Collisions
Rhythm brings a repetitive beat to life. The same theme reoccurs until you can almost tap your foot to it. Eventually you begin to look for the next occurrence, the next beat. Then, just like a song on the radio, the beat changes and a new theme enters life. Sometimes you smile with relief, other times you feel a great disappointment at the cessation of the beat.
Ok, so I’m being a little too poetic. I’ll move on. The theme in my life for the past few weeks has been collisions.
It started as we were driving across Tennessee on I40. Two horrific collisions involving 18 wheelers and cars. There were causalities. The tragedy and trauma of the wrecks climbed in the car with us and followed us, still does. You cannot be a person of compassion and not be effected by lives gone in seconds-no redo’s, no mulligians.
But as we drove on, I was twisted with the collision because it had surfaced an internal turmoil that mirrored the trauma. I was struggling with the collision of what I wanted to do and what I should do. Life is complicated; I prefer simple, drama/trauma free living. But the complexity of life has collided with the desire for simple.
The foot tapping rhythm continues. As I walk up the steps to The Providence House (a Shreveport 2nd chance shelter for homeless families), I have a collision with myself. Two conflicting emotions collide in such a way that I get a strong kick in the seat of emotions. I find myself smiling as I empty a truck stuffed with gifts. It is the 24th anniversary of my Mom’s death, and the smile is almost a physical kick. It wasn’t a smile from the warm and fuzzy of giving a token, but a smile caused by a deep change of the soul. Unintentionally I am doing something that would better memorialize my Mom than wallowing around feeling sorry for me. I am doing what she would have been doing. Giving at Christmas.
She would draw orphans into our lives. These orphans were of varying ages and life circumstances, all alone in this world. They were sat at the table as cherished guests. Most ended up leaving with a Christmas present that she had deftly changed the tag from her name to theirs. She gave to random people, sometimes whole families less fortunate than us which meant they were desperate and hungry. She lived a simple life of giving herself away…. To the end.
And I realized the collision was more about a dramatic shift away from the recent past back to a deeper past… a simpler past. A shift away from myself to others. A shift from playing at doing this to living it. It’s a collision of dramatic proportions. It’s letting go of what’s comfortable and cushy; pulling out into traffic. It’s different…. And yet, it’s the life my mother lived.
It means not spoiling my children with elaborate gifts, that’s the hardest for me. It’s giving up my time. And in its extreme, it’s keeping myself fit enough to keep living in a simple, different way. A collision of the complexity of life and the simple life. And the beat goes on…

Feeling Real. I want to call my Mother and tell her about my day. I an almost push PLAY and hear the conversation in my mind. I would be processing the events, the hurts, the hard things about the funeral of a minister, co-worker, the father of my sweet friend, the husband of another.
But I cannot do that. 24 years, I still pick up the phone. I start to punch in the sequence of numbers that would connect me to her voice… just one more time.
My friend asked me if it gets easier. Her eyes locked in on mine the way they do when she wants to know more than I am willing to say for fear of the honesty. My mouth would not form the words of a truthful answer. It gets different. But still there comes moments when I want to share life, and I can’t. My heart catches for a split second as the freshness of loss catches up.
And I weep. If not outwardly, my heart weeps silently. The moment passes and once again I resolve to restart life, to return to the new normal without the one who I loved so dearly.
I think of the pain that has plagued me since my Mother died on November 30, 1985, her 52nd birthday and I pray my children will never experience such depths of grief. Unconsciously, I have tried to protect my children by making, sometimes forcefully, them be independent. I love them beyond measure. They make me laugh, and grin, and shake my head in amazement at times. Like Jared asking for clothes to be given to The Hub instead of birthday presents for himself, so like my Mother. Or Katie being so prissy about her clothes and so creative, just like my Mother.
The reality is difficult to type. Without the death of my Mother, I would not be who I am today. God has used her death to turn me to a new level of faith and dependence on Him. Her death spurred me to grow up and become the woman of God she prayed I’d be. It took the harshness of her death to kick me into following God, of becoming a minister, of having a heart that understands hurts. Before her death, I ministered through my abilities, now I do so through my heart as His vessel to others.
The rawness of emotion is real. I am sorry if it offends. Fall brings memories of my Mother very near to the surface. She loved Fall and Christmas. She loved life. And it was during the fall, that my Dad struggled through his last days on this earth. Somehow in the drama/trauma of finishing seminary, I skipped over grieving for him… not a good thing because an un-grieved loss lingers with you becoming heavy with waiting for release. In the last months, I find myself catching up on grief.
A woman whispers, “I am sorry you have lost your Mother.”
I look at her with confusion,
I have not lost my Mother.
Her presence swells within my chest.
Thoughts of her fill my mind.
And when I look into the mirror, I see her cheekbones,
I see the glint of laughter in her eyes.
I see her staring back at me.
I have not lost my Mother.

