Ode to Maw

"If it's not one thing, it's your mother" - Anita Renfroe

"I don't think I deserve this card" is what my mother had to say about the words that graced the cover of her Mother's Day card yesterday. My overly excited pre-schooler was jumping up and down in the kitchen when Mom came over for a visit last night "We bought you a present, Nana! We bought you a present!". It became apparent to us both that Carli was not going to let this go without bursting either at the seams with anticipation or in tears at the decline to open. I handed my mother the gift. She opened her card, read it and set it down. Next, the box which my daughter all but tore out of her hand trying to open it for her. With some coaching and patience, Carli helped her get the ribbon off. It may have been a little too likely to predict that we had selected for her yet another Pandora charm for her bracelet. It was a pretty spacer with Carli's birthstones all around it. I thought it would add some sparkle and color. She put it on the bracelet immediately. When the charm was fastened and bracelet repositioned she picked up the card again and those words spilled out.

I never expected that and I grappled with how to respond. The card referred to the caring, love and patience of some of my favorite female bible characters. The only thing I could come up with was "you do in your own way" I felt like my response was a little lackluster but when she made her statement my brain started conspiring for the exact marketing spin but I felt short. I haven't stopped thinking about it so without further delay, Mom, here is why you live up to the card.

My mother's heart could not have shown itself better than when my husband died. I had never been in a position to feel so vulnerable and stripped naked of everything mentally, emotionally and spritually as then. I needed so much but I couldn't articulate it. Mothers have an inate ability to read the unspoken in their children. My mom does this flawlessly. Instinctively, she stayed at my house for a week. She didn't ask, she didn't make any grand statements about being there for me, she just did. There was no display on her part. She often sat quietly and played in the spare bedroom with my daughter while I wandered, usually in my pajamas and unshowered, aimlessly about my house. I couldn't care for my daughter in those first days. I wanted to but I was too broken. She didn't ask me to talk, there was no wailing on my behalf. She was the continual presence that I could rely on during those darkest of days. When I returned to work, I was in great need of assistance in caring for my daughter when I had to stay late or was desperate for babysitting for those obscure holidays my day care seemed to always have off and at the worst possible times. My mother would drive over an hour to my house before dawn to make sure she could be there so I could head into the office. It pained me to ask her being so far away but she never gave it a thought. I didn't want to over step my welcome. I am still waiting for her to even give me a hint of that two years later. My mother's credentials for being caring are ones of genuineness and practicality not empty words.

The love of a mother was not something I could have possibly understood until I had my own child. The bond is indescribable and the need to protect is deep. As a single mother, I am often questioning instincts to protect versus my anxiety of over protection. As I have observed my mother, I see that it may be a healthy mix of both. My mom lamented my extra long vacation to Key West within months of my husband's departure. I felt like Humpty Dumpty scrambling to put the pieces back. She wanted to be the glue and I rebuffed her opportunities. We had many heated conversations during my time on my little, exclusive island in the keys. She visited a lot, 3 times in 10 months as a matter of fact, but her frequent visits helped me understand. She was like a mother hen trying to put her chicks under the cover of her wings. She had to see me and be with me to know that I was okay. If I had a bad day, she wanted to be there sitting next to me on the couch hugging me, not expressing thoughts and feelings over a cold phone line. She wanted to gather me and Carli close to her. Moms love to be there pick up the pieces no matter how messy it is. They want to be the first to kiss the boo-boo. My mom wanted to see physically that I was doing okay. I get that. I hate to be separated from Carli. I feel most comfortable when she is right in front of me. My mother's love is one of spending time and being present, not gifts and fluff.

Patience is a virtue. It's also part of the fruit of the Spirit. I have days where I have it and nights where I lament to my Creator that I fell short. My mother's patience is one that you would see is a thread of her life, rather than an observation of how she reacts to long lines at the grocery store. I have led an interesting life. It has been full of moments of great failure, terrible decisions and tremendous times of reinvention and miraculous achievement. My mom has been the one to not dwell on any of the negativity. I'd expect her to bring up some of my worst in moments where I think I deserved it but she never does. My mom is like God. When we confess our sins He is quick to forgive, forget and grant restoration. Mom is just like that. She has never held anything against me. She would rather focus on the things that make her feel good about me. She always writes in birthday cards and such that she is proud of me and she can't believe she gave birth to someone like me and it blows me away every time. I feel so undeserving. It makes my heart buckle with humility to read her sentiments. My mom's patience is one of the long-haul not necessarily the immediate situation. She exemplifies some of my favorite attributes of God.

