Diary of an ImageBearer

Giving from a Grateful Heart (Caleb's Birthday!)

2011-11-24T18:19:00.000-05:00

The cell phone connection crackled and sent me shuffling tofind better reception. “They sent a picture of a little boy . . .” I strainedto hear my sister’s voice. “His name is Eduard . . . but it sounds like Edik.”Tears filled the spaces between words. Thechild for whom we’ve been praying now has a name, and a face.

The named boy waited in a village orphanage somewhere inSiberia while paperwork and processes took place. These processes took severalmonths from that early October referral. But delivery day finally arrived whenthe orphanage director in Kemerovo, Russia placed fourteen-month-old Eduardinto the arms of his God-appointed parents—naked.

Orphanages can barelyafford to feed the children forced into their care, let alone give away a setof clothes to every child adopted out. So Caleb’s mama and papa redressedhim in clothes they brought from Ohio, just for him. They also shared some familygifts of clothing and toys with the sweet caregivers.

In five days, CalebEdik Vladimir Eckley will turn nine years old. He’s a boy full of life, livinga story of hope. And I get to be his aunt. The blessing of him fills my heart.

A few days ago, my sis offered some sweet updates on lifefor Caleb. He wrote a story for school called “Grandma’s Garden” that wound upencouraging his teacher whose grandma recently passed away. Football finished,and he’s now connecting more with good-for-him friends. After seeing a newsstory about a young girl who gathered shoes for orphans in Guatamala, he said, “Mom, I want to do that too.”

My nearlynine-year-old nephew loves Jesus. He wants to make a difference in the lives oforphans and other kids in need.

Next Saturday, on the3^rd of December, fifteen of Caleb’s friends will gather at his houseto celebrate his birthday. On the invitation, he asked for hats and mittens orgloves. Not for him, but for kids who need them and can’t afford them.He’ll donate their gifts to a ministry near his home called Truly Warm. (http://trulywarm.org)

Truly Warm exists toshare the love of the God in the Bible by clothing children in need. “Ineeded clothes and you clothed Me” (Matthew 25:36). In particular, they providecoats to children in the Dayton area who can’t afford them. When Denise readtheir homepage, she declared through her tears, “That’s not enough. Those kids need hats and gloves.” A perfect fitfor Caleb’s heart. His grandma (my mom) sent handmade mittens and scarves forhis mama and papa to give the kids at the orphanage in Kemerovo.

When I got off the phone with my sister, I knew what to giveCaleb for his birthday—more of what he asked for! Last year, Truly Warm gavecoats to more than 300 kids. Caleb isconcerned that he won’t have enough hats and gloves to share with all the kidswho need them.

So I’m going to help him get a little closer . . .

By gathering as many hatsand pairs of gloves or mittens as I can from friends who love Jesus and want tomake a difference in the lives of orphans and other kids in need. Want tohelp? I knew you would.

Here are some options:

• Get me your hats and gloves or mittens. If you’dlike to include a note of birthday encouragement or Scripture for Caleb or thekids he’s serving, SWEET! Be sure to tell him you’re a friend of Aunt Robin’s! I’llbox them all up and send them off as a surprise for the “named boy.”

Robin Stanley

Cell: 407-221-0954

Call to connect for a drop off orfor my address!

• Send your gloves or mittens directly toCaleb in time for his birthday party. Shoot me a note so I can tell Denise tolook for your pkg. Include a note letting Caleb know you’re a friend of AuntRobin’s! He’ll like making the connection.

DeniseEckley

http://trulywarm.org

260 West Pugh

Springboro, OH 45066

• Visit the Truly Warm site & make a donation for Caleb’s birthday.

• If you’re not in position logistically orfinancially to help Caleb help kids in his area, will you consider doingsomething for kids where you live? Do what Denise did. Search out a local charity that makes sense for you and your family.Then love like Jesus loves. Give like Jesus gives—not with your bank account,but with your life.

OThou who has given us so much, mercifully grant us one thing more, agrateful heart. —George Herbert

What are you doing to help orphans and other kids in need? Leave a comment to share your ideas for giving from a grateful heart.

Abundant Simplicity Winner Announced

2011-08-06T01:22:00.000-04:00

And the winner of the Abundant Simplicity

giveaway is

Louise Feldmann!!!

Thanks to all of you who stopped by to read the review

and leave a comment. Simplicity seems to be something many of us seek in our busy, pumped-up lives. I'll be praying with you.

Louise, email me your address (robin@o3-free.org), and I'll be happy to send your book out on Monday.

Run Light for Life: A Review of Abundant Simplicity

2011-07-31T02:22:00.002-04:00

In a society conditioned for upgrades, from heated seats to biggie drinks, many of us find ourselves reaching for more. More soda, more cars, more music, more coffee, better coffee, better connections, a better contract, a bigger house, a bigger name, a longer list, a longer life.

We can’t possibly maintain all we aspire to, but we attempt to pack all we can into our 24/7 make-it-or-die-trying lifestyles. We run hard after life as we see it, feel it, desire it, deserve it. What we see, we must have. What we must have, we must have now. And our wheels spin with our hands full as we race forward, over-burdened, over-stimulated and overwhelmed. We passionately pursue a success that promises life but steals away our breath.

In Jan Johnson's newest release, Abundant Simplicity, she challenges us to “replace cultural perceptions of success with thoughts of treasuring God, investing our life in what He is doing and devoting ourselves to the good of other people.”

Image licensed by DepositPhotos.com/MilanVasicek

Treasuring God sounds simple. Maybe you think you already do. Perhaps you feel you max out your investment in others. But consider the potential of a life free from the entanglements of serving two masters (Matthew 6:24), driven by a single-minded focus on God alone. Can you imagine running the race of life in such an unencumbered way?

With a knowing grace, Johnson reveals how the disciplines of simplicity help us to run like Paul did, “[Laying] aside every weight that hinders us (Hebrews 12:1 NRSV).” Not everything we carry is self-serving. Our weights may be good things with good motives. “But transformation into Christlikeness is much more difficult when we’re encumbered,” Jan writes. “Cross-country runners can cross a finish line wearing a twenty-pound backpack or trailing tangled shoelaces, but the race is much more difficult. Expect God to continually woo you to cast aside that backpack full of distractions.”

