Sometimes Why Isn't Necessary

This time one year ago I was standing in a parking lot waiting for "orders." We were going, a whole crew of CPers and I, to work on a disaster site in Arkansas after the tornadoes. Once we got there it would begin to drizzle like it is now. But we'd keep working anyway, at certain points barely even noticing. While the cars had been full of chattering, excited kids enjoying spending time with each other in person instead of being forced to have screens between them, there was a hush once we got there. For some of us, it was the first time we'd ever seen something like this - piles of remnants of what used to be happy lives. We passed devastation after devastation, only piles of garbage to mark where families used to live.

Here and there a camper, or a rare undemolished house stood. An old lady and a teenage girl came out of one and talked to a few of us girls. They thanked us for coming and the tears started pooling in my eyes. It felt more of an honor to be there than a job. They took it all in stride this mess all around them. Like Whitney seemed to be doing. I remember thinking how brave she was for coming with us and helping clean up someone's else's home after doing her own. I wanted to tell her but I wasn't sure how to say what I was feeling... I think I eventually said something and hugged her. Hugs were about all I wanted at that point - some form of human touch reassuring me that we were alive in a world that seemed all dead. Words seemed kinda useless there. They just hung in the thick foggy air and sounded awkward.

After a while, they offered us lunch and we had to eat it. Well, I personally didn't. For once food allergies were a blessing. No one really seemed to want to eat what with the stench and the sadness and the piles of ruined lives on every side.

It was sometime after lunch when the rain was drizzling in a relentless miserable manner that the strongest memory for me of that day happened. We'd been hacking at a trailer with only our hands and someone's knife and a borrowed ax if I remember correctly. Maybe we just needed to hack at something because our insides seemed to have gone numb. Or maybe it was just because a bunch of kids like to try demolishing things. I dunno. I do remember despite more logical heads saying otherwise, that some of us seemed to think so strongly that we could get it apart, it was almost a need to get it apart. It may sound weird. But I've experienced that feeling since. It's like the subconscious needs to accomplish some physical thing that has become a metaphor for something bigger.

Some of us girls seemed to have gained strength that from just looking at us seemed impossible. I pulled my hat which ironically said, "Life is Good" on it (a present from my dad and mom), and hoped no one could see my eyes in the rain. I felt the  need to work, need to pull and drag and hoist the heaviest items I could find and throw them as high as I could with a resounding thud on the constantly growing pile. That was one of the most satisfying sound ever. I glanced around and saw another girl beside me, working just as silently and determinedly. "So I'm not the only one this staring physical disaster in the face is new to," I thought. Looking at us maybe we appeared frantic but it lacked the feverishness of insanity. It was just a cold, determined, numbness. Besides, it was less emotionally challenging to lug pieces of housing material than picking up children's toys. After throwing a teddy bear and a doll on the dump I decided to avoid picking up any more if I could help it. It hurt too much to throw away something you knew had been dear to some little kid.

Compounded with being in an official disaster site for the first time and thinking about the Tittles, I was struggling with pushing flashbacks away from hurricanes. Katrina - being a little girl far away from home and having only the reassurance of newspaper pictures, aka no reassurance whatsoever, and hearing adults talk about dead bodies floating in the streets. Rita - facing the wind and beginning of the rain to pull things in and secure them, tying down roses to their stake as though somehow that was going to help, and praying that little frog I found hiding in a rose petal would make it. Gustav - the hurricane that actually hit my town as a 3, bringing multiple tornadoes down our street alone, one of which almost killed me. Gustav included the whole gamut of FEMA, our street blocked off due to damage, seeing neighbors almost die, etc. The memories of Gustav though also gave strength. I remembered being too young to help in the heat Mama said, so I watched from the one cool room my mother and father work with the neighbors cleaning up instead of waiting for federal aid. White and black, blue collar and white collar, from all walks of life working together.

As the hours rolled by, a question began nagging in the back of my mind and I imagine it was nagging in the back of a few others. Why were stuffed bears left in one piece but the house gone? It was rumored one of the little kids who had lived here had been injured. Why was the random piece of junk saved and her not? Why had this happened to good Christian people? Why all this destruction?