Mom, you do reflect every word on that card. I just wanted you to know why. Happy Mother's Day. I love you so much and my gratitude transcends anything that I could write. Flawless? No. But you are the perfect mom for me.

"People want what you have but they don't want to go through what you went through to get it". - Joyce Meyer

The world is filled with people finding shortcuts to something more without having to do any work to achieve it. Fail proof 'get rich' books offer the solution to unlimited wealth. All you have to do is read and apply. The diet drink that transforms you to the body you've always dreamed of. All you have to do is charge your card for a small monthly fee and sip your way to slimmer hips and thighs in no time. You can undo years worth of unhealthy emotional damage if you just believe in yourself. It all sounds great. Why wouldn't it? I'd be the next in line for all of these if they delivered as promised. Do you know anyone who can testify to their validity besides the actors on the commercial?

If there were any one comment I hear more from my readers than anything else it is that I am an inspiration. It seems that people who have even heard of me offer my ears and eyes the same words of encouragement. I am not lifted by the sentiments though, I am terrified. Fear and trembling is my approach to what I have to teach. In my oft bumbling gaffes through life, I have been trained in great wisdom. My written lessons are merely a recount of experiences, nothing more. There is no school to attend, no magic pill, no instant solution. A mind formed by trial, has somehow made me attractive to others. To them, I have much to offer. I don't want to give them something more than I have. So dangerous is the law of attraction. Many have been given the gift of teaching but they get caught up in its power that they lose the lessons they've been given and reach for something more in order to keep the throngs in front of them. They forgot one thing. The audience is part of the gift. The giver can take it all away in the absence of acknowledgement and gratitude. Never elevate yourself higher than your station. Someone put you there and that is exactly where He wants you where it be weeks, years or hours. You are filling a purpose.

Were I to recount in a continuous chronological display all the trials I've overcome in my life in order to have what I've been given it would be a story too sad to read. The burden would drown the joy. No, the lessons digested in part and parcel are much easier to take in. Wisdom also brings discernment so I know this to be true. If you've ever read Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt you'd know what I am talking about. Mr. McCourt followed his first book up with an equally dismal sequel, " 'Tis". I read through the first and then half of the second before I shut the cover in discouragement and presented myself to my recommending mother to ask "does this guy's life ever get better? I can hardly stand to read on!" to which my dad piped up from across the room to say, "Sure, he became a bestselling author and millionaire". Lord, forbid it to be true of me. I desire something much more than fame or money. I want the ability to offer hope to the suffering and for others to see the evidence of peace in my life despite great circumstances. Discernment helps you hold your tongue when you need to and brings the courage to share the truth when you ought.

Yes, I have endured. No, I am not bitter. I've met rooms full of people and the irony is the ones who have suffered the least are the ones who complain the most. Wisdom brings levity. I don't get angry when they spew negativity. I chuckle to myself as if to say, 'if you only knew how bad it could be'. They want to know the shortcut to happiness. There isn't one. I submit you learn to be content in the situation not absent of it. We're it to not be so, there would be psychiatric facilities packed to the gills with victims instead of arenas full of attendees anxious to hear from overcomers. No one would be well enough to bring the message hope to those so in need of healing.

Enjoy your blessings, they number more than your trials. I've only learned to focus on them because I have been brought through so many of the latter. Some scratch their heads at how I still stand. I understand their wondering but I have a secret to share with you. I am grateful for every minute of pain. Dare I say, I would not be the person I am today without it. I have been given a gift to replace what has been lost in the turmoil that far outweighs what I've had to let go of. I wouldn't want it any other way. I count it great joy that I have the ability to see all this and write it down for you to read. May it renew your spirit and help you go on. You can't get what I have any other way than being brought through what I have. While I pray that you would be spared, I would like to offer you a by-product of lessons though. It's hope.

