We arrived at our “hotel/resort” at 3:00 am. I guess you could call that the start of day one. We were just finishing about 36 hours of travel. I suspect it is safe to say that we were a pretty tired bunch. Especially since any sleep you get on planes can be chalked right up into the worthless category.

I had to be woken up at 12:30 pm. The pillow next to me was exactly how I’d left it. My bed was untouched except for the corner I had slipped into. I must have slept like a dead man. Don’t grudge me. I needed it.

Kids from Faith and Agape children’s homes were to arrive at the “resort” where we are staying about 2:00 so we tried to rally our group and get organized. We are a pretty diverse team—ranging in age from about 10 to 60 something. We have plumbers, carpenters, doctors, nurses, students, mechanics, teachers, pastors, a title searcher…and, of course, attorneys. (What can I say, we can’t all be skilled labor!)

Our plan was for all 100 kids to be seen by a doctor as well as to generally have a good time and be shown the love of Christ. The resort had some cool peddle boats and other activities and I had brought a few things for crafts and games including innovative pumps with biodegrable water balloons. The biodegrable thing sounded like potential genius and potential disaster but hey, life is boring if you aren’t willing to take some risks.

While we waited for the kids—who were about an hour late—I talked with Benjamin, one of the young men that works at Faith. He told me the kids had been so excited the night before, he had a hard time getting them to sleep. Benjamin looks like a kid himself—maybe 14 or so, but he’s actually been to Bible college in Burma and India, teaches at the Bible school nearby, is married, and helps with the kids at Faith…always with a smile on his face.

Everyone was quick to pitch in and help, so we divided into three groups and one headed for the clinic while the others went their various ways. I didn’t suspect we would have much trouble keeping track of the kids…turns out we lost whole groups…but that’s another story.

As the kids waited for the clinic, I stayed with them and intended to keep them occupied with some crafts and games. They had designated a nice space for us on a brick patio outside the clinic building. But the first thing to happen was rain. So, we ended cramped in a storage room/office for resort workers.

The second thing that happened was that we lost our translator.

And maybe it was because they were sleep deprived, or maybe because Benjamin had just been summoned elsewhere, or maybe because they were about to see the doctor, but the Faith kids seemed a little tense and quiet. It was harder than I remembered to break the ice with a sweet group of kids who haven’t a clue what I’m saying. And even though I recognized a number of their faces, I felt like I was starting back at zero trying to remember names. Aung Thun Kyaw and Siang Khun Tial just don’t stick in my head like I wish they did.

The kids in these children’s homes are generally from Christian families and are taught the Bible, but I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to share the gospel. Unfortunately, without the translators and with kids coming and go, some of my attempts were not altogether successful and others were just plain dismal failures. But, we have four more days, so we will just keep giving it our all.

I stayed in the hot storage room most of the afternoon, so I didn’t get to see all of the goings on, but from what I heard, the kids had a lot of fun in the swan boats while our team generally had strokes watching them and worrying that their life vests might be too big. And from what I hear, had it been the World Cup, the score would have been something like Burma 19, USA 1.

It took a while to get all of the kids through the clinic and it was dark by the time we gathered the groups to load the buses. Just as we prepared to say our goodbyes, the skies opened up one final time, giving us a parting drenching. We wasted no time swarming the small outdoor “restaurant” which was now devoid of customers. As we stood and watched the downpour in soft glow of the restaurant lights, the electricity went out. Then we just stood.

The lights flickered on and off a few times, but Pastor Khar had the idea of getting the kids to sing—so my final memories of the evening were 100 voices lifted up in praise to our God. Those kids sing about like they play soccer. Incredible.

And I’m sure all of the rain was just God’s way of helping me out with “bio-degrading” all of those little water balloon pieces. Thanks, God!

I’m a white girl. Glow-in-the-dark white.

I can’t even get a decent tan…just burn and peel. Burn and peel.

But I was raised just east of Los Angeles—probably can’t get more of a melting pot of humanity than LA. Okay, so there’s New York City. But just the same, we went to an all-Hispanic church, hosted Japanese exchange students, had Thanksgiving dinner with our Romanian friends, and my best babysitting clients were black. And I loved them.

