Dear Beth Moore...

    (Okay...so...I'm admitting on the front end that I know this is a little weird considering the person I'm writing this to will never read it, but that being said, I'm going to write it anyway...)

     Dear Beth...

      I picture myself sitting across a small table with you in a quiet corner of Starbucks laughing. This scene is a picture of two woman who are made so uniquely alike by their incredible creator, that he ordains their meeting, and is sharing in the joy of the moment. 

      I don't know which one of us is older, but I think our Father saw what a kick he was going to get out his beautiful and unique creation, that he couldn't help himself from making a second one so much like the first. 

     These two women, born in the mid-west around the same time both raise children alongside each other, yet they are hundreds of miles apart. Both watch their firstborn daughter's, with head fulls of thick brown hair who smile and roll their eyes when their Mother's tell stories about them, fall in love with amazing young men and begin lives of their own. They watch these precious daughters become wives and then mothers. They both become the giddiest of Grandmother's and can not stop gushing about these precious baby boys. Both of these women are more in love with their husbands than they were thirty plus years ago, and share, with precious tears, each of these things alongside their men.

     To one, He gives gives a southern accent, a painful childhood, an amazing testimony, and a redeemed life. He takes this precious little buck-toothed daughter from Arkansas, moves her to Texas, and gives her a huge ministry. She is a fashionista, a Starbucks coffee lover, a girl who knows and appreciates big hair and is a dramatic and funny storyteller. She is a woman who loves His word, a woman who is transformed by His love and grace, and whose heart and obedience directly effects the other. 

     To the second woman, He gives a bit of redneck spirit, a husband at age nineteen whose childhood was so painful that it is unimaginable, and He redeems them both. He takes this precious little daughter, (who had extra teeth growing in under her tongue and wore a a device to school that went with it ) and moves her family to a tiny mountain town in the Eastern Sierra's of California where she leads the other woman's Bible studies. She too is a fashionista, a Starbucks coffee lover, a girl who knows and appreciates big hair, a dramatic storyteller, and a lover of His word. She too is transformed by His love and grace.

     The second woman wants to tell the first one how her heart for, and obedience to, Jesus, changed her life. She wants to thank her for her dedication, thoroughness, and consistence in writing Bible Studies and traveling the country. She wants the first woman to know that there are woman in a little California mountain town that call the second woman, "Mini Beth," and that have been changed, healed, set-free, and empowered by the gifts of the first one. She wishes they could share stories across a table about Jackson and Jude and laugh so hard that they almost cry. She wishes they could talk about clothes, hair, sin, the challenges of this life, the promises of the next one, the power of prayer, and the blessings that come from a life lived for Him. She knows that words like darlin' and precious, would be exchanged and that tears would flow. And, she believes, their loving father in heaven would see this all play out, and smile...

     So in closing, this second woman wants to tell the first one that she is not only her precious, Sista, but also appreciated, understood, and loved...

    Your California Kindred....Pam

Remembering a Father...

      A Father’s day gift_

     When I think about my childhood, and remember you in the midst of it, I see four clear sets of pictures.

     In the first set, I hear you laughing. I hear the funny noises you make and I see you playing with us in the yard on warm summer nights. I remember how you taught me to catch fireflies, and how you hammered small holes into the lid of a miracle whip jar for me to keep them in. They became my bedside nightlight.

     I see you happy, smiling, and I understand clearly that my playful nature comes from you. I see us sprawled across the living room floor playing a board game, or playing cards around the kitchen table.

I hear you laugh aloud as you watch, “Rowan and Martin’s laugh-in” and “Hee Haw.” I remember how your laughter comforted me, how it settled my spirit. It made me happy.

     The next set of memories is of a Dad who fixes everything. My childhood is full of snapshots of you behind the washing machine, re-wiring electric sockets, putting in a ceiling fan. I see you under the hood of the car, and lying on the garage floor beneath it.