This requires courage to make hard choices. Intentional choices. Choices that go against the grain of society. But, “as we favor deliberate life choices over blind consumption and compulsion, we stop doing just whatever other people—even church people—do. We find rest in keeping our focus on loving God and joining God in loving others.” We leave space for relationships and for response to relationships, first with God and then with others.

Johnson leads with a shepherd’s heart, taking us to safe places where we can identify our entanglements and experience the freedom that comes from choosing simplicity of speech, ownership, acquisition, time, leisure and everyday tasks, among others. She offers experiments to help in the process, encouraging us to modify them as we listen for God and learn to reflect on our own needs. “Focus on a simplicity practice as you can do it, however imperfectly, not as others do it or the supposed one right way to do it.”

When we practice simplicity in a way that’s right for us, we “create a life of much by choosing a life of less.” We cast off excess weight so we can run this race with passion, living life full and free.

I'm giving away a copy of Abundant Simplicity! Just leave a comment and tell me why you want it. Winner announced Friday, August 5.

Look for Jan Johnson and me at the CLASS Christian Writers Conference, November 2-6, 2011. Jan is leading devotions for the morning sessions, and I get to lead worship!

InterVarsity Press provided a complimentary copy of Abundant Simplicity: Discovering the Unhurried Rhythms of Grace for my review. For more information or to order your own copy visit their website. This review first appeared in the July/August issue of the CLASS Communique.

Craving Conversation

2011-03-12T04:14:00.000-05:00

I'm craving conversation. (Not good for a west coast night owl whose most chatty friends live on the other side of the country!) Suddenly I realize that it's the end of the day, and I haven't uttered a single audible word to a single soul, except maybe to say "thank you" to the kind gentleman who held the door for me at the post office. No wonder!

The awareness doesn't make me sad. I have many other means of connecting, which I've used well today. A few text exchanges with an east coast buddy kept me in my car laughing like crazy for a good half hour in the post office parking lot. A flurry of emails flew in and out as projects moved along throughout the day. I even chatted a while ago on facebook with a Florida friend whose throbbing toe was keeping her up late. But it makes me wonder how many people go days at a time without a verbal connection. And that does make me sad.

Our voices, with all their God-given nuances & subtleties, are an intimate part of who we are. Friends recognize me, not just my voice, as soon as I say hello on the telephone. The tone and texture of my voice are unique to me. Even my Droid recognizes my voice as belonging to me. It responds when I give it a verbal command to search or to dial. My voice speaks as much to my identity as the impression of my fingerprints do, lined across the bottom of my birth certificate.

Tomorrow, when I can choose between the two dimensional expression of an email, and the rich, intimate expression of the human voice, I think I might choose to call the audible.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Psalm 139:14a (NIV)

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

2011-03-07T09:35:00.000-05:00

I read books much like a crane captures his dinner. He flies low across the lake then dives headlong and deep once he spies something worth catching. After hovering high over A Million Miles in a Thousand Years for weeks with no commitment, I gifted it to a friend who really wanted it. At Christmas time, she sent it back! No, not a return. A re-gifting, of sorts, with an attached note saying she enjoyed the book so much she wanted me to borrow it. And read it. “But,” she concluded, “You don’t have to read it all.” She knows me. If she says it’s my turn to read, I’ll take my turn.

I’m glad I did.

When Blue Like Jazz came out, Donald Miller’s mega-hit memoir, I tried like crazy to love the book all my friends couldn’t live without. I couldn’t get past the first few chapters. But I’m not the same girl I was then. Nor is Donald the same guy.

I took in every word on every page of Million Miles and celebrated life. His. Mine. Even yours. For in the span of these pages, beginning to end, Donald moved from being an “incidental memoirist” to becoming a “deliberate mentor.” He writes his journey of transformation in a way that brings me up close to his story and connects me with my own, inviting me into something more, as a good mentor would.

Donald’s wit and delivery make me laugh. Yet I’m struck by the depth of insight he seems to speak over his shoulder while engaging with the story unfolding in front of him. He sees. And as he sees, he ascribes meaning to the life he finds. Not as an observer, but as a witness. He allows himself to enter fully into a scene and be affected by it. Then he testifies to the Truth in it.

He describes times when he would rather stay on the couch than stand up to choose a better life, a better story. But varying incidences bring him into the company of some outstanding people. People who see him. People who enter into his story and affect his character arc. He embraces their influence and receives their insight. They guide him into positive turns and help him to avoid negative ones.

In a scene toward the end of the book, Donald describes kayaking with his friends up the Jervis inlet in British Columbia. A mile-wide inlet with cliffs on either side, “the stone faces of the mountains come into the water like walls.” They had been up since before dawn, stopped to spend the day with an unexpected friend and found themselves paddling through the hardest part of their journey in the pitch of night. “If it weren’t for the other guys in the kayaks, I would have quit that night. . . . I would have lay down in my hatch and slept and drifted out with the tide.”

But he didn’t quit. Not on his friends. Not on his life. He responded to his mentors, and he’s living a better story because of it. Come to think of it, so am I.

To read more from Donald Miller and to find out how to GET A FREE PAPERBACK COPY OF A MILLION MILES THAT JUST RELEASED, visit http://donmilleris.com/.

To see the impact of his transformation, visit http://thementoringproject.org/. They’re looking for summer interns!

To consider the impact of your story, give a look:

What story are you telling? from Rhetorik Creative on Vimeo.

PRICELESS Giveaway for Slavery Awareness: Winner Announced

2011-01-12T22:25:00.000-05:00

Thank you to all who responded to the invitation to know more about human trafficking. I literally wrote out your names and put them in my special bowl. I'll continue praying for each of you by name and welcome any continued contact you desire. I also welcome your prayers as I continue asking God to show me how to respond with the gifts I've been given.

I'll be sending two copies of PRICELESS by Tom Davis to Pastor Joe Wilson. One for him to read and one to give away on his blog, from the pulpit, over dinner, however he chooses.

I had a third copy to share from my stash, so I drew a second name. Surprise! I'll be sending "Fiddlin' Momma" that copy. She gets to decide whether to read it herself, pass it along for someone else. Or both!

