The Titus 2:4 Project

This was one of the first poems I wrote as an adult. My mother, who had been taking college courses ever since I could remember, was about to graduate college at 50 years old. I didn't know what to get her as a gift, so I wrote her a poem. I hand wrote it on 'pretty paper' and had it framed with her graduation announcement.  More than 30 years later it still hangs in her home. Mother’s Love As I look back with the knowledge Of what “Mother’s Love” really is I see a kind of caring The kind that always gives. I see the understanding That only a mother knows A love that never fails As every day it grows. In her eyes I see compassion She feels my every pain She knows just what I’m going through And what experience I must gain. Always there to lend a hand And help me when I’m down She picks me up, she helps me out She’s turned my life around. When I think about my mother An ageless beauty in my eyes She’s everything her children need So wonderful and wise. It’s not every day her

Thursday morning, after the hurricane, as the sun rose above the trees, we nervously stepped outside to assess the damage. Despite the winds that had howled all night long, our neighborhood was in surprisingly good shape.  As we surveyed our neighbor’s lots (neighbors who had not yet returned for “the season”) we began dragging big, green palm fronds to the street and loading them into the bed of our truck. First this lot. Then that lot. I snapped pictures and messaged friends to let them know if there was any visible damage to their property. T hey would reply with their gratitude and then ask “can you check lot ‘such and such for so and so’…” so we would. More clean up. More pictures. More messages. And our 8ft truck bed filled up fast. Very fast. Over and over. As the day wore on, my mind was filled with thoughts like, WOW! These palm fronds are heavy! I asked my husband how much he thought they weighed on average… he guessed about 25 pounds.  Lifting them over and over gave me a wh

I have spent far too long in my comfortable recliner chair here in Florida, scrolling through videos of the horrific devastation from Hurricane Helene in North Carolina and Tennessee. Reel after reel of heartbreak and loss. Post after post of missing family and friends. Yes, I’m in Florida. Yes, parts of my state were damaged catastrophically by the storm surge from this monstrous storm… but living on the beach comes with a certain amount of risk. You take a gamble with every hurricane season that passes, that eventually your number is up and you will probably be facing damage of some sort…you just pray that it’s not ‘that bad’.   But in the beautiful town of Asheville, NC, where we had the privilege of visiting a few years ago, those folks don’t worry about hurricane damage. They might worry about snow storms, or a strong thunderstorm… but hurricanes? Nah. Not them. What a mess. What a horrible, unspeakable mess. I have been wracked with guilt about the ability to go on with my life a

I remember a day that I got into trouble and my mom brought out the belt. She said “This is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.” “Yeah, right,” I thought.   It wasn’t until I was a mother that I truly understood what she meant. And it wasn’t when I spanked my own young offspring.... it was years later, when one of them asked for financial help- again.   I had prayed and prayed that God would work things out for my adult child... but in the 11th hour, when it seemed all hope was lost, I caved and transferred the money.   As I clicked the “Send it Now” button on my mobile banking app, I heard that still, small voice speaking... "So you don’t trust me with your children?” Thump. Right up side my head. Ouch. That was the day I learned about tough love and how I was hurting, more than helping, my children by allowing them to depend on me for things they could (and should) be able to provide for themselves.   The next time this adult child asked for money, I felt a peace in saying, “N

A grudge is a noun.  At least in the way I'm talking about it today.  It's a thing.  Imagine, for a moment that a grudge is shaped like an orange....which makes sense if you're holding a small grudge.  But what if you're holding a really, really big grudge?  It might be shaped more like a boulder.... very heavy and hard to carry.  Not easy to hide, either.  There's a direct relationship between a grudge and un-forgiveness.  We can't profess to have forgiven someone and carry a grudge.  Would you agree?  A grudge is a manifestation of un-forgiveness.  And to live with un-forgiveness is (as many have heard it said, I'm sure) to eat poison and wait for the other person to die.  It's doing more damage to the one holding on to it that the perpetrator. Whomever wronged us has probably all but forgotten about it.  But we diligently hold on to our grudge...carrying it with us where ever we go.  If it's a small grudge, we may be able to stick it in our po

My mom always referred to my wardrobe by the activity the clothes were intended for...play clothes, church clothes, school clothes....so naturally, as I was growing up I added my own references: work clothes, going-out clothes, cleaning-house clothes, fat clothes... not that 'fat' is an activity...maybe I should have called them my eating-too-much clothes.  My first real job was in a department store.  I worked in the Junior Department.  I loved that job.  I made friends with other employees, and the question was always, "What department are you in?"  Shoes.  Dresses.  Lingerie.  Misses.  Men's.   Perhaps a more effective way to organize a store would be by activity.  But today, as I begin a new year with the hopes of fitting back in my "not-eating-at-all clothes" (see yesterday's blog), I was thinking about what to put on this morning.  It occurred to me that the world now lovingly refers to athletic clothing as 'Activewear.'  Which, i