Memories – Reflecting His Heart Ministries

Set Free from the Ties that Bind

3 Comments / Healing, Hope, Memories, Praise / Tami / March 19, 2024

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity or cowardice or fear, but of power and of love, and of sound judgement and personal discipline (abilities that result in a calm, well-balanced mind and self-control). ~ 2 Timothy 1:7 {AMP} Today I’m giving myself permission to free-write in my “good journal.” To write whatever comes to mind, as in Dear Diary…and go from there. I know…normally I wouldn’t take such a daring risk without having a specific topic in mind, but I’ve confined myself to patterns of strictness and structure my whole life and today I just want to let go, have fun, live life, and que sera sera (whatever will be, will be)…at least as far as my writing goes. A writing coach once made the suggestion regarding the “good journal” (to actually use it) and had me almost convinced it was a good idea. I know…it boggles the mind! I was “this close” to diving into those special pages that I was saving for the perfect words and the perfectly special day they would arrive. But I decided against it. Deep inside I was thinking, “what if I make a mistake, my hand-writing is bad, I scribble, or accidentally smudge ink globs onto the beautiful paper?” It would all be ruined, never to be my perfect journal again. The gamble was too great. I decided for all non-structured writing and off-the-cuff thoughts, I must stick with the notebook paper I picked up at the dollar store. The last thing I wanted was for the pages of my beautiful, leather-bound journal to fall into the wrong hands…my hands. The paper needed to remain perfectly unblemished, awaiting the fruition of a secret dream, that sometime in the future my elegant penmanship would be found as an old, abandoned journal, pages yellowed with age, the ink (from an inkwell, of course) forming sentences flowing flawlessly across the page in calligraphic style, telling tales of danger and heroism. But how could that be? I didn’t have that journal, or that life, or those words. I only had my life and my words. So…that prompted me to reflect on my own childhood and of being a little girl in 1960s America. Maybe I could find something “there” to write about. So many recollections of growing up bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. So much so, it’s even tempting to want to return to those simpler days, but of course that’s not possible. And I almost want to interject here that forward is the only option open to us, but that’s not quite true. Sadly, we can also remain stationary, static…stuck. I’ve actually spent a lot of time there; in the stationary, stuck in the status quo, held hostage by something that at its root is fear. More specifically, it’s a fear of ruination (that’s RUIN-ation not another word referring to using the facilities). Anyway, it begins, shall we say…innocuously; and when you’re five years old just about everything is innocuous. Merriam-Webster defines innocuous as “not likely to give offense or to arouse strong feelings or hostility.” If we were lucky, our little-kid-selves went about each day being little kids. Our job was to play, learn, play some more, eat, sleep, and repeat. Children are sponges. They soak everything up, take everything in, even or especially, the innocuous. And sometimes an internalized, innocuous message lasts a lifetime. Allow me to share a story. One day recently I was thinking about my childhood dolls, what their names were, when I got them and what eventually became of them. There are two or three I gave to my daughter when she was little and they remain with her, but what of the others? I decided to do an Internet search for fun. Not to find my very dolls, but to find their likenesses, if possible. To my delight, I found most of them for sale on vintage resale sites like e-bay and other online sellers, and it’s simply magical how a first glance of an old toy can bring back the sights and sounds of bygone days, or trigger the memory of the unique smell of opening and holding a new doll on the Christmas mornings of yesteryear. I didn’t get dolls throughout the year, so that special “new-doll-smell” is forever married to Christmas in my mind and heart. Anyway, through the miracle of technology I found Baby Boo, who cried whenever her pacifier was taken away, and Snugglebunnie Baby whose name I shortened to simply, Bunnie. Then I came across Baby First Step and Swingy, who weren’t infants but rather, toddler dolls who walked and danced with the power of batteries and pull-strings. That’s when, in my scrolling to peruse images of my childhood treasures (accessories included), I came across the doll I had named “Teeny Baby.” She was petite, hence her name, with milky white skin, rosy cheeks, and strawberry-blonde hair. In the online photo I didn’t recognize the dress she wore as one I’d ever owned or seen before, but something else was amiss and the more I studied her image, the more I knew this Teeny Baby lacked something. I looked closer: her hair was exactly the right color as though blonde locks were stained gently by red berries, her porcelain cheeks kissed by angels, and the pink pout of her lips as perfect as a freshly-born babe. She was beautiful. But she was different. This was a close likeness of my Teeny Baby…and yet she wasn’t her. “She’s exactly the same doll, so what is different?” I studied her carefully, not able to put my finger on it. Then it hit me. This doll’s hair, while still tidy and obviously well-cared-for after many decades, was loose and free, just a little mussed. But my Teeny Baby’s hair had been perfect; perfectly coiffed, never a hair out of place…because it was also perfectly contained in parts of her original packaging. A tight, white net