The One and Only

When I look back on my first two years of widowhood, interestingly enough, I don't mourn. I crane my head over my shoulder turn back around, give my brain a good shake and say "whoa, what a ride!". It makes for an interesting story (okay, shameless plug for my upcoming book) I can assure you. It has all the makings of a great movie. A hero, a villian, then you don't know who is the villian and who is the hero but you want to find out and it comes with a happy ending. What could be better? Great trial in life leaves you with profound insight. You gain nuggets of truth no one else can have except those that have been in your shoes and also, if they are blessed, learned the same things. I have led a life that no one would choose. Were I to list all of the amazing suffering I've endured you'd wonder why I was still sitting here, let alone able to tell you about it with a smile on my face. I walked through the fire and yet, not burned. Sure, I've got scars. No one ever promised me I'd be unscathed. These emotional scars are visible, praise God. To some, they add to my beauty. They see the lines, the bumps. They run their fingers over them and stare into my face in amazement and call them blessed. The ones that do that are the ones who rejoice in my suffering because they know it also brought healing. While their trial might be different than mine, they want the same transformation. They know that the pain, in the end, brings great joy. I am living proof of it and so they can hold on, for just one more day if they can have what they see in me. To them I say, study every blemish. Ask me about all of them. I will tell you of the great peace they have brought to me. Others see my scars and call them ugly. They see what I've become and call it a curse. To them I am something to ridicule, maimed beyond recognition from what I used to be. They mourn for the old person I once was. They see me now, they see my beauty and they are jealous for it so they resent me. They have their own wounds from life but they are not the same. They have not experienced the healing from living water like I have. Theirs are still open and painful. When they see my scars, though they shine in the light from closure and regrowth, they want to rip them open. To me I am a thing to be avoided as they are confused by the new creation I've become. "Don't tell anyone you've been cured!" they say. I tell them how I got better and they furrow their brows in irritance. Some have left my side. Others flee in horror, afraid they will look like me if they get too close. Those are the ones I sorrow for the most. They don't know how close restoration they really were, but they refuse it. For me, what once was is now irrevocably gone. What is left is only a reminder. I look at myself, examine my scars and wear them as badges of honor. They are a gift. I have now by my wounds been given a great commission. To go in search of the suffering and try to offer relief. If not for the visible reminders of battles past, no one would ever know there was any hope for their future or mine.

Public Apology for Last Week's Post

Dear Friends; Thank you for the comments last week regarding The Forgiven Things. In the spirit of Easter and the greatest extention of forgiveness the world has ever seen, the meaning behind what it takes to exact that was on my heart, especially when we reconcile with those who have offended. I recounted the events of a story which, in hindsight and with the help of honest friends who hold me accountable to principles some would be afraid to, I may have unwittingly exposed too many details and left someone feeling, to quote a reader, "unclothed in the marketplace". Taking that to heart, I have deleted last week's post and replaced it with this apology. It was never my intention to hurt anyone. In fact, if it had been my agenda, it would have made everything I said about forgiveness a total lie. Friends, everyone screws up just like I opened last week's article with. It doesn't matter how I got here, it just matters what I need to do about it. _____, I am sorry. I hope in some way, this public apology provides amends if I inadvertently made you feel robbed of your dignity. I sorrow over your feelings.

He Still Speaks

Writing for a mass audience is hard in a world that is easily offended. Being a Christian writer is worse. I struggle with how much "God" to bring into my work. Today, I am bringing all God into my work. I saw a miracle happen today. I am not here to address where ever you are at in your spirituality. I am not writing this to prove whether or not God exists. That is a much bigger discussion, the matter of Faith.

Now that you've read the disclaimer, let me get to what I witnessed. First, a little back story. About 10 years ago, I was in dire straits financially. I was working for a start-up and living on my own in Worcester, MA and literally living hand to mouth. Often this company could not make payroll which would leave me with several weeks without pay. I cried and prayed almost daily for what I could do. The commission I was generating as a salesperson for this company was not enough to hold me over when the checks were late. I needed more commission pay in order to weather this storm. I tried and tried. Nothing worked. I still made the same amount of money. This went on for months. Was there any end? Someone gave me a book called The Prayer of Jabez. They told me if I did what it said, it would work miracles. Of course, I read it and did exactly what it said. The following month, I not only made more than enough to cover what I needed, I was able to pay off a substantial amount of debt and give 10% of my income to my church. Pretty incredible if you ask me but that is just the preface of what I am going to tell you. Read on.

