Dudley's Demotion

Saturday morning. 

A mountain of laundry stares at me. The neighbors are probably on their way to take  pictures.


Dust bunnies have grown into annoying rabbits. 

I think I'll name him Dudley.

It's the perfect day to scrub down, sweep out, and polish up. The house is quiet. Hubby is fishing. Jess is living her missional dream in Uganda. Nathan is working, and Katie still slumbers. 

I glove up and jump in, but as I run a feather duster over picture frames, a bittersweet nostalgia trickles in. Pausing, I stare into three little faces. Is it possible that the precocious toddler smiling at me will be moving away and starting graduate school in just a few weeks? Can the snaggle-toothed girl sitting atop her pony really be starting her junior year of college? And Katie, my baby, is it possible that she’s no longer a baby at all but a blossoming tween?

Then... reality slaps me in the face. In ten years, will I look back and feel remorse because I didn't have a tidy, Martha Stewart home? Doubt it. Is it possible I may regret not spending time with my children? Quite possibly. A sense of urgency replaces the nostalgia. Cleaning supplies are quickly put away. The dust can wait. The laundry will keep. Plans have changed. 

I bound into Katie’s room and declare, “It’s Mommy-Katie Day!”

Groggy eyes open. “Really?” She squeals in delight. Her bear hug takes my breath.

After shopping, lunch, a movie and playing at the neighborhood pool, we drag home.  I open the door, and Dudley Dust Bunny greets me. I don’t care. Dudley doesn't bother me one smidgen. He's been demoted to the bottom of my to-do list.

Top of the list: Family. Our little ones leave the nest way too soon not to keep first things first.

Photo by Katie

Window of Hope

Today marks nine years since my dad was released from his broken body that was ravaged by years of battling Alzheimer's. As the sadness of that day threatens to spill over on this dreary, rainy Saturday morning, I'm reminded that just like a prisoner on his much anticipated release date, my dad was finally freed. And while it was a heartbreaking, excruciatingly long journey for his family and friends to have to witness, it was finally finished on March 23, 2004.You can read about my dad's loving legacy here.   http://oodlesofgrace.blogspot.com/2011/11/my-daddys-loving-legacy.html 

Instead of fighting this sadness, I've decided to snuggle under my warm blanket of melancholy. Not for long, mind you, maybe not even the whole day. But I need to nestle down, reminisce and have a good cry.

I've often wondered if my dad is aware of my journey here. I've read commentaries and blogs arguing for and against the belief that those in heaven can see us on earth. Many believe they can offer prayers on our behalf. And while that thought is comforting to me, others counter that knowing our struggles would lessen the perfection of heaven. So it's simply not possible. There seems to be scripture supporting both sides.

I do know that I've been with many people as they've taken their last breath, and they often reach and call out for a loved one who has passed. If you were there, I don't think you would doubt that loved ones often come back to usher the dying into heaven. Is it possible that they come back more than we think? 

I prefer to think that God, being his omniscient, glorious self, has a special little window in heaven for each of his children. At certain times, the curtain is pulled back, and they can look down and get a glimpse into their family's lives. And maybe there are times when the window is slung wide open, and they can actually be present with us. A birth. A baptism. A wedding. A passing. A welcoming home.



And maybe, just maybe, my dad is looking out his window today. A smile tugs at his lips as his dimple deepens. He whispers a promise. "Not long. It's not long until we will all be enjoying this incredible perfection of heaven together." His face brightens. "Oh, the things I have to show you. The places we will go. The joy we have to share as we spend eternity together. Friends. Family. And most importantly, the One who made it all possible. Our Father. Our Savior. Our Hope."

But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him”—

1 Corinthians 2:9

I Feel So Used!

