tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17928091478979407382024-03-05T11:26:19.742-05:00It's a Golden Dayfor Beverly, wife to an amazing man, mom to two incredible boys, and child of my loving and faithful God.bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-82299227761114701822015-09-26T08:02:00.001-04:002015-09-27T11:53:13.753-04:00Stuck in the Muck<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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I haven't written in two months. I know. Not good. Because I really love it. It's therapeutic. But I've had no desire or urge lately.<br />
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<b>I'm stuck in the muck.</b> </div>
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Not stuck in a rut. That's too easy to get out of. You just lift your foot up and step out. It may take a little desire and gumption, but it's not impossible. But <b>stuck in the muck,</b> now that's a different story. When you think about muck, what comes to mind? I think of dark, gooey, sloppy mud. It's smelly. It's thick. Your feet literally sink into it - perhaps all the way to your ankles. You are actually stuck. Every attempt at lifting your feet out sucks you deeper and tighter. On your own, there is no way out. Pretty dismal. </div>
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And that's where I am.<br />
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Jackson and I returned from JH Ranch different people: Conquering fears. A heart of gratitude. A soul of obedience. A mind of dependency. Godly parenting. Honoring our parents. Deepening our relationship with each other. We still talk about our experience daily and what it meant to us.</div>
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As I've mentioned before, I subscribe to Proverbs 31 daily devotions. You'd think that because they are readily available in my inbox <i>every </i>morning, I'd be so faithful. But to be perfectly honest, sometimes I look at them and think, "I'll read it later." Then I put it in an email folder where I save those<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I really find inspiring or timely. Anyway, that's where I found their "Stuck in the Muck" devotion. You can read it <a href="http://proverbs31.org/devotions/devo/stuck-in-the-muck/?utm_source=Proverbs+31+Ministries+Devotions&utm_campaign=fac39eb2e8-P31_Devo_4_7_Rache&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_6b73962290-fac39eb2e8-208624061" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Boy, did that speak to me. You see, I am sooooooo stuck in the muck. And (as I journaled about this yesterday) it shows in almost every aspect of my life:</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">1. My weight is creeping back on. I lost 35 pounds (goal was 45) and have gained 7 back. No will-power. And that is so depressing. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">2. I am being sucked in by the unhappiness of someone close to me.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">3. Teaching is stressful! And therefore, I come home emotionally exhausted every day. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">4. My solo time with God has gone down the tube - as well as Jackson's. We were so on track and held each other accountable for the two weeks following JH Ranch. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">It's funny how as I wrote this, I felt such comfort. It was a confession to God that I am stuck and <b><i>can not get out alone.</i></b> To quote the author of the devotion, "</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Does He, in His love, let us fall into a muddy puddle so we can feel the discomfort of life without Him? Isn’t it true that when we find ourselves stuck in the muck of life, we long more deeply for God’s loving arms to come and take our hands and lead us out? We cry out, "Daddy, I need You. Please pull me out of this mess!'"</span></div>
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So I prayed.<br />
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<i>Lord, I need you.<br />
Oh I need you.<br />
Every hour I need you.<br />
My one defense, my righteousness.<br />
Oh God, how I need you.<br />
I am not unhappy. Yet I am not fully joyful as I was a few short weeks ago. I know is is my own doing and my disobedience. You desire a full relationship with me, and I know that to be fully blessed, I need to be completely engaged in your word. I need your help. I thank you for the wise counsel of Godly friends. Thank you for a loving husband and sons. I also pray for them that they will continue to grow in their desire for you.<br />
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Amen</i><br />
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<br />bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-74376092618821673122015-07-23T23:35:00.001-04:002015-07-24T08:56:14.741-04:00Countdown to JH RanchThe countdown app says 10 days, 3 hours and 26 minutes. He's filled with excitement, anticipation - and a bit of the butterflies. We've known about this trip for months, been planning the travel logistics for weeks and are now finalizing our packing lists.<br />
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Jackson and I are flying across the country to northern California where we will be attending the Mother/Son Week at JH Ranch.<br />
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From their website:</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>The content of our programming at JH Ranch is taught primarily through the challenges of practical experiences in the great outdoors. With each <a href="http://www.jhranch.com/programareas" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_self" title="purpose-driven programs">purpose-driven program</a>, our goal is to teach and model the Great Commandment: love God and love others. Through this, our guests leave JH Ranch with <a href="http://www.jhranch.com/JH-Ministries" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_self" title="practical Christian principles">practical Christian principles</a> for everyday life, not simply inspiration.</i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">This week long gift from my parents to Jackson and me was one that grew from the intense prayer and discernment of my mother. It's been almost four years from the <a href="http://itsagoldenday.blogspot.com/2014/10/giving-thanks-part-2.html" target="_blank">fatal wreck</a> that killed my grandmother. Jackson was only nine at the time and was trapped in the car with her leg on his shoulder. The other sights and sounds he experienced those moments scarred him in ways that were not so evident to us at the time. This happy, funny thirteen-year-old has not spent a night away from his family since then. He can't do it. This athletic, cool kid can't bring himself to try new things that might challenge him or take him out of his comfort zone. It's taken this many years for him to finally admit that he might possibly have a form of PTSD. My mother was convicted by the Holy Spirit that she was to give us this week to help with his healing - and that we were to receive it. (And how do you argue with the Holy Spirit? You don't! You are obedient!)</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">At first I was worried that when I showed Jackson the website, he would say no. Because there are many challenges throughout the week - <i>and</i> times of quiet reflection from the Biblical teaching sessions. But he didn't. He was kind of interested. Going in a trip, just the two of us to a place his brother hasn't been? That's pretty neat. In the mountains? That's cool too. And as we continued to talk over the next months, then weeks and now days, the excitement grew. Tonight, we watched a video from a week earlier this summer. It painted quite a thorough picture of all we will experience. And<b> </b></span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">he could hardly contain his excitement. <b>He is so ready!</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Afterwards, we were talking about what he would want to keep in the backpack he is using as his carry-on. I mentioned his iPhone and charger, Eno, GoPro, gum - all the things I though he would be interested in. Without skipping a beat, he said, "Oh yes. And also my Bible." (How big was my internal smile?!)</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I admit it. I've been so concerned about <b>his head</b> being open and ready for this adventure. But I now know that <b>his heart</b> is too. And <i>that</i> is where God will work in Jackson's life - and mine too. In our heads, but mainly in our hearts. We are being obedient. Our hearts are open. And we are excited with the anticipation of what great things He will do in our lives!</span></div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-25673613833445275392015-07-11T11:00:00.001-04:002015-07-12T09:56:54.962-04:00I Respectfully DisagreeI've never been one for confrontation and conflict. My family and friends can attest to this. I tend to clam up and hold things inside when I am directly or emotionally affected. (Not very healthy, because I finally explode in tears.) However, when asked to mediate between others - or (when I'm forced to) on my own behalf - I try to be very careful and deliberate with my words and intonations. The less conflict the better. I want everyone to feel that they have been heard. Really listened to - and with dignity. It upsets me greatly when I feel others are more interested in making sure that their point is the only one that matters. They yell. They curse. They mock. They belittle the others person's opinions and life's experiences.<br />
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I find that happens more and more in this age of social media. We live in a world where not only can we write an initial post or article, but the rest of humanity can comment and even battle back and forth between themselves. One time I posted something on my own Facebook page and two friends who don't even know each other battled back and forth for what seemed hours. Neither one wanted to listen to the other. Their conversation was smattered with snide comments and innuendos as to the other's intelligence and moral fortitude. It was like hosting a dinner party where two belligerent guests had overstayed their welcome and would not leave. I finally had to politely ask them to stop.<br />