And then someone, either Hannah or Morgan, found a pretty much intact page from a book. Us girls huddled around her trying to read through the rain what it said. We had a strange fascination with who these people were who used to live here and now were rumored to live in the camper a few yards away. It was a page from a children's book Hannah deciphered. We leaned closer. It was strangely pretty preserved. It was a dim, water-stained yellow and only the edges crumbled in her hand. The dirt streaks didn't make what was left of the page unreadable. I wondered if since it was so well preserved if God had something to say to us.

Hannah read us the whole that was left intact. It was the story of John the Baptist in prison. He asked why he hadn't been delivered. And Jesus answered him but not the way he was expecting or wanted. We all knew how it ended even though the ending had been lost on a different page.

We went back to work. But somehow I was different. I kept repeating the story to whoever had the luck of throwing stuff on the pile at the same time I did. Thankfully, CPers are some of the nicest people ever so they didn't roll their eyes at me. It was as though I had to keep saying it because I needed to hear it again and again.

I realized how ridiculous it was to ask why. I was ashamed of my questioning and unbelief. Even if we didn't understand, it didn't matter. All good things work together for good to those who are called according to His purpose. God knows. That is enough. We don't have to know why. We just need to know He's in charge. That He's got this. He's got us. He won't let go.

That is enough.

That lesson has gone on with me long after I showered off the grime and my muscles stopped being sore. It got me through a summer that tested everything I was made of. It's come back to me now after a spring of pain I hope to never repeat.

My hope is in the Lord. My God is strong and mighty. My God is faithful. My God is able. 
Even when I feel the light is fading and I've lost my way...
I hold on... there is strength holding on to the One Who is able. - "All Things Possible"

I miss you. All of you who were there in Arkansas. I hope your lives are beautifully blessed. That time, that oh so too brief time, is one of the highlights of my life so far. It was a blessing to work beside you, cry beside you, play beside you. Oh, and hey, girls still win at dodge ball. :P And yes, being locked in a car with 3 boys is just as scary as you said it would be. But Mrs. Brown made it safe, so I was only somewhat "corrupted." Mrs. Christian is awesome and amazing and without her I would have never been able to go. Tittle Family you're in my heart and prayers. You're amazing! The way you've gone on and grown, your strength and kindness are a continual source of inspiration.

'Til next time my friends wherever and whenever that is.

You Lose What You're Afraid You Will

"I guess I'll never understand why
We take it for granted 
Until it's gone..." - Love Who You Love


There's a little imp of a dream that flits across my vision from time to time. I've dreamed it so long it's become a part of who I am. And yet, every time I reach out my hands to grasp it, it prances away from me like a wild horse. Whenever I quit, the mischievous fairy horse runs back to me, touches my hand, and begs for another game of tag. This time though, I can't quite get up enough guts to run after it. It just feels doomed to fail. Maybe I got too muddy the last time. Maybe it's because I'm tired. Maybe it's because I'm searching for some sign of success that would give me the energy to keep going. However it is, I feel too tired to chase it, and yet I'm enjoying the fairy of a dream seeming so close. It's an allusion of course. But allusions can be pretty little things.

The time the fairy horse came closest to me, I was so scared of losing it. Around that time I heard something to the effect of: what you're most afraid of losing you might lose just because you're scared of losing it. That sounds confusing. But think about it a second. It'll begin to make more sense. I've lost a lot of stuff now. And I'm scared of losing anything new that manages to fall into my lap that the least bit resembles heaven. And that's got to stop.

I need to enjoy fully every moment I have now. Psh, how could I of all people so easily forget that lesson? How many times have I looked my final breath in the eye only to forget? How many times have I begged God not to "make me leave the party early"? (Kara Tippetts)

And yet I forget.

I forget about how I asked graduation night if I could be spared to go on a bit longer and see what came next. I forget the little 13 year old girl, her throat closing up after a contaminated chocolate bar, asking if she could live long enough to grow in the Lord more before her name got called. I forget the baby pictures of a kid with way more cords than hair attached to her.