           I’m embarrassed to say that at times I can be a bit of a whiner. One day, in my not too distant past, I was wallowing in self-pity.  “I feel so used! God, why do you keep putting me in situations where people are using me?” It was a pretty pathetic display, but thankfully, I was the only one invited to the pity party. As I sat at my kitchen table, tissue in hand to sop up the free flowing tears, I remembered a sermon my pastor preached a few years back and I had to laugh at my stupidity.

It was during a winter season of my life. You know the times when God is silent. Well, there I sat, arms crossed, feeling dejected, not expecting to hear from God. My ear perked up when I heard the pastor describe me in perfect detail. “Many of you, from an early age, have prayed ‘God use me, no matter the cost, I simply want to be used by you.’ You cried, your mascara ran, and you meant it, and God heard you. Now you same people sit here, years later. You’re whining, ‘I feel so used. . . Why is everyone always using me?’ People aren’t using you!  God has simply answered your prayer. You are being used!”       Ouch, the truth hurts. My pastor went on to question me, “Do you now have a right to say, ‘This is too painful. You know I really don’t want to be used after all. What I meant to say was, please use me only if it’s fun, or if it’s rewarding or if it offers some recognition.’  No, you prayed the prayer and God has answered.”        I went home with a different perspective.       Now obviously I don’t believe in being a door-mat. I’m a big advocate of personal boundaries, self-care and all that other stuff we social workers teach. But unlike a lot of my counseling peers, I don’t think I should put me first. In fact, I’m pretty sure Jesus teaches us to put ourselves last. Dead last.  A big fat zero.      I’m learning to extend my prayer a little. It’s no longer a simple “God use me.” Instead, I pray, “God use me to show others YOUR grace and compassion. Give me a pure heart that desires, above all else, to be a servant as you were. Crush all selfishness. Use me . . .  use me up until there is nothing left but your love shining through me.”     So the next time I say, "I feel so used," it won't be a complaint but an answer to prayer.

Phooey on Graduations

     Graduation. For most, the word conjures up feelings of excitement and a sense of accomplishment, the end of one chapter and eager anticipation of the next. Am I in the minority when I admit that I hate the word? Even in high school, I dreaded the day of convocation. I loved school. I never wanted that season to end. I’m one of those creatures of habit who fight change, the ticking of the clock, the page of the calendar being ripped off and thrown away. The thought of my little ones leaving the nest makes me crumble.

     In case you haven’t guessed, I’m still wiping the tears away since my second, Jess, graduated yesterday. She’s such a disobedient young woman. I told her repeatedly, “You are not allowed to grow up!” Alas, she did in spite of my command, and even took joy in the journey to breaking her mother’s heart. 

See how she mocks me with her cake? 

     As I reflect this morning on all the “graduations” in life, I’m making a resolution to try and embrace them. After all, it’s worthless to fight the inevitable. You can’t argue with the old saying “The only certainty in life is change.”

    I’ve found King Solomon’s words to be true. Imagine that. There really is a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance . . . Get the picture?    

     The good news is if you’re going through a valley right now, a time of grief, tragedy and heartbreak, it will end. The cold, lonely night won’t last forever. Eventually you will feel the sun's warmth, and your joy will return.

     Brace yourself for some bad news: If your life is filled with so much happiness that it's just one big party, that won’t last either. As sure as the sun rises, it also sets. The pain, sadness and confusion are coming. No one can predict the intensity or duration, but something is going to happen. So goes life.

     Anyone else feeling melancholy? Before we sink into a desolate pit of despair, let’s rethink this. I’m a look-at-the-worst-case- scenario type gal. My dad used to say, “Plan for the worst. Then you’ll be prepared if it happens and relieved if it doesn’t.”

     Worst case scenario? Death. I’ve been to several funerals where the bulletin read, “Graduation Celebration for ___________.” What an awesome outlook. Passing from this temporal world and graduating to a perfect, eternal life with our forever-loving Creator. The ultimate commencement.

     One problem: I hate graduations. Remember? (At this point, I have to pause, eat breakfast and figure out how I’m going to finish this post.)