One night a dinner guest asked my dad if he would let his daughters marry a black guy. The four of us girls were pretty young at the time. I don’t know why he asked that; the idea of marriage was distant and unreal. Almost a bit ridiculous. But my dad answered his question. And I still remember what he said.

We were not prejudice, but we did notice differences—strengths and weaknesses that tended to be true of different people groups. Our black friends were not just smart, they were FAST! They dominated the basketball courts. The Asian friends were not only smart, but hardworking and disciplined. The Hispanic friends were not only smart, but their culture took life at a much easier pace. Time was a suggestion. Family birthdays and events were big deals. Their all-day parties took us a little by surprise at first but we realized once you are considered family—you don’t miss one for the world.

So…we were all listening when my dad answered the question. Would he let one of his daughters marry a black man?

“It doesn’t matter so much the color of his skin as the color of his heart.”

I remember not only Dad’s answer, but I remembered the principle. And it wasn’t an isolated statement—it was consistent with the way my parents lived their lives.

They taught us to use our heads. They even taught us to use the “D” word—to be discriminating. The difference was, they taught us to be discriminating about things that matter, like character. Not things that don’t matter, like race. Even those general tendencies we noticed about people groups were just that—generalities. People are different; their skin color did not define them. You best evaluate people by their hearts—one at time.

Race has been in the news a lot this year. And unfortunately, in Charleston, we are now trying to navigate through an incident involving a white cop and a black shooting victim. But I wish all of the people out there who think that black lives don’t matter to white people could see what I see.

Because we care. We are ripped up. Because no one—black, white, or “other,” should be gunned down in cold blood the way that it appears happened in North Charleston recently. I’m glad there was a witness. I’m glad there was a witness with a cell phone. I wish the incident had never happened, but since it did, I’m glad that we can take the opportunity to show that our loyalty is to justice and not necessarily to the cops, the alleged criminals, the white people, or the black people. We want the facts to be brought to a jury –and the jury to do the right thing.

We care because black lives matter. But far more than that, we care because all lives matter—because they are lives, not black lives, white lives, or “other” lives.

I want the Scott family to know that we are behind them. No need for protests. No need for looting. No need to lose precious sleep to convince us that this is an important incident that should be given due process. We want it every bit as much as you.

I’m a white girl and I want justice.

But then, it doesn’t matter so much the color of my skin as the color of my heart.

When I stopped to count it up, I realized that even though I’ve never “lived” there, I’ve spent somewhere around a year of my life in Kentucky. Mostly eastern Kentucky–which truly deserves its own acknowledgment and perhaps it’s own star in the flag.

It’s coal country, natural gas country, and four wheelin’ country; but the thing that seems to bring them all together is the way they love UK basketball.

In case you are not familiar–the Rupp arena seats 22,000 people and it will be sold out every home game. In fact, you probably can’t get a ticket if you weren’t born with one.

I’m not saying they are cultish about basketball. I’m saying they are what comes after cultish. It’s not like they have flat screen TVs playing the games at their wedding receptions–it’s that you don’t get married on game days. Not if you want your groom to show up.

Santa wears blue in Kentucky, and if you’re in Lexington on game days, you won’t see much besides blue.  I’ve never seen blue grass in Kentucky; I think it the country got its name from all the UK Fans looking at the world through blue sunglasses.  

Due to the generosity of some of our clients (prompted by an untimely scheduled funeral), we were blessed with tickets to a recent UK game. Tickets, we were informed, some of the locals would about shoot us over. 

The Rupp arena is strategically connected to both a mall and a hotel. So when the 22,000 fans descend on Lexington, the food court will be full of bright blue shirts. And if you are an out-of-towner trying to sneak in without getting shot, you can buy a blue shirt, sweatshirt, jacket, hat, pants, muffs, pajamas, or Hello Kitty doll.

This particular game was at 9:00 pm on a Tuesday.  It was cold and snowy and generally a terrible time to be out. And as we were entering the arena, people were outside in the cold wearing signs that said, “I need to buy tickets!”