I have lost my Mother.
I see a petite figure dashing through the crowd,
I turn to see her, and I have lost my Mother.
I see a red striped blouse tucked tightly into perfectly tailored slacks,
I look for the face, and it is not there. I have lost my Mother.
I hear laughter that starts from the toes,
I turn in hopes of sharing the moment, and I have lost my Mother.
I hear a word of wisdom wisely spoken.
I incline my ear to hear more, and I have lost my Mother.

My child does the spectacular,
I rush to share the pride,
And realize no one is there to understand the pride.
The most comical thing has happened to me,
My fingers dial the number, but my mind hangs the phone up,
She is not there.
A difficulty arises, I am in need.
I turn to find the one to advise,
She is not there.
I have lost my Mother.

I have not lost my Mother.
Her hands stir the cornbread, wrapped around mine.
Her laughter bubbles from within me.
Her voice speaks wisdom to my child.
Her Godly presence works through me.
I have not lost my Mother.
Soon, we will laugh together,
As she laughs in Heaven above now.
Soon.

Debra M. Douglas February 27, 2001

©2004DDouglas
Copyright applied for 4/12/2004

I think I may name my next Bible study, “Trembling” because it seems like there’s been a lot of that going around lately. And since it is on the work of the Holy Spirit and spiritual warfare, I think it fits. Sometimes, the Holy Spirit causes me to tremble. And sometimes spiritual warfare does. And sometimes I don’t which one is causing the trembling.
Like today. It was a trembling sort of day. I have to start in what I thought was the beginning of my day: a phone call from my daughter at 7:00 AM. She had been in a wreck. With all that has happened lately, I felt the need for a prayer of protection. I called my friend Kayla and asked her to call her mom to pray. Mrs. Brown is an old timey praying woman. She gets serious about her praying. I know that even though she doesn’t know me well, she prays for me. And I appreciate her prayers. Kayla said her mom was on vacation so she’d call her later. However, within minutes Kayla was calling me back. Her mom had been awakened by God at 5:00 AM to pray for my family. Her mom wanted to know what was going on….
This week began with a huge ministry outreach event, The Great GiveAway. It was fun to be a part of seeing God at work in a big way to a lot of people. But after that the week fell apart. Each day it has been more bad news. More trials and tribulations. Or so I would have categorized them before today. Today’s events have done some redefining.
Today was a day of tornadoes and floods. A day where my family members were out in the storm. Katie was just driving up at home as the tornado passed through the edges of the neighborhood. Jared was at work and watched as trucks were moved around the parking lot. The tornado baseball batting rows of new Ford trucks. Jared and his employees ran to safety. Paul was on a roof at work scouting out tornadoes, trying to keep employees safe. Emily was safely at home, only her phone was not working so none of us knew that.
I attempted to write and monitor the weather. As the tenor of the weather man raised octave after octave the news of damage throughout the Ark-La-Tex came closer to home. Damage right up to our neighborhood, in all the surrounding areas.
In the midst of the storm, there were other storms brewing. The closing on Katie’s townhome had been scheduled for this afternoon. Earlier in the week, we’d had the bad news that there were paperwork issues and closing would not take place. The townhomes were hard hit by the tornado. 4 burned to the ground, others lost their roofs, all damaged. But Katie doesn’t own one. God had protected her.
All day I fretted over the rising flood waters. Jared and Emily’s house flooded two years ago. I worried over how their house could take 16 inches of rain. At nine o’clock tonight, they abandoned ship and came here. Furniture piled up, water at the foundation and rising. Their attitude was one of resignation to whatever God had in store; a willingness to start over again. No regret for the two years of hard work to make their house beautiful. Just acceptance.
So when our roof sprung a leak tonight, there was nothing more than acceptance in my soul. The trembling has melted away, leaving in its wake a resignation. A resignation that whatever may come, my treasures are safe. When I am shaken to the core by life, I must choose to be reminded that THE CORE of my life is solid, firm, and everlasting. It is then that I can stop trembling and truthfully say, it is well with my soul.