      Thirty minutes later, I return. Sigh . . . There has been no Eureka! moment. Groan . . . The light bulb above my head is still turned off. Whine . . . What to do? What to do? 

     I collapse on the sofa. I hear a quiet voice welling up from within. "Trust Me. Know that I will walk with you through every graduation. I will carry you as I lovingly cradle you against my chest. Don't lose sight of your final graduation when I say, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant.'"

     The best news? There are no graduations in heaven. 

The Small Stuff

As this year fades into history, I’ve been thinking about my New Year resolution. Unlike past years when I’ve concentrated on three or four, I only have one for 2012. It’s simple and probably sounds cliché. I’m going to live each day as if it were my last. Before you roll your eyes at the piety of my goal, it’s not what you may think.

When I was with an elderly gentleman during his final days, he cautioned me that life goes fast until you’re 30. Then it flies until you’re 50 and in a blink you’re 90. Like so many of my patients, he didn’t have regrets about not “achieving success”.  He said the one thing he would do differently is that he would simply appreciate the small things more and not take everyday joys for granted.

Last week, I was with a young mother who only has a few weeks left. Through tears she said she wishes she had more time to hug her children. She didn’t want time to sail around the world or make a name for herself. She shared that the thing she is going to miss most is her sons’ smiles.

So for me, it’s no longer about a lofty spiritual goal or making an unforgettable memory. Instead of coming up with a list of changes I’m going to make or the great things I want to do for God, I’m simply going to bask in God’s love and grace as I appreciate the little things.

I want to savor the daily routine, what seems mundane. I want to relish the laughter of my children, cherish time with friends and treasure the closeness of my mom, sisters and brother, because life is fragile. Life is short.

In 2012, I‘m going to value the small things as if it's my last day because it’s all the seemingly insignificant stuff that makes this life so amazing.

Katie with her cousin, Ali

Master Untangler

I had to complete a task that I'd been dreading for weeks. It was a tedious job that would require keen eyes, steady hands and tons of concentration. I finally decided that I could procrastinate no longer, so I tackled the mammoth challenge.

Okay, maybe mammoth is a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, the ball of necklaces could fit in one hand. Allow me to explain. We moved a couple of months ago and my daughter, whom I love dearly (just for the record), packed her jewelry in a container with no thought of the consequences. She had varying lengths of silver chains, each with their own charm-keys, crosses, penguins (don't ask), as well as a few chords with pendants. I had no way to tell how many there were. All I knew is that it was a blob of . . . of . . . sheer frustration!!

I know, moms, I could have made her untangle the mess herself . . . but . . . Okay, I have no answer. The bottom line is I decided it was my job to free the bound jewelry.

At first, I decided to shake the mass and  pull a couple of the dangling chains, hoping they would all magically fall apart. No such luck. I then pulled tighter on one that looked like it was rebelling against the pack. This only angered the ball and the others clung tighter. As I sat, trying to decide whether or not to throw it in the trash, I came up with a plan.

Magnifying glass and needle in hand, I formulated my strategy. Each chain was slightly different. I would choose one, slowly trace it's path, untangling it along the way until I freed each one individually. I knew it could take hours, but there was no other way. 

As I went about the meticulous chore, there were times I wanted to change my focus and choose another chain but I stayed the course. When the first necklace was freed, I gained confidence. Five minutes later, a second was rescued and so it went. I discovered that the job got exponentially easier with each release.

Sigh . . . With pride, I lined the twelve necklaces on the table to present them to my daughter.

I opened my Bible for morning time with my Father and  glanced over at my proud accomplishment. I remembered my desperate prayer the day before. I felt like there was a tight ball in my stomach, a mass of stress, tension, regret, fear . . . I smiled as a quiet, still voice reminded me that the Master Untangler is at work.

His vision is perfect, His hands ever-steady as He loosens what needs to be released, tugs at the perfect time and creates something beautiful from a mess. He won't give up until all is free . . . so neither will I.