Fast forward to today. I have sustained many trials in my life and God has delivered me from them all. I could write pages on it. In fact, I am writing one book now and several to follow on just that. Through my experiences I have learned to trust God in all things. There are times when I second guess His willingness to answer prayer. I feel terrible when that happens but it's true. Sometimes I have doubted God. Like today.

I am in Orlando with several friends and have just finished attending a 4-day conference. This was a wonderful bible conference given by a world famous bible teacher, Joyce Meyer. I learned several things from her. You'd have thought, I'd be so full of knowledge and so high on God that I wouldn't have thought twice about what I witnessed today but you are wrong. The human heart has Alzheimer's. Today is our last day here and we were attending church this morning at First Baptist Church of Orlando. I didn't think too much of it, I like to go to church. I go every Sunday. I scooped up my bible and headed out the door with my friends. On the ride, one of my friends announced that her regular pastor at this church would not be delivering the sermon. A man who had written a couple of books would be the guest speaker. I was glad to know that a Christian author would be talking because I am one. Pay no mind, I just went on viewing the palm trees and manicured landscape from the rear passenger window as my friends prattled on. We parked, found a seat and sat down. I prepared for my mind and fixed my things around me to be out of the way and stared blankly forward until some guy came out to announce who would be speaking today. It would be Bruce Wilkinson who would be speaking to us. Can you guess? He wrote the Prayer of Jabez among other things. I was pretty excited to know he'd be talking. I didn't know what he looked like or what he'd say but I remembered how much his book had helped me.

He is a tall man with a pleasantly round face and glowing smile. He has white hair and glasses, kind of like a friendly grandfather who would bend down, grin and say "Give your old grand dad a big hug" and stretch his arms out to you. I settled in and he got right to what he wanted to say. He travels all over talking about his books and his teachings. To be invited by a church to speak was nothing new. He accepted the invitation from them and planned his trip. What comes next gripped all involved. The week before he planned to come out to Orlando from California he turned on the TV and was skimming the channels when he came across the show, 60 Minutes. He doesn't like 60 Minutes but what he saw made him stop. The segment he caught was on the homelessness in Orlando. The reporter was interviewing and reporting on dozens and dozens of families that had become homeless as a result of job loss and the current economy in the US and in Florida. If you don't know, Florida is one of the states hardest hit by the recession at a staggering 11.9% unemployment rate as of January of this year. These families of 4, 5 and even 6 had to move out of their foreclosed homes and into motel rooms. Possessions that had been stored had now been taken for non-payment of rented space and sold to cover the debt. All these families had was in the rooms they were being interviewed in. Their stories were as heartbreaking as they were gut-wrenching. Bruce knew then what his real purpose was for going to Orlando. He needed to help with the homeless families in that city. For the believers in Christ, we get these senses all the time. God asks us to do something. Sometimes He asks us to do something really crazy. Very often, we are afraid or don't believe it is possible and ignore it. Bruce did not do that. He prayed about what was supposed to be done. God gave him a plan. Rent 50 buses on Saturday night and bring whomever wants to get on at these motels to First Baptist Church of Orlando, feed them a hot meal and provide for their needs physically and spiritually. Love on them, show them that someone cares and ask nothing in return.

50 buses is a lot of buses, let's face it. It takes a lot to believe that you would have a need to fill 50 buses for this program in the first place. Bruce was certain the number was 50. Then the conversation turned to food. Someone needs to not only pay for buses but food. Not just food but whatever else was needed. Was there a child in one of those families who needed shoes? How about Dad or Mom, did they need money for transportation to find work? As you can imagine, when you start drawing out something like this, dollars signs start swimming in people's heads. How much extra would we need to fund this program on top of what we already ask people to give to meet our budget every week? Just call up Project Bread or Catholic Charities and ask them how much money it costs to run a feeding program for one night and you'll get an idea. Once all of the needs to run this program for a year were written down, they figured out how much. About a million dollars. A million dollars? Break it down into weeks and that is not a tremendous amount of money to feed 50 bus loads of hungry people and never mind what else they need but they settled on a million.