The Great GiveAway
Pictures of today blink through my mind as I try to absorb all that happened. Flashbacks. Arriving at 8:30 AM to find donations already piling up. Ministers’ wives showing up to work before anyone else. A connection class choosing to worship through service. A first time visitor to our church, rolling up her sleeves to worship through serving. Crutches not stopping one volunteer from serving from start to finish.
A storm of volunteers coming from lunch to empty the PODS in one hour-an impossible task made possible.
Face painting station decorated as a pumpkin-y fall paradise in the midst of the rush.
People going way outside their comfort zone, doing whatever it takes to make it happen.
Hundreds of people stopping to find out what we were doing as donations were accepted at the PODS. Christ shared with all.
A woman in desperate need of a refrigerator started the line four hours before start time. A man wanting the same frig lined up within minutes. In the hours of waiting, the two talked about who would win the race to it. The woman did. But later the man helped her load it in her vehicle.
Pastor’s wife crying as she talks with all the people waiting in line. People with stories eager to share them, eager to be heard.
Shoppers overheard as they call their friends to brag about their “deals.”
A constant stream of shoppers registering to get their 5 tokens. The patience of a shoppers as they wait for their term to choose their
A little girl toddling around with her new popcorn push toy, her mother smiling at her child’s happiness. Free toys for all children. A girl with a sassy smile and a sassy new fur trimmed hat giving a volunteer a hug in appreciation.
Middle and high school students working to carry lamps, chairs, boxes of dishes.
Shoppers working to make sure other shoppers got what they needed-negotiating amongst themselves so all went home satisfied.
Mothers using their tokens to buy toilet paper.
Squeals of delight when the first woman realized each purse and bag was stuffed with personal care items. Perfume. Shampoo. Soap. Lotion.
Two policemen standing in amazement at the quality and quantity of the donations.
Donations arriving up to the minute of shopping time. 5 stuffed PODS overflowing onto the street. Donations doubled on Wednesday, then again on Saturday, then again on Sunday. Volunteers cheering in anticipation of a happy child when a go cart as a go cart is unloaded.
A ministry assistant glowing after sharing Christ with over 50 people.
Maintenance staff working with smiles, accomplishing an un-doable task.
One volunteer taking on the resource fair and making it happen!
Volunteer category teams cheering at the countdown to start. Making deals to ensure everyone got their tokens worth.
Lives of volunteers forever changed as they saw the pleasure of a family who found just the thing on their shopping list. Eyes of the volunteers tearing up as they experienced service, assisting as shoppers struggle to get their newly cherished items home. Ideas flowing for other ways to touch lives in the future.
One person’s needs become important to another.
A high school student expertly deploying volunteers to where they needed to go. And adults respectfully listening to him.
Volunteers finding what needed to be done. And doing it. With smiles. No complaints. Others asking, “what’s next?”
391 families registered. Over 1000 people shopping: Christ shared with all.
0ver 200 volunteers.
3 television crews.
No leftover items.
One amazing day.

PODS and Dolly Parton
I don’t know why this is but anytime I call a 1-800 number, the call lasts an hour. Call Lands End for a cozy fleece, and I end up knowing the weather, the sales person’s family history, and all their past sins. Call Continental Airlines, I find out the agent’s only daughter is about to go off to college and momma is feeling separation pains. A call to the cruise line resulted in hearing multiple stories as I was passed around because they each agent knew another agent with the need to tell their story. It just happens.
But my second hour long call to the PODS people was the best yet. I got a story! The second call became necessary because somehow in the giant system, the order for The Great GiveAway PODS was lost. I explained to the sweet agent the concept behind the giveaway. As we talked, she became more and more interested.
I had told her I was a minister, so I was not surprised when she asked if she could ask me a question of a personal nature. Most of the time, this request is followed by a confession of sins of some sort. I think me living in Louisiana where even the Baptist are a little Catholic (Bath-a-lics!) comes in to play here. I invited her to ask anything. She became timid; I assured her she could ask me anything, thinking I’ve heard it all! She stated that her question was a little different. And it was….
“Has anyone ever told you that you sound like a famous person?”
Yes, I said. By now I had a grin on my face because I knew what was coming.
“This famous person does so many good things. I admire her for all she does for others,” she said. “Do you have blond hair too?” she asked.
As a matter of fact, I do.
And this is where she got me: “Are you really Dolly Parton?”
Ya’ll, now that is just plain funny. Think of it, Dolly Parton spending an hour on the phone ordering PODS for a church in Bossier City, LA! I mean Dolly’s got people!
I just love it when God brings some laughter into our lives! Oops, it’s time for a midnight call to LL Bean! Wonder what stories I’ll hear tonight!

