Learning To Fly . . .

It was spring of 2012. The thick aroma of crawfish bread, gumbo, and po-boys cut through an even thicker shroud of South Louisiana humidity. Anticipation dangled in the air as the girls and I waited for Tom Petty to arrive on the Jazz Fest stage.

By this time, the girls had reached ages (14 and 12). Arguably a suitable age to run to the concessions on their own (using the “buddy system”). So, I watched them traipse off into a sea of strangers while I waited. 

And I waited. 

And I waited.

Ticking off minutes is not exactly in my wheelhouse. In this particular case, I had to fight off a torrent of worry over improbable outcomes to the situation. This did not make ticking any easier.

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Mark it with a “B”

My guess is that most of you do not know what you were doing twenty years ago today at precisely 4:58 a.m. Just as quickly, as I typed that last sentence, it dawned on me that a lot of you were probably sleeping. The anti-climactic intro aside – I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing.

I was in a labor and delivery room at Baptist Hospital on Napoleon Avenue (New Orleans). After less than three hours at the hospital, the medical staff was placing a wiggly 7lb 3oz baby girl in my arms – Shannon Marie Posey.

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No More Tears

Today – May 2, 2019 – marks eighteen years since we lost my daddy to cancer at the age of only 56. As I think about him and so many loved ones who have finished their race in this world – I can’t help but to think of eternity.

Video excerpt from a class assignment on the Story of Scripture . . .There’s a day coming when there will be no more tears.

While so many mysteries surround the next life, two things are certain to me. A day is coming when there will be no more death, pain, or tears. And, the veil between today and that future day is ever so thin.

Two pieces of my heart – my daddy and my Brooke

Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for the thirty-three years that I shared with my daddy. It wasn’t long enough (we never think it is), but I am still ever grateful for that precious time. Thank you for memories that are outside the realm of death. Thank you for an eternal world where You will once again live in our midst and we will be reunited with those whom we love so dearly. Please send your Holy Spirit as our Comforter so that we may await with hope that day when there will be no more tears. In the name of your Son, Jesus. Amen!

SDG

Simmering in Saturday

Raise your hand if you collect toys. Any kind of toys – garden toys, craft toys, electronic toys, car toys, sports toys, horse toys, or any one of the endless examples of the shiny things that capture our attention and are fun to collect. Me? One of my weaknesses is kitchen toys.

Two fairly recent additions to my kitchen – the electric pressure cooker and the sous vide cooker. Two appliances pretty much on opposite ends of the cooking spectrum – one designed to cook quickly and the other slowly. One pressures ingredients to maturity while the other caresses a recipe to fullness. (If you’ve never used a sous vide, it is essentially a heating element that sits in a water bath providing a gentle heat that cooks your ingredients to a perfect and precise temperature. If you don’t have one, I highly recommend it – especially for steaks. I digress.)

In a weird way, this got me to thinking about how we handle suffering.

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Grief School Lesson #1: They Said What?

Grief isn’t taught in schools. Most of us learn about grief and how to grieve in the “school of hard knocks.” Baptism by fire, if there ever was. Because we are running around not knowing what to do or what to say, it often falls upon those who are grieving to “teach” those around them what to do and say. With that in mind, every now and then, we’ll open up the doors of “Grief School” here at Dances With a Limp. 

Ready for Lesson #1?

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Thy Will Be Done

For most of my conscious memory, I’ve had a black thumb. Cacti didn’t stand a chance. Does anyone know how to perform CPR on an air plant? Do rock gardens need water?

Yet, I really enjoy the beauty of nature. Lush greenery and vibrant flowers literally breathe out life to us. The coolness that creeps off the shade of tropical foliage brings restoration. It’s so easy to see how gardeners are transported to another place has they dig through the soil and tend their plots.

Don’t be surprised if you feel this way too. Our souls are wired for garden life. In the beginning when God deemed things “very good,” there we were winding through plush paths lined with breath-taking flora. No weeds. Perfect temps (You can read the details yourself, but no one was hunting for a jacket in Eden). And at the end of the days, “happy hour” was spent hanging out with God himself. 

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One More Mile

This morning, I overhead some crazy talk. One of the the girls at physical therapy said, “I had the urge to go on a run last night.” Yeah, you heard right. Then, she proceeded to explain that “a run” meant six miles. You may be one of those people who loves to run. I am not. Every fiber of my being resists “the urge.” 

Still, there was that one time.

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