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Faith of My Father

8 Comments / Comfort, Memories, Reflection / Tami / June 8, 2023

“Faith of our fathers, we will love both friend and foe in all our strife, and preach thee, too, as love knows how, by kindly words and virtuous life: Faith of our fathers, Holy faith! We will be true to thee till death.” ~ Frederick W. Faber, 1814-1863 (Baptist Hymnal, 1956) “Yet, the Lord set His heart in love on your fathers, and chose their offspring after them…as you are to this day.” ~ Deuteronomy 10:15 I’m not one of those people who can say, “As a kid in church, I remember how my dad sang the old hymns loudly and boldly, belting out his love for Jesus in beautiful, baritone-rich harmonies.” Oh, no! Some of my young Sunday school friends could claim it, or even boast of their parents singing in the choir. My dad, however, was special for different reasons. First of all, as a five year old, this girl thought he was quite handsome, standing tall in his black Sunday suit, crisp white shirt and tie, and polished dress shoes. Music filled the air of the small Southern Baptist church, rising on the voices of parishioners as the old hymns rang out with piano and organ in one accord. “Let’s all stand as we open our hymnals to page…” This is how the song director usually began, as we rose promptly to our feet, and Daddy, opening his hymnbook, would hold it close to my mother so she could read and sing along. He, personally, never uttered a word or sang a single note, but he stood tall, proudly participating in congregational worship without missing a beat, so to speak. You see, the only time my father let anyone hear him sing was at home when, four times a year, he would help sing happy birthday to my mom or one of us girls. He, of course, was given a reprieve on his own birthday, but as the years went by he stopped singing altogether, even on these few simple, annual occasions. Anyway, this is how we all knew that his lack of song participation in church was really about the gift he was giving to others around him; the gift of silence. But we kids never gave it a second thought, as we knew that this man, who was our everything, couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. And thankfully, for the hearing world, that was never required. Although, it also wasn’t that he was completely without musical talent, for he and my mom, during their dating years in the 1940s, made quite a pair in the world of square dancing and clogging. He could make his feet dance up a storm, but exercising his vocal chords was entirely a different matter. Some years after his passing, my sisters and I were helping our mom go through old things in the garage in advance of selling her house. One of my sisters, I don’t remember which, discovered a tattered box belonging to Daddy, filled with memorabilia he’d kept from his youth. There was a worn photograph of his very first car, a 1931 Ford Model A, that one of my sisters remembers him telling her about. By the time he was old enough to purchase it, sometime in the late ‘30s or early ‘40s, the car in the photograph looked tired and a little worse for the wear. Also in the box were a variety of other older photographs, some odds and ends, and miraculously one old report card from his elementary school days. We huddled around taking note of his childhood grades when we saw it: “Music…D!” We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks and were doubled over with aching bellies, immediately sending us back to those childhood Sundays that Daddy graciously spared us his (lack of) vocal giftedness. But, the Bible says to simply make a joyful “noise” unto the Lord, and so what he lacked musically, he more than made up for as husband, father, and child of God. He daily, quietly, the epitome of the southern gentleman that he was, lived out his faith. He “sang his song” differently than most. Was he perfect? No. And none of us are. That’s why we need Jesus, and that is the song his life sang each and every day. From the time I was born, he and my mom took me to church. At mealtime and bedtime, he taught me to pray. When I was injured, he would clean and dress my wounds (and somehow the mercurochrome solution didn’t sting as bad when he painted it on). Scraped knees and elbows, splinters and bee stings, all were his specialty…he tenderly met my physical needs while soothing my fears, as only he could. Not to sound sacrilegious, but he was “like Jesus with skin on”…doing what Jesus would do, ministering to needs. As an aside, I need to mention that visiting the doctor was also not as frightening with him there. This was usually Mama’s job, but I distinctly remember occasions when this duty fell to him, and whatever pain the doctor and nurses could inflict, or threaten to inflict, was nothing compared to the strength and stoicism he brought to the situation. I realized I could be brave because he was brave. Tucking my small hand into his larger one made all the difference. He wore that same quiet strength every day of his life. Daddy had a way with people that was genuine and “down-home.” His folksy ways didn’t allow room for a pretentious bone in his body, a product of good stock and being brought up with love, discipline, and a rock-solid sense of right and wrong. If older neighbors or family needed their lawn mowed, he mowed it. If someone was in need of a car ride to their destination, he gave it. If money was in need, he gave out of his meager but blessed livelihood. And if any of his children’s friends needed the kindness of