While I'm posting "winners," I'm confident God will use these books and our open hearts in ways we can't today fathom. I have a feeling He already is. We may never know the names of the real winners as we use what we now know to perpetuate awareness and offer hope for victims of human trafficking.

God bless you.

Robin

To know more about Tom Davis or the ministry of Children's HopeChest, visit http://blog.beliefnet.com/redletters/ or http://www.hopechest.org/.

PRICELESS Giveaway for Slavery Awareness

2011-01-12T00:31:00.000-05:00

Earlier today I promised an opportunity to win a copy of Priceless, by my friend Tom Davis. He's the real deal. A man who loves God and ministers in response from the gifts he's been given.

God asks the same of me. To love Him and respond from what He's given. Among other things, I've been given the gift of words, an audience and a message. Even if you take away the 500 or so people who "hide" my posts (HA!), I can still connect with about 1000 people, just through facebook, not including Twitter or my blog. Yep. That's a gift. By using what I already possess, I have the potential to change the story of many lives, mine and yours included. I have to respond! And one simple way I can do that is with an invitation to you, my readers.

Today was designated National Human Trafficking Awareness Day. When I saw it posted, I remembered that I have been wanting to give away a copy of Priceless. It's a novel based on the horrific stories of young girls Tom knows in Russia. He uses real places and describes real circumstances many orphans in Russia have to deal with. They're lured with the promise of a better life, given new clothes, offered a job, put on a plane, and sold into the bondage of slavery—trafficked for sex. In spite of finding himself in life-threatening situations as he partners to rescue helpless girls, Tom's lead character, Stuart Daniels, discovers that he's stronger than he thought. In the process he leads us to see that "hope can be found in the darkest of places."

And he challenges us. He challenged me. In addition to the millions already held captive by trafficking, 1.2 million children are trafficked all over the world every year. That's a lot of kids walking in a darkness most of us can't fathom. With their identities stripped and nowhere to call home, they're lost. Not just in Russia or in cities somewhere other than where we live. But in our own neighborhoods. No kidding.

To help raise awareness of the magnitude of trafficking and to practice the art of giving from what I've been given, I'm giving away a copy of Priceless. Tomorrow, Wednesday, at 4:00pm, PST I'll choose randomly from among those of you who leave a comment on this blog or on the note on my facebook page. But FIRST, I'm inviting you to something more:

• Visit the site or facebook page of one of these organizations. I'm associated with several in one way or another.

• Pray as you go, asking God to show you what you have that you can use to change the story for just one victim of slavery.

• Then RESPOND. Maybe you'll post a link to an organization on your fb page or forward my note to your list or be nudged to give money or attend a conference.

In your comment to me, let me know your response or that you're praying about a response. I'm not gathering info, and I won't follow up with you unless you win (or want me to). I just want to come alongside you with what I've been given and pray.

Oh, one more thing! I'll send not one but TWO copies of Priceless to the winner. How's that? One to read and one to pass along to a friend. It will be good practice in giving away from what you already have!

Thank you for reading. I can't wait to see what God does with this simple response!

Tom Davis's Blog

Children's HopeChest web or Children's HopeChest facebook

pureHOPE or pureHOPE facebook

Stop Traffick Fashion web or Stop Traffick Fasion facebook

Not for Sale Campaign web or Not for Sale Campaign facebook

Courage to Be You web or Courage to Be You facebook

International Justice Mission web or International Justice Mission facebook

Hagar International web or Hagar International facebook

Stop Child Trafficking Now web or Stop Child Trafficking Now facebook

An Empty Beggar's Bowl

2010-08-31T11:41:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting here looking at an empty bowl on my table. I put it there to remind me that I'm a beggar. I am nothing except for the grace of Christ. As a monk takes his bowl into the community and receives from gracious hands his portion for the day, I hold my bowl heavenward to receive from the Lord my portion for the day. And usually, it is enough.

Not today. There are too many people hurting, dealing with grief, struggling to hear hope, dying senseless deaths, sitting by hospital beds watching their young child barely breathing. Doctors' reports are grim. My heart feels heavy. So tonight, as I intercede for several friends in need, I find myself begging God for more. To say more. To do more. To heal more.

Josh Hunter's five year old daughter Ava lies speechless and barely breathing in a hospital bed in Orlando. In late June, doctors removed from her brain a tangerine sized tumor. He writes nearly daily to keep things sorted out and to update the thousands of visitors who now frequent his blog. Thousands.

What draws us? I don't know Josh personally, though I do know his parents, and we have mutual friends. But many who leave notes and pray for this family have no association but to be a part of the "holy catholic church."

I can only conclude that, if you're like me, we long to see God. To be present as He reveals Himself to and through a little girl just like ours. A dad just like us. A wife. A family. A community. We wait for the miracle that will astound the world. And marvel at the everyday miracle of those barely-there breaths. We grimace at the uncertainty of life, but we can't. take. our. eyes. off of Ava.

She helps us see that maybe God isn't as far away as He sometimes seems. And she reminds us that we don't need God to do more. We need to see Him more in what He is already doing.

In Ava's weakened state, the glory of God sits very near. I see Him. In the vulnerable words of her father, the tired shoulders of her mother held in the loving arms of a friend. In a family hurting together, walking beside each other on good days and bad. In a community praying, supporting, serving, even holding vigil for healing. Hope lights the darkened hallways of that hospital.

Life flows in and among and around and through this little girl and her family. A family who reaches heavenward, bowls in hand, to receive from the Lord His portion for the day. And trusts His grace to be enough.

Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty." John 6:35

If you'd like to read more about Ava or pray with her family, visit her dad, the Daily Philosopher, at his blog.

Freedom from Obscurity

2009-09-18T11:29:00.000-04:00

Here's a woman whose story unfolds on an international stage because she stepped out from her hiddenness. First peeking from behind the curtain, then bravely walking with her head up, straight to center stage. Freed from obscurity because she was seen. Seen, not for the attention-grabbing glitz so many rely on, but for her glory. Her God-given gift. Seen. Acknowledged. Invited to be present in her life.

Amazing, isn't it, what a little positive attention can do for a person?

If there's a Susan Boyle in your life, will you dare to look her in the eye and declare to her the truth of who she is? Change her life from the inside out. Be for her a reflection of the Creator's heart toward His beloved creation.

