The Power of Words

From an early age, I recognized the power in words; the weight they can carry. I also understood how they could come together to create a story that could connect and impact those who read them. I knew it as a reader, and I also knew that I had an overwhelming desire to be a part of that. To write.

To this day, I still have my backpack full of short stories and poems typed on a typewriter throughout my teenage years. Short stories, both typed and handwritten, stuffed into folders and old spiral notebooks. 

I have journals of phrases penned, quotes jotted down, letters written, and lists of writing ideas. 

Times have changed and spiral notebooks and typewriters have been replaced with Google Docs and the Notes section of my iPhone, but my desire to write things down, to create, has not changed. 

The past several years have been the most challenging of my life. There were times I found myself awake in the night, my mind racing with words and ideas. Other times I have been numb, and at a loss for words. And so, the urge to write was buried, maybe even seemingly lost.  

But, I still longed for a place to share my writings. A place where others could visit and maybe even connect in some way. So, I created my website–Foundations of Sapphires. 

It is through this site that I could share my story and in turn ask others to share theirs. Interestingly enough, during the most quiet and darkest time in my life, the connection through my site has been the loudest. 

In the past few months, I have heard from several people who found their way to my site by longing to learn more about sapphires. Whether the presence of sapphires in scripture or their healing powers, the search led them here and they have shared their stories with me. 

One woman wrote:

I'd love to tell you my story. But, this note isn't about me.

I was looking for a verse about the foundation of sapphire stones to share with a special friend who had never heard it.

I stumbled upon your blog. I've looked up verses so many times and this [is] truly the first time I came across a blog. So, I read it. Then I read more. You are a gifted writer. Your blogs stopped with the Queen.

I can't begin to know why. But, I do pray that you start writing again. This world, at this time needs your words of encouragement. Needs your transparency. It needs the 'real'.

We all go through heartache, agonizing grief and pain so unbearable you wonder if your breath will fail you.

If that is the cause of you no longer writing, then I encourage you to pick up your pen and write again. Tell your story again.

Wow–power in her words.

And, there were others. The woman who had been a victim of incest; struggling to feel beautiful and to accept the love from her husband. 

The woman who has become the caretaker of her mother suffering from dementia. Grieving her mother while she is still here.

The woman, estranged from her father for most of her life and whose mother was killed tragically in a car wreck by a drunk driver, who spiraled into depression and grief. 

She wrote, “I don’t even know your name. But I love your stories. I was just telling my story to my brother-in-law today. How God had promised me before my Mom died (unexpectedly) that he would give me foundations of sapphires.”

Through my darkness, these strangers have been a light and an inspiration to find my voice again. To find the words. And, to move forward with hope.

Details of my life and my story have been updated to reflect where I am now–today. Honestly, I don’t know about tomorrow, what it will bring, or when I will want to write something to post. But, I do know that I have this place, this website where I can share. And, so can others. 

My story continues.
The foundation remains.
The connection is real.
And the words carry on.

When There Are No Words

It has been awhile. Life has just held so much. A significant health issue with my husband, followed by surgery. COVID. Difficult relationships. My son graduating from high school. His move to college. Empty nesting.

It has been a lot. 

I searched for the words, but they never came. Throughout my life, I have always been able to turn to words–in my darkest days as well as on my best days.  And yet, for months the words did not come. They were replaced by worry. 

What if my husband did not get better? What if my husband, who loves running and exercise, could never do those again? What if I had lasting effects from COVID? What if my son went away and never came back? What if my empty nesting left me and my husband, well, empty?  What would I do to fill the nights and weekends that once revolved around my son’s schedule? What if the broken relationships in my life really could not be repaired?

The what ifs had taken my words. 

As a Christian, I knew the Bible verses. I knew the Truth about how much God loved me. How I needed to have faith. And yet, the what ifs continued to swirl because in the quiet moments, they were all-consuming.

I stumbled upon Tera’s Online Christian Journey. She wrote, “Bible verses aren’t band-aids...Out of God’s great mercy and compassion and understanding...God gives us one another…”

And, I realized God gave me words. They weren’t my words–they were hers. And, they were good.

I thought about how God had used others and their words in my life. 

• The people who came to our home and prayed with me and my husband. 

• The friends who fed us during his healing.

• The ones who called, prayed and encouraged me during COVID. 