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Footprints to Follow

3 Comments / Healing, Hope, Memories / Tami / May 25, 2023

“Let us labor for our Master from the dawn ‘til setting sun, let us talk of all His wondrous love and care; then when all of life is over and our work on earth is done, and the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.” James M. Black 1856-1938 ~ Baptist Hymnal “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed…Charm is deceitful and beauty is in vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.” ~ Proverbs 31:26-28a & 30-31 (ESV) She is still, silent, never to speak again. “Oh, Mommy,” the child in me choked upon seeing the woman who gave me life, laying lifeless in her hospice bed. Only an hour or so since breathing her last, she is sallow with that tell-tale pallor of death. I round the foot of the bed, coming along side her. Taking her cool hand in the warmth of mine, caressing timidly, I notice higher on her arm, toward her heart, she is warm. For a moment I wonder if the doctor was wrong and there is still life deep inside, waiting to be revived…just waiting for permission to live again. Laying my head on her chest, tears trickling from my eyes to pool on her skin, I startle, surprised at the left-over sounds of life gurgling in her hollow lungs. Once, evenly and robustly moving air in out, now echo as though a shell; silence, except for the settling of air. The remnants of her life’s breath. I long for you to speak, for your eyes to flutter or your hand to squeeze mine, but it’s not to be. You lay there peacefully, your eyes closed in the deep sleep of death, and your hand cannot return my touch. But as for speaking…you continue. Your “voice” is different now and I can no longer hear it with my ears, for it has become a voice I must hear with only the memories of my heart. You promise me I’ve learned enough to go on from here, that you’ve taught me well, and this isn’t the end. As with all the motherly teaching you’ve done in my life, you remind me you’ve simply gone up ahead so that I have a footpath to follow. So, I’ll take shaky steps into those footprints that always seemed too large for me, and I’ll try to fill them to overflowing so my own children can be confident in the way they lead. Because this is not our home. From the beginning you pointed me to Jesus, because He is The Way home. He is exactly where we need to be. The only One we’ll ever need. “For in Him, we live and move and have our being.” ~ Acts 17:28 (ESV) “Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it.” ~Proverbs 22:6 (ESV)

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Rest, Renewal, and Letting Go