Bruce could not sleep. He lay awake about it and then called the pastor at First Baptist Orlando and brought him the news about how much God wanted Bruce to ask the congregation for. The number they would ask for would be 5 million dollars. Let me put this into perspective for you. About 7,000 people come to the First Baptist of Orlando each weekend between 3 services. That's a lot of people. The average income in Orlando is $21,210.00 per year. That's not a lot of money. In fairness of reporting, the people of First Baptist Orlando are probably making more than that judging by what is in the parking lot but they aren't a sea of millionaires either. Their church campus is large and has a K-12 school so there is a lot that they already support to just sustain what they have. Still, they would ask for 5 million dollars. Bruce would be bold enough to ask for 5 million dollars to be donated. In one weekend.

As he recounted from the pulpit my mind started casting its judgment. This guy wants 5 million dollars in two days. He really thinks that 5 million dollars from a group of 7,000 would be possible in one weekend? I had to hand it to the guy, that was pretty big faith he had. I wasn't necessarily convinced. He continued. Between the Saturday night service and the first service today they had raised all but 1.8 million dollars. What did he say? All they needed was another 1.8 million and they would reach there goal. Is that all you need? Why not ask for the moon while your at it. My emotions started to stir as he began to pray for the goal to be met. Could it really happen? I mean, amen if it could! I put my money in the envelope when he finished. It wasn't a lot but it was the best I could do and I was glad for the opportunity to help. They calculated as the envelopes came forward. The suspense was hanging in the air like a fog. He yelled out "53,000", and then again as he laughed, "27,500", and another "97,000". They kept coming. I know you want to know how much. Well, I'll tell you. In our one service alone we donated 2.6 million dollars. That is over half of what it would have taken to meet the goal. Now, instead of 1 million, instead of 5 million, they have 5.6 million dollars to feed homeless families in Orlando this year for whomever wants to get on that bus. I got to be apart of a special project called Love Orlando. Bruce Wilkinson said, and I quote "Some time from now you are going to share this story and someone is going to come up to you and say, 'you were one of the ones from Love Orlando? I was one of the ones you helped' believe it".

It doesn't matter to me whether you believe this or not. Whether you think they made up the totals or not. I am waiting for that woman that I saw in my mind to come up to me and say "I was one of the ones".

*I originally posted that there were 21,000 regular attendees at First Baptist Orlando but I was mistaken. The number is 7,000.

Cracks in Perfection

I have a secret. It's a dirty little one, not a funny side note about me. I am a closet perfectionist. Early on, I was the opposite. As a teenager, I chose chaos over organization . Nothing felt homey like a floor carpeted with dirty laundry. Much to my mother's lament and screaming, nothing could change me. I was happy in the mess, content with the pig pen. Later, when I launched my journey into self-help and healing, I started to take better care of things. I sought to wean myself of the clutter and into neatness. I grew to become very distracted and uneasy with a mess. I couldn't focus. The more I worked on myself with therapy and my relationship with God, the more I sought to clean up and put things away, literally and figuratively. I became more at peace. When I was younger, my outward display of my room became the picture of how I felt on the inside. I was in disarray emotionally. On the mend, my environment took on a look to match my new self. Over the years, neatness counted and cleanliness was next to godliness as far as I was concerned.

One could have said, 'all better' and that I closed the book on my dysfunction. No such luck. My take on my living situation became something else, an obsession with clean. I don't know when it started. It was slow enough not to notice. It seemed like a good habit not a bad obsession. The more I cleaned up the more I wanted it to stay that way. When I got married and moved in with my husband it got worse. I liked our tidy condo and he was the opposite. Where things were put is where they stayed until he needed them. I was constantly picking things up and putting them back in their rightful places. My feelings of being inconvenienced became a moderate annoyance. I saw things left out of sorts by my hubby and became inflamed that my cleaning efforts were, in my mind, not respected. Sure, I brought it up to him. He either laughed it off or dismissed my position on him conscientiously putting his things away. My annoyance progressed to a full on silent rage, complete with cold shoulder if he, once again, regarded my housekeeping as trivial.