I get too anxious wondering about if the beauty of what I have now is going to last tomorrow to truly cling to today. Instead of worrying when the clock will strike midnight, I should be enjoying learning the dance steps. So what if the dance ends way too soon (aka the moment ends)? I got to dance. Instead of managing a weak smile to hide the sadness of wondering when the current happy situation will end, I should flash a beautiful grin because I'm blessed to be in it.

I forget I'm on limited time and just remember that the situation is. And that's so stupid! Whether the health conditions I live with are life threatening or not, I'll leave to the ever debating health professionals. It doesn't really matter. We're all on limited time. We all have limited time to invest everything we've got.

And it's downright foolish to be so paralyzed with fear we don't give everything we have. Or maybe we get so scared all we have to give is fear. Either way it's foolish. Maybe it's logical. Maybe it makes sense. But it's still foolish. In the high court of the eternal, sometimes logic doesn't count for much.

So yes, I have a few scars I'm not super proud of. Yes, the pessimist in me would like to blame it on the optimistic, fearless part of me. But when it comes down to it, the things I regret most are the times I failed to communicate, failed to give all, failed to hold on. The moments I regret the most are the ones I failed to enjoy the moment God gave me to the fullest.

So maybe I'll run after that Pegasus of a dream after all despite the scars and the bruises and the pessimism. And maybe I'll actually be wise enough to leave (aka try to leave) my hands open so it can flit away if it so chooses to. Willing to give all there is to give, love all I can love, prepared for the time it'll leave me again. Overjoyed if it comes back more beautiful from being born anew out of ashes like a phoenix. But if this dream must turn to dust, I want it to fly away because that's the way God has it planned, not because I'm so bound by fear that I close my hands and the little horse out of fear of being crushed gallops away.

"So I'd walk right back through the rain...
And be thankful for the tears
I've cried with every stumbled step
That led... me here." - Here

'Cause what if Your blessings come through rain drops
What if Your healing comes through tears?" - Blessings 

This Year....

This year…..

Exactly one year ago today this blog was started. I didn't want to start it on New Year’s because so many people resolve to blog and start them on the first. Yeah, I’m still a little weird or cool like that depending on how you think of it. 

This year was….

Amazing…

Hard…

New…

Rough…

Good.

This year was full of….

Papers, disappearing and reappearing appetites, broken pencils and a few other things, 100% and 110%, magnolias and bay leaves, pink erasers, purple, Mia, Ms. Prezzie, eye protocols,“It’s hyphenated,” that versatile paisley shirt, wind, 109 degrees, sno-cones, sparklers, sparkling tears and dew drops and dog noses, “ruining holidays,” weddings, wondering, Philly, New Jersey, caps and gowns and gold tassels, pointing at my family and especially my teacher mom in the stands and mouthing thank you, running after that elusive thing called a living, a different kind of Oct. 31, decisions, different directions, calling back, “I’m going to dance [one last time] for all that we've been through,” goodbyes, “I always survive,” numbness, even a thorough Brit on rare occasion has to admit “sometimes the French do do things better than the English,” dancing, well wishes and holiday spirit, “Enough...”

Exponential growth…

Tears…. and the inability to cry…

Smiles and grins and giggles

If I had to pick one word to describe this year, it would be transitions. Last year with two years of school done and 9 months to go, the newest thing was the different types of paper and learning the different professors... well there were other things too but compared to this year it was pretty steady. This year was different. Everything was new. Transitions are hard. They don’t always feel so great while going through them. However, they are necessary and oftentimes eventually, somewhere down the long winding road, you can look back and say you’re better off because of them.

This year was good. But not in the fuzzy, mushy, easy sort of way. Nothing was easy. Nothing. But nothing was so hard I didn't survive thanks to my Leader Whose grace is sufficient for me. It was the very hardness and roughness and toughness that perhaps was the best part of this year. Because everything worth really having is worth working for. The negative made the positive shine brighter. The failure made the victory be not taken for granted. Few people get the chance to go to hell and then soar to heaven all in one year. But I was blessed to. No, I never thought I’d use that word together with that metaphor. But in the moments when the light slipped through the cracks I could see it was blessed. Now that it’s done and over I know for sure. It was blessed. Very blessed.