2 Comments / Healing, Memories, Reflection, Renewal, Seasons / Jennifer / October 31, 2022

Have you ever second-guessed yourself? Have you ever wondered if decisions made in the past were the right ones? While I know reflecting on past decisions does no good because they cannot be changed, even so, that’s where I’ve been the past few weeks. Reflecting. Seeking. Praying. It’s very quiet in my house right now. The only sound is the whirr of the ceiling fan above me. I look out my window to see an overcast, gray sky and the grass in my backyard turned to yellow as it has gone dormant for the winter months. The temperature has dropped and leaves are falling from my dogwood tree. It, too, is preparing for its long winter’s nap. Seasons change. The grass and trees are doing exactly what God created them to do. Last Spring, new leaves and new grass emerged from their slumber to remind me that although things change, God brings renewal. Now, those same leaves and grass from last Spring have accomplished what they were created to do and are dying back in order to get ready for their reemergence next Spring, renewed, refreshed, and beautiful. It all seems so effortless. God’s beautiful and amazing creation knows exactly what to do each Spring and each Fall. No one has to tell them when to emerge from the ground or return to it. It’s just how He created them. They just do as their Creator instructs them. Oh, that life could be so effortless from a human stand-point. To just be and do as our Creator instructs us. But God did not create us with a seasonal pattern that we follow year in and year out. He created us for fellowship. He created us for relationship. He created us with a mind that can think and reason and relate. He created us with an innate desire and urgency to seek Him. But He also created us with a free will. A free will to choose His path or our own. A free will to seek a relationship with Him or pursue our own selfish desires. He created us with emotions. To feel contentment when all seems to be going well or to feel concern when someone we love is hurting or is sick. To feel love for another so deeply you can’t imagine life without it then feel pain so tangibly when forced to do so. To be grateful for all God’s blessed you with yet feel sadness for what was lost or what could’ve been. We are emotional beings. There are situations that happen to us in this world we can’t understand and bring us to our knees yet somehow we know God is in control. There are decisions made in the moment we think are the right ones and trust God with the outcome. We go about our day to day lives, doing our best to be a witness and an example of the gospel of Jesus to those we come into contact with. We do our jobs with diligence and integrity in order to bring God glory and to pay the bills. We raise our kids and set an example for them to emulate so they can then pass those same convictions on to their children to carry on a legacy of knowing Jesus and making Him known. Over the past five years, I believe I have experienced every emotion common to the human heart, at least once. Emotions ranging from being ecstatically happy and content to being the most broken and devastated I have ever been. My heart has known both incredible happiness and incredible loss. Such it is with living life on this earth. Life is not without its ups and downs; good days and bad days; good seasons and bad seasons. What makes the difference in these ever changing life situations is how I choose to look at them but also, how I choose to deal with them. It’s very easy to choose to stay down and depressed because somehow this brings comfort to my humanness. To wallow in the why’s and what-if’s of yesterday as opposed to embracing where God has placed me now. Embracing the present has been difficult, I have to admit. Because embracing the present means I must let the past go. Not forget it or the lessons I have learned from it but to store it away in my heart as a season that is gone forever, cherish the good memories, and realize God is ready for me to move on to the next one. Oh, how much easier it would be if God had written how to do this into my DNA when He created me. That the ever changing seasons of life would come as easily to me as they do to my grass and my tree. But that’s not how it works. Instead, in my humanness, I experience life as it comes, sometimes being effected and influenced by the life-choices of others, filtered through the hand of my Creator, in order for me to turn my eyes toward Him for His strength, His guidance, and His will. That is, if I choose to do it that way. Sometimes I don’t and I opt for the pity-party or the wallowing-in-the-past scenario. But I’ve learned I don’t always realize I’m wallowing until I open up and share my heart with another to help me sort through the myriad of emotions I’m feeling. I have learned that letting go is also a process; just as healing is. Earlier this month, I took my first vacation of the year. I usually head to the mountains for solitude to enjoy God’s beautiful creation, write, read my Bible, and rest. This year was different. With the cost of everything being higher these days, I decided on a stay-cation. There were stacks of boxes I’d moved from my old house that had been piled up in closets and in the garage from when I moved into my new house five years

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