Her world won't be the same when she is present in it, in all her glory, and neither will yours.

A 9-11 Observance

2009-09-12T00:41:00.000-04:00

Midway through the day that forever altered the landscape of our lives, I saw a man interviewed on television. Covered in the ashes of those long to be remembered, he attempted to recount his reaction to the chaos unfolding just blocks from where he crouched behind a Chrysler, waiting. I sat stunned. I spent most of the morning worrying about my parents, wishing they would call. They left from my house in Cincinnati, heading north toward Pittsburgh, hours before I turned on the news. This man broke through my frantic activity. Grief hit, and I cried for what seemed hours. The images etched in my mind expressed themselves on paper this way:

The silence absorbs me.

Soot,

Representing that which once stood

tall and proud,

Falls quietly around me.

Its blackness covers the earth;

It covers me. . .

I wait.

Fear paralyzes me.

Moments pass,

Maybe hours,

until finally

I stand.

My arms raise,

Burdened with the weight

Charred existence.

I cry out.

"Have mercy."

Mom's Sideline Encouragement

2009-04-21T21:04:00.000-04:00

The corner comes more quickly than anticipated, but Mom negotiates it with precision skill. While she "sticks it" with all four wheels owning their share of the pavement, my stomach leaps and threatens to abandon ship before we reach the next intersection. "Still with us?" I shout over my shoulder. Poor Dad clings to life in the rumble seat. Rain drops threaten to ruin this evening's fun. But Dad assures us that he won't melt, and we should stick to the plan.

So Mom continues darting from one side of the road to the other, responding to familiar voices or the glow of porch lights. We slow up for answers to the question of the night, "When are you heading out?" And stop for an occasional good-bye hug. We even work in an introduction or two that goes something like this: "This is our daughter. She's famous." (jk!)

Our ride on the golf cart that Monday evening reminded me how much my mom loves being around people. This small community of retirees suits her well. And for that long weekend, it suited me too. We shared tears, laughed a lot, soaked in the sun, and celebrated Easter. We played Phase Ten with friends, ate ourselves silly, and watched movies. Not only does Mom love being around people, she loves being around me.

And for that long weekend, I set aside my busyness, welcomed our time together and remembered how much fun she brought to my growing up years. How many moms situate themselves behind the plate (literally, a paper plate home base substitute) to receive their daughter's oncoming pitch? A daughter whose arm caught the eye of a college team recruiter and whose slow pitch suddenly needed to transform into fast pitch for the state softball tournament? My mom did! She shagged grounders, tossed me balls so that I could learn to square myself for a bunt, and attended nearly every game I ever played. The whole team counted on her sideline encouragement.

One of her famous battle cries, "Stanley, get the lead out!" often pushed me from first to second, stretching me to leave everything on the field — even skin from hitting the dirt in a not-so-graceful-but-successful slide. Mom always believed I possessed something extraordinary that knew no physical limitations. Whenever I would rebound with "I can't run fast like the other kids." She'd say, "You're not like the other kids. You're my kid." Essentially, she wasn't content to let me settle for less than I could do. She knew better. While I sometimes wanted to yell back, "Stop pushing me!" guess who sported the most RBIs at the end of the season?

I can't imagine how different my life would be without my mom. I don't want to. When I'm haunted by silent sidelines, and I need reassurance that I have within me what I need to accomplish the scary thing in front of me, I call Mom. Not because she uses the most eloquent and

wonderful words. She doesn't have to. But because she believes in the God-thing in me, even when she may not understand it. Knowing she's with me lightens my load. Hearing her stories and her familiar laugh, lightens my heart.

Sometimes Mom's encouragement comes in shouts from the sidelines. Sometimes it comes in the laughter of a wild ride in the rain. But it comes . . . it always comes. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I wouldn't be who I am without you. Every life I touch, you touch too. Remember that.

Birthday Celebration

2009-04-05T16:10:00.000-04:00

Another birthday passes, and I celebrate. . . .

A few more wrinkles. A few more gray hairs. A lot more life. Settling into my skin, I recognize the effects of time. Time with new friends. Time alone. Time spent waiting. Learning to love. Being loved. Emerging. Stronger than before. Resilient. Compassionate. Radiant. Real.

Another birthday passes, and I celebrate. . . .

Discovery of Truth. Beauty unveiled. A rising up. A discerning spirit. A yielded heart. Grace eases in. The coming season borrows from the past only that worth taking forward. The joys. The sorrows. The breath. Hope renewed. Life revealed. Trusting. Leaning. Even leaping.

Another birthday passes, and I celebrate. . . .

A woman in love. Intimate. Secure. Known.

Faith and Falling

2009-04-05T12:27:00.000-04:00

A couple of you asked where to read the writings of Leigh McLeroy. I'm reading her book, The Beautiful Ache: Finding the God Who Satisfies When Life Does Not. http://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Ache-Finding-Satisfies-When/dp/0800731417

Last week I read a chapter called FAITH AND FALLING, The Ache of Trusting. After describing some wild leaps of faith that included skydiving, Leigh went on to use the example of Mary, which left me pondering. "Mary faithfully received the words of the angel and just as trustingly received 'the Word implanted' that was able to save her soul and mine. And her one sustained 'yes' brought his sweet kingdom closer than it had ever been before. Trusting does that every time."

She goes on to say, "If Mary had doubted that God meant to do good both to and through her, she might not have answered as she did. But she didn't trust the plan—she trusted the One who made the plan. She couldn't see the future, but with her eyes of faith she could see the One who shaped it. Her steadfast assurance of God's love compelled her to relinquish control of her very body to a preposterous idea, but God opened her heart long before he invaded her womb. She confessed her frailty and admitted that she was the recipient of power ('May it be done to me . . . ') but not its source. She took the free fall of faith because she was already a woman in love."

The words flow from my fingertips as tears flow down my cheeks, even now. Such power in this writer's language to represent our own. Speaking directly to us, she concludes: "If God has placed you in a moment that requires trust—or the long sustaining of it—he has brought you to a place of great intimacy and possibility. Trust is for lovers, not for strangers. So instead of asking 'Do I dare?' why not ask instead, 'Am I loved?' If the answer is yes, then trust is the only reasonable response."

