All My Life, In All I Do, Soli Deo Gloria

Thru The Tape, Until The End

I spent Saturday curled up on the couch drifting in and out of sleep watching Big 12 basketball which segued into the NFC/AFC playoffs.  Although I've been a Broncos fan since spending a year in the city on the front range in 1996/97, I've also been a closet 49ers fan...well let's be honest, I've been a George Seifert fan and then he left the 49ers and well, my appreciation for the team by the bay did not wane.

Despite the fact the Broncos game had started on CBS, I was glued to FOX, watching the final two and a half minutes of the 49ers/Saints game.  So sure it was over when with 1:37 left the Saints scored.  But, no, the 49ers would not give up, not give in, 1:37 is a lifetime and the 49ers only needed 1:24 of it to resspond in kind with a touchdown of their own.  Sealing their victory, advancing further in the playoffs.

History is irrevocably scarred by people who squeeze every last second out of each opportunity given them.  I want to be a history changer, an opportunity squeezer.  I want to live my life commiting all my strength to milking to the final drop every opportunity given me.  Running thru the tape, not relenting until the end.  

It's Not the Ref's Fault

It's been a really rough flag football season.  We went from being a team to be reckoned with last year to...well...a team that became all too familiar with the word "loss" this season.  Definitely not as fun as being a winning team.

A couple weeks ago as we were staring down yet another loss, with five minutes to go in the game, we had the ball.  It was 3rd down and we were down 21-0.  In the huddle our team captain did something that was totally uncharacteristic of his gentle demeanor, he yelled at us, his voice drunk with frustration, "IT'S NOT THE REF'S FAULT WE'RE LOSING". 

Granted, throughout the season, we'd struggled with 'iffy' refs.  All of the teams suffered through bad and even some blatantly unfair calls, but he was right, our looking down the barrel (once again) of defeat was not the fault of anything the ref's had done.  Even though we had become accustomed to contesting their calls and mumbling under our breaths at their poor execution of their position, our losing was not their fault.  They had not played a single down for our team.

I wasn't as taken aback by our gentle giant of a team captain's descent into a screaming tyrant as I was by what he'd said. 

I spend a measurable amount of time blaming everyone and everything for things that go wrong in my life.  For things that disappoint me, for things that I feel are out of my hands.  None of them are ever my fault.  But rather, a mixture of chance and other forces acting on my life.  But once I step back and take an honest look at what's wrong, I come to a different conclusion.  Every time, I see that it's not the sole fault of others or my circumstances, rather, I MUST shoulder a great deal of the blame for the consequences of my actions, my decisions.

Last weekend my pastor delivered a message on personal responsibility, about taking the bull by the horns and making a difference in your own life as opposed to looking at someone else's life and saying: 'well if I had that much money, I'd be able to do that to' or, 'if I had those connections, I'd have that position of influence to.'  And his examples went on and on of how we as believers should use our energy to do our best (and then some) with what we've been given.  As opposed to using our energies belittling others we see to be 'better' than us or have things that we don't.

Today, our season ended.  With a loss.  We had a great team of refs today.  They called everything fairly and within reason.  However, we failed to rise above the other team.  But it wasn't the ref's fault, it was our own.

For Every Mountain

You’re Jehovah Jireh, you’ve been my provider,
See so many times you’ve met my needs,
So many times you’ve rescued me,
I want to thank you for the blessing you give to me each day.
That’s why I praise and for this I give you praise.

For every mountain, you’ve brought me over,
For every trial you’ve seen me thru,
For every blessing, hallelujah,
For this I give you praise.

Today, I signed an offer letter to work for an accounting firm in Plano, starting the Monday after Thanksgiving.  This is an awesome opportunity that will swing wide open the doors of greater responsibilities and greater pay.  Though, I have to admit, it’s hard to believe that I FINALLY got something I wanted! 

 After giving my current boss my notice this afternoon, I sat waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I kept peeping behind the silver lining looking for the impending rain cloud I knew had to be on the horizon.  My twisted mind could not comprehend that maybe, just maybe, things were beginning to change in my world. 