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These past two weeks have provided much to show the divisions and differences in opinion in our country. And the comments and posts from friends showed the passion, and sometimes mean-spiritedness, from both sides. </div>
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I too got involved and shared my excitement of the Confederate BATTLE Flag coming down in my state. Goosebumps abounded as my husband and sons watched it live on television.</div>
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I consider myself a conservative (See, you can't lump us all together in our views!) and follow the website/blog Chicks on the Right. They also agreed that the flag should be removed from our State House grounds. After reading some of the comments that strongly and rudely disagreed, I felt the need to share my own views. You can see my exchanges with two other readers that ensued and the lessons learned...</div>
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<u>Politeness Lesson Number 1</u>: If they pick up that you won't get hostile, they will drop the conversation.</div>
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<u>Politeness Lesson Number 2</u>: Someone who strongly disagrees with you can honor your views. (You might also make a friend.)</div>
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And so I thank you for listening!</div>
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<br />bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-58548816546985007152015-06-20T23:43:00.001-04:002015-06-21T12:58:48.647-04:00The Memorial Service<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We walked into the beautiful church. It was smaller than mine. Then again, most churches are smaller than mine. It was also older. And more traditional. A beautiful stained glass window depicting Jesus kneeling in prayer was over the pulpit. The organ played softly. A woman greeted me warmly, handed me a funeral home fan and guided me to an empty seat in the pew. My youngest son looked around expectantly. He had never been here before. Neither had I.<br />
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It was the first time either of us had set foot in Cumberland AME Church. And had it not been for the horrific event of Wednesday, June 17, 2015, we would still be strangers to the sanctuary.<br />
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But it did happen. And I read about tonight's memorial service on Facebook. I told Jackson that we were going (my oldest son is out of town), and another friend of mine was joining us. I told him that he might not get why it was important for us to be there, but he would later.<br />
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The sanctuary was full - almost equal black and white. But I still felt a little like an outsider. Not that any of the others there caused my apprehension. At all. It was all me - because I was not affected in the same way as they were. Of course, as a South Carolinian, I was deeply saddened, horrified and pained. I cried many times over the past few days. But never had anyone in my family been murdered in cold blood because of what they looked like. What did I know about any of their experiences?<br />
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But it was important that I be there.<br />
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It was lovely and somber and appropriate. The organizers and staff of the church had made it a beautiful memorial. And then people were invited to come forward to share. And what words. What strength. What hope. The faith of these men and women of God, young and old. As their words poured out, I furiously scribbled notes on an envelope I found in my purse:<br />
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~ "We must love this young man. We must pray for him that the evil will leave him."<br />
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~ "It's not easy to understand what God does or why He lets things happen. But I know this: God will make a miracle out of this mess."<br />
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~ "Do not hate. We are all brothers and sisters."<br />
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~ "We forgive. For God forgives us every day."<br />
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~ "It is not about skin color. It's not! It is about the evil presence that is trying to take over. But God and His love will prevail!"<br />
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~ "Let us love one another for we serve the same God."<br />
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~ "Some of my friends want to start 'packing' (a gun) when they go to church. Not me! I am going to be packing something much stronger: the Word of God!"<br />
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And finally, a woman stood up and started singing "It is Well with My Soul". The entire congregation stood up, clasped hands and joined her.<br />
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It's one thing to hear people say all these things on news reports and interviews. It's an entirely different emotion to hear it in person a few feet away. And I left feeling not as an outsider. I left feeling as a true member of God's family, as a sister in His larger community. And although we know there is such evil out there in our sinful world, I left feeling hopeful - and in a sense, emboldened and empowered by my time with my brothers and sisters.<br />
<br />bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-45092169167135454982015-06-18T12:36:00.001-04:002015-06-18T14:25:37.704-04:00My Birthday...I woke up this morning to my younger son bringing in me breakfast in bed. He made me a double coffee, cut up strawberries "real fancy", and picked a flower bud from our yard. What a great way to start my 46th birthday. I took my dog for a walk and came back to wonderful birthday texts from my dearest friends. It started our so much better than last year - which really s*****, because it seemed to kind of fall by the wayside. I felt pretty special this morning!<br />
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And then I turned on the news.</div>
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The horrific murder of nine African-American Christians, who were praying in their church. In my state. One block away from where my family was staying this past weekend for the joyous celebration of my cousin's wedding. These adults were studying The Word and digging deeper in their relationship with their Savior. Worshiping with their families. In a safe place. A church. A place which has institutionally and historically been a sanctuary for all - the faithful or not. Why? Why? Why?</div>
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I wish I had the energy to find words of comfort or understandingly this TRAGEDY. But I can't. I am overwhelmed with grief for my fellow South Carolinians. I am numb. I lift up those families and their children who are weeping. And again, why? Why? Why?</div>
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So on a day that celebrates my birth, I am crying over the heinous death of the innocent. </div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-39497364644306501632015-04-18T12:02:00.001-04:002015-04-18T15:37:44.684-04:00White KnightAnd yet another YouTube video has surfaced about hateful people. No, I'm not writing about the horrible ESPN reporter. I read on the Huffington Post (which I read selectively) about a young woman from Australia defending an elderly Muslim couple as another elderly woman harasses and berates them for her headscarf and their religion. The altercation was also apparently filmed by the Australian woman.<br />
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The young woman has been hailed as a hero. <i>And I wholeheartedly concur with everything she said.</i> How hateful the harasser was. Do I agree with or even begin to understand many of the tenants of the Muslim religion? No. And this is not even considering the crazy, sadistic ISIS beliefs. Bu<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">t what happened to this couple would be like someone coming up to me asking why I am wearing a cross or reading my Bible, considering the horrific and unbelievable actions of Westborough Baptist Church or the Lord's Resistance Army in Uganda. <b>That is wrong to categorize me with them. It was wrong to categorize this couple as well.</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">However, <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/comment/if-im-being-racially-abused-i-dont-need-a-white-stranger-with-a-saviour-complex-to-rescue-me-10182308.html" target="_blank">I then read this article</a>, and what Ashitha Nagesh, the young woman who wrote this, said hit home. As a white woman, is it my place to be the (no pun intended) "white knight in shining armor"? Do I feel the need to be the savior in such a situation? <b>Am I doing it solely because of my strong beliefs?</b> I want to believe it is. Or is there also just a teeny, tiny tinge of wanting to show the world that "Although I am a white woman who exudes WASP-iness and a bit of privilege, I need to show you that I really am a champion of the persecuted and descriminated". Am I alone in wondering this? I hardly think so. But in today's culture, it's a very slippery slope. Because I believe standing up against what I think is wrong and I am pretty passionate about it. </span></div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-30302891153419930732015-03-22T21:46:00.001-04:002015-03-23T19:09:20.114-04:00Good Kids<div>
Yesterday was the Aiken Steeplechase. We decked ourselves in our brightest togs and hats and celebrated a beautiful day of horse racing. Under our tent, we sat sipping cocktails and eating delicious food. We bet on the horses and had a marvelous time. </div>
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My husband and I </div>
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Our teenage children checked in every once in a while and then went off to visit friends and "see and be seen". Sumter spent most of the day at the Young Life spot, so I was only able to catch Jackson for a picture.</div>
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We are lucky. Our kids don't drink.<br />