• The friends who understood the anxiety of sending my son away and prayed with me. 

• The people who celebrated small steps and continue to walk with me “one day at a time” in difficult seasons.

• The friends who remain non-judgmental and love unconditionally.

• The visits over coffee as like-minded parents shared the struggles of raising children and what it meant to love like Jesus.

Words had left me. And, they will leave me again. 

But now I see that perhaps at times when I had no words, He filled the gap with those who did.

What if that is enough? 

The Secret of Motherhood

“Three boys. How wonderful to be the mom of three boys,” I said to her.

“Four boys,” she replied. “I am the mom of four boys. The oldest would be five years old now.”

Would be five. 

I knew what that meant. He would be, but he isn’t––he is gone. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said.  I looked into her eyes.  

I read somewhere long ago that becoming a mother is like being initiated into a sorority of women that has existed since time began.  Not all are blessed with membership and some choose not to join.  But for those who do, we know the rituals. 

So, I looked at this mom of four boys, because we both knew the secret: the joy and pain of motherhood. 

On Mother’s Day, I found myself amidst a blur of flowers and brunch, thinking of her and all the moms who perhaps were not celebrating. The ones who are always thinking of their children who would be rather than the ones who are.

The mother of four boys. 
The three friends from high school walking through the tragic loss of their adult children. 
The mother of my precious friend who recently lost her eldest son.
The friend who suddenly lost her adult daughter months ago. 

The unimaginable. 

And then there are the mothers silently battling a different type of loss–not physical, but emotional. Their children may be present, but choose not to be in their presence. 

Perhaps there really are no words. 

But, there is the secret–the joy and the pain. The holding on and the letting go. And, the love. 

As mothers, we make mistakes. So do our children, but the love for our children extends beyond comprehension. We love the ones we can hold, and we honor and love the ones who would be but are no more. 

I have learned so much about this secret of motherhood. From my own mother.  From the amazing mothers who surround me. We see it in each other’s eyes–the secret. And at times, we must carry each other.

But, that is what mothers do. We carry. 

We carried our children in our wombs. We carried them in our arms and on our hips. Even on our backs. We’ve carried them in ways they may never know.  

We celebrate. We mourn. We cherish. We grieve. We give thanks for motherhood. We hug the ones who are with us.  We pray for the ones who are not.

And we carry on.

No One Planned for This

I received my crisp, freshly-bound Golden Coil planner in the mail recently.  It’s empty pages spanning from August to July, as my life revolves around the school year.  (There is nothing quite like getting a new planner.)

Plans–I love them. 

School events.  
Appointments.  
To-do lists.  
Date nights.  
Girls nights. 
Vacations.

I love the structure and the order of a good plan–a definite beginning and end. 

I love the joy of completing a task, of creating an experience. 

I love the sense of accomplishment of checking items off of my to-do list. (Sometimes, I even write things down I have already done just so I can check it off.)

And yet today, I look at my beautiful new planner–blank and inviting–and the excitement that typically comes with plans for a new school year fell flat.  

For the first time, there are no lists of school events.  No vacations planned.  No football schedule to write down.  No community event to get dressed up for.  

I look at my planner, afraid to write anything down in pen and hesitant to look past the week before me.

2020. No one planned for this.

Illness.  Death.  Financial hardship.  Civil and political unrest.
Quarantine.  Masks.  Social distancing.  Working from home.  

I feel anxious.  Sometimes sad.  Overwhelmed.  Ironically when we need hugs and smiles the most, they’re gone.

 I long for order, consistency, stability. 

And yet, as I contemplate my life and the years leading up to 2020, the unexpected has always managed to find its way in.  So, truth be told, there is a lot in my life I have not planned. Even in the midst of my planning, when I thought I was in control, I really wasn’t. 

As I look through the empty pages of my new planner, I think about the future.  

What do I know for sure? 

• I know that I am changed.  2020 and the few years leading up to it, have changed me.

• I have come to understand that life can be more than moving from one thing to the next. Between the beginning and the end, there can be joy too. 

• The unexpected will happen; and it can refine you. 

• An empty planner does not mean an empty life–it means stillness.  It means rest.  It means time.  It means one day at a time.  One week at a time.  Quiet.  In the silence, He is there.

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

– Jeremiah 29:11

I know the plans, He says. He knows the plans.  And that is enough. 