I remember the day we heard baby kittens crying inside the pantry wall, and being amazed that you knew right where to cut a hole to rescue them. They came out covered with drywall chalk. I remember the time the baby chicks caught on fire in the utility room, and how safe I felt because you were home and in control of the situation.

     We could count on you to take care of whatever needed taking care of. There was order and purpose to the things you did. You were reliable and trustworthy, and I always felt so safe because of that.

     I love the look and smell of fresh cut grass because of you. I remember the long bike rides I would take on summer nights up and down the streets of our neighborhood and remember how my heart swelled with comfort and pride as I headed home and our yard came into view. Our grass was always freshly edged, mowed and manicured. The nicest on the block, and I knew that you had given it the best of your care. And that care, spilled over onto me.

     I remember the time you found tomato worms on the plants in the backyard and took me out there to show me what they looked like so I could help you find them .We sat together for a while and watched the giant worm eat its way across a leaf and I was mesmerized. You showed me how to handle them and how they used their large thorn as a weapon. Then I watched you poke it with a stick and I saw it bend its back end over itself as it attacked the stick with its thorn. I remember being amazed. I could not stop watching it.

      I remember running out to check the plants, so excited, yet also freaked out, every time I found one.

     One night you came home from work and I had three of them trapped in a Miracle Whip jar. I remember you were proud of me.

     (We sure put those Miracle Whip jars to good use, huh?)

     The next set of memories comes from a Dad who loved sports. I do not remember how old I was when you played softball, but I have a clear memory of knowing that you were the pitcher and that that was quite a big deal. I remember your wind-up and how fast the ball flew from your hand. I remember standing around with some kids one night by the concession stand and saying proudly, “My Dad’s the pitcher.”

     I remember all the nights we spent at the bowling alley during your years in bowling league. There are smells and sounds buried deep inside me unique to that place. Every time I walk into a bowling alley, the sounds and smells take me back, and I remember. I watched you throw a bowling ball so many times, that I see it clearly if I close my eyes. I see the curve of your ball right before it hits the center pin to make a strike. You would do it over and over and I'd hear you, “Whoop,” and watch you do that funny little jig that always followed it.

     You sat in the recliner and I sat on the floor beside you while we watched John McEnroe, scream at Jimmy Connor’s on the tennis court.  How that entertained us.

    I learned about Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicholas’ golf stats, and I watched you sit on the edge of your seat as they made their putts.

     But my favorite was the boxing. It was Cassius Clay who sucked me in, but by the time Clay became Ali and fought Norton and Frasier, I was hooked. To this day, whenever I see a boxing match my blood pumps up a notch.

     You taught me how to throw a ball, (well, you tried to anyway) to swing a bat, (and boy did you smile when I pounded it.) You taught me how shoot a basket, ride a bike, roller skate and water ski.

     The last picture I have of you begins at the beginning and stays consistent throughout my childhood. This is the Dad in the suit who left in the morning, and came home every night at 5:30. This Dad provided for his family and was faithful and responsible every day of my childhood. Because of this, I felt safe, care for, loved and protected…

     So thank you Dad, and Happy Father's Day...I love you!

Missing Summer Storms...

      I grew up in the Midwest, Oklahoma City to be exact, right in the middle of tornado country, and there, spring always announced itself in the very same way.

     Late in the afternoons, the horizon would grow dark as blue-black clouds bellowed and burped their way across the sky. I have vivid memories of watching them roll in and knowing their power. My heart would beat faster as anticipation, fear, and awe all fought each other for their rightful place inside my spirit.

     There was a drill in my family and we knew what to do. When a storm began to make its way across the sky, we would head home and turn the TV on to Gary England. He was our local meteorologist, and he would be the one to tell us when to worry. He was the man who would change the, “Thunderstorm Watch” into a “Tornado Warning.”

     If Dad was home, and it seemed more often than not, he was, we would head for the garage where Dad turned on the radio, and our ritual began. My two sisters, my brother, and me, would gather our lawn chairs and line up side by side next to Dad just inside the open garage door. We would scoot to the very edge and lean out as the sky cracked open with lightning, and we would shriek as the gigantic booms of thunder vibrated forth from the darkening sky. We would compare lightening bolts and cracks of thunder, and on evenings when each one seeming brighter, closer, and more powerful than the one before it, we knew the storm was headed right for us.