"Trust is for lovers, not for strangers." Wow. I hadn't thought of it that way, really. Have you? Being placed in a position where we have to trust the Lover of Our Soul, whether in finances, friendships, or the future, CONFIRMS our relationship with Him; it doesn't challenge it. Are you feeling the release of that? I pray so.

Soaking Up Stories in Winter Park

2009-03-22T17:12:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago Facebook reconnected me to a friend through its 140-character-updates. Friday a shared appreciation for art and Winter Park reconnected our hearts with 140-sentence (or more) stories! We strolled down memory lane and walked the brick-laid streets while soaking up the sun and the stories comprising our lives.

Cheri moved to Orlando this week from Wisconsin. It’s been more than ten years since we last spent time together. But by the time we got our lunch at The Briar Patch, our Cincinnati-learned rhythms of conversation returned. You eat; I’ll talk. I’ll eat; you talk. You cry; I’ll stop. I’ll cry; you stop. You laugh; I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh; you laugh.

The patterns continued as we wandered through the crowd, pausing at times in the middle of the street to absorb the depth of the other’s words or to capture the glint of joy in the other’s eyes. But ours weren’t the only stories unfolding. Lining the walkways and byways of the park — nah, the entire town — master artists displayed their tales through various mediums. Clay, pounded metal, watercolors, batik, woven straw, blown glass, photographs, oils, even digital images all revealed the essence of something more.

We casually took in the occasional perspective of ships at sea and hillsides adorned with the colors of spring. We took time to consider the unique, discuss the eccentric, honor the beautiful. A few of these expressions took our breath away, and at once breathed life.

This scene from an Afrikan Market in MALI, vivid and true in its representation, held as its caption: The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life . . . and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life (William Faulkner).

Enthralled? I was too! Imagine it in uber-high resolution, taking up the whole corner of a booth! I could almost smell the sweet bananas and hear the marketers proclaim their goodness to us passersby.

From inside the booth, quietly inviting

us in to behold the outline of his life, hung a large image called The Prophet, taken in India. Every stunning detail of this man's face revealed a life far different from mine and brought me right up into his personal space.

How could this man’s breath have been captured without interrupting his breathing? Intimate. Welcoming. Soul-stirring. It’s a photograph, yet I imagined he might be reading the stories of my own heart. Impossible, I know. But it turned me to the Spirit of the Living God.

This group of young boys gathers around The Storyteller in Kashi, China.

Can you contain the smile that breaks out when you gaze upon these wonders? Words can hardly express the joy that spreads across my face. Wonder. An appreciation for the story.

Emerson Matabele engaged me with his visual storytelling. So real. So personal. So graceful. May it be that I would offer such care for the hearts of the people I encounter.

What a rich, rich day. Filled with laughter, refreshment, the warmth and glow of the sun, expressions of beauty in art, and the stories we shared as we reveled in the life and breath of God's creation.

Let everything that has breath praise the LORD. Psalm 150:6

Pluto's Demotion

2009-02-11T10:48:00.000-05:00

In his recent FaceBook status, a friend shared that he had just heard about Pluto, adding "that's messed up, right?"

Some astronomical committee meets to discuss the condition of the stratosphere, and without warning, a planet long known to be a part of our solar system loses clout. Its voice drowned out by the drone of human opinion, poor Pluto is stripped from its planetary position and the identity that has set it apart for decades. Now, devalued and without distinction, the planet formerly known as Pluto simply goes by the number 134340.

Yes, Chad, it's messed up. But it's not the end.

The story continues as Pluto's demotion creates a public stir. And out of the mess this one-time planet emerges a "star." USA Today reported that the American Dialect Society chose the word “plutoed” as their 2006 Word of the Year!

(http://www.usatoday.com/tech/science/space/2007-01-08-plutoed-word_x.htm)

One who has been plutoed has been demoted or devalued.

Have you ever been plutoed? Perhaps not by a group of scientists looking to clarify your identity, but by the deceiver looking to steal your identity?

He's crafty and quiet. So there will be no announcement in the newspaper and no obvious outcry of public support for your self-worth. He will use anything he can to get you off course, cause you to feel defeated, distract you from the truth of Whose and who you are. The distractions may come in a variety of ways. Finances. Health. Job loss. Loss of life. Disappointment at the hands of friends. Isolation threatens.

And, if you're not aware, a potentially life-threatening condition of the heart will emerge. Blood no longer carries oxygen to the brain. All logic and knowledge of Truth disappear. Your head droops. Your eyes lose their light, and you begin to gasp for air. Then you'll climb into your burrow to suffer silently throughout the duration of your demotion.

Loneliness will become your only companion. This condition can keep you separated from life for days—even years. But it doesn't have to.

Look out from your burrow toward the sky and consider what happened to the planet formerly known as Pluto. Its demotion left it with only a number for identification at the hands of humans. But does this quiet little planet not still hang in the very spot where the Creator first suspended it? Unscathed by human opinion, its true identity still in tact? Still on its intended course, proclaiming with its every rotation the glory and goodness of God?

Absolutely. Now hear this Truth: The subversive words of the deceiver have no greater power over you.

Though strong and sometimes confirmed by human opinion, they spout only lies. Don't let them strip away your true identity. Remember Whose you are. "Even before he made the world, God loved [you] and chose [you] . . . to adopt [you] into his own family by bringing [you] to himself through Jesus Christ" (Ephesians 1:4-6).

Re-Gifted Winter Weather Advisory

2008-12-18T00:54:00.000-05:00

As friends sit by cozy fires watching snow gather on their window sills —even in southern Texas! — I sit in my cozy chair listening to a whirring fan overhead, remembering past blessings of unexpected snow. The memories bring perspective and contribute well to my quiet celebration.

One such memory took me back to my apartment in Cincinnati, where, on January 21, 2007, I received the gift of a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! I'll re-gift my journal entry here. . . .

I awoke this morning to receive from God a very special gift: a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! Four inches worth—give or take a flake.

Excited to celebrate this first snowfall in my usual way, I quickly tucked my toes deep into my slippers and hurried out to the balcony. My head tipped back, and my hands stretched up as I closed my eyes to let the wintry sweetness scatter across my face. Each flake softly awakened a nerve ending somewhere between the tips of my eyelashes and the small dimple bringing together the two halves of my otherwise ordinary chin. I was in heaven . . . and still in my pajamas!