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I say this because social events such as Steeplechase are havens for pretty girls in Lilly dresses and boys in seersucker pants and Vineyard Vines ties to get completely fall down drunk. Most of these are college students, but you may see a high schooler as well. And it's never really bothered me as much as it did this year. I guess it's because we - and all our friends - have teenagers.<br />
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But by the end of the afternoon, we saw a precious girl trip and fall down on the ground. She just lay there for a few seconds until one of the boys she was with pulled her up. We saw a young man with an almost empty handle of Jack Daniels just standing there, staring off in space. Later, another girl saw her date storm off and immediately burst into tears. She stumbled around with her girlfriends as if lost.</div>
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And this year also provided us with an event we have never experienced before. Towards the end of the day, our pastor and his family stopped by to visit us. It was not ten minutes later, and not fifty feet away, that we saw around ten uniformed police and sheriff deputies bust up a party and arrest seven people. It was quite a spectacle. Some of them were underage, some legal - but all were incredibly drunk and physically confrontational.<br />
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We all stood, watching and commenting among ourselves at the stupidity and blatantly belligerent behavior. And then, our pastor said something that - at the time - I thought was almost a little too saccarine and optimistic. He said, <i><b>"How sad. They're good kids." </b></i>I looked at him next to me and smiled at his kind remark. But what I was really thinking was, "Really??? No, they're not. Our kids are good kids. Those guys are punks with no respect for themselves or anyone else."</div>
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It was not until today at church that I got a deeper understanding of what he meant. I don't know whether it was the songs we sang, his message, or God's voice. But I was drawn back to what our pastor had said the day before: <i><b>"They're good kids."</b></i> Maybe not to me. But they are to God. Because He created them. He brought them into life. He loves them. And we know that God loves what is good.</div>
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So it was then and there that I prayed for those who were loaded into those paddy wagons the day before. I prayed for His precious children who I don't even know. I prayed that if they didn't know God, that they would open their hearts to Him. I prayed that if they did know God, they would come to Him and listen to Him lovingly tell them to turn away from behavior that could destroy them.</div>
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Because just like you and me, they're good kids. They're God's kids.</div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-87984555660953481552015-03-07T11:02:00.001-05:002015-03-23T19:10:27.439-04:00I've Been ZappedThe upside is that I've had no appetite since this past Wednesday morning, so I've barely eaten anything since then. (And I'm now down 25 pounds - that's exciting!)<br />
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But I don't "do sick" very well. Yesterday, I finally went to the doctor and was diagnosed with some "weird strain of bronchitis", and I have been forbidden by the PA to leave my house until Tuesday. She is concerned that it might develop into pneumonia. So now I am the proud user of an inhaler and some intense black market cough medicine. Sadly, the cough medicine hasn't done squat and I've sent Sumter out for some industrial strength Mucinex.<br />
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Earlier today, I posted on Facebook:</div>
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So I am here. At home. Inside. On a beautiful day. </div>
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Thinking about all the things I'd love to do - if I had the energy. But to be honest, even writing this is zapping any creativity and insightful musings. And I guess that's what really bugs me about being sick: the exhaustion of even getting up to get some water from the kitchen or just moving from my bed to the sofa in my sitting room. I am superwoman. Doesn't bronchitis know that? To tweak Sweet Brown's quote, "ain't nobody got time for this!" </div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-80174056800593867042015-02-28T23:27:00.001-05:002015-03-23T19:11:40.303-04:00Failure to Submit<div>
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Just this afternoon, I was reading <a href="https://madmimi.com/p/1713f5?fe=1&pact=28630542558" target="_blank">Finding Hope in the Mess</a>, a blog by Brooke McGlothlin. She began: "<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Do you struggle to control your emotions? </span>Ever feel like they're doing a better job of controlling you?" As a mom of boys, she spoke of how she just loses it sometimes when the circumstances (in other words: her sons) overwhelm her (in other words: make her mad as hell). She also wisely pointed out that like her, "<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">there are millions of moms who need help submitting their emotions to God. They're in an unforgiving cycle, and need to get out."</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was actually reading this while waiting for my Starbucks Skinny Grande Whatever-it's-called. I had just finished my hour long expedition through the grocery store and needed a little treat. How insightful this Brooke was. How wise. And how true. We've all been there. Once... or more.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And then I arrived home. Drained. With about fifteen bags of groceries. To a son who had been playing basketball and/or his xbox for most of the day. And "did not hear" me when I called out for his help to unload the SUV. But proceeded to complain and argue why <i>he </i>had to carry most of the bags. Because he was too tired. And he had to make three trips. And these bags are horrible. And there are too many bags. And why wasn't I helping him?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And right then and there, <b>I FAILED to submit my emotions to God.</b> Instead, I owned them and exploited them. I yelled. I screamed. I said quite a few choice words. I got in my thirteen-year-old's face. And then made him go somewhere else in the house because I couldn't even be in the same room with him.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I would have felt so empowered. So much better. So vindicated.</span><br />
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But I didn't. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For although my anger was justified, I was disheartened by how I reacted. I had been consumed with <i>unrighteous anger, </i>not righteous. I was not using my anger to teach, train and reprimand my son. I was using it in a scathing, vindictive and sarcastic manner. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My son came in about twenty minutes later. He apologized for what he said and did and talked about how he knows how much I do for the family. It was from the heart and of course I accepted it.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I wish I could say I also apologized. But I didn't. (I </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">still had just enough pride and stubbornness to tell me that I had every right to have been angry.) </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I will - both to my son and God. Because I have been given the gift and privilege of being a mother. And moreover, I am called to be a Godly mother. One who submits those hurtful and caustic emotions to One who is bigger... so much bigger. And both my sons deserve that.</span><br />
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<i>"God, help me when I am so frustrated and overwhelmed with my emotions. Convict me to release and submit my UNRIGHTEOUS anger. Instead, fill me with Your Holy Spirit and place on my heart a calmness and gentleness that is only from You. Amen"</i></div>
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</span></span>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-65070140036466283342015-02-22T14:53:00.001-05:002015-02-22T20:49:53.768-05:00Power OnWhen my husband and I were building our house, we were not yet married and I was living a little over an hour away. I would travel every weekend with anticipation to see what had been accomplished the past seven days. At the beginning, it was quite eventful. First, the foundation...then, studs... next, subflooring... roof... brick. Wow! What progress! How exciting! This was going to be our dream house! Yippee!<br />
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And then I arrived one week to NOTHING. Damn. The next week we saw a little electrical wiring, but all in all, NOTHING. Damn, again. The next week, just a little more wiring. And Damn to the third power. What happened? What is going on? We were still paying them. Had they lost their momentum? We were still communicating with them. I want some results... NOW.</div>
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Fast forward to today. Most of you know of my Renewing Myself weight loss plan. I am really working the Weight Watchers program. And boy, have I seen results! <b>Until today.</b> Here is what I posted on Facebook this morning.</div>
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WTH? I was committed to this. I was empowered. I was woman, hear me roar! So... WTH? I really am a bit depressed about it. Part of me wants to eat the chocolate chip cookie dough that is in the fridge. The other part just wants to starve myself. Yeah, I know, such healthy talk.</div>
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But I've just received a comment from a high school friend I haven't seen in over twenty years. In many ways, Hilary and I were as different as night and day - but were so extremely close. And then life happens, and people drift apart to the places and events that will shape who they will become. Her wise words spoke to me in the sweet, lyrical voice that was quintessential Hilary:</div>