Driving home from work this evening, The Kurt Carr singers reminded me that God is Jehovah Jireh.  God does meet my needs.  God is there to rescue me.  God has and will continue to carry me over mountains.  God will shepard me thru trials, and instead of tiptoeing around looking behind the silver lining for the cloud, I need to simply plant my feet and lift my voice in praise.

For every mountain, He’s brought me over, for every trial, He’s seen me thru, for every blessing, hallelujah, for this I will inundate Him with my praise

A Season of Loss

I'd spent the last five Mondays warming the bleachers of a North Texas high school cheering for my BFF kid's middle school football team.  Every Monday, without fail, you could set your watch to it, they lost.

Last fall I played on a really good flag football team.  We clicked, had fun and won games.  I actually looked forward to getting up early on Saturdays to play (which says a lot considering my propensity towards sleeping late on the weekends).  I felt like we were invincible.  This year, I'm back on the same team.  We've had some personnel changes and the winning glow that swathed us in its warm embrace is nowhere to be found.

Lately, I've put myself 'out there' a lot in several different situations and in every one, the door has been closed summarily in my face, or I've been ignored, or I've just been told outright, "no."

I feel like its my season to lose, my season of loss.

On the sixth Monday of the 2010 football season, I assumed my position beside my BFF on the 40-yard line, half-way up the bleachers and began my 75-minute vigil biding my time until the game came to a painful end.  But, I was stunned as her kid's team pulled off the impossible, a win. 

I watched in numb awe as the kids rushed towards the stands to revel with their parents.  One thirteen year old tall lanky player screaming like a girl and hugging his dad “I can’t believe it, it’s about time!”  I listened to a mother as she apologized to parents from the opposite team, "I'm sorry, I know I'm loud, but if you'd walked in our shoes over the last five weeks, you'd be loud to, just give us this moment to hollah."

Then I saw what I'd seen the previous five weeks and hadn't registered.  Under their pads and uniform, each player wore a royal blue shirt that on the back said simply, "BELIEVE".  The din of the celebration faded as I focused in on that word, believe.  They hadn't quit, nor thrown in the towel.  Families had come week after week, to support their children, loving them in spite of the loss.  The kids had continued to practice and play and to believe that should they stay the course, victory would not elude them forever.

When all that is within your vision and recent memory is loss and defeat, it sometimes takes a herculean effort just to comprehend the word “believe.”  And after having done all to stand, when your legs are weary and your heart can no longer sustain you, admitting that ‘this too shall pass’ becomes a laborious task that drains all your stockpiled energy reserves. 

 In this season to lose, my season of loss, I’ve numbly been going through the motions, doing what I know I’m supposed to do, believing that despite my numb fumblings I will see the goodness of God come to pass in my life.  I’ve set my hope on a Rock that cannot be moved, in a God that will not be shaken.  I believe He will restore my life again from the depths of the earth that He will again bring me up and comfort me.  And on that day, when I finally see victory, when I remove my spiritual helmet and pads to reveal a sweat stained, war bruised and battered heart tattooed with belief, I’ll be just like that loud mother on that joyous Monday a few weeks ago.  I will praise him for his faithfulness, I will sing praises to him, my lips will shout for joy and my tongue will gladly tell of his righteous acts.

 Until then, I continue to BELIEVE

Death Protecting Life

Spend much time in the DF-dub and you learn that October is monsoon season, which can make attending football games a bit of a soggy adventure. Add a stiff cold wind and temps in the low-40s and you've got Texas misery at its best.

Earlier this week, I sat in the rain with my sweet friend and her nephew, the three of us cheering on her son's middle school football team. From under the protection of a ginormous golf umbrella and several layers of blankets, coats, rain ponchos, warm hoods and stocking caps, we cheered, yelled, giggled, told jokes, shared 'deep thoughts', and yelled some more.