Welcome New Year. Bring it on because come what may I know I’m held in the palm of the Great I AM, the King of the universe. Am I ready? No, but I have a year’s more experiences and faith to go on. And most of all because of the Man sitting in heaven.

Transitions. Hard. Blessed. Enough. It was a good year.

Welcome Next One. 

Voting Day: A slice of life

In writing terms a slice of life is when you take an incident, a day, or a thread in someone's life and focus on it. Think a huge photo with a ton of people and then focusing in on the eyes of one person - freezing it on what that one person is seeing for that one moment.

~                                     ~                                   ~                                      ~                                 ~

Our community is in a way the best of both worlds - the country environment and the city atmosphere.

Tuesday was voting day.

The polls are generally always busy around here. Maybe that's a sign pointing to what good citizens we are. The environment is hushed as we unanimously follow the "no talking politics" rule. Unconsciously, we probably take it a bit father than necessary. Even with full polls the atmosphere is usually strangely quiet for the number of people.  Despite the hushed atmosphere, people are very friendly. Complete strangers smile at each other. It's almost a peaceful feel, like the calm before a hurricane.

We walked in and were immediately greeted warmly.  We knew almost everyone there and almost everyone knew us. After we finished voting we walked out of the booths and talked.

But I don't mean talking like in black and white pictures of people in dirty overalls chewing on grass stems and talking about cows. Not that that can't be picturesque and beautiful in its own way. It just that isn't our atmosphere.

Every year without fail the same people run the polls. They are retired teachers and supervisors and social workers. They have masters degrees. They know most voters by name and welcome everyone with a cheery smile.

We're professionals, middle class, run of the mill people. Engineers, teachers, nurses. Modern haircuts, slacks, and sweaters. But somehow in the modern world of chaos and each man-for-himself we've held on to being human in a good sense. We remember more than just names. We remember your dog's name too.

So first we walk in and are greeted by Ms. N. and Mrs. A. Mrs. A. rises even. She wonders if I remember her. I swallow memories. Of course I do. She was Aunt Pat's best friend. Aunt Pat died when I was eight. I really want to hug Mrs. Anne... but in the moment I stupidly wonder if she feels the same way about me. She too hesitates and then wordlessly asks. So we hug and I squeeze my eyes shut and half think, half feel memories of Aunt Pat.

I can just hear some friends of mine laughing at the situation I've just recounted. "How complicated can you make something that simple?" But let me explain. It all happened in less than 5 seconds. It was all so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed. But it epitomizes true beautiful Southern culture. It thinks about the other person rather than one's self. It considers an other's feelings rather than one's own. While Hollywood may romanticize "Southern Belle culture," the real deal lies not so much in hoop skirts and glamor but in quiet everyday thoughtfulness.

We move on to our vicinity table. A lady checks our IDs with the names typed in a three ring binder, then spells them out to another woman who writes them by hand. This proves to be an efficient system and has eradicated voter fraud at the polls (not that I ever heard of it happening before here anyway).

We bump into the couple that lives down the street and say a brief hello, promising to visit each other soon. I reach to hug the lady.

While I'm in the booth I hear someone say, "hello Leslie." Then I hear another voice that sounds like grandma - well the special type of adopted grandmas, in this case she adopted us (for which I'll be forever grateful). Sure enough it's Grandma Z and Grandpa Z. We swap a couple hugs. Meanwhile we converse with another neighbor. She really deserves her own slice of life story. Recently she lost her mother. Right before her death the mother told her to get a dog like she always wanted. So, our neighbor rescued a dog named Maggie and brought her home. Like our little dog when we first got her she's skinny with big, probing brown eyes.