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"...<i>your greatest push over the plateau is your BRAIN - believe in the image you are moving to and your brain will make it so. Spend time thinking about the shape you are making so your brain knows what shape to make. Also you're gorgeous and deeply loving, so this is just extra perfection :)</i>"</div>
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Isn't that neat and empowering? I just love what she wrote. I can believe in that. And because the image I see is much healthier, happier, and prettier, it must take time. It's also the same image God has for me too. He promises <i>"...I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10)</i></div>
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So thank you Hilary - and God. I'm ready to power on...<br />
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-65961182682167457092015-02-14T10:45:00.000-05:002015-02-14T18:18:54.021-05:00Valentine's Day a Year Later<div style="text-align: center;">
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I was wondering what Valentine's Day would be like this year. I wondered how I would feel. I wondered how the day would be spent. I wondered... Because one year ago, Aiken had the disastrous ice storm that crippled our town for weeks. <i>And one year ago, I could have lost my husband, my knight in shining armor.</i><br />
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One year ago, we spent Valentine's Day at the doctor's office because of stomach cramping that had grown until it was unbearable - and then to the hospital for blood work. And the next day, February 15, he was rushed to the emergency room in Columbia for a stay that lasted 24 days. His gallbladder had ruptured so violently that the doctors couldn't tell exactly what happened from the CT scans - his body was septic.<br />
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I actually woke up thinking about last year. I looked at my husband sleeping beside me and thought of what it would have been like not to have him with me. What if God's plan was to take him home? (And not the one we shared with our boys.) Right now I can literally feel my heart racing and my breathing more labored. I am overwhelmed thinking about where we were last year. How our lives stopped. How scared and confused I felt, yet how strong and calm I had to be. One year ago, my husband was telling me that he didn't want an open casket. That he was worried that I didn't know how to take care of taxes and other things. That he was scared. All while we held each other's hand... and I silently prayed and pleaded with God.<br />
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But we ARE here. Now. Together. (Almost) back to the way he was. Able to talk about it and both use such wonderful words as "last year" and "remember when" and "oh, how I loved you in that hospital room". Remembering how God blessed us with His healing so that we could share more Valentine's Days.<br />
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...And we DID share cards and breakfast TOGETHER IN OUR HOME <i>this</i> Valentine's Day 2015.<br />
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<br />bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-11816977199150926452015-02-01T21:12:00.001-05:002015-02-02T21:43:19.574-05:00One Month Checkup<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It's been exactly one month since my <a href="http://itsagoldenday.blogspot.com/2015/01/2015-best-is-yet-to-come.html" target="_blank">2015 The Best is Yet to Come</a> post. And (until I don't feel motivated to do it anymore - or just plain forget) I thought I would give you an update every month. If only to keep myself accountable. When you present you weaknesses to the world once why stop there?</span></div></div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Renewing Myself</i></div><div>I'm pretty happy with the way this is progressing. Yea me! I've lost 15 pounds, thanks to Weight Watchers Online. I am addicted to the app and don't feel the need to attend any meetings. In fact, I loathe those things. I weigh every morning and have seen an ever so slight change in my face and hips. I'm even staring to like what I see in the mirror. I also have a goal date and weight of the first week in April. Our Disney Cruise! We went two years ago and I can't wait to compare the pictures from this vacation to that one.<br />
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</div><div><i>Rededication to My Family</i></div><div>After writing, I shared my thoughts about this with my husband. I'm not sure he quite gets what I'm talking about. I told him that just being there is not enough. Going to Jackson's basketball games is not enough. Being in the same room is not enough. And although this is the age where it is very common, the boys think we need to be around other people to have fun. That's one reason for the above mentioned cruise. We are not traveling with any other family. It's just us.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikStWt0XsdnLkkip56LjM0SCGBkA2-zdFHICrK3DltuQrOMcF6AXUJ5fhMMrjbKSVi0bYHAAFi6phArzNZZpNdNhWbwfdbmHzR9k77FMtKkyv_vlm5PWAMygLDN70JezyeviJMwpf1siyy/s640/blogger-image--847508236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikStWt0XsdnLkkip56LjM0SCGBkA2-zdFHICrK3DltuQrOMcF6AXUJ5fhMMrjbKSVi0bYHAAFi6phArzNZZpNdNhWbwfdbmHzR9k77FMtKkyv_vlm5PWAMygLDN70JezyeviJMwpf1siyy/s400/blogger-image--847508236.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br />
</div><div><i>And... Refocusing on My Passion</i></div><div>Well I thought this would be the hardest, but maybe it's not. So far, this is what I figured out:</div><div><br />
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</div><div></div>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-49894337167376782142015-01-20T22:57:00.001-05:002015-02-14T18:20:43.336-05:00Being Brave and Saying "No"... It's OK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes the hardest and bravest thing you can do is say "no". Especially when it is something you feel will serve and honor God. Especially when you feel it is something you've been called to do. We all feel that when we are called to serve Him - we must <i><b>not</b></i> say no. </div>
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I have dear friend in my "Prayer Ninjas" group. She is an absolute superwoman who not only has a husband and four children to manage, but a part-time job at her church as the Mother's Morning Out Director. Last week, she texted the other five of us the following:</div>
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"I need some ninja guidance. I have been offered a full time job as Program Director for Children's Ministries at church -- Sunday school, baptisms, Nurturing Center, children's chapels, vacation bible school, some retreat coordination and who knows what else. I'd be working Sunday mornings, clearly and then four weekdays. I'm struggling. Idk if I can handle all that AND run my house. But it would be really helpful financially and I love working at the church. I worry about the Sunday gig interfering with visiting "oldest daughter" in college and other weekend stuff. I'd have to give up tennis (which is on its way out the door anyway from work this year). But it is an outlet for me. Anywho, too much for a text, but WWPND???"</div>
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Each one of us offered words of encouragement and prayed for discernment. We suggested she make lists of pros and cons. Was there a Godly woman she could talk with? Would she feel passion with this new position? A purpose? A peace?</div>
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Today she let us know that she has decided not to accept the position. She said "no". And I'm so proud of her. Some other extended family issues have arisen and she realizes that she is needed there. That being said, she still feels some guilt that she's not able to "do it all."</div>
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How hard that must have been. I had a similar situation last year where, after vacillating back and forth, I had to defer and not accept a call to serve. Although I had initially not felt a peace or surety about the position, I still felt that I let God down. I felt that I was not walking the Christian walk. I felt I was not glorifying God and His kingdom. I felt selfish. </div>
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But I learned that there was a reason I was not even aware of at the time: my husband was going to be admitted to the hospital and then have a very long recuperation. In some ways, he's still not (and may never be) where he was before. There was no way I could have served God and His kingdom the way I should have. And like my friend, I still felt a little guilty.</div>
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But in the midst of my searching for what I felt I should do, I now realize God was saying, <i>"Its ok. Trust me. Take care of yourself and those you love right now. Today, in those private, precious moments, that is where you can serve and glorify Me. Don't feel that you have to do everything for Me. I'll be fine. For I am sovereign. I am mighty. I am powerful. I am your Father who loves you and always will."</i></div>
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And it's ok to say no...</div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-25673061509324377732015-01-16T17:22:00.001-05:002015-02-02T16:38:12.658-05:00Just Because We Can, Does That Mean We Should?<div>
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It's a question we can all remember asking ourselves at one time or another in our lives. When I was first out of college, I was an assistant teacher at a local private school. I had agreed to work a year-long contract. However, when summer approached, I realized that the school had made a gross error and that the contract was only through May (much to my delight). I could have legally refused my verbal agreement. I could have spent more time relaxing and also finding another job that was full-time. But I didn't. <i>Just because I could didn't mean I should. </i></div>