So, I open my blank and beautiful planner.  The quote I chose to be printed in the beginning of my planner is staring back at me.

“What would be the point of living if we didn’t let life change us?” – Carson, Downton Abbey

Indeed, Carson–sounds like a plan.

Christ Provides

I saw her for the first time seated on a bench outside of Perkins Rowe.  

As I was picking up a book curbside, she was sitting there.  Mismatched clothes.  Backpack.  Bags at her feet.  I knew she had to be homeless, perhaps just passing through.

It was only a few days later when I spotted her again.  

She was walking on the sidewalk–not too far from where I had seen her the first time.  I could see her from a distance, carrying her backpack and those same few bags, probably holding all of her possessions.

I wondered where she was going, where she had been. 

Just days later, I saw her on that same bench.  

This time, my son was with me. I said, “Oh my, there she is. I keep seeing this woman around this area.  I think she is homeless. I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe I should talk to her.”  

But, I didn’t stop.  I didn’t talk to her. I kept driving.

I could not stop thinking about her.

I have had many sleepless nights recently.  As I have lain awake at night, I have thought of her.  And of what her life must be like. 

Today, as I pulled into Sonic for my usual–large Diet Coke–there she was, ordering food at the window next to me.  With her backpack and bags. 

I was compelled to speak.

“Ma’am,” I said to her.  And she turned to me.

I explained that I had seen her several times–sitting on the bench, walking.  I told her I had been thinking about her.  She smiled and said nothing.

“Do you have a place to sleep?”

She smiled and said, “Christ provides.”

I nodded in agreement and asked her the question again.  She responded the same. 

“Christ provides.”

I tried a different question.  I could see she had ordered food.

“Are you able to pay for your food?”  She held up a gift card and said it again.

“Christ provides.”

I asked her if she was alone.

Again, “Christ provides.”

Perhaps she could see that I was wishing for more. She went on, “That will always be my answer. Christ provides.”  And she smiled.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I told her.

As the Sonic employee handed me my Diet Coke, I paid for my order and for hers.  

I put my car in reverse and as I began to pull away, I said to her, “I want you to know that I think of you.  That I am praying for you. I will think of your smile. And, I will remember that Christ provides.”  

She smiled and said, “I appreciate that.”  And I drove away.  

Even now, I am still thinking about her.  And her words. 

I can see her sitting peacefully on the bench.  Casually walking down the road.  And then standing next to me.  And how our paths led us both to Sonic on this random morning. 

I am hoping to see her again. I will certainly be looking for her.  The homeless woman with the big smile, all of her possessions at her feet, who reminded me of Christ’s love and provision.  

And really, that is all we need to know–the only answer to life’s questions that really matters. 

As she said, it should always be our answer. 

Christ provides.

He does indeed.  And that is enough.

For her.
For all of us.

Nothing But Time

Time.  

It seems like time is all any of us have right now.  The days just roll along, each one resembling the previous.  

Thinking about time always brings me back to them–the ones serving time.

Three prisoners from the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.  I only met them once–years ago–but I think of them often. 

The first woman was in her fifties and had no teeth. In prison for murdering her husband.  I listened to her story about how an abusive relationship had changed the path of her life.  She talked of drugs and life choices; about regret and longing for courage; and about what life was like for her in prison.  It was the same every day–waking up, eating, work, and going to bed. Repeat.

The second woman was in her forties.  Also in prison for murdering her abusive husband–with a baseball bat.  She also talked of bad choices, emotional decisions, and of the courage she wished she had had to walk away.  

The third woman was young–in her twenties.  As a seventeen year old, she and a group of friends robbed someone.  Before she knew what was happening, there was an altercation. She fired a shot.  It wasn’t her gun–she had never even shot a gun. And there she was, guilty of an adult crime.  A life altered at just seventeen.  

The group I was with, we all felt the heaviness in the room as they spoke of a life they thought would never be for them.  And their message of making good choices filled the quiet.  

I was able to join the three women and the sheriffs for lunch.  We ate. We laughed. I remember how much they enjoyed the beverages with ice, as they remarked that they were not allowed to have ice in prison.  Ice. The heaviness was still there. 

We all sat together that day, but the circumstances of our lives and our own choices separated us.

They left that day to return to their life in prison; and I returned to my life.  

I have thought of them throughout the years, and the day we sat together.   