Side note: By the time I get out of the booth everyone knows I'm headed for Dallas and starts asking me about it. It was sweet how everyone cared about me. Also, made me smile at how fast news travels just like in the movies. Only this is good news. Bad news travels too but in the circles like the one I'm describing, it's kept to corner conversations for the most part.

While we talk I see an older couple leaning on each other stop to read a sign directly outside the door. Without their knowing, a towering giant wearing a black vest with a Harvey-Davidson t-shirt underneath and heavy boots comes up behind them. A "biker dude" - not being prejudiced here; that's the term they call themselves around here ;) - in every sense of the word. He was twisting a hat in his hands, though due to his contortions of it I don't know what kind it was. He stood with bent head politely waiting. Mrs. A. noticed within a few minutes and lets him in. Perhaps he was the closest thing to the expected stereotype strangers think inhabit my small town world. But he wasn't the stereotype exactly. He was polite and courteous. It was obvious he was a worker. He added to the kaleidoscope of backgrounds, political views, clothes and mannerisms that make home, well home.

After getting our update on the dog Maggie, we wave goodbye one last time to Mrs. A. and hug Grandma one more time. Grandpa Z's in a hurry but he stops long enough to help an older lady out of her vehicle so she too can cast her vote.

Before we left we heard someone else say the live on our same street. She ends up being parked next to us so we introduce ourselves.

Once we climb into the car, Mom recounts her conversation with Mrs. A. Apparently she still remembers me and really cares because there's that connection with Aunt Pat. I guess we're in the same place. We both care but haven't figured out how to communicate or keep up with each other.

I swallow. Then almost whisper, "I miss her."

"Miss who?"

I rub the edges of my phone. "Aunt Pat. I miss her."

I haven't said that before. I remember her. It was only my second loss. I was young. Sometimes I get angry and saddened because I can't remember as much as I want to. I can talk about other losses. But she is so much harder for some reason. I'm surprised by how much emotion it takes just to say those simple words ten years or more later. But it's also good to say them somehow.

Mom has Mrs. Anne's phone number. I'll see her at run-offs. This time I'll make a point to talk to her longer.

I have a "hang-up"

It's a good thing not all people are psychologists or we'd all have about 500 untreatable diseases. I've heard "diagnoses" for a million pyschological ailments and hang-ups, some downright hilarious and others downright terrifying. But the most ununderstandable part to me, is why we find ailments and limitations so downright hilarious.

Or do we?

I've dealt with a lot of health issues. For the most part, people have been really supportive. Definitely been blessed. I mean sure sometimes all the "unnecessary" bags get a scornful look, but generally if you just carry them all for yourself and keep up with the group and shove them under your own seat everything's fine.

It's the obvious stuff people love to pick on.

Like speech impediments.
Like the shape of Down syndromers faces.
Like being crippled.
Like shortness.
Like being Mexican.
Like having blonde hair.
Like stereotyping.

(wow! I don't think I want to use the word "like" again for the next month at least!)

By this point maybe you are politely rolling your eyes because it seems I've once again gone off on an unrelated tangent. What does diagnoses and making fun of stutters have to do with each other? Actually they go together perfectly. See, among other eventful happenings this summer I was diagnosed with a serious hang-up. A hang-up about none other than my hair color.

(For those of you who know me only online.... it's blonde. Or blond. But I prefer blonde. Kinda like "Anne with an 'e'." We might be "kindred" readers if you get that.)

Yeah, a blonde hang-up.

Why? Because while I try to laugh along over blonde jokes, after an hour's worth of only blonde jokes I get bored. And I may have even been known to suggest other genres after awhile. And even more embarrassingly I may have even pointed out I was one so could we please change the subject.... and after they degrade from the first five fairly funny (try saying that fast) to the next really awful 50.... I may have mentioned it again more vehemently.

Yeah, obviously I have the biggest hang-up in history. *sarcasm alert  - but you've probably picked up on that by now*

Most jokes like that are harmless. But we all know when we're being picked on and when it's just a general conversation topic. After one scathing session I remember mentioning it privately to a trusted friend. "They probably didn't notice your hair color," was their excuse.