Once we purchased our first home, cleaning became a Saturday morning event. I arose early with the sole intent of gleaming, picture-perfect rooms. I scrubbed and wiped until their was no sign of a speck of lint or a streak anywhere. Everything had to be perfectly groomed and decor had to be centered and symmetrical. My obsession with my home had now become almost a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. For the sake of non-exaggeration, my husband and I were watching the opening scenes for the popular show Monk. We saw the character leave his apartment only to immediately return to his coat rack to make sure all of his umbrellas were facing the same direction before he finally closed the door, Greg said "That's you". I tried to relax. We had a baby and I had to learn to live with things a little out of sorts but it always bothered me. I was frustrated that I couldn't see magazine staging in every corner of my house. I existed in it but I didn't like it.

Things in my life now reflect my home once again. Now, my life is drastically different than my life as a mom and wife with a spacious home with a white post and rail fence. I am now a self-employed widow and single mother of one. Things are not perfect. They never were and they are never going to be and I am at peace with that, finally. I have learned to accept what is and even be grateful instead of putting up with my surroundings, wishing for something else.

I am renovating an old house. It is coming along well. Things are getting into place after weeks of destruction and construction. There is color on the walls, the worn hardwood floors now gleam like new. It is pretty to look at. When we started, my plastering needed a lot of work. We put much time and effort into filling in holes and skimming over patches. We sanded and plastered again. It dried and we finally painted. As the roller went on, I noticed small bumps where the patches were in my bedroom. I started to fret, not happy with what I saw. Perfectionism was bubbling up in me. I started to think of how I could reach a glass smoothness. I looked over walls that were already done in the living room and noticed that there also were some remnants, however slight, of my work. I went home and thought about it. Was it important? It still looks good. I know they are there. We aren't going to have a solid sheen unless I take down every wall and refit it with sheetrock. I am not willing to do that and I don't need to. My blemishes in the house will remain. They will stay to remind me that I have to live in a world with bumps. Just because they are there, doesn't mean it isn't beautiful. From now on when I notice one, I won't furrow my brow. I'll smile and pat it.

Operation Humpty Dumpty

I recently bought a house. The monumental milestone I achieved in this venture is that it is the first house that I bought all by myself, especially as a widow. It felt so grown up. I have always wanted to renovate a house, it has been a dream of mine for a long time. I like the concept of restoration. The taking of something that was once new, now in need of care and make it something better than it was before. My house is that opportunity that I have been waiting for. It needed skill, time and money. I knew what I was getting myself into. I looked it over a couple of times before I made my final purchase. I had contractors in to look at what it needed so not only did I have a clear picture of what it would take to make it my own but I had a monetary figure that I would need to part with and I was okay with that as well.

I have never undertaken such a project in my life but I was excited. I poured over in my mind what it would look like when it was finished. Think of Extreme Makeover, the Brittany Hudson addition. Everything would be gleaming with new paint cleanliness. Everything perfectly organized. The flow of the house would move from one beautiful room to the next. Perfectly mine and splendidly decorated to my satisfaction. Back to reality, I had a laundry list of things to get at my local Home Renovation store and that seemed to grow by the milli-second. I agonized what colors to get for the walls for weeks and finally made my decision. I have since visited the paint department so much that "Jim, the Paint Guy" as I refer to him, smiles when he sees me approaching his counter. It turns out, you need a lot more paint than you think you do. My home improvement tip for you is to buy two times more paint than you think you need. You'll need it, trust me. "Murph", the nickname for the cashier I see almost daily asked me yesterday if I was a contractor. I giggled. I would have thought so too with all the things she has taken out of my shopping cart lately. I don't get geared up for trips to the home store like I used to. Now, it is like going to the grocery store. Get a list together and wonder the aisles.