the Porsche
Sunday morning, there was a Porsche in my garage. I had parked it there Saturday night, but I did not expect it to still be there after I woke up. It was.
It’s hard to explain how I came to owning a Porsche. It is Paul’s dream car; I’ve bought him a dozen or more Matchbox Porsches. He’s an engineer, the mechanics of the German built car hold a romance for him, kind of like diamonds, roses, and chocolate all rolled into one! But a dream car is a dream, not something you actually ever get to own.
I guess I bought it by accident. I was searching for a car to meet needs: I needed something to drive and I needed it to be fun. Bored by the price of practical cars, I decided to cruise through dream cars and found the Porsche. It met my price requirements. And within a few moments of finding it, I had convinced myself that it was a practical car for me to drive. Yep, it’s a practical car!
The reality is that my Dad bought this car. He doesn’t know it. He’d be happy with the fact that I bargained the car sales manager down- I watched him take joy in doing the same with every car we had as I was growing up. It was more than just buying a car; it was fierce competition. Knowing I got an incredible deal would have made him proud.
Dad loved cars. He named his cars and treated them with great love. We had a game that the two of us played when in the car, the first to identify the make, model, and year of a car correctly was the winner. I would study and prepare to win. In the encyclopedia, there were pictures of cars going back to the early days. I would pour over the pictures, memorizing the shapes of headlights, fins, and trunk lids. I wanted to beat my Dad. Through beating him I gained his respect. That’s what I wanted… what I needed.
Dad would like the Porsche. He would have fussed over the practicality of it all and gripped at how low to the road it is. In the end, he would have smiled that silly grin he only used on vacations and grab the keys.
The Porsche was paid for with money my Dad left me. It could be considered part of Dad’s legacy, but I can’t see looking at it that way. It’s too much of Paul’s dream, he has not stopped smiling. And my relationship with my Dad is too complicated- even 18 months after his death. The car is too freed up; too much a part of the future to be tangled up with past. After all, a Porsche is simply fun.

I woke up this morning thinking about the song, “Little Bunny Phoo Phoo” How weird is that? It didn’t make me happy to think about that song. Just writing the title makes me feel like secret PETA police are coming after me.
Disclaimer: I don’t like the song and I’ve never bopped any animal on the head to the best of my recollection.
The dreaded song came to my mind after a night of studying the Old Testament; I went to sleep deep in the mysteries of human choices and the results of those choices. I think of Job being bopped on the head by satan time after time and I am convinced that satan wrote that song celebrating how he bops God’s children on the heads. It’s not a new song, or a new method of his. It’s like “The song that never ends…” Anyone that’s ever spent a day trying to get that song out of their heads after one children’s show knows what I’m talking about here. Satan just loves to beat us up. He’s one sick dude and I don’t think he has a tail, horns, and a red suit.
Back to the weirdness of my day. All day, “Little Bunny Phoo Phoo” was hopping through my thoughts until Max and Rusty (the smart beagle and really sweet but not so bright chocolate lab) caught my attention with their insane barking. A little bunny was terrorizing them. Rusty couldn’t get at him and was making sure everyone knew of his frustration. Max was in stand off mode. Hair raised. Teeth bared. And growl going. The bunny was taking total advantage of the fence.
Overhead, five hummingbirds were dive bombing Max. Swooping down. Circling around Max’s head. Then soaring back up. Not behaving like sweet little hummingbirds at all. These hummingbirds totally blew my prior image all hummingbirds. I was utterly disappointed in their behavior. I wanted to give them a talking to, but I was afraid of what other weird animal behaviors might occur in response.
By the time I tweeted (another odd animal there) what I was seeing. It was over. Proof that my tweeting is a tad slow. No hilarious video. No facebook picture. It was gone. Just a silly story mixed in with a phoo phoo day.