Yeah, they probably didn't just like people don't notice speech impediments or height or wheel chairs. All you have to do is keep your eyes open. But why would anyone bother to do that?

Once upon a time in a hypothetical situation, there was a plane full of red headed, brownheaded and blackheaded people. But there was only one blonde. The pilot was an idiot so he took the wrong route and by the time he realized it he was running low on fuel. REALLY low. (No, this isn't in the original joke, but it always bothered me despite hearing it 500 times why there was no explanation for the following incidents.) He explained the situation to the passengers over intercom and explained they would need to lighten the load in order to try to use less fuel. First the baggage went. Then the seats. Then the bottom of the plane. (Maybe the pilot wasn't so much of an idiot as a diabolical menace.) But still it was too heavy. "Someone must jump and lighten the load," announced the pilot. The blonde spoke up."I'm the only blonde on here so I'll go." Immediately all the redheads and brownheads and blackheads clapped. *guffaws inserted here* Of course the blonde still died because the pilot managed to get lost again and flew over an active volcano- end of joke

It wasn't funny was it? Even minus the last line of really bad humor that wasn't humorous. Why? Because the stereotype makes it funny.

Embarrassingly enough in the past I've been known to make a little stink about blonde jokes and generally hated them. That was wrong. It's not turning the other cheek. Or side of the head in this case. But now I don't do that. Just get really quiet and try to feel invisible because it's better than feeling picked on. I laugh along if it's funny. Don't if it's not. Just like any other joke. We should be able to make fun of ourselves and see the humor in life, right?

But I've decided some jokes aren't worth laughing at. Like mentally handicapped or racial jokes. They're hurtful even if they're hilarious.

"Now wait a minute, Mia. Wait a cotton pickin'," you're saying. It's just a harmless joke. If we left stereotypes in jokes and our minds only maybe it'd be ok. Not ideal but ok. But do we? The stereotypes we perpetrate in "harmless" fun often carry over to real life interactions. Our subconscious brains don't always shut on and shut off ideas. And yes, maybe some stereotypes are a little true. But not everyone with a stutter is stupid and not every blonde is big chested with no brains.

That's why I have a "blonde hang-up." Sometimes when I'm bubbly it's equated to becauase "she's blonde and blondes are overly excitable." Sometimes when I do something stupid, but no more stupid than others, it's a "blonde" moment. I get told not to "play into the stereotype," etc.

Thanks to having God always standing beside me, I view myself as confident and capable in Him. I'm incredibly grateful for the brain God gave me and for the grace He supplied to obtain a college degree before 20. So maybe I don't have a blonde hang-up.

Maybe I have a hang-up about carelessness.
Or maybe about thoughtlessness.
Or maybe prejudice.
Or selfishness - the heart of all negative issues.

To all of you....

There's a quiet group of people I'd like to shout out to. People that are a group not because they consciously band together but because what they do is the same wherever and however they happen to do it.

They work alone many times hidden away in cobwebbed corners taking care of what remains after the filth of the world takes its toll.

Their living is a form of ministry although they'll never admit it or probably even know it until they get their reward in another world.

The ones that work for nothing and rarely if ever get the proper thanks they deserve....

But they don't care because it's not about getting anything back.

It's about service and care and giving and loving like there's no tomorrow.

It's about sacrifice. Sacrificed sleep and emotions and energy and money and their own pleasure.

You know who I'm talking about....

The silent encouragers.

Encouragers isn't even a word in the dictionary. But we all know who they are even though we never think about them unless we need them.

The people that pick up our pieces.
The people that listen to our midnight rants and pour the balm on our broken hearts.
The person that smiles at you and makes that moment a little better.
The mom that gives you that one sentence that gets you back up on your horse and going.
The little sibling that says "you're the best" when we know we're not.
The dad that says he'll finance yet another wild venture because he believes in you.
And then the whole family and church family prays our head stays together while we go off and do it.
The friend that we always end up dumping on.
The other friend that tells us the "hard" truth because they love us and all they get is an angry outburst for their trouble.
The person that takes the slack when we "need" someone to yell at...