What is it about freshly fallen snow that calls to the kid buried in the heart of nearly every one of us? There must be something. The park next door brimmed with childlike wonder from young and old alike. Families engaged in snowball fights. Older couples walked arm in arm, slowly taking in the sights. Laughter erupted from the hillside as sleds tipped and dads slipped.

While making my way around the park’s path, each step accompanied by the satisfying crunch of icy goodness under my feet, I became aware of a strange sensation. A smile had escaped the intensity of my grown up thoughts. My heartbeat slowed, and a stillness infused my wandering spirit to its very depths.

So, this is what it’s like to be in the moment. I haven’t been here in a long time, and it may be a while before I pass this way again. My memory begins to awaken. I scan the untouched canvas of white spread before me, looking for the perfect spot to leave my signature mark. It’s a mark I’ve made at least once in nearly every year of my life at the first sight of freshly fallen snow. A mark that serves as indelible proof that I was there and did not let God’s gift slip by unnoticed.

Rising from the frosted earth, an old oak tree stood poised to protect well the patch of white beneath it. With the infectious sounds of winter play drawing out the child in me, I carefully stepped from the path to position myself under the branches of that old oak. Inhibitions vanished and laughter burst from the now unguarded center of my spirit as I let myself fall back into the powdery softness behind me.
There I lay, flat on my back, flailing about in the snow like a little kid. Unashamed and lost in the moment, I celebrated the goodness of God, thanking him for his wintry gift.

After several minutes of this satisfying, childlike worship, I scrambled to my feet. In my spot on the canvas of white remained the imprint of a snow angel. Proof that I was there and had not let God’s gift slip by.

Before heading for home, I paused for one more breath.

While the snow presented to me a wonderful gift, the greater gift became evident as I stepped outside myself to worship God without encumbrances. My brain uncluttered and my heart unfettered, he freed my spirit to soar without the boundaries of my adult-sized frame.

Whatever it is about freshly fallen snow that brings me to that place, I want more.

More snow. More stillness. More laughter.

More opportunities to step outside the intensity of my grown up thoughts, so I can experience more God. I’m on the lookout. How about you?

Every Life for Good

2008-06-22T14:08:00.000-04:00

"He didn't make it."

The sting of these words scatter my thoughts today. They're the words my brother used when he called Mom late Friday night. The birth of his son, William Steven Stanley, had come a month too soon.

He separated from his life source. No warning. No shout from his cozy growing space. His active body simply stopped.

No one knows why.

But we do know the sting is real. Losing life hurts. When life ends, grief grows toward a season of sorrow. And sorrow mingles among the tears of the living, weaving its way through a family, a community.

When God set loose his breath within this tiny human form and provided parents for his nurturing and protection, he intended for good.

He intends every life for good.

My brother grapples for understanding as he attempts to dismantle the beginnings of a nursery. "Robin, we saw the baby clap his hands. The nurse doing the ultrasound said that maybe he would grow up to be a gospel singer. No matter what she did, he just kept clapping." His voice trailed off. "Now I can't get this . . . this crib thing apart. I just put it together . . . you'd think I could figure it out."

A picture of his hurt, his helplessness.

Oh, God, I feel his hurt. His struggle with the finite nature of the human body. His frustration with not being able to make things better.

I haven't seen my brother Jim in over a year. I saw, then, his tearful journey with sorrow as our great Aunt Pearle lay unresponsive after a severe stroke. When I entered her room, he looked up at me from the foot of her bed, his heart broken. Tears poured out his helplessness. "She's not going to make it." I wrapped my arms around his neck. We cried together.

She didn't make it.

At her funeral, in our sorrow, we found a way to express our love and celebrate the impact of her long life. We remembered sitting on the steps while she told of her travels, pointing at a different salt shaker for every state she'd been in. We marveled at the way she brought life to those around her, even from a wheelchair when she broke a hip and couldn't be her normal bustling self.

God intends every life for good.

I wish today that I could wrap my arms around my brother's neck. I know that I can't make his hurt go away. I don't want to make his hurt go away. But I would sit with him in his sorrow. I would celebrate with him the short life of his stillborn son. And I would help him see how the sorrow in his tears and Cheryle's tears and Mom's tears and Dad's tears and my tears and his friend's tears mingle together to validate that life.

A life that God intends for good.

A Man of Few Words

2008-06-16T02:50:00.000-04:00

I talked to my dad today. In his usual way, his words were few, though well-chosen and without complication. "You can call more often, Honey. I don't always know when to call you."

My dad wants me in his life. . . .

A couple of weeks ago, nearing the end of a short visit to their winter home in Sebring, Florida, I sat with Mom and Dad after enjoying a wonderful dinner. Tears slipped down my cheeks, eventually choking out my voice, as I began to give them an unexpected glimpse into their daughter's story. God was calling me to a deeper place. A place that required cleansing. . . . and a vulnerability I found intensely risky.

Dad set aside his dinner and locked my gaze from across the table. I asked forgiveness for the facade, for the fear. Through trembling lips, my words came. Tumbling and awkward. "I need to know that you love me with my crap. Not just when I sing or when I get my name in a book." I paused. Then I emptied my heart. My chest heaved as sobs continually interrupted my less than eloquent story. In the end, all I had left were tears.

Within seconds, Dad made his way around the table. He wrapped my exposed soul in his arms and reminded me where I stood with him. "You just be who you are. I love you." I'm not sure I can remember the last time I laid my cheek across my dad's shoulder or experienced the comfort and safety of his extended embrace. He's a hugger, for sure, but not always the warm fuzzy, expressive type.

That day, within our small circle, I heard something I'd previously only assumed to be true: my dad loves me just the way I am. As I'm in the process of being perfected, letting go of old skin, walking into tomorrow's clothes, I'll have days of extreme doubt. But this man of few words— my dad, my protector—showed me the picture of Truth: I am wanted, and I am loved. No matter what.

I love my dad. He does a great imitation of Jesus.

Out . . . Out, I Say!