It was tempting, but I put my game face on and we marched inside.  In our section, all the seats were held by season ticket holders. They know who they are sitting next to. In fact, they probably know about everything there is to know about them.

Consequently, the people next to us immediately recognized us at outsiders, but they were kind enough to let us pretend for the night.

I was a little surprised by the demographic of the crowd at first. There were a lot of middle age people and even more older folks.  I guess that makes sense–They probably have a little more time and a little more money on their hands. 

They kicked off the game with live music, fireworks, and a lot of enthusiasm from the crowd.  I did see a few empty seats in the nose bleed section, but not many for 9:00 pm on a school night.  Kentucky easily got the ball from the start–thanks to the seven foot center who made the other team’s 6 foot 9 players look like they needed to do some growing up. 

Most of the fans–at least the older ladies–think of the team as their sons.  And no one was allowed to say anything negative about their boys but them.  If the other team so much as breathed on one of “their boys,” they would threaten them with slow and painful death.  But if one of the boys missed a shot or a pass, they weren’t above letting the boys know what they thought of them and why.

The opposing team–Boise State–was undefeated so UK fans took special delight in watching them spend the night chasing the UK score. 

It was impossible not to catch some of the enthusiasm.  Maybe the blue from my shirt was bleeding into my veins.  I shouted “white” and “blue” and “go cats” with the rest of them.  We truly did have good seats–about 10 rows up behind the clear backboard– close enough to see just how young those kids were, but hopefully far enough that the players couldn’t hear the lady behind us yelling, “What’s the matter, ‘Pointless’?”  Put the ball where it belongs!”

 Nothing makes for a bad day in Kentucky like a mark in the L column.  I can only imagine the pressure those kids were under.  The quality of life of hundreds of thousands of fans lies on their ability to get the ball through the net. 

And maybe a year in Kentucky is long enough that I’m starting to take a little bit of ownership. Who knows, maybe it was my yelling “go cats” that helped them score those last few points…or my seal motions that caused the other team to miss theirs.  Either way, I was one of the happy faces coming out of Rupp arena at 11:30 at night. And Wednesday dawned a beautiful day in Kentucky.

For various reasons, I had decided to go to the gym a little later that particular morning.

That meant I needed to get most of my morning routine done before the gym–walking the dog, washing my hair, and packing a lunch. I had just about an hour–enough time to do each of those things and get to the gym if I hurried.

I put a leash on Julie Anne and headed outside in the dark. I needed her to hurry up and do what dogs do.

But Julie Anne was in no hurry.  Or maybe the change in schedule had her a little confused. I steered us along well lit areas and she sniffed and poked and played and scratched and–at times–acted like she was going to take care of business–but didn’t. As the minutes ticked by, I began to get more and more anxious. It was cold. it was dark. I was in a hurry.  And I was remembering a man’s scream of “Help! Help!” that I had heard from the warmth of my bed a few hours earlier.

I do not know what happened before that. I do not know what happened after that.  But someone had been screaming not far from here not long ago. Julie Anne, please do your business so we can get on with this day.

Julie Anne sniffed a little more and I was hopeful. Anywhere will do. This whole grassy area is designed specifically for this.

She poked around.

Honestly, girl, this blade of grass…that blade of grass. They are all the same.

She kept sniffing.

See this bag, Julie Anne? I’m just going to pick it up anyway. It isn’t going to matter two minutes from now. Just do it. Julie Anne–

She suddenly stiffened and turned and stared intently at the darkness in the trees behind the little strip of town houses. Julie Anne– She still stood motionless.

I could hear those screams.

Whether they were real or from my dreams, I knew not, but I could hear them.  And I was staring into the darkness myself and starting to feel a little creeped out.  There were no other brave souls out with their dogs at that time of morning.

Julie Anne stood frozen.  Alert. She had no intention of doing her business anytime soon.  And I had no intention of being that girl that got murdered standing outside in the cold waiting for her dog to poop.

So I headed home.

I was a little irritated as we reached the safety of my little place.  A good 15 minutes wasted.  Nothing accomplished.  My tightly packed schedule was now all askew and we would have to go for yet another walk.  I didn’t know when.