I have wondered what it feels like to be them.  To have nothing ahead of you but time. 

But life has a way of coming full circle, it only takes time.  

Recently, I found myself sitting across from an employee at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.  We sat in my office talking about children and school until the conversation shifted to her work with the prison.  I shared with her my time with the three women.  

Imagine my surprise when she was able to share updates on the women that still cross my mind. The woman in her fifties was still in prison, but had new teeth. The young one had been released and was involved in a program for women released from prison. 

Time had been kind to some, and not so much to others.  But it was good to hear about them.

So now, as we all sit and wait during this time of so much uncertainty, I find myself thinking of the three women.  And about the day we all sat together. And about time.  

Seems like yesterday, and yet it wasn’t. 

The author Alice Walker said, “Time moves slowly but passes quickly.”  

How very true. 
For those women. 
For all of us.  

While our differences remain, we are all alike in some ways.  Maybe even in most ways.  

We all have nothing ahead of us but time. 

Hello, Old Friend

Hello, old friend.  It has been awhile. But there you are, waiting for me.  

Writing. 

It always welcomes me home.  There is something safe, something wonderful about words.  For me, putting words on paper is like walking into the embrace of an old friend who is ready to listen, ready to walk with me through any journey.

So, here we are.  It has been some time, and it was time I needed. To be quiet.  To rest. To feel. To think. To welcome. To let go.

For most of my life, I thought of the world and of people and situations as right or wrong, this way or that way; black or white–no gray.  And now, I have come to understand that although some situations are black and white, life and people are more complex.  

Lately, I have found myself in the gray.  Lingering there–in the gray–looking, listening, understanding.

Painted Smiles

Recently, my son came home from a friend’s house and told me he had just watched the best movie he’d ever seen.  I was surprised when he told me it was “Joker” with Joaquin Phoenix.  

After days of asking me, I watched it.  It was violent. It was sad. At times, it was hard to watch.  And yet, it was captivating.  

I asked my son why he loved the movie so much.  He explained to me that most movies have a good guy and a bad guy–like many superhero films.  He went on to say that typically, the good guy always wins, and that this movie showed the complexity of people, the messiness of life.  He said that he could see the Joker’s transformation, his sadness. He said there were times he felt sorry for him.  

My son saw beyond the painted smile on the Joker’s face; he saw him.  

I listened to my son, and I saw him.  There he was, standing in the gray; so much understanding at such a young age; so much wisdom.

In the quiet and the rest of the past few months, I have thought a lot about painted smiles.  And of the people I know behind the smiles.

The mom who called me sobbing to tell me that her husband had left her.
The family who had to hospitalize their son recently for depression.
The young girl who is suffering from overwhelming anxiety.
The friend whose husband was just diagnosed with ALS. 
The mom I prayed with whose son has autism. 
The friend who is going through a traumatic divorce.
The friend whose husband passed away suddenly.
The young girls I met who have been removed from their home by Child Protective Services.

And the list goes on and on and on.

I have never been more aware of painted smiles. Pain, heartbreak and tragedy have a way of revealing the truth about people. 

It is heavy.  
It is messy.  
It is gray.
So much gray.

Some turn their heads.  Some are in denial. But some–some will join you in the gray.  To see past the painted smile. To sit with others in their pain. To be there to listen and to pray.

And so I say hello, old friend.  Writing. Thank you for waiting for me in the gray.  

Her Name Was

I pulled into Sonic, my usual morning stop before work.  As I reached to push the button to place my order, I saw her. Standing in front of my car. 

With one hand, she was holding an old worn blanket around her shoulders.  With the other, she was holding her pants to keep them from falling. I could barely see her toes and her flip flops peeking beneath the bagginess of her jeans.  Her shirt, like her pants, hung on her. In a soft voice, she said, “Ma’am, can you buy me some food?”

I looked at her.  I looked in her eyes.  A few years ago, maybe I would have politely told her no and gone about my day.  Or, maybe I wouldn’t have even seen her.  But not now.  Life has a way of teaching us; humbling us; making us better.

“What would you like?”  I said. She seemed surprised by my response.  There was no smile. Just surprise.

I placed the order, and she turned away to sit down at the bistro table while we waited.  I saw a tattered pink duffle bag next to her. She sat quietly until our eyes met again.

As I leaned out to talk to her, she got up and came to the front of my car.  And she began to talk.   

