: a father and daughter, singing "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord." There's harmony and symmetry and one accord, and it leads us right into His presence.

When Mike stands behind the pulpit, he is tired and sore and makes a joke about moving furniture being invented by demons to torture the men of the earth. Chuckling, he quickly moves into his passage of study from Romans and expounds on why ours is a nation in crisis. It was the only comic relief in the whole hour and a half long sermon.

Our website gives an explanation regarding his lengthy sermons. Yes, he tells people up front that the sermons are long and academic, and why that is. We are biblically illiterate as a people, and it's important, so Sunday lunch just has to wait until we've eaten spiritually first. Just one more little thing to remind us that the Christian life is inconvenient and an afront to the flesh.

Alas, God is a gentleman Who forces Himself on no one, and Romans 1 tells us what happens when He leaves a man to have his own way in his sin—complete depravity.

This is not a feel good sermon.

In fact, it's a little terrifying to consider man's end when he knows God but does not honor him as God. He becomes futile in his speculations and his foolish heart is darkened. Could this be what is happening in our nation?

People need the Lord. Our situation is bleak and we are desperate without Him.

This is what He rescues us all from: depravity. This is why we need rescue: we are sinful and wicked without Him. It's an uncomfortable message, but Mike has never been one to mince words or back down.

He outlines for us the positions of both parties and both candidates on a number of issues. He enumerates the civic duties of Christians nationwide from scripture. We spend some time in prayer for our nation, our leaders, both spiritual and political, and for our citizens to educate ourselves on the issues and the scriptures so we can vote biblically.

We leave knowing God is the only answer, and it's never too late to fall on His grace. Not even for a nation that has wandered far off.

We snap a shot of the twins who wear the same shirt to church and the same godly countenance.

The girls stay all afternoon to paint one of the childrens' classrooms and the new youth room. Adrian leaves for Atlanta to play his guitar in concert tonight. This is how our children's ministry continues even after our long Sunday service is over.

His sermon behind us and in us, Mike and I go home alone, after having lunch with Mom, to pack.

He leaves for Guatemala in just over 30 hours. There are 35 pastors there waiting for training. He still has not rested. His next shot at a decent night sleep is 11 days from now when he has returned.

Late that night, with Adrian still not yet home, we fall again in the bed. Mike breathes, "Thank you, Jesus," and I think my prayer again: Let him rest, Lord.

October is Pastor Appreciation month. Have you appreciated yours lately?

Photos courtesy of Lindsay Bolton. Thank you, Lindsay.

It's a Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 14:01:00 +0000

I'm over at Laced With Grace today talking about marriage. I guess it's because the gift of these 10 years have been beautiful, this beautiful:

Weren't expecting pictures of a cathedral, were you? Well, your marriage (if you are part of one, that is) is actually a mystery.

Here's the secret.... Well, it's over at Laced With Grace, so follow me over there.

One October Afternoon

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Tue, 02 Oct 2012 14:33:00 +0000

I tiptoe into the room and gently wake my napping girl. She's smiles the pudgy, dimpled waking from glorious, toddler slumber. She reaches her arms to me as she does each day at 2:05. We load her half-sleeping body in her car seat to pick up her brother from second grade. Noelle is with us, too. She's four now and wakes more earthly than angelic, unlike her younger sister.

We sing Sesame Street songs all the way there, and talk of recess and the new concept Mr. Cook had cooking in his oven that day in Adrian's class on the way home. They bounce and bound into the house, hungry for a snack, where Mike has been perched on the couch under a blanket for the past three weeks, each day getting weaker, thinner, grayer.

When I have the kids anchored to the kitchen table by milk and crackers, Mike takes me outside to the front stoop. We sit on hard, cold brick steps, and he breaks the hard, cold, ugly news.

It's cancer.

A doctor sits at his desk, file open, and dials, changing a patient's life forever. How many calls did he have to make that day I was in the carpool line? Mike was home alone when our phone rang.

Are there scarier words in the English language?

Inside, it's Friday afternoon, and our children are catching their second wind.

Here on the steps, it's a precipice into a dark unknown and we catch our breath and each other's hand.

We linger quietly with our thoughts rattling inside. We smile wan smiles as if to bolster each other, and slip back through the front door hoping for the life we'd always known.