Patience has never been one of my strengths. It requires too much humility.  It requires me to put other people’s needs and schedules ahead of my own.  Patience understands that my time is no more valuable than the person in line in front of me at the grocery store with 100,000 coupons.  It is subject to the law that requires me to sit at a woefully long red light when there is not another car in the same zip code.  Patience sees interruptions as opportunities to yield, and grow, and learn.

And patience requires faith–because to be patient, I must choose to believe that someone else’s way is truly better than my own.  When it comes to some people, that sometimes requires quite a bit of imagination.  And when it comes to God, it means being to content to accept what my finite mind cannot even imagine.

As I mentioned, patience has never been one of my strengths.  In fact, I was born in a hallway because I couldn’t wait for the delivery room.  My dad will tell you that I’ve been in a hurry ever since.

But God apparently is not content to leave me that way.  Hence, Julie Ann.  And plenty of other people and circumstances which shall remain nameless.

It is interesting to me that when Apostle Paul penned the great “Love Chapter,” I Corinthians 13, the very first attribute ascribed to love is patience.  Love is patient.

Love recognizes that sometimes another person needs a little time to come to their own conclusions.  Another person may have a different order for the same priorities.  They may have their own plans for the best way to redeem the time entrusted to them.  They require a different amount of rest and relaxation.

The next attribute of love in I Corinthians 13 is kindness.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize how tied together those two are–patience and kindness.  Kindness is really humility in action too.  Quite simply, it is caring about someone else’s feelings.

Kindness can mean the world to another person.  And it doesn’t cost a thing.

I figure the average person gets about 160 opportunities a day to work on  deficits in the patience and kindness department.  For me, that’s about one every six minutes I’m awake.  Some days more, some days less.

Some days those opportunities start at 5:30 am.  Some days I fail at 5:30 am.

But God, in the perfection of His love, doesn’t give up.  He faithfully peppers my life with opportunities to learn kindness and humility.

Thank goodness that love is patient.  Even at 5:30 in the morning.

So…I saw an article in my Facebook feed several times called “My Family Decided to go without Sugar for a Year and Here’s What Happened.”  Or something like that.  I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention.  I tried not to pay a whole lot of attention.

I didn’t read the article.  I didn’t even click on the article.  I didn’t even hoover over the article.  I was afraid it would come to life like a horror movie trailer.

Because, essentially, I know three things about sugar: 1. It is in basically every food and food-like substance.  2.  It is horrible for you.  And, 3. I like it.

I really don’t want to know just how wonderful my life would be without sugar.  I just don’t.  Especially since sugar is pretty much a necessary ingredient in anything chocolate.  And if I didn’t have chocolate, I probably wouldn’t die.  But I probably would want to.  Badly.

Anyway, so with that introduction, I have to explain why I would decide to go a week without sugar:

I made it through Christmas okay, but as I returned to work, I found my resolve toward moderation failing me.  People were bringing in leftovers, gifts, and leftover gifts–most of which involved chocolate.  And lots of sugar.

I found myself consuming a steady stream of chocolate, chocolate cake, chocolate candy, chocolate covered Oreo balls, and chocolate chunks.  I’m sure I said no to something, somewhere, but I definitely didn’t make a habit of it.

Mind you, I was working out pretty steadily, so it didn’t catch up with me right away. But whether or not it was affecting my waste line, I knew it was going to have to stop.  And I decided to go without sugar for a week.

So, the first thing that happened is that I learned that deciding to go without sugar for a week is not the same thing as actually going without sugar for a week.

Yeah…about that…basically, I had a couple of false starts.  Thanks to that stubborn chocolate cake sitting in the break room.

But Saturday came around and I had no more excuses.  I existed on spinach, plain Greek yogurt, flax seed, and turkey.  I felt like such a good girl.

Then came Sunday.  I drowned out my strong desire to eat sugar with a big, fat fried chicken sandwich.  A much better choice for my health I’m sure than say, a chocolate kiss.