I learned she is alone–no husband or children.  I learned she is out of work, but is looking for a job.  I learned there was a time when she had friends, but that time is no more.  

 “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” she replied.

“Are they deceased?”  I asked.

“No,” she said, “I had dummy parents.  They were not real parents.”  

Dummy parents.  With those words, the dirty and hungry stranger before me transformed into a wounded, broken person.  

It’s just a word.  But what heaviness it carries.  What sadness.  

Dummy–a model or replica of a human being; something designed to resemble and serve as a substitute for the real or usual thing; a counterfeit or sham.  

Heartbreaking. 

I found myself not knowing the right words to say; so I just said, “Oh, I am so sorry.”

She went on to talk about her mother.  She told me that her mother was always talking.  But, she said, “I could not hear her.” She shook her head as if exasperated, “I just could not hear her.”

I nodded at her and again repeated how sorry I was. 

As she talked, I listened.  I smiled at her. I watched her.  I thought about how different we are;  how the circumstances of our lives and the consequences of our life choices sent us in different directions.  And yet, I thought about how much we are the same. 

Our earthly parents are different, but we share the same Heavenly Father.  

And He calls us by name.  

Although she could not hear, and perhaps would not listen to her mother, she wanted to be heard that morning.  I heard her. I heard what she said, and I heard what she didn’t say. 

And I wanted to remember her.  Everyone has a story.

As they delivered the food, I told her I would pray for her.  I told her that I wish her all the best. She smiled and blew me a kiss. 

I asked her what her name was.  She did not ask me my name, and that was okay.  More than likely, she will never think of me again. 

I have looked for her during my daily Sonic visits. And the bistro tables remain empty.

But, I will remember her.   And I will call her by name.

Elizabeth.  Her name was Elizabeth.

Even in a Diet Coke

Anyone who knows me well knows how much I love my Diet Coke from Sonic.

The styrofoam cup, the crushed ice, the Diet Coke. I love it all.

It is part of my daily routine—every morning before work, I stop at Sonic to order my $1 drink. Every morning. So, of course they know me there.

Sometimes, the manager will greet me with my Diet Coke in hand before I even order. Other times, when I try to pay the $1.08, he waves me off and tells me to have a great day.

I met one young man who on his last day working for Sonic thanked me for always being so kind to him. He made sure I knew that he would still be working at Sonic every now and then. I told him how proud I was of him. When I see him at Sonic now, it is like seeing an old friend.

But, most days, the same woman comes to greet me and deliver my Diet Coke. And we visit. She is trying to get her life together. She lost her way as a young woman—had two children. She has not seen the father of her children in more than 15 years. She spent four years in prison for drugs. Her daughter who is in college lives far away. She lives paycheck to paycheck. Her 16-year-old son had to quit school to help with the bills.

Yet, every morning she greets me with a smile.

We make small talk, but sometimes she asks me questions about life, insurance, raising kids, or about cars. And many times I find her encouraging me. I will comment on the weather—“oh, it’s so cold,” or “oh, it’s so hot.” Her response is always the same, “I love it.”

She reminds me to be grateful.
She reminds me that kindness matters.
She reminds me that everyone has a story.

She also reminds me that joy can be found in small things, not just in our circumstances.

And, joy can even be found in a Diet Coke.

It's Not Supposed to Be This Way

This. So much truth.

I found myself in its pages and in its words. Although my struggle and my “I don’t know” is different, the pain is the same—the loss of what was supposed to be.

I have had to learn to let go of perfection and expectations and to trust in Him. Not just say I trust in Him, but to live trusting in Him. To give my faith walking legs.

I have also learned that I am not alone.

In some way, we are all turned “upside down” at some point in our lives. But it is from that new perspective, when real connection, authenticity and compassion happen.

It is the “breaking of us. The making of us. The building up of our faith.”

He is strengthening us for His purpose.

Our faith can offer a foundation of hope for others when they too are upside down.

When we “can’t find our footing with our own faith...we can go and stand on someone else’s for a while.”

Thank you Lysa for allowing me to stand on yours.

We all really are “beautiful souls held together by equal amounts of belly laughs and serious sorrow.”

That is life.

Laughter and Tears.
Joy and Pain.
Upside down.
Right side up.

I am messy. I am marvelous. I am so very alive.