My Daddy's Loving Legacy

The year was 1970 and I was three. As the sun crept into the horizon and the house became quiet, I skipped to my most favorite spot, baby doll in tow.  I climbed into my dad's comfy recliner. He scooched  over and wrapped his arm around me. I giggled, cooing to my doll as he watched a John Wayne movie. It was a night-time ritual for years. The old recliner formed to our bodies. It was a perfect fit . . . a safe sanctuary. I never wanted to grow up.  

As a child, there's no better feeling than snuggling with your daddy, your protector and provider. It saddens me that many don't have happy childhood memories. It's heartbreaking to know that some have difficulty accepting the love and grace of their heavenly Father because they've never experienced it from their earthly one.  I am eternally grateful that my dad modeled God's compassionate love in such a  profound way that I had no difficulty understanding  God's agape love.

Today my dad would have turned 73 so  I thought I would share his legacy. Well, a tiny bit of his legacy, to tell his whole story would easily fill a book. My daddy grew up in poverty, had little education, yet built a successful business through hard work and dedication. He constantly found ways to show his wife and children how much he adored us. 

When I was a child and got a boo-boo, he never said, "don't cry" or "chin up". Instead, he held me and whispered, "I wish I had a magic wand and could take this pain out of you and put it into me." As I looked into his eyes, I knew it was true. I always felt his deep, sacrificial love. 

When I was a sophomore in college and told him I decided to major in psychology, he bought me a huge trophy that  read, "Susan Dulin: Best Psychology Student in the World."  Whenever I doubted myself, I looked at the trophy on my desk. Knowing he believed in me gave me confidence. That was the type of daddy he was . . . always affirming, my biggest cheerleader.

I don't want to romanticize his memory, he wasn't a perfect man. But he had a passion for life. I think he was the happiest when he was racing cars with my brother or riding horses with my sister. His eyes sparkled when he surprised my mom with breakfast in bed or bought her a new car. On Valentine's day, he didn't just send my mom roses, he gave flowers to me and my sisters as well. He looked for ways to pamper us, to show us his love.

Today, as I remember him, I choose not to dwell on the years when Alzheimer's slowly stole his memories, changing his personality, hiding his smile. I choose to remember who he truly was. A beautiful man, strong and vibrant, dimpled smile, caring eyes and compassionate heart. He loved spoiling his children and would do anything to see us laugh. What an awesome example of my heavenly Father.


If you didn't receive this type of love from your dad, know that God, your heavenly Father, loves you beyond measure. He wants to shelter you, protect you and give you wonderful gifts. He loves to hear you laugh. He wants you to know and experience him. To top it off, He's preparing an awesome home just for you. It's as easy as accepting His son, His ultimate gift to you.

Got Legacy?

Last weekend, I took my daughter and her best friend to Charleston. One of our favorite things is visiting old cemeteries. I know it may seem morbid, but the ones in Charleston are awesome. As we stood, reading epitaphs from the 1700’s, one caught my eye. It had the standard name, date of birth and death and then simply read “Beloved Aunt of Edward.” I laughed, wondering if Edward was the author of the eloquent epitaph. I mean, really? Is that all she was known for? But then again, if she wasn’t married, had no children of her own and poured her life into Edward, maybe she would have wanted this to be her legacy.  Who am I to judge? Perhaps it was a wonderful and fulfilling life. Over the years, I’ve attended numerous conferences about grief counseling. It never fails. We always have to write our own epitaph and obituary . . .  my favorite group activity . . . NOT!! The first time I had to do this, I was in my mid -twenties and was horrified. The epitaph . . . not so bad, but to be expected to write the full obituary including place and year of death, cause of death, who was present and then the eulogy. That’s morbid, even for me! I can’t remember what I wrote then. I wish I would have saved it, but I know each time I was forced to participate in such a morose activity, I got a little more comfortable with it. And, of course, that’s the point. To be a good grief counselor one has to be comfortable with one’s own mortality. Now that I’m older and bolder (maybe a little more defiant), I refuse to write about the details of my death. I know that’s in God’s hands, and it’s pointless to imagine all the possible scenarios. What I do like to focus on is the legacy, my "dash".    Years ago, I read a beautiful poem, The Dash by Linda Ellis.The gist of the poem is that the year of birth and death doesn’t matter. It’s what we do with the dash between that counts. Some days, I imagine my epitaph might read, “A bit of a slug, horrible cook, mediocre friend, pretty good mom . . . “ Thankfully, I’m reminded that my identity, my legacy, shouldn’t be about me at all. Ever heard Big Daddy’s Weave’s song "Audience of One"? Love the line, “And as the love song of my life is played, I have one desire, to bring glory to your name.” Isn’t it freeing to know nothing else matters? I think I want my epitaph to simply read, “Daughter of God, Covered in Grace, Finally at home with Him.”