2008-04-30T02:46:00.000-04:00

Center stage, dimly lit, a woman stands — worn, distraught, silent, save for the constant rubbing of her hands. Left over right. Right over left. Each motion just as intense as the one preceding. Her face holds a hollow stare, even at the entrance of her maidservant and a companion.

The intruders pause.

The distance between their words expands to gather in the woman's mutterings.

"Out . . . Out, damned spot. Out, I say."

The torrid display of selfish ambition to which she had been an eager accomplice hangs heavy in the air. Memory of that murderous night slips itself around her neck like a noose, tightening with every labored breath.

". . . Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?"

The crimson stain, now etched in every wrinkle, every pore, labels the woman guilty. A murderer, far removed from the freedom and power she sought as queen alongside her famed husband Macbeth. Scrub all she may, the stains remain. No toil can quiet the demons of her soul or satisfy her soiled heart.

Sitting in the theater, eavesdropping on Lady Macbeth's torturous grief, I considered my own soiled heart. How many times have I scrubbed and scraped, desperate to dispel the stains of my sin? Stuck in shame, embarrassed in my weakness. Spilling every ounce of energy to make myself clean.

"Out . . . Out, I say."

My soul, restless, longs for quiet. The sorrow of my night displays the truth: I am helpless. No amount of scrubbing can return my heart to the condition of its youth.

The rift narrows. My rhythm slows. The scrubbing stops.

I remember now. . . . Jesus.

His love carried my sin to the cross — yesterday's sin, today's sin, even tomorrow's. The crimson blood, spilled out on my behalf, labels this woman forgiven. Forgiven and free. The chains are gone. I can be seen in full for whose and who I am. No hiding. No scrubbing. Just daily giving my heart to Jesus and receiving from Him, His heart for me.

My freedom? It came at a price. But He paid the price out of love — once, for all. And I am oh, so grateful.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Galatians 5:1-3 NIV

No Ordinary Sacrament

2008-04-20T13:09:00.000-04:00

Sacraments are ordinary things through which something extraordinary is offered. An ordinary bush ablaze with God's glory. Tablets of earthly stone engraved by a heavenly hand. The divine Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us.

— Ken Gire (Reflective Living)

God extends Himself through the people and experiences of my life — just as though they are sacraments. In those extraordinary moments, when the everyday begets the eternal, I see my Maker. And I know that I am looked after; I am loved.

Over the past few weeks, I found myself in the center of several such appointments.

Surrounded by mountains at the edge of Lake Tahoe during a women's retreat, I sat at the feet of the One whose mercy knows no limits — at a time when mercy seemed something I'd misplaced. How good of the Father to remind me of his ways by offering the grand effect of the earth buckling under seismic stress.

Imagine the crackling, the groaning as the ground shook and shifted, thrusting itself through the crust of the earth in relief. Not pretty. Yet the results rise up, a resounding display of God's glory. Evidence that even the most extreme circumstances manifest his beauty — out of his mercy — in his time. Might it be the same for me? Might the Father, in his profound mercy, set in motion a rising up out of the seismic stresses of my life? A rising up to display his beauty? His glory?

It hurts. This shifting. The groaning deafens my ear toward the quiet whispers of my Savior's heart.

But as we share together the sacraments of communion — both with the elements representing His body and blood, as well as with the community of friends He has gathered — the Word writes upon my heart His pleasure in me, His commitment to me. He extends Himself without measure.

He offers to me His life. A revelation of my Everlasting Father, a picture of mercy, a fulfillment of grace, a gift of love.

— Now THAT's no ordinary sacrament.

In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. . . . So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son. . . . From his abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another. For the law was given through Moses, but God’s unfailing love and faithfulness came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. But the unique One, who is himself God, is near to the Father’s heart. He has revealed God to us. From John 1 (NLT)

Real Life Role Models

2008-03-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

Sunday morning at First Baptist Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, a bubbly new friend bustled toward us before Sunday school started. Brooke wanted to take her kids' photo with Jennie and me. "You know why, don't you?" she inquired with her hospitable southern accent. Pulling a camera from the bag slung over her shoulder, Brooke looked up to see whether we "got it." My questioning glance must have been a cue to my cluelessness. "You're real-life role models. Adults my kids know who love Jesus and live with the same values we want them to have."

Gulp.

My heart stopped for a second, then melted. What an honor. We met only two days prior to this tender moment, but God connected us in a way that empowered and encouraged each of us. I'm grateful for relationship with Brooke. She loves God with her whole heart — and she loves her kids with intentionality.

At first breath, my knees went weak. The responsibility seemed immediately more than I dared think. But by the second breath, Brooke's request re-opened my eyes to the influence the Spirit can have from within me. I went to my knees, grateful for grace. Glad that godly influence doesn't require perfection, but a yielded and willing heart.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. Psalm 139:23, 24

. . . because Father, when Thomas and Abigail see our faces hanging on their fridge, as it pleases your heart, I want them to see you. May they remember the day when the author and her friend came to town as a day when you reached into their young, tender spirits to remind them how special they are in your sight. Thank you for the blessing of being your voice — for ones such as these and others whom you bring into our spheres of influence. Amen.

An Unexpected Valentine Gift

2008-02-09T15:06:00.000-05:00

I just received in the mail an unexpected Valentine from my mom. The instruction on her card reads, "To put toward your car repair." While the gift shuffles like paper and promises to pay out cash, something greater lies beyond the evident. In the corner of that promissory note, Mom had written: ImageBearer Mission.

Those words summoned my tender heart. Yes, I'm called to be the face (and hands, and feet) of God. To reflect toward others his heart for them. Called. It's my mission, my name, my identity.

While Mom may not always "get" the choices I've made in the past several months to sell my stuff (after selling my house a couple of years ago), leave my decent and steady income, insurance, family, friends, nephew, a name attached to a position to move to a land faraway (Ohio to Florida!) — she sees that I'm called. And in the calling, God has given me a new name. Somehow, some way, she sees.

In her uncertain, but loving way, Mom sees me a little more today for who I am. . . . and she wanted me to know. I love her for that. Receiving such an acknowledgement, especially from Mom, makes this calling, this name, this identity for me more real. It validates. It embraces.

It's like hearing a friend call you by name in the middle of a crowded airport after you've just landed from a very long trip — someone you haven't seen in a long time. Yet she still recognizes you. No, she knows you. And she states that she knows you in the very way she says your name. You hear her voice amidst the chaos. It reminds you that you're known — and loved — and everything's going to be all right.