After the fried chicken sandwich, I had to drive to Florida and it was one of those afternoons that a nap sounded just delightful and a long drive sounded much less so.  I was drowsy, had a dull headache and a low gas tank, so I had to stop. I really did.

But I was good.  And instead of spending a few sugary calories on Zipfizz or other caffeinated drink, I resumed my drive and crunched on four hours worth of pretzels.

Monday dawned and I had another dull headache.  Maybe it was because of the long drive.  Maybe it was because I was sugar deprived.  Maybe it was because of the four hours worth of pretzels I had in my system.  Whatever the truth was, I felt yuk.

I have to confess to eating a few gingersnaps on Monday.  It was social eating and there was no chocolate involved, so it really shouldn’t count.

Tuesday…involved another fried chicken sandwich.

Wednesday…someone brought doughnuts to the office.  Two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  Cruelty, I tell you.  I had to walk by those doughnuts all morning.  But I did not eat one.  At first, I mean.

In fact, I walked by a lot of times without eating one.  Two boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts.  Hours went by before I even opened the box.  That should count for something.  Then came thirty seconds of heaven that earned me two long miles on the treadmill.

Thursday…I was good all day.  It helped that the leftover doughnut parts and pieces were looking less like people food and more like chicken food.

Friday…I did have some Baklava and honestly, it was worth the cheat.

But I didn’t eat any chocolate.

In fact, you haven’t heard me say the world chocolate for a long time.  So, I was still being good even if I did blow it a little bit.

Nevertheless, it was a loooooong week.  I think I’ve found the secret to slowing down the clock.  Decide not to eat sugar…or even just chocolate.  Time may fly when you are having fun but when you are trying to stay away from sugar, it flies DELTA (Doesn’t Ever Leave The Airport).  Feel like you’re aging too fast?  Decide not to eat sugar until your next birthday.  It will probably never come.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because I know–especially at the beginning of the year–there are a bunch of people out there who are also trying to eat better and/or work out harder.  And I know that it is not easy.  On Day 10, some people may have already given up.

So…I want to encourage you not to give up.  Even if it isn’t going perfectly.  Even if that doughnut box is calling your name.  Keep it up because we all know that a little discipline with our bodies is not only good for us physically but also good for us spiritually.

There are an unlimited number of tips, tricks, and products to try to make it easier, but at the end of the day, I figured you probably didn’t want advice from someone who blew their plan over gingersnaps.  So I’ll settle for being an encourager: Keep disciplining your body. I didn’t do it perfectly; I didn’t see extreme results; but I did accomplish my goal of getting back to moderation.

And if you discipline yourself, As a little added bonus, you’ll be able to stretch time.  And, if you choose, you can fill those long days with a whole lot of fun.  Like square dancing.

—

So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. 
I Corinthians 10:31

He was big, strong, and angry. And for whatever reason, he was chasing me. Chasing us, actually. I held one of my nephews in my arms and tried to keep from stumbling along the uneven ground while herding two more toward the safety that I hoped we would find somewhere in the trees ahead.

But I couldn’t shake him. I could hear the heavy falling of his footsteps right behind me, scaring me on. I clutched Silas tightly and put my head down to try to avoid a low hanging limb. Then all went black.

I woke up exhausted. The pounding of footsteps had been replaced with the soft pounding of my heart as it sunk in that the man was gone, my nephews were safe, and it was still a good 20 minutes or so before I needed to get out of bed to start my day.

As I lay in the dark, I remembered an observation Curtis had recently made—“Why do we talk about dreams coming true like it’s a good thing? When was the last time you had a dream that you hoped would come true?”

None came to mind.

Most of my dreams—that I remember anyway—have just enough real life in them that it takes me a minute or two after I wake up to convince myself that they didn’t happen. But when I do, my thought is always—Oh, good!

But we still talk about dreams. Chasing them. Following them. Believing in them.

Taken on the authority of Cinderella (the first movie I ever saw)—a dream is a wish your heart makes. Or perhaps, what we really mean, that your mind makes up.

But, I used to believe in them. Sort of.