Becoming a Better Lover

Do you want to be a better lover? Before you spit your water out in shock, I’m not referring to intimacy. I’m talking about loving people better, more compassionately, with more authenticity. 

For me, some days loving others comes easy, like digging into that triple layer chocolate cake, days when all is right in the world. Sadly, on other days (I’m blaming fluctuating hormones) it’s easier to stick my hand into a pot of boiling water. Okay, maybe not quite that difficult, but you get the point.

So many variables come into play (other than my estrogen levels) such as the lovability of the person and the payoff for loving the person. Let’s admit it, some people just don't act lovable. But for some bizarre reason, God didn’t call us to just love the lovable. Conundrum.

Before you cast a stone in my direction, I’m simply being honest. Yes, my goal is to achieve God’s agape love, the love that is unconditional and self-sacrificing. But as a mere human, a very flawed one at that, this goal seems lofty.

But alas, I’m determined not to lose hope. So I have a plan. Plans are always good, right? Instead of simply trying to like the person and bestow random acts of kindness on them, which, by the way, I’ve decided is merely my way of easing my conscience, I’m going to focus on demonstrating my love through authentic, genuine communication. Sound cliché? Sorry, couldn’t think of another way to describe it.

So here goes. Maybe you will join me on my journey to be a better L-O-V-E-R.

L   Listen- Simply hear the person’s heart-the dreams, the disappointments, the joys, the hurts. No interruptions, no judgments. Sometimes the best thing we can do is zip our lips.

O  Observe her body language. Does it match her words? Do we need to dig deeper? Should we ask clarifying questions?

V  Validate her feelings. All of them. Yes, the good, the bad and the ugly, even if we disagree. Just because we validate the emotions doesn't mean we are condoning them. I know my feelings are often wrong, but they are still there, festering. Once someone takes the time to listen and understand me, my irrational feelings magically melt away.

E  Empathize. I didn’t say sympathize. Simply feeling sorry for the person isn't helpful. In fact, I hate it when people feel sorry for me. It comes across as condescending. Instead, we need to put ourselves in her shoes. Try to feel what she's feeling.

R  Reassure. No matter what hardship or heartbreak a person is facing, we can always offer reassurance. Personally, I have to be careful that this doesn’t come across as patronizing. A simple “Chin up, everything’s going to be fine” really stinks when you’re facing a crisis. And for the most part, I don’t think citing Scripture is helpful (gasp).  I’m just being honest. I’d rather hear something like, “As hard as this is right now, your life will not always be here. It may take some time, but things will eventually be better.” And a sincere “I’m here in the meantime if you need to talk” seldom falls on unappreciative ears. And of course, the famous “I love you no matter what” (as long as it's genuine) is the best encouragement anyone can hear.

That’s my musing on being a better people lover. Now can I achieve it? We’ll see. Estrogen levels seem relatively low today, so I’m feeling optimistic. Hope you are, too.