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I know this illustration is a stretch for the point I'm trying to make with what is going on in our world right now. But I've been very troubled by what people saying on both sides of the Atlantic. Now before everyone says that we shouldn't be pushed around by religious extremists, I completely agree. We have the freedom in our country to express ourselves however we feel called without the threat of harm or even death. We have that right. I also am not inviting anyone to call me a terrorist sympathizer. I'm not saying that the French journalists at <u>Charlie Hebdo</u> deserved the tragedy that befell them. What happened last week horrifies and terrifies me, and I feel deeply for their families and colleagues. <i>I just don't believe that because we can, it means we should.</i></div>
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As a Christian, it pains and offends me greatly to see illustrations and portrayals of my Savior desecrated, caricatured, and mocked. The Trinity (God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit) is sacred to me. SACRED. For Muslims (and I'm talking about regular, everyday Muslims), it is Mohamed who is sacred. Why should we, as a civilized society, feel the need to deride that which is so precious to others? <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/pope-charlie-hebdo-limits-free-expression-121639260.html" target="_blank">Pope Francis and I share the same concern</a>. It's not like poking fun at an NFL team, our government, or someone's dietary choices. So what's the reason except to point back at ourselves how clever or quick-witted - or even esoteric - we are?</div>
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Once more, I am a firm believer in the right of free speech and varying opinions. But I am also a firm believer that we can choose what we say and how we act based on what is right and moral and fair. Because again, <i>just because we can, doesn't mean we should.</i></div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-72826965515558470182015-01-12T23:42:00.001-05:002015-01-21T22:08:19.078-05:00Golden<div>
Thank you. Thank you and you and you. I've had comments here and on my Facebook page and in emails. And most of them have resonated the same theme. That YOU have felt the same way. That YOU could have written that particular post. Had I crawled inside YOUR heart or mind? </div>
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I'm just writing what's on my heart. What inspires me, perplexes me - or what causes me to just curl up in a ball. As I've said before, I get most of my thinking and reflecting done in the early morning. It's when the house is quiet and I'm the only one awake. And... I'm in the shower.</div>
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It was there that I was thinking about my blog and its name: "It's a Golden Day". A dear friend remembers me in college walking up to all our friends and greeting them with those words. They still say it to me with affection. Should I change it?</div>
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<i>Happy, favorable, promising, beautiful.</i> These are words often associated with the word GOLDEN. But that's the finished product. That's when it's all shiny and polished and refined. What about before? Gold is mined from deep in the ground. It's hidden, and then chiseled out. It's covered with dirt and dust. It's rough. It's raw.</div>
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And that's where I feel I am sometimes: in the just mined stage. What I write is honest and real. Because I am honest and real. I don't have to be that final, shiny, buffed, perfect, photoshopped, perma-grinned, Pinterest-ified woman. I'm tired of that - aren't you? I want to celebrate the fact that my laundry room is not organized with chalk board labels on wicker baskets, but mountains of laundry. I want to not be ashamed that my family didn't eat organic, whole foods for supper tonight, but Zaxbys. I want shout it from the rooftops that the last few times I had to bring an appetizer, I didn't create something homemade, but brought blue chips and salsa. I want to own the fact that I had my "get though the day without punching something" meds prescription upped. And all these things are ok, damn it. </div>
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But there are some other words that are also associated with GOLDEN, and <u>those</u> are the ones I want to claim. The first is<i> wisdom. </i>I love the fact that with age, comes wisdom. Hence, the term "the golden years". With forty-five years of experiences, from the truly wonderful to the deeply painful, I would hope that I am growing wiser! The second is <i>valuable</i>. You may know this verse: "Lord, You are more precious than silver. Lord, You are more costly than gold. Lord, You are more beautiful than diamonds, And nothing I desire compares to You." No doubt I agree completely with this. But I also know that God feels the same way about me. He values me in all of my weakness. In the state I am in daily: dirty, rough, and raw. I AM valuable. I AM golden.</div>
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So I think I will keep the name. It fits. And I like what "It's a Golden Day" symbolizes to me right now.</div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-36322127372515029842015-01-01T13:19:00.001-05:002015-01-16T22:15:22.069-05:002015 The Best is Yet to Come...<br />
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Happy New Year! A time of Renewal. Rededication. Refocusing. And I have three things I really need/want to channel my energy on:</div>
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Myself</div>
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My passion</div>
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<u>Myself</u></div>
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How vague is that? I'm talking about physically. I have never been a petite person. I think the smallest size I have ever been is an 8. And I really don't want to be that small, because I was that size about ten years ago and my face looked all wrinkly and gaunt - even at age 35! I just want to be healthy and feel good about myself. I want to not feel so tired. I want to not feel ugly. I want to <i>want</i> to have sex with my husband. (That's probably too much information. I think <i>he's</i> amazing, handsome and wonderful, but when <i>you</i> feel ugly, it can deeply affect your drive.) I want to believe him when he says I am beautiful. Now I'm probably going to have lots of people comment and say, "Oh Bevy, you ARE beautiful! You have such a beautiful _____." And that's all lovely and kind and sweet and supportive... bleh, bleh, bleh. But if I can't feel it myself, then... </div>
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So I've decided (just like last year - ugh!) to make a change. Last year I was really on a roll until Mike's "Gallbladder Explosion Diet". Although <i>he</i> lost weight (and lots of it, I might add), I ceremoniously failed. And I never got back on track. But this year I'm starting back, with the help of my school's "Biggest Loser" competition throughout May. The winner gets a bill ol' wad of prize money as well. I have a pretty competitive streak and I do. not. like. losing. (And my husband will reap the benefits too!)</div>
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<u>My family</u></div>
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I'm not quite sure exactly where I'm going with this. I just know that we are all pulled in a million different directions. And when each of us finally do come down to land, we crash and isolate ourselves - and I am probably the most guilty. My iPad has become an appendage. Granted I am not always surfing Facebook, Pinterest or the net. I am cropping photos, or organizing lists and recipes, or reading on my Kindle app or e-magazine, or finding second grade resources on Teachers Pay Teachers, or... And my husband is constantly looking at sports scores and researching trends for upcoming games. Sumter is on Twitter. Jackson is on Instagram. Or they are texting their friends. </div>
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This fall has been a bit rough. Both boys have made some poor choices and this concerns me. I don't like being evasive. Neither are involved with drugs or drinking. Nothing illegal. Just bad choices, and neither seem to understand (or care to) why said decisions or choices are wrong. I am beginning to see that this gray, amoral world is influencing them more than I realized. And this is with Bible studies and youth group! My husband and I thought we were engaged. Obviously we need to be more. More with the boys - and more with each other.</div>
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<u>My passion</u></div>
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This is interestingly enough the hardest one to even realize - much less commit to. I am in a funk. <b>Not unhappy </b>- just in a funk. It's really hard to write this, but I really don't have anything in my life right now that gives me intrinsic joy. I was talking to my husband about this: He brings me joy. Our sons bring me joy. My sweet puppy, Maggie, brings me joy. Jesus brings me joy. I enjoy my job. But what else? What is it that makes me want to get up in the morning? What excites me more than anything? I just don't know. But I am committing 2015 to find out.</div>
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So there you have it. <i>Renewing</i> myself. <i>Rededication</i> to my family. And <i>refocusing</i> on my passion. Here's to 2015!</div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-84247905465731759082014-12-22T21:39:00.000-05:002014-12-23T16:28:44.085-05:00He's Bigger than a Christmas PresentThe stockings are hung, the tree is decorated (and quite stunning, if I do say so myself), and the nativity scene sits prominently on the wine chest. All the presents are wrapped. Well, almost all of them. Only one left to wrap. Only one. My son's BIG Christmas gift. And it is nowhere to be found.<br />
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Oh, I ordered it. Two months ago. And it arrived. One month ago. I took it off the front porch. I marveled at how heavy it was for such a small package. I noticed how much packing tape was wrapped around the box. I carried it into the study. I put it in the closet with the other gifts. At least I THINK I did.<br />