Picking up Crazy on Benton Road
Some things are just funny. It’s not a making fun of people kind of funny, or an outlandish coincidence kind of funny. It is just funny.
Driving home from Street Church, two of the Katies and I were having a deep conversation on the state of the homeless in NW LA. As we passed by a church that was just ending their Saturday afternoon service, an elder woman was walking away from the church. She had on a pink fuzzy sweater. Did I mention that it was 94 degrees and nearly 100% humidity, and rain was beginning to fall? She wore a purple skirt and a pink tightly knitted cap. On her feet were the biggest, fluffiest pair of hot pink slippers ever made.
I had to pull over and stop. I ran back to her. She did not seem surprised that I had stopped, almost if she was expecting me. I asked if we could give her a ride, she looked at me as if it was a stupid and obvious question. She was just going up the road… to the bingo palace. I helped her into the car.
A red van pulled over behind us. Out comes another woman to talk to the hot pink slipper woman, she wanted to give her a ride. “I’ve already gotten up in this car, I’ll just ride with these women.” The 2nd woman finally tells pink slippers that she’s her brother-in-law’s wife. After a short little family reunion, off we go to the bingo palace.
On the way, pink slippers explained to us that because 2 people tried to pick her up, it’s a sign from God that she’s going to win. In the five miles to the palace, pink slippers entertained us with a bizarre conversation about how God works through bingo.
Sometimes I think we want to see God in places He’d rather not be taken. I can’t imagine God looking for “B-8” nor can I imagine Him in some the swankier places I go. Maybe we all wear pink fuzzy slippers and walk down Benton Road sometimes taking God where He’d does not want to go. And maybe we all make wild claims about God’s character and His ways.
We might have picked up crazy in pink slippers on Benton Road, but for sure, God was in the car that day!

Mother’s Day. There are some days that I do not like. And I almost feel guilty for saying this but Mother’s Day is one of them. Each year, I celebrate thru April, grasping on each day so that it lasts until the very last drop. Then May comes with the jasmine smell deluding me into thinking that this year, Mother’s day will be different and I’ll be able to put away my dislike of the day and truly enjoy it.  Don’t get me wrong. I love being with my kids- they’re the best and spoil me completely. And although most years find Paul with his mom on the day, he knows my love language is diamonds-or any other surprisingly wonderful gift!

The problem is that deep inside I find the whole day a little forced. It’s like people are forced to appreciate and honor their moms on this one day so on the rest of the days they can make fun of, take advantage of, and generally neglect. Doesn’t that seem a little weird, or is just me? Now, I’m not saying my family does that, not at all… although they do enjoy a good joke on mom! Just in general it seems like most moms are stretched pretty thin, even on Mother’s Day.

One mother told me, she was tired of the stress that Mother’s Day causes her. She’s never had one that was focused on her. She spends the day cooking for her mom, finding the perfect mother-in-law’s gift, and now making sure her children get to enjoy their mother’s day. She’s sandwiched between mothers. What she’d really like is a little peace and quiet, a day of no expectations. Wow, what would that be like?  Can’t imagine, and I’m a pretty creative person.

I think my problem is that I like authenticity. I like emotions that come from a deep and special place from within. I like days to be treasured because of the spontaneity of emotions and connections.  I want honoring a mother to be authentic, and coming on a random day of special meaning- like my kids’ birthday. That’s my real mother’s day, the day out of the year I feel most a mother. When my heart almost bursts with joy as I celebrate the people who’s birth most changed my life. Without them, I wouldn’t be a mother.

Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe we should celebrate mothers on the anniversaries of their children. And maybe we should celebrate birthdays on Mother’s Day, showing appreciation for making us mothers. Hummm, wonder if the same thing would work for Father’s Day?

I talked to a homeless man whose story reminded me of a compass spinning around the globe out of control. He had a cowboy haircut. In jumps and dives, he told one story of going to Iraq, coming home a broken man, making mistakes. His meth-cracked teeth told another story. I asked if he was sober. He stopped his stuttering story and asked what I meant. He denied any addictions. The denial signaled a new level of trying to sell the victimized broken man story. He ramped up the pressure when he asked if he could be baptized. He threw in a story of a girlfriend who belonged to our church. In the true sense of any good country music song, the girl left him high and dry this week.

His desperation left me exhausted. The compassion in me was extinguished by this lies. I found myself wondering what had happened to me. Once home, I did some thinking. I came to an understanding. I was physically and emotionally numb. My senses had become overloaded and stuffed. I was swollen with thoughts that needed to be flung out into the world and exercised. I needed to write. I was created to write. Writing keeps me grounded and safe. When I don’t write I become talkative and dangerous. Too talkative. Scary because words spoken easily become little darts and arrows.  When I am exhausted I sling words around carelessly.  Writing makes me careful, measured.

I am writing to prevent myself from becoming like the man with the spinning compass. I’m writing because when I write the ideas grow into a power I could never generate.