The rain was constant, the wind slicing it diagonally into our umbrella and cocoon of insulation. However, the only hint we had of the uncomfortable conditions outside our small barriers against the elements, was the sound of the opposing team’s coach yelling at his players to jump up and down to keep warm.

Two hours later, alone in my warm and dry house, I excorticated the layers of clothing I had piled on earlier that evening. First my oversized barn coat, then my fleece, then my turtleneck and warm-ups, I was surprised to find that my coat and warm-ups were soaked through and my fleece pullover was damp, yet the clothes that were in direct contact with my body were warm and dry.

That got me thinking about Paul's words in 2 Corinthians 4

We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed…Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.

My outer shell of protection, literally absorbed the brunt of the storm that night. The umbrella guarded me from being inundated. My stocking cap buffered my head and ears from the cold and rain. My coat, fleece and turtleneck safeguarded my core. And blankets reinforced all of the above. All the while, my inner man maintained a balmy 98.6 degrees somewhat oblivious to the beating ingurgitated by the outer man.

Surrounded by disease, sickness and the daily wasting away of my outer shell, I find hope in a relationship with my Saviour that will abide until time is no more. I hew peace from the knowledge that one day, He’ll help me out of this battered deteriorating husk, and all the earthly maladies that weigh me down. Goose bumps rise on my arms as I imagine the moment when I arrive Home and this ever decaying scaffolding that has dutifully shielded my eternal being for so long will finally be torn down, revealing the Life for which it has been sanctuary, and my outer cloak of death will be traded for Life.

Tune In

Comfort for me is found in the familiar, in things I trust, people I trust.

Last night, with five minutes left in the BCS Championship game, I turned off the television, silencing the annoying voices of the overanalyzing ESPN announcers and got into bed. Before getting into bed though, I turned on the radio and tuned into the voice that has talked me thru countless Longhorn football games over the last thirteen years, Craig Way, the voice of Longhorn football. I knew that come what may I could handle anything the football gods thrust at me as long as it was coming out of Craig Way’s mouth.

As the clock ticked away, the interception was made and the courageous Horns bowed in defeat, I was calm. Disappointed, but calm. Because the man who I’d come to trust (since moving to this state 13 years ago) was stepping me through it, giving me play-by-play analysis, proverbially holding my head up as a disappointed fan, letting me know what went right, what went wrong and reminding me that this was not the end of the world.

In John 10:27-28, Christ says: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” Whose voice are you tuned into to find comfort, direction and hope? Better yet, can you hear that voice among the cacophony of annoying voices that overanalyze, advise, counsel, tell you what they think you should be doing?

I challenge you to silence/shut-out all those other voices, find a quiet place, and tune into the one voice that longs to talk you through the good and the bad, the voice that will lift your head in times of darkness and hold your hand in disappointment. The voice that will point out what went wrong and lead the cheering section when things go right. The voice that will remind you that this to shall pass.

Because when it’s all said and done and the clocks have ticked their last, defeat will be your step stool, eternal victory your crown.

Another Way

A couple Saturdays ago, I broke my finger playing flag football. Well, to be more precise, I dislocated my finger and in the process of that dislocation, the ligament tore, taking a hearty chunk of bone along with it.

Suffice it to say, over the past few days I've been at a loss as to how to live in my two-handed world with only one hand. I could figure out how to work around the hurt finger and use both hands, but any use of the injured hand always ends in throbbing pain that starts in the splinted finger and radiates out to the other four digits, eventually snaking its way up my forearm, around my bicep and into my shoulder.

Being the intolerable hater of all things pain-related that I am, I've decided that until further notice, I've gotta find another way to operate sans pain.

My adventure living monodexterous in an ambidextrous world has been quite fun. Although it takes me ten times longer to write, my left handed penmanship is getting better day by day. I've learned that it IS possible to wash my hair with one hand and even though its quite irritating, I have also become quite proficient at typing with only my left-hand.