     Sometimes, just when we thought the sky couldn’t possibly get any angrier, it would open up and explode with hail. Once, hailstones rained down the size of golf balls, and shocked, I stood holding my ears, mesmerized by the sight. I had never seen power like that, or heard a natural sound so loud. Other times, we watched funnel clouds dance down from the darkness looking for a place to land, then they would hop back up and disappear. But if the sirens sounded, and they often did, we had to go inside.

     I felt safe if Dad was home when this happened, but his expression and the glances he gave my mother, told me if he was worried. On these occasions, he gathered us kids into the bathtub, he and Mom on the floor beside us with a mattress from their bed as shelter.

     The worse tornado of my childhood, one of the bathtub times, took a neighbors roof completely off his house and sat it down on the roof of a house two streets over. No one was hurt, but when Dad came back from visiting them the next day he took us over there to see it and he showed me a vase of flowers on their kitchen table that never even tipped over.

     I remembering standing there and looking up from that table at nothing but blue sky, as I came to a new understanding about the power and awe of a God that had control of something like that.

     As I recall these things, and share this story, I can’t explain clearly, why I miss all this so much, but know that I do. I believe it is the power of God that draws me in, but I also see his glory in the lightning, hear it in the thunder, and smell it in the rain.

     And in our neighbors kitchen that had no roof yet held a vase of flowers untouched on the table, I felt God’s Glory.

    This, I know, is why I miss them.

God Amidst Technology

     I was at my daughter’s house the other day when she handed my 2-year-old grandson her Iphone. “Watch this Mom,” she said with a glint in her eye, “It’s pretty amazing.” Jude then took the phone, smiled at me, and proceeded to flip through the application pages until he found an icon called Monkey Lunchbox and then he opened it. I sat with him in my lap in utter amazement and watched him play a game similar to the card game we used to call concentration. His memory of where the matching fruits were astounded me.
     This precious two-year-old seemed to have an innate ability for this type of technology, and I was reminded of another time with my own son, Michael. He loved to build things with Lego’s, and when he was about four, Lego came out with these new intricate designs. Michael saw this Pirate ship one day when we were out, but there were hundreds of pieces and I thought it would be way too much for him. But when he kept asking for it, the day finally came to make the purchase, so I blocked a chunk of time out of our day so I could sit with him and help him build it. As Michael settled on the floor with the box, I went into the kitchen to fix a glass of tea and make us a snack. When I came back into the room, he had half the ship put together already. I remember being amazed by that too. No instructions necessary, just the picture on the box alongside his little brain and hands.
     The truth is that the Lego Pirate ship challenged me that day, and I was not prepared for all the technology that lied just around the corner. However, what I know now, is that our God was prepared. He was not surprised or amazed by any of this. He knew exactly what kind of world Michael and Jude would be born into. He knew the skills they would need to be successful in 1989 and in 2010. God knew all of this was coming.
     So…my point is this. Although I am constantly challenged by all the latest computer and phone technology, I am embracing it. My husband used his upgrade and got me an Iphone for Mother’s day. Most of my family members already had one, so it was not a new deal in my world, but I wanted to figure it out all by myself, so I did. Well…I may have called ReAnnon once or twice.
     And now, I can't imagine living without it. I love that I can play scrabble with daughters, nieces, friends, and Mother on and off throughout my day. (This also keeps my brain working) I love that I can take a quick minute to engage with them, or send a simple text of love or encouragement. I can leave a quick comment on a friend’s blog post, or laugh with someone on Facebook…and all this…I can do in my car in between errands, while I water my garden, when I stop at the creek on a walk, or when I take a work break.
     The other day, while I was watering, my niece sent me a picture text of her Mom, my sister, wearing a hat like one that I have. “She’s looks like you, Aunt Pam,” her text said, and I laughed. They were traveling in the car, and after a few texts back and forth, I felt like I was in the car with them. What a precious gift that was. Then my youngest daughter, a big city girl, found a curio cabinet the other day and sent me of photo of it right away. I then got another photo a few hours later after she had filled it with all her special treasures. I felt like I was right there with her too. Another gift.
     So whether you’re on board with all this new tech stuff or not, it is the world we live in and the way of the future. The social networks, like them or not, is how people communicate these days. My parents, siblings, kids, nieces and nephews, friends, all of us, we laugh, post pictures, and share our lives with each other this way. And as God inspires me to write about what He is doing and what He has done, I can share those things with all these people as well.
     I watched my oldest daughter bring God Glory amidst some very difficult suffering by way of a personal story a young pastors wife shared on a blog of her own similar journey.
     I believe that to be a successful disciple in the world today, to share the Gospel with the largest audience possible, we need to Facebook, Blog, Tweet, set up Web sites, and Email, because it is the way of the world. You may not like it, and you can fight to the end, but you will lose. It is our future.
     I understand the internet can be a dark place, but it is not going away. If we want to be in touch with our children and grandchildren on a daily basis, and I do, it is our only choice.
     As we embrace it, we need to use it for the Glory of God. Let us not lose the foundations of biblical truth and the heart of God among all this new stuff, but let us instead teach, love, minister, and encourage more people than ever before through these amazing tools that God has placed in front of us.
     So I encourage you to learn how to use this stuff. Embrace it! If my Mom can do it, and I can do it, you can too. It’s all part of God’s perfect plans…