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And now it is gone. I have looked in every drawer. In every closet. On every shelf. But it's gone. Yesterday, I felt physically ill. I broke into a sweat. I even asked both boys if they had seen the package. My husband suggested I sleep on it and wake up fresh. And guess what? I dreamed about it.<br />
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This morning, I started over. Still missing. So I continued to look - and pray. Consumed with anxiety and worry, I even posted a plea on Facebook:<br />
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<i>"Friends ~ I can't find on the of the boys' MAJOR Christmas present. I remember bringing in the package from the front porch and can tell you what it looked like (smaller than a shoebox) and the weight (like a brick). But now I am beside myself with worry... Any prayers are greatly appreciated."</i><br />
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And it was shortly after that it hit me. I can not handle this. For some unknown reason, it's just too big for me and I feel overpowered. I have to release it. I HAVE to release it. I just have to release it - and let God handle it. Because it's too big for me.<b> <i>But not too big for Him</i>. </b>He created the whole universe. He saved my husband's life when he was on the brink. He protects my children every day from the evils around us. He saved our lives from the darkness of sin. <i><b>He is so much bigger than a lost Christmas present.</b></i></div>
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And so I am ok. I still don't know where Sumter's double bass drum pedal is. (Don't worry. He never reads my blog.) But I am ok, because I know that it is being handled. Because God is just that big. And I am trusting in His taking care of the situation.<br />
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Maybe not with the outcome I desire - but maybe!<br />
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-72910630876570776022014-12-14T11:21:00.001-05:002014-12-14T13:09:12.313-05:00Child in the Manger<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the midst of the Advent/Christmas season, I find myself in the car - a lot. Not that the rest of the year is not busy what with shuttling my boys around town. It just seems busier. More people are out. There is a sense of urgency that is missing the other months. There seems to be a common purpose or mission. More events. More doing. More active preparation.<br /><br />Our life is no different. In addition to Jackson's basketball practices and games, we have band concerts, church productions, Social and Cotillion Christmas formals, and parties.<br /><br />So again, I am in the car - but now with Christmas music. I love Christmas music. However, I REFUSE to play any until the day after Thanksgiving. I program my iPhone with Christmas playlists. I flip flop between the two stations in our town that play nonstop holiday favorites, both religious and secular. I love Christmas music. And every year, I have favorites. <br /><br />My two favorites for 2014 are Michael Buble's <a href="http://youtu.be/d7GepflO6PQ" target="_blank">"Cold December Night"</a> (<u>Christmas</u>, 2011) and Michael W. Smith's "<a href="http://youtu.be/eGyjnmfiJMU" target="_blank">Medley (Away in a Manger, Child in the Manger)"</a> (<u>Christmastime</u>, 1998). </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>Disclaimer: I am not a big fan of children singing solos unless it is for a church or school play, so I fast-forward to the 2:00 mark on the song - after the Away in a Manger part.</i><br /><br />Last night, I had to drive forty-five minutes to Augusta to take Sumter and two other boys to their Cotillion Christmas Formal. (Another parent was picking them up for the return home.) While the drive with the three teenage boys was full of laugher, comradery and playful jabs, my drive home became one of reflection and worship. I listened to "Medley..." Over and over and over. <br /><br />The words and music were powerful. They pulled me further into the season of Advent, preparing my heart for the arrival of The One. The arrival of a baby, who was born just like every one of us. Who was tiny and frail just like every one of us. Who was held and taken care of just like every one of us. Who cried and was comforted just like every one of us.<br /><br />BUT unlike any of us<i>, </i>He was perfect. Holy. Our Salvation. Our Victor. Our Redeemer. Our Savior. Lord. </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />That baby, just like every one of us... but unlike <i>any of us</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">...Child in the manger, Infant of Mary</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Outcast and stranger, Lord of all</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Child who inherits</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All our transgressions</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All our demerits on Him fall</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Once the most holy</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Now as our glorious Mighty Redeemer</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">See Him victorious</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">O'er each foe</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Prophets foretold Him</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Infant of wonder</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Angels behold Him On His throne</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Worthy our Savior</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of all our praises</span></div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-14968002956156831942014-12-06T13:35:00.001-05:002015-02-02T21:45:33.836-05:00A Beautiful Veneer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXARkgI0XXlazh68Q6ADlMhfGhFmIXL0UbvJgTrg6B5C4ZOTZHCa9Kjj8I_kphDGGsUh2O2XT4qDUge4PmFoQN-kuahS6L9aUh398xnzBPTgPFamZXmX4Uv8IIEJDs1GnE7dGlE16vrQK/s640/blogger-image-779708870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXARkgI0XXlazh68Q6ADlMhfGhFmIXL0UbvJgTrg6B5C4ZOTZHCa9Kjj8I_kphDGGsUh2O2XT4qDUge4PmFoQN-kuahS6L9aUh398xnzBPTgPFamZXmX4Uv8IIEJDs1GnE7dGlE16vrQK/s320/blogger-image-779708870.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>We all worry about our children feeling left out and passed over. We want them to have friends. We want them to feel included. We work on it. But what about ourselves? Do grown women ever feel left out or passed over? The answer is <i>yes</i>. Now this is not a pity party. It's is not a guilt trip. It's just a reminder that supposedly strong, supposedly "with-it" women have the same insecurities as a sixteen-year-old girl. <br />
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</div><div>You wonder why you aren't included. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something that rubbed them the wrong way? Has our friendship dwindled and I just didn't know it? The questions abound. And in the world of social media, it is so much more in your face. I know those pictures and statuses aren't posted to hurt me. Of course they weren't even posted with me in mind. (I'm not THAT narcissistic.) But yes, even women in their forties can feel a little sting - no matter how unintended. </div><div><br />
</div><div>In my head, I know this is ridiculous. I have a wonderful husband, two great boys, a beautiful home, a God who loves me more than I can even fathom - and <i>a fabulous veneer.</i> I smile at all the right times. I give the teenage girls in my Bible Study such words of wisdom and compassion. I write words that (I've been told) give others strength and encouragement. I have <i>a warm, beautiful veneer</i>. Because I am human, I have emotions. I have insecurities. I get my feelings hurt. And I mask it with that <i>impenetrable veneer</i>. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I debated writing this. But it felt good to get it on paper. And I know I won't always feel the way I do at this moment. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I know I can't be the only one</span>. I wonder if <u>I've</u> unknowingly been an unwitting cause to someone else feeling the same. Did they just smile and move one? Did they mask the hurt? How many of us share that <i>beautiful veneer</i>? </span></div>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-15314267076120182002014-11-22T09:11:00.001-05:002015-02-02T21:48:04.311-05:00Solitude<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPbooILujqXFroT86Kr7bD5kPLc-SrvRZ91PluW6VqZnsg7AY9_buJ41EVP43NI7CV0TsQVIRaQD9XamjHXsR18VfBihdTH68uuuEfVZSJu1uJaFLQpY8cXQ9_4EAwZU4n8IuQxHrqj1I/s640/blogger-image--740095560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPbooILujqXFroT86Kr7bD5kPLc-SrvRZ91PluW6VqZnsg7AY9_buJ41EVP43NI7CV0TsQVIRaQD9XamjHXsR18VfBihdTH68uuuEfVZSJu1uJaFLQpY8cXQ9_4EAwZU4n8IuQxHrqj1I/s640/blogger-image--740095560.jpg"></a></div></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Solitude. It's not a word I use - or experience - much. As a wife and mother, I always seem to be on the go. With people. I'm always on a mission. To take someone somewhere. To pick someone up. To to help with this. To hurry up. To get this done. To check behind someone... Rarely I am alone.</span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is always noise. Drumming. Music. Television. Barking. Text dings. Sports Talk Radio. "Mom!" Cars... Rarely it is quiet.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There's always something running around in my head. The grocery list. Did I check the calendar? The boys' schedules? <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Prescriptions to pick up. How do I fix supper when no one is at home the same time? Jackson's shirt needs ironing for chapel - TODAY! I really need to call my mother. Organizing Thanksgving plans. What is wrong with our country??? I really need to take these clothes to ACTS. Did I word that text correctly? Why won't Mike's legs stop cramping up every night? I need to lose weight. I should call my sister. OMG, the outside plants! Why can't the boys put their clothes in the hamper? This rug really needs cleaning. Why does that person feel the need to tell me what I should do? Christmas cards!... Rarely I feel calm.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I find the older I get, the more alone time I need. I crave. To just be. To listen to the quiet. To be thankful. To rest in the calm He is providing. Curled up on the sofa on a Saturday morning before the rest of the house wakes up. With coffee. With one of my weekly Proverbs31 devotions that I missed one weekday morning. And this month's "Southern Living". And Maggie.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">It does my heart and soul good. It gives it a much needed rest. Because just now, my youngest came in, asking for chocolate chip pancakes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</span></div>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-37452089809592579232014-11-16T09:15:00.003-05:002015-02-14T21:10:29.823-05:00Welcome to the Gothic Interfaith Community Center<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvINpWQrjsk8rGn0srxPfs-nm2jO8ZgRbNefBpzq8olrcM_IQwAortI7m9bhgcrQNv3rW71KzSnLB-ydsEwejNVVGJv70ZBNNLnDXH7Mg0a0bNKawmk_UGJiWVW-bN91BZBzWC-N724Ue/s640/blogger-image--1519232980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvINpWQrjsk8rGn0srxPfs-nm2jO8ZgRbNefBpzq8olrcM_IQwAortI7m9bhgcrQNv3rW71KzSnLB-ydsEwejNVVGJv70ZBNNLnDXH7Mg0a0bNKawmk_UGJiWVW-bN91BZBzWC-N724Ue/s400/blogger-image--1519232980.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br />