If you've ever stayed up til 2 or 4am.... If you've ever not known what to do, but you did something anyway because you couldn't leave a horrible situation without at least trying.... If you've ever swallowed your feelings to comfort someone else.... If you've ever sacrificed a grade because study wasn't as important as a person....If you've ever done the hard thing because it was the right  thing.... If you've ever held on to a sobbing idiot and felt even more idiotic because you couldn't think of any way to fix it... If you've ever not walked away when that seemed to be the only option.... If you've ever walked away because someone depended on you too much and you loved them too much to let them... If you've ever given advice or withheld it for the same reason...

This post is for you. To say thanks for the tears, the frustration, the times you couldn't think of anything to say but you dug around until you found an old cliche that fit better than all the fancy language in the world could have.

I know you beat yourself up. I know you look back and think of a million things you think you should have done or said or looked for or seen coming or been prepared for. A thousand pieces of advice you wish you'd given or not given. A hundred nights when you wished you'd actually been a bit more prepared instead of not even knowing where the tissue box or the Bible was. Or maybe you just wish you weren't there at all. And then feel guilty for thinking such a thing. Hey, listen. It's ok. I'm so glad you aren't like so many that advert their eyes from the grime. I'm so grateful that you roll up your sleeves when you see a problem. I'm so glad your pants have holes in them from kneeling.  I'm so glad you were there. Even if it wasn't for me. I'm glad you were there for whoever it was you were there for. And chances are just being there and doing something was the right thing.

So thank you. Whether you ever get told this or not the world wouldn't be the same way without you.

A Death in the Family

This morning started with a message from 5:23am. It said something to the effect of, "Something really bad happened. Call me before you check social media." Panic.There was only one thing that that could be about... only one main mutual friend... "Dear God, no. NO! I just talked to them yesterday. I just heard that gentle voice come over the phone reassuring me it would be ok."  Now I couldn't even remember what it was that was bothering me the day before. Just the voice murmuring soft reassurances they'd murmured a thousand times before.

Look at the clock. 3 minutes. Of borrowed time.

No time to call. Just enough time before I had to go to check social media. Brace yourself for the inevitable.  But how can you brace yourself for what you don't even know?

It didn't hit home at first. The message was vague. It sounded like everyone was alive. But there was nothing vague about the second one.

I was right. I wish I had been wrong.  There was a death. Three to be exact. Just not the one I was expecting.  A CollegePlus family in Arkansas suffered tremendously by the tornado. Their home was demolished, killing 3 members of their family - Dad and two daughters.

and then.... it hit home

In the picture was Whitney. Whitney who joined CP about the same time I did, the girl I'd chatted with many times in those early days on chat. The one that took the same somewhat obscure class I had and given me tips on the test. The fellow "brilliant blondie" who wanted to be a writer like me. And there was the profile pic with her hugging her dad. It was the same exact pose of me and my dad on my birthday... The final straw? The sister spelled her name the same way my sister does - with a k.

And as Whitney reminded us to hug our daddys, the blow hit home.... Life is short and fleeting. There isn't time for angry words or selfish pining. There isn't room for anything but living. God apparently got the message when I kept humming "Hello Lord." Over the weekend the same message again and again. But today it really came home. Rebekah Tittle's last Skype message was in answer to "Are you there?" to which she replied "I am." Within 2-3 hours her sister was posting that she was dead.

Tears brim in my eyes as I watch the CP community be ripped apart and come back together. CPers have always called themselves a family. This isn't our first death... but it's the first for our generation. Following on the heels of a very happy engagement, it's not easy But once again we come together - stronger, more courageous, more mature than we were before. I encourage us all to do something now. If you can, give. Several CPers are discussing going to help. For more details on this, feel free to contact me and I can put you in touch with the people heading this up.

Lastly, I issue a challenge to us all: Every time you see a post, an "in memory," or a prayer request, stop right there and then and send up a prayer. With the way social media is flooded right now, if each of us did this than it would be more prayers than we could count.