Ten years ago today I said goodbye to my parents and boarded a one-way flight for Charleston. I had no cell phone then. In fact, I didn’t have a lot of stuff period. What I took with me was in the two suitcases that were free to check.

“Fasten your seat belt,” the flight attendant growled at me. But when I turned from the window and he saw the tears in my eyes, his voice softened considerably. “You ok?” I nodded, but I was too choked up to speak. Life would change for me that day. That was about all I knew.

I remember when Curtis interviewed me and he asked me about what I wanted to do with my life, I told him I would probably work 3-5 years. But when he asked me specifically what I wanted to do I thought about and responded, almost like it came from someone else, “the next right thing.”

I believed this was the next right thing.

Ten years ago today, I was given a new office and a new extension. I was put in charge of the computer “system” at the Bostic Law Firm (compliments of my prior boss who mistakenly told Curtis that I was a computer genius). Ten years ago, I was trained the way Curtis still trains people—give them a list and tell them to go do it. Figure it out. Sink or swim. I still have that initial “to do” list. On it are the words—“correct deficiencies in computer system and maintain/improve.” I still can’t cross that off.

Ten years ago tonight, my new church was vandalized and burned. Our pastorless congregation would meet in the fellowship hall for more than a year after that as we saved money to renovate. But the people at CHBC were kind and welcoming and it wasn’t long before Charleston would feel like home…plus 100% humidity.

Ten years ago, I had a dream that I was trying to strategically weave into a plan.

I wanted to work in the legal field long enough to feel like the time, energy, and money I had invested in law school was worthwhile; but still get married young enough to have ten kids—maybe twelve. Then, as a family, we would win the world for Christ. That was the dream, more or less.

The “plan” part came in because I knew that dreams alone don’t generally turn out the way you want them to…if at all. I didn’t trust my dream to Walt Disney or some mythical fairy godmother.

At the same time, it couldn’t be entirely a plan, because there were pieces of it I couldn’t control. Some things you just can’t make happen. But you can hope that God gave you a dream because it’s part of His plan.

Ten years ago, it seemed like my dream was coming true.

But it didn’t.

I’ve lived ten very good, very full years in Charleston. No complaints. It’s hard to measure exactly what ten years does to you. I have less courage now, but more confidence. Less drive, but more knowledge and skill. Less frugality, but more resourcefulness. Less stubbornness, more flexibility. Less passion, more maturity. Some things are even harder to measure in years… do I have more or less patience than I did then? I don’t know. More or less compassion? I’m not sure.

One thing is for sure, though, it didn’t turn out quite like I dreamed it would. Consequently, I find myself giving dreams mixed reviews. There is part of me that wants to say, Dreams? Bah, Humbug.

Dreams are fiction.

The fact is that true dreams—what we have when we sleep—are usually a lot of painful torture minus the happy ending. Conversely, the stereotypical “American Dream” is the happy endings minus the painful torture.

And the life the God plans for us is neither. It’s to walk humbly with our God. It’s to be conformed to His image. It’s every day grace. It’s the next right thing.

I’ve thought of a lot of happy endings for God, and so far, He hasn’t been interested in any of them. Because He is more interested in His glory. More desirous of seeing me passionate about the gospel. More inclined to drive me to do the next right thing.

As John Piper reminds us, God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him. Not ourselves. Not our dreams. Not our plans. In Him.

It is foolish for me to conclude that my plan is the best when I lack the ability to execute the plan. It is a waste for me to assume that my dreams should provide the direction for my life when my imagination is so small that I can’t even think God’s thoughts after Him.

In the shallowness of our human nature, we long to see our story unfold by building to a climax, then resolve with twist of predictable surprise. All is well that ends well—and we can shut the book with a satisfied sigh because everything happened the way that it should have in the end.

But God, as the author, may review our outlines, may consider our dreams, but in the end will scrap our work of fiction and glorify Himself with His own work of faith.  “I got this.  Do the next right thing.”

Ten years from now and ten thousand years from now, out dreams will probably be no more than a distant memory. But if we walk in faith we will still be able to close the book in satisfaction. That was a good story. I didn’t see it coming, but everything happened the way it should have in the end.