</div>When coming back to my blog, I didn't really have an idea of what it was going to become, or what I WANTED it to become. But I'm realizing that this outlet is allowing me to share - in my writing - what I might not be able to convey as eloquently in an everyday conversation. I'm always the one who wishes in hindsight that I had said things differently or more passionately or with more conviction.<br />
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</div><div>I've heard today that the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. has created quite a stir in both the conservative and more inclusive sets of Christians. (And I have dear family members who are passionately in both camps.) The National Cathedral is part of the Episcopal church (of which I was raised) and (in my opinion) has been increasingly involved in more political activism than transforming lives through Christ.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The big controversy that has ensued was a Muslim prayer service that was held this past Friday in the Cathedral. My initial response was one of little surprise. </div><div><br />
</div><div>According to<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> the National Cathedral's 36 page Strategic Plan, here is the ONLY PLACE in their Mission Statement that Jesus Christ is mentioned: <i>Washington National Cathedral was established to hold a special role in the nation’s life and continues to answer that call. As it does so it commits to the ancient vision, fervently proclaimed by Jesus in the Gospels, of a building open to all who seek a place of prayer and barred to no particular religious tradition or sect</i>. Call me ignorant, but I can't think of anywhere in the Bible where He invited Roman pantheists to hang out with Him and worship their gods.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />
</span></div><div>It appears that the Cathedral has changed its course and has become more of a "gothic interfaith community center". So the concerns of Franklin Graham are really of no consequence: <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> <i>"It’s sad to see a church open its doors to the worship of anything other than the One True God of the Bible who sent His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, to earth to save us from our sins. Jesus was clear when He said, ‘I am the way the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me’ (John 14:6).”</i></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I truly don't have a problem with interfaith gatherings. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I believe all are created by God. I love learning about other's traditions and how they connect to my own. And I have friends of many faiths. When they have sacred holidays, I joyfully wish them a "Happy ....." By the same token, they wish me a Merry Christmas or ask me how my Easter was. There is a mutual respect for each others' faith - whether or not we share it.<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> But it is reported that Muslim prayer carpets were laid out inside the </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">cathedral facing east, towards Mecca, for the prayer service. They were also to the side of the sanctuary (as reported by Voice of America, the Washington Post, and other news outlets) so that worshippers would not see the crosses or Christian icons, because “Muslims are not supposed to pray in view of sacred symbols alien to their faith.” Why? Why? Why would a church want to host a prayer service where they have to hide the cross? That would be like me asking my friend if I could celebrate Holy Communion in her temple - but please remove the Torah.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My concern is that political correctness (and please don't confuse that with Christian love and charity) overshadows our call to follow Christ as our Lord and Savior. And to host a Muslim prayer service to Allah in a church of believers (what is Biblically called the bride of Christ), basically tells our Chriatian faith, "Hey, I need a little break from this relationship."</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And I'm not willing to be on a "break".</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />
</span></div>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-74214413797656489122014-11-08T13:54:00.001-05:002014-12-23T09:44:03.123-05:00Visiting Hours in HeavenI was thinking this morning, that it was only one week ago that we had the "historic" snow of November 1, 2014. I wondered if I would even remember it next year and thought how I don't even record many events on my calendar anymore as Facebook seems to serve as a virtual scrapbook of all important happenings in our lives. <br />
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I was in the shower (of all places) as these musings occurred and my mind was immediately taken back to my Muz. As my uncle mentioned in the homily he preached at her memorial, she would have written <b>*SNOW!* </b>in all caps in her calendar. It would have been an exciting day. She would have called us all to make sure that we looked outside. (Embarrassingly enough, we either would have let the voicemail pick up or we would answer more out of obligation than anything else.) Everything with Muz was that way. There was anticipation that something wonderful was going to happen - no matter how insignificant the moment seemed to those around her.</div>
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And it was as I was standing there - in the shower - that I really cried for the first time in three years over the death of my grandmother. The water poured over me as I shook, my face in my hands. I thought of all that has happened since October 7, 2011. Little insignificant things in the whole scheme of life: Mike and I giving our testimony, Sumter getting glasses, Jackson changing schools, my "haven" (a new room off our bedroom just for me), Sumter playing on drumline, Jackson's three-pointers in his basketball games, Maggie, Sumter's baptism, Jackson's braces, my new Explorer. She hasn't been here. And she would have seen these insignificant events, instead, with such anticipation and excitement and joy. But she hasn't been here. I can't even tell her about them. <br />
And that makes me so sad.</div>
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It's strange how when someone dies, all the things that made you completely crazy just don't matter anymore. Because she really did know how to drive all of us crazy with her warped sense of reality sometimes. She could do and say the most "out there" things. (No, she didn't have dimentia or Alzheimers.). Things that would make us shake our heads. Things that could hurt our feelings. Things that she thought were perfectly logical and appropriate, but were completely out of the realm of reality.</div>
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But that doesn't matter anymore, because I know where she I right now. And I'm not being all cliché. I really do know where she is. She was not perfect. I just know where she is because of her faith. A faith and relationship with Christ that really didn't blossom until she was about 70-years-old. It was around that time that she was born-again (even though she would never use that term). So even though I miss her incredibly.... and even though I wept this morning, I know where she is.</div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-10770073731202632652014-11-01T23:18:00.000-04:002014-12-23T16:21:33.928-05:00Visions of Snow<div style="margin: 0px;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Today the unthinkable happened: it snowed. No, it didn't stick. No snowmen were made. No snowballs were thrown. But it <i>did</i> snow. And w<span data-blogger-escaped-style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">hat a way to wake up this morning: b</span>eautiful big flakes quietly and deliberately falling from a gray sky. Facebook was abuzzing. Pictures were shared, with some areas to the northeast of us having a bit of accumulation. Folks were amazed and bemused that we would see the white stuff in South Carolina on the first day of November. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fast forward to this afternoon. We received some bad news. A major setback. Mike was beside himself with anxiety and frustration. He was in a bad place. And there was nothing I could do. I felt helpless - just as he was. And then I happened to see my <a href="http://proverbs31.org/devotions/devo/pray-like-everything-depends-on-god/" target="_blank">Proverbs 31 devotion</a> from yesterday. It said to pray like everything depends on God. Of course I know that. But do I do it? Was I doing it right now? Obviously, the answer was a humble and uncomfortable No.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">So I stopped what I was doing, right then and there. "Heavenly Father," I closed my eyes and prayed. "We need you right now. Things are not good at all right now. I pray that you will take away the despair and anxiety from my husband. I ask that, in its place, you pour down your hope and promise that you will take care of him. We need you right now." As I was praying this over and over, I kept having visions of the gently falling snow from earlier today. But why? Why did that vision continue throughout my prayer? </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was calming - and claiming me. I felt a peace wash over my troubled spirit. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And then it hit me. It was not snow that was gently falling. It was manna. <i>Manna!</i> God's promise to the Israelites was that He would provide for their every need. It was manna. God's promise to us that He would provide for <i>our</i> every need. Wow. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Like the Israelites, what we are going through right now will not be over quickly. It will take some time. And at times, we will struggle. But I will remember the manna, and I know that He will provide. And we will be alright.</span></div>