Now THAT Valentine gift won't just sit somewhere on a shelf or simply pay for a shiny new crankshaft pulley.

Thank you, Mom, for loving me enough to share your resources and your heart. Happy Valentine's Day.

But now, this is what the LORD says—he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine." Isaiah 43:1 NIV

My Protector - He's at it again!

2008-02-09T02:34:00.000-05:00

The pesky noises plaguing my car for the past several months finally culminated in a grind-grind-clunk double-twist combo last weekend. The effect, as I flipped the first U-ie to park in front of the house, sent percussive breaths shooting from my lungs. A second U-ie confirmed the clunk and drained every bit of confidence I had taken away after the previous week's oil change. "There's nothing to worry about," the garage manager assured me. "We heard nothing out of place."

But there I was — out of place and out of sorts.

So I pulled up to the curb, cranked back the brake, and sat. The opposing silence created plenty of space for me to consider an appropriate response. I considered some more — and, yes, cried just a little — before emerging to inspect the street for any clunky, fallen engine parts. When I found nothing, I simply walked into the house, put away my groceries, and went on with my much-anticipated, quiet evening. What else could I do on a Saturday night?

Funny, isn't it, how ignoring a half ton, broken down vehicle can make it disappear — or at least sit, undistinguished, in the background.

After more than two days of denial passed, I finally braved the drive back to the garage. A quick turn of the ignition sobered the manager's otherwise cheery outlook. "This isn't good," he uttered, his head turning my direction from under the hood. Hmmm . . . not a pleasant way to begin a conversation. It turns out that a pulley broke clean off from the crank shaft, leaving the belt to waggle and the gadgets to sputter!

I sputtered too. My bank account cannot afford such nonsense! The manager, seeing and feeling my pain, began to call associates to track down parts, ahead of giving me a preliminary estimate. The result? Around $340. With screaming out of the question, I went about the business of fussing, trying desperately to anticipate whether I should take the car home, borrow a friend's car, and leave the cash in my account for "such time as it would be needed for something more important." In my old manner, I wanted to see what only God can see: the future!

A couple of phone calls later, and a reminder from the manager that my car wasn't driveable, I indicated the go-ahead with a less than enthusiastic thumbs up. "Take care of what's in front of you," I kept telling myself. "Worry about what's to come when it comes." Easy to say, but walking the way seemed beyond my ability. . . .

And, that's when I began to recognize the long armed anticipation of the One who promises to Protect. It hit me smack dab in the middle of my mess. In a few weeks, I'll be driving across the state to teach at the Florida Christian Writer's Conference. Not a terribly long drive, but what if that pulley had held on, lulling me into a false sense of security until — BAM! It snapped somewhere along I-4, sending me to a spinning, grinding halt with no immediate resources, suspended between Florida coasts?

What if . . .

Those words haunt me at times, do they you? They leave me suspended — not between Florida coasts, but between heaven and earth. Between lies and Truth. The lie? I'm responsible to provide for every aspect of my life on earth. And money's often the root of my fear for provision. In my singleness, I've tended toward self-sufficiency. Not asking for help — at times not even knowing I have need, and certainly not being able to name the need so that I know what to ask for (hint: that's called denial, ya know!).

So, yay for me that I called my friend's husband to talk over my dilemma with a fellow talker — because I know I will drive myself crazy trying to internalize an answer. And then — I let him come and pick me up! I knew that something in me had shifted when I responded to a "how ARE you?" question with "God protected me today. That pulley could have broken off any time, anywhere, and left me stranded." But I have a Protector whose unfailing love I can trust — and His timing is perfect. And since, out of that perfect love, He provides for my needs today, I can trust Him to provide for the needs that arise tomorrow — when tomorrow comes.

In your strength I can crush an army; with my God I can scale any wall. God’s way is perfect. All the Lord’s promises prove true. He is a shield for all who look to him for protection. For who is God except the Lord?
Who but our God is a solid rock? Psalm 18:29-31 NLT

Compassion without limits

2008-02-03T22:09:00.000-05:00

Wow, what a day. Every part rich with take away!

A sermon about God being my breath, a tea party presented with poise and flair by Jennie's 11-year old daughter who wanted family time (complete with chapter books to read aloud!), the film August Rush (which left me undone for several reasons), and then reading a few blogs before bed. Aaron Chambers' warning against apathy (http://christianstandard.com/MyLordandMyBlog.asp) brought together some of the day's loosely strewn threads. Do I carry compassion for people in need (or who aren't like me), or am I too often content to turn my head with an apathetic sigh?

While I recognize my compassion toward many in varying circumstances, it sometimes falls short. I see that when I'm uncertain I can contain the depth of ache that fills me, I turn my head. I put my arm out as a stop stick when approached by someone who wants something from me I'm not willing to give. They invade my space. Or I'm afraid that if I give a little, more will be required. Then what? What if I don't have anything else to give? Or I can't figure out what's needed. . . . Or I'm so desperate to help, I feel helpless in my smallness — and I do nothing.

It's as if I stand in to protect myself when God clearly names his Son my guardian. Crazy as it sounds, when I let him, Christ's guardianship supplies all the security I need to open my heart toward fallen humanity — and I have more than enough to give.

So, with Christ as my Protector, God as my breath, and with friends to walk beside me, I can risk laying bare my heart, giving from the Spirit within me. And maybe, just maybe, when I turn myself outward and away from my own desires or insecurities, I'll be open to the same compassion Jesus showed — without limits.

Just Start

2008-01-26T22:52:00.000-05:00

"Just start, Robin . . . just start."

A friend came to this blog looking for my words recently, and found only an info page. . . . She came looking for my words. . . . my words?

And here I sat. Where I've been now for sometime.

Pressed in. Shut down. Bound from beginning to end.

My words, though dormant, strain against my chest.

Joy's gentle affirmation re-spun itself through the filtering system of my brain. She's right.

And so this diary (of sorts) begins. I've been designed by God to bear his image. Be a reflection of his face in a dark, hurting world. Since that is so, the binding has to go. And trembling, I start.

I started, Joy . . . I just started.