Reflections of a man...

Paul entered my life in the last years of my childhood, and I have never been an adult without him. He, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of finishing his childhood. He was forced to become an adult long before it should have been over.
At 16 years old, Paul lost both his parents in an act that is beyond comprehension. I met him shortly after, and even in the midst of all this brokenness, Paul had a strength, a passion for life, and a heart that didn't seem to fit the circumstances. I think that is part of what drew me to him. We began our lives together almost from the moment we met.
There has never been a moment in our lives together that Paul has not worked hard. Not only has he always worked full time at jobs that provided for his family, but afterward, he came home and fixed everything on my honey-do list that needed his attention around the house. Then, he'd clean out the cars, wash them and change the oil when needed. Outside, he would fertilize the grass, mow it, manicure it and help me plants flowers. He did this, so that the kids and I could be outside when we was working and enjoy soft grass and a beautiful yard. For many years, I thought all men did this, because my father did all these things too, but I realize now, that many do not.
Paul also believes that a job worth doing is worth doing well. Our children would say that there were times in their lives that their father needed more grace for them in this area, and even I have been heard calling my my husband a painting Natzi, but in its purest form, in its best, these character traits of my husbands are full of integrity, wisdom, and love.
And now, after 35 years together, I find myself surprised by a new facet of this man that God created and gave to me. I say I am surprised, because I thought I had seen them all, and I had not.
This one though, is different from all the others. The light that is refracted by this one is warmer, more gentle somehow, and more quiet. I am watching him walk in humility with passion. I watch him work hard to give God glory as an employee in a place where that is often challenging. I see him managing another man's business like it was his own without any of the benefits. No one sees the hours he spends working at home but me.
God also gave my husband eyes to see what things could become at their best, and Paul could see this while things were often at there worst. So when he had a vision for a rundown ski lodge, he asked for money and trust, and turned it into an incredibly successful business after many hard years of sweat and tears. Our investors and partners had never made so much money in an investment before, and we too, reaped the benefits of Paul's vision. He set other things in motion during those years as well. Big things. Things that God put on his heart and gave him eyes to see what they could become. They were a dream in the making that had to be put on hold.
I then watched him grieve these dreams and worry about our future as everything fell apart and broke into pieces. But then, I watched God love him through it and heal his heart with the precious gift of our first grandchild. God poured out his spirit and His promises into my husband and got him back on his feet in faith. He restored him by a reminder of what He had already done and what he was doing still, and my husband stood tall and dug deep.
I know that Paul's journey is not over, nor mine alongside his since we are one. I imagine too, that there are still more facets to this man that God will reveal to me before our life on earth is over. I know too, that it is only by God's restorative love, and in His power that the shattered life of a broken boy, could be healed and made into a life that truly wants to glorify him. And for this gift I am forever thankful and forever in love with my sovereign, loving, compassionate, and faithful God. We could not do this without you.