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bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-30684160089976685762014-10-29T23:01:00.000-04:002015-01-05T22:29:10.004-05:00The Gaffe and the Aftermath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anyone can make a gaffe, a slip of the tongue, and unintended mispronunciation. And I don't have a problem with that. I don't look for hidden agendas. I don't look for subconscious meanings and intentions. Goodness gracious, I am Queen Foot-in-Mouth. I say the wrong thing all. the. time.<br />
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But what I've recently read about my state's challenger for governor is enough to make me incredibly upset and physically ill. This <a href="http://youtu.be/tLwiKhGtcHg" target="_blank">YouTube video</a> has been making the rounds. In it, he accidentally uses the word "whore" instead of "her" in talking about the incumbent, Nikki Haley. Now some may argue that it was intentional or characteristic or not surprising (given their intense acrimony against his party). <br />
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However, what he said (or mis-said) is not what infuriates me. It was a mistake. It could have been an accident. My shock and frustration comes from what happens a few seconds later. How I wish he had stopped, horrified at his slip-up and admonished those around him who were enjoying and reveling in it. But he laughs. Giggles. Shares a wide smile. Points and encourages the audience to continue their applause. He enjoys the limelight and levity that calling a woman - even by mistake - a whore can give him and his agenda. And given all the jovial camaraderie he is sharing with those around him, one might stereotypically guess that he was in a room full of members of the Old Boy network. But no, you can see women in the video. What? Women? Laughing along at one of their own being called (even by a slip of the tongue) one of the worst words you can call a woman?<br />
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I have tried to read as much as I could to see what people's reaction was to this bit of news. Sadly, there isn't much for me to read. There hasn't been much of a reaction. And it makes me extremely sad. The only person who seems to care is Ann Romney, who spoke to CNN.<br />
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Where ARE OUR voices? Why don't we care? I feel that many women today get so caught up in political and "justice" issues that they overlook the day to day, personal experiences that are truly a <i>war on women</i>. Because that is where the war is: in the snide comments, the laughing and revelry of belittling women, the treating them as objects. I could go on and on.<br />
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Yes, we all make mistakes. But it is what we do with them that really matters. Do we use them to change and make the world around us a little better? Or do we relish them and perpetuate the ills that hurt others? Why is it such a conundrum?</div>
bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1792809147897940738.post-59564305172566357442014-10-19T23:05:00.000-04:002014-12-07T09:21:09.609-05:00Giving Thanks - Part 2<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I began and continued writing this blog three years ago, I only measured how much it was being read by the comments that were posted. And oh, how my self-worth as a blogger was dependent on those comments. I was much like the teenage girls who check to see how many "likes" or followers they have on Instagram. It was only a week ago (yes, I am slow) that I discovered the Blogger Stats page on my dashboard. Oh, there are the real numbers. Well then.</span></div>
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And it was on that stats page that I realized more and more people are reading my <a href="http://itsagoldenday.blogspot.com/2011/11/giving-thanks-part-i.html" target="_blank">Giving Thanks - Part 1</a> post. That was my very last post in 2011 - <b>with no Part 2</b>! I had promised to tell of "...how God's hand was such a part of those few days from October 4th through the 7th. Days that could possibly only be described by someone as a nightmare. Yet there were so many glimpses of His presence, His Holy Spirit moving among us, His unexpected - and unexplained - gifts and blessing."</span><br>
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And I fell short and broke my promise. (Now this post is pretty graphic, but I feel it needs to be told so that you can understand the magnitude of how I feel the glimpses of God were so evident.)</span><br>
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After my father-in-law's funeral on October 7, 2011, my parents, grandmother and two sons left for my parents' home a little over an hour away. My husband and I waved goodbye and went back to his mother's to decompress. Around an hour later, we received a call from my brother-in-law that there had been a terrible one-car accident. A tire had blown and my parents' SUV had flipped three times.</span><br>
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<u>Herein lies the first blessing.</u> My sister and brother-in-law had left the funeral <i>before my parents. </i>They stopped at a convenience store and, therefore, ended up behind them and drove up on the wreck site. <b><i>They were the first on the scene</i>.</b></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Somehow, Sumter was able to get out of his seatbelt and crawl out of one of the broken windows. They saw him standing on the side of the interstate beside the overturned SUV. My sister was immediately able to comfort Sumter as well as assess the situation. (She works as a physical therapist in the trauma unit.). </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Do I believe God had a hand in them being the first on the scene? Absolutely, I do.</i><br>
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But no such luck for Jackson. He was still trapped inside, eyes squeezed shut to block out the blood-soaked view of my mother, but not the sound of the moans of both my parents. My grandmother was halfway thrown from the vehicle and her leg was on his shoulder. His seatbelt was stuck and he couldn't get out.</span><br>
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<u>But herein lies the second blessing.</u> Jackson tells us that he didn't get out by himself. He </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">says an African-American man with dreadlocks and a Yankees baseball cap came up to the SUV and asked, "Hey, buddy. Can you get out?" (This was a man he says he saw just moments before the accident in a green car. He says the man smiled and waved to him as he drove by.) Jackson told him that he couldn't. The man got box cutters, cut the seatbelt and helped him climb out. Jackson swears this happened. He can describe the man and his voice.</span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i> </i><i>But no one else saw or talked to this man.</i> </b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We've asked my sister and brother-in-law. We've asked other witnesses. We've asked the highway patrol. We've even seen photos. There were no African-Americans in any of the photographs. No green car anywhere near the site. That's crazy, we thought. This was a wreck that made the AP news wire and was even on the evening news in other parts of the country. This was a wreck that held up traffic for many miles and hours. No one just leaves the scene of a wreck of that magnitude. No one... but an angel. And we hold on to that truth. </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Do I believe God had a hand in that deadlocked angel in a Yankees cap? Absolutely, I do.</i><br>
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Both of my parents were airlifted to the trauma center where my sister works. Sumter and Jackson were both banged up pretty badly and were taken to the same hospital, but they were ok. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I found this out from my brother-in-law's phone call. But as many times I asked, he wouldn't say anything about my grandmother. I don't know whether it was because he didn't want to tell me on the phone or because he alone had just witnessed her last moments alive.</span><div>
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<u>And herein lies the last blessing</u> I will share. My sweet Muz was not wearing a seatbelt and was thrown halfway out of the SUV. I still don't know all of the details of how she was found by my brother-in-law in relation to the vehicle. I'm not sure I want to know. What I do know is that she was pinned. She was breathing. Her eyes were closed. Her body was in shock. But her last moments were with my brother-in-law holding her head and praying over her. And then she died. How beautiful is that? After something so violent and sudden, to have your granddaughter's husband, a Godly, faithful man who loves you and you love back, usher you out of your life on here on earth to your eternal life in heaven. <i>Do I believe God had a hand in that? Absolutely, I do.</i></span><br>
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So there they are. The glimpses of God and His involvement in even the most tragic circumstances in our lives. The reminders that He is in control. The promises that He will bless even the most painful</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">and incomprehensible times. And for these I am grateful.</span></div>bevyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18134225589131842747noreply@blogger.com1