I have a small group of friends who remind me daily with their words and their actions that the road I've chosen to walk isn't an easy one. The thing that the four of us talk about the most is our desires to stay on the path that God has hued for each of us. We know that to veer off that path would take us further from God's will, delaying the full realization of His will in our lives.

Earlier this week, one of my sweet friends was struggling mightily with an issue that left her sleepless, confused, red and puffy-eyed from a whole lot of crying, but dead-set on following hard after God in the situation. As I spoke with her several times on the phone and via text messages, her constant mantra was, "I wanna do this right, I don't want to make the same bad decisions I've made in the past."

Her struggle was evident. She'd done things her way for so long that to follow God's plan was foreign, even scary to her. But she was determined to that there had to be another, better way than the choices she'd made in the past.

It's been a few days since the worst of it, and she's still battling the inner demons that attempt to pull her back to her old ways. I however have to smile and pump my fist (my uninjured fist mind you) in unabashed solidarity as I watch her consciously choose another way, the right way. I cheer her on as I see that even though this new way is 'odd' to her, putting her in trepid situations, she forges on, with each step, her faith becomes stronger, her witness more powerful, her commitment to our Heavenly Father hardening.

Eventually, the full use of my right hand will be returned to me, and I'll return to my old more comfortable way of doing the most basic things in life. However, my friend is committed to be monotheistic, in an atheistic/polytheistic/me-centered-istic world. It's a bit frustrating, sometimes even irritating, but she knows it’s the right way, and that there is no other way.

Like My Daddy

Growing up, I learned that if I wanted my father's attention on the weekend, I'd have to learn to like the things that he liked.

And he liked sports.

As a former collegiate football player and gymnast, his sports interests ran the gamut, which meant, I had my work cut out for me.  I spent many a weekend hunkered down on the couch pestering my father about what was happening on the given sports event he was watching or trying to decipher the sporting event that was on the television as he napped on the couch.  I was determined to 'connect' with my dad.

In college I got a Bachelors of Science Degree in Sports Medicine & Athletic Training because I wanted to be an athletic trainer in the NFL, I knew it'd make my dad proud.  My father's love for sports was contagious and had gotten so deep into me, that it was who I was, who I wanted to be.

Even though my pursuit in Athletic Training was a bit sidetracked after graduation, thirteen years later, my love of sports has not waned one iota.  Every weekend without fail, if you were to spend any amount of time with me, you'd see me involved in texting conversations with my dad, even heated phone conversations on rankings, line-ups, plays, coaching, you name it we dissect it.

My mother compares me to the little girl in Remember the Titans as she paces up and down the bleachers calling plays to her father and the new coach of her father's team.  A former boyfriend who is a high-school football coach used to ask me to sit on the visitors side because as the OC, he called plays from the field and got annoyed at me calling plays at him from the stands trying to tell him where to adjust on the weak side.

Long story short, I know my football, because my daddy taught me good!

There are times when I face situations that to me are insurmountable, or when I sit with friends or loved ones who are going through difficult times and wise words pour from my heart, words of encouragement, of hope.  Words that aren't mine.

Other times when I sit with friends dissecting a scripture or analyzing a prayer request or working through a truth, and a scripture comes to mind, or the Holy Spirit opens my eyes to a greater understanding, that I in turn share.  Once again words that aren't mine.

The more time I spend with my Daddy God, the more I act like him, the more I yearn to be a part of what He's doing in my world.  The more I sound like him, the more I want to do what he does, the more His desires become my own, the more I work to see His will come to fruition, the more merciful I am, the more patient I am, the more tolerant I am, the more loving I am...The more I'm Like My Daddy.

It's football season, and I can't imagine going a weekend without talking to my dad, the two of us playing arm chair quarterbacks together across the miles with the help of AT&T.  Like father, like daughter.

It's harvest time, and I can't imagine going a day without talking to my Daddy, the two of us strategizing together with the help of the Holy Spirit and His Word.  Like Father, like daughter.  Day by day, more and more like my Daddy.