It's been ten years since that beautiful October afternoon when Mike was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Six months of chemo. Two months of re staging, and then a bone marrow transplant. A full year of treatment. A scare or two since, that turned out to be a glorious nothing.

Never has a decade been such gift.

I am so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. ~Anne of Green Gables

In community:

The Way of Teenagers on the Road to a Big, Independent Life

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 15:31:00 +0000

The Datson B210 was blue with a stick shift that was a real stick, long and protruding from the floorboard. It had tires the size of today's spares, and it was old. But none of that stopped Jeff and me from a day trip to the beach. We were in high school, at least I was; he might have been in junior college by then. I don't really remember. Our alarm went off early, and after a bowl of Cheerios, we were headed east into the rising sun toward Pensacola.

We tanned and rode the surf and walked the shore. We drank canned cola and ate sandwiches, feet dangling over a pier. And I wish I remembered our conversation, because about 10 years later he'd be gone.

We rode the three hours home in the setting sun, windows down, salty hair whipping, and sun-soaked skin all tingly. The engine ran hot, so we backdrafted. Not sure I got the terminology right, and Jeff's no longer here to ask, but it's when you drive dangerously close to the 18 wheeler in front of you to catch his tail winds to give your engine a little help from a good buddy. Crazy thing is, it worked. The dashboard needle slowly stepped away from the H and no one got hurt.

Kids. The way of teenagers on the road to a big, independent life. And we were ready to grasp it all.

Yesterday I wondered for the first time what mom thought of our escapade, although I'm sure we didn't tell her about the backdraft thingy we did.

I thought of mom because yesterday, I handed keys to our newest vehicle to our 17 year old. Armed with a fresh oil change, two new tires, and his GPS, Adrian embarked on his first road trip alone, navigating his teenage way to the beach. He didn't need to backdraft, but he had a smart phone, which can bring its own tempting danger to the driver's seat.

Like his uncle and his mom from a generation ago, he made it safely to his destination. Except he left his reckless evidence on Facebook. That's when I remembered what I had forgotten from when I was his age: To grasp what's ahead of you, there's a little letting go of what's behind. At least he was a safe distance from the car in front of him.

#Beachbound, first road trip driving alone. Beautiful day outside :)

Adrian sharing with a small group at our men's retreat.

Linking with LisaJo's 5 minute free-write. This weeks prompt: Grasp.

Extending Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 17:43:00 +0000

August 12, 2012

We returned yesterday from one of the best vacations we've ever had. We drove east for three hours and found ourselves at the edge of the earth with fishermen and sunbathers. We came home on Friday despite Mike's desire to stay til Saturday. Responsibility was calling.

So we left early and arrived home in time for lunch. We unpacked and began the laundry. But we extended our vacation with the Adventures of Tin Tin and ice cream crowded in our family room last night.

Suitcases had been tossed back into the attic on a miniature assembly line, and it's tempting to pack away most everything. But there's a few things I don't wan to put away after this simple family trip.

1. Adrian's music. Some of his tunes are making their way to my phone as we speak. They're energetic and motivational. The're invigorating and makes me happy.

2. Conversations just for the fun of it. Wish they could be in the middle of the ocean like they were last week, but they can happen in the middle of traffic or in the middle of loading the dishwasher.

3. Laughter. We had a lot of it at the beach. We need more of it at home.

4. Family devotion and family devotions. We have both at home, they just are much better when you aren't so aware of what time it is and don't have somewhere important to be.

5. Sunsets. They bring needed perspective if we're paying attention.

6. Time and space to explore. Routine, as necessary as it is, puts me on auto-pilot. I will fight for each day to be unique and abundant.

7. More magic. Delight and surprise is a wonderful response when things don't happen as you expected they would. We enjoyed the magic and illusions of Brandon Wagster, the son of old friends of ours. Worries and the cares of this world? Just an illusion -- so be of good cheer.

::

September 21, 2012

I'm not sure why I didn't post this when I wrote it. I've missed this writing place, but I've been busy writing elsewhere and trying to fit in the items on my list up there. Sometimes the writing of it has to give way to the living of it because that's all that's all there's time for.

Weekend Word: Graffiti

noreply@blogger.com (Dawn González) — Sat, 28 Jul 2012 23:43:00 +0000

~ Spray painted on an abandoned building in town ~

May you live this day in all His abundance.