MaMo's World...

It dawned on me today that Jude probably named me after Elmo. How I didn't notice the similarity until now I can't say. But today, as Jude watched Sesame Street while I got the playdough ready I heard Elmo's World come on and it suddenly made perfect sense. So...after this new revelation, I decided that all my postings about Jude should now aptly be called, Mamo's World.

And just in case you have trouble identifying the animals we made...one of them oinks...one quacks, and one has a long nose and makes a trumpet sound...

A Whole New Season

I have been a story teller most of my life. I'm still not sure if I was born with this inside me, or if it came from the hours I got lost in books, but I am sure of this. Once the stories started and the words began to flow, I couldn't stop them.
I came home from my first critique workshop in tears and realized then that I had two choices. Either suck it up, get tough, and apply what I was learning, or, stop writing. So I stopped writing. But the characters were already alive to me and the story continued in my head and in my dreams whether I wanted it to or not, so I pushed on.
That was when I decided that if I was going to do it, I wanted to do it right. So, for the next few years, I used all my vacation time going to writing conferences, workshops, and seminars. I immersed myself into the world of writers. I listened for hours as best-selling authors and editors talked about narration, point of view, conflict, drama, passive language, dialog and finding your own voice. I came home energized and excited. I found a local writers group and we met once a week. Five years into it, I had finished my novel.
Encouraged to send it out, and then discouraged by the numerous rejections, my creativity was squelched. When the words stopped flowing, I took another hiatus. But this time, I prayed about this passion I had.
I wasn't sure this was something I could give up, but I also knew that I couldn't continue it if it wasn't God's will for my life. If God wasn't in it, I knew it wouldn't be worth the pursuit, so I waited.
When the inspiration for a new book finally came, there were days that I couldn't get the words out fast enough. This new novel had the, "psychological thriller," aspect that I loved to write, but it was also full of the character of God. It was a story I could be proud of, and I believed that in the end, it would bring God glory. I began to research the Christian fiction market and found that it was bigger than I thought and I found a place I thought my novel would fit. 
     When the book was almost finished, I took the first two chapters to a workshop in San Diego and came home really encouraged. I felt like I was almost there. I then went to my first Christian writers conference with some women from my church and again, felt like I was on the right track. I was almost ready.
The largest Christian writers conference in the nation was just a few months away in LA, so I decided to set my sights on that. I lined up a job to pay for it, then got on the website. There was a mentoring clinic for advanced fiction being held right before the conference itself, so I applied. I had to submit some chapters from my book, and I wasn't even sure I'd get in, but I knew I wanted to participate in it if I could, and then, I waited.
Over the next few days I sent out an e-mail to my closest friends and family and asked them to pray about it for me. I knew that I wanted to go, and felt like I was ready, but as excited as I was at the prospect, I also knew that it would be a waste of my time and my money if it wasn't God's timing. I asked everyone to let me know if they got a strong feeling about it one way or another.
Within ten minutes of sending out the e-mail, one of friends replied saying that she didn't think it was the right thing for me now, and that I shouldn't go. What?...this was not the response I expected...and it was so fast...had she really had enough time to know that?
I waited a few more weeks before I confronted God with what I knew in my heart he was saying to me. After no one else responded to my e-mail, I could no longer deny what I knew. God was asking me to give up writing fiction. So for the next 3 days I wrestled with Him about it.  I climbed into the ring full of tears and questions. I wanted to fight it out, so he let me. He was gentle, but He won the match. He always does. But in the end, I had peace.
So now what, you may ask?
Until God opens another door...I blog...