Last week was the height of the demolition part of my house renovation project. The simple bathroom retiling turned into a full gutting with the exception of the antique cast iron tub. I wouldn't part with it. It is a nice white, deep, wide tub albeit shaped like an old coffin. It doesn't have a scratch on it. It stayed. I wanted the floor redone. I had picked out tiles and the contractor "Mike" and I discussed the design I wanted on the floor. He then told me that I would need to remove the vanity and the toilet in order to do that. Next came the tub enclosure. It had old tiles and some spots were recently retiled as the former ones had obviously fallen out and the original owners were not able to properly match the tile shade. Mike said it would be ripped out and new drywall would be installed, sounds simple enough. That's when the fun happened. On removing the tiles, mold had grown on the drywall not only underneath but on the drywall opposite the studs, which meant my closet in the master bedroom would also need to be taken down and redone. Well, that is life sometimes isn't it? I obviously agreed with Mike when he showed me what he had discovered. Next were the two half walls I that seemed to obstruct the flow between the kitchen, adjacent dining room and the hallway that ends, dissecting the space between the two rooms. It seem to create some confusion when you entered either the dining room or the kitchen. It looked clumsy. I wanted it cleaned up so that one room blended into the next, so the hallway would spill out into one large room. Of course, when two little walls came down it was one huge mess. Drywall, plaster, pieces of hardwood floor, and ceiling littered half of the house. It looked like a war zone as soon as you entered through side door. The kitchen is now completely unusable due to the dust and clutter of tools and supplies. The dining room houses more tools, my refrigerator and stove. I expected this, I just never envisioned a disaster of such magnitude.

I have also been stripping wallpaper off of every wall as the contractors worked on the other half of the house. There were shreds of paper from one end to the other. Walls have needed a lot of sanding and patch. With all the mess of paper stripping, hard work and construction work I started to feel a little weary. Okay, I was starting to feel fairly overwhelmed. My mind started circling the scenario of this never ending. I stopped being able to see the finished project in my mind. I just saw my simple little 3 bedroom cape as a horror show of holes and demolition. I was losing heart. One night I was working late on painting and the electrician who I hired to do some rewiring was there. He is an older man who is always chipper and chatty, smiling and laughing. I like talking to him for that reason. Negativity seems to bounce right off of him. He has run into his fair share of disasters with the house as well. We started discussing one do-it-yourself electrical debacle. As we wound down the conversation, he said something that I can't get out of my head. "Even with everything, she still has good bones", he nodded with a trailing smile. It almost echoed in my ears. "good bones". The home's foundation is solid. He went on. "The core wiring is tight and good, the best they could have installed", he went on. The walls are rock slathe, that was the very best there was at the time". This made me feel better. "Yup, she's got good bones", he finished as he headed back toward the bathroom to wrap up his wiring for the night.

I've been thinking about my conversation with the electrician for days. I see a lot of similarities with my home and my life. My life was basically pretty good. There was a solid foundation, God, in my life. I had a good job, a great career, a loving husband, a sweet baby and good friends. For whatever reason, God needed to remodel me. He took my husband home with him, I left my job, I sold my house, and I moved away from my friends to Key West. With the exception of my daughter, Carli, everything has been stripped down to the framing. I don't recognize my life or me any more. I caught myself commenting to someone about how "OCD clean and organized" I was. The truth is, I am not that way any more. Some of the things that I considered wired to my personality have disappeared. I am in many aspects a new person. I don't even look the same to me. I dress differently, my speech is slower and I seldom complain. I used to fuss constantly about what I would wear, I spoke swiftly and I complained a lot. My hand signature has even changed.

I believe I am being restored. God in his handiwork is my general contractor who is rebuilding my life. While everything is different, I am happier now than I ever was or have been. I wouldn't want things any other way. While I was in the demolition stage of my life it was very painful. There were times I thought I could hardly bare it. Like my house remodeling, I just wanted it to end. I wanted to see it being put together, not being torn down. It was ugly to look at and be in, just like my life. Now I see the project that God has been working on starting to look pretty again, better than it was. It was worth it, just like my remodeling will be. I am tired from the manual labor but with every paint stroke I am grateful and awaiting the satisfaction of seeing it finished and taking in the beauty. Sometimes, often times, when this seem like they are falling apart they are really just coming together.