Month: November 2024

Psalm 30

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord

You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent, Lord, my God, I will praise you forever.

-Psalm 30:11-12

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it would be a suitable time for me to remember the Author of all good things- the most loving Father, the most compassionate Healer, the most powerful God. People talk about miracles, but most people do not know when they have experienced one. I have and it has changed my life. It was not the kind of miracle that is readily apparent, like healing a withered limb or clearing the eyes of a blind person. Just because my miracle was not so obvious does not make its impact any less significant. God did turn my wailing into dancing and removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.

More than 40 years ago, I encountered a situation that definitively changed me. It was not a single episode or event. It was a condition of life that, over time, tore and seared and eroded my heart. My heart was in ragged, delicate strands with some sections entirely destroyed. Oh, my heart still pumped blood to the rest of my body. It could still recognize beauty. It could still feel compassion. It could still feel duty and responsibility. It could still feel gratitude. It could also still feel longing. However, the part of my heart that lived in my soul- the part of my heart that made me me– was no longer functional.

I thought I healed from that situation, but what I really did was gather up the detritus of the “me” heart and carry it to a hidden place in my soul. I lovingly wrapped the shards and shatters tightly in filmy, bulky bubble wrap. The wrap obscured what was left of the me-ness, but it protected that preciousness from further destruction. I always carried that piece of my heart in that hidden place in my soul. I cherished it and I mourned it. I shielded it so much that even I forgot what it looked like. Sometimes a brave bit of hope would be able to exert enough pressure to nudge the contents in the prison of bubble wrap. During those times, my heart would struggle to escape its confines. However, I had wrapped those pieces of me-heart the way a child wraps a Christmas present- with enough knots and folds and tape to secure the contents from any attempt to open it, short of tearing it open from the outside. 

One day, a couple of years ago, God did exactly that. He grabbed hold of that plastic- encased mess of a heart and ripped open the wrapping. He ripped open the protection, but He also ripped open the limitations. I even knew the day it happened. To be completely transparent, it had been coming for some time. Still, there was a particular moment I can identify as the moment God “turned my wailing into dancing.”  I have been a Christian all my life. This was the first time I understood- in a truly experiential way- “If anyone is in Christ, this person is a new creation, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come” (2 Corinthians: 5:17) I was new. I was healed. I was liberated to become the person God created me, wonderfully and fearfully, to be.

Certainly, God is still working on me. In that one moment, He ripped enough of the wrapping so that my me-heart could emerge. He still pulls off bits of bubble wrap and gives them to me to pop. Sometimes, I struggle with that. I reach out to Him and to loving people with whom He blesses me as I grapple to continue towards perfect freedom. I expect that this process will continue my whole life. I also think that God will intentionally leave some pieces of my heart fragile and scarred, to remind me to rely on Him and to encourage me to nurture the parts of me that I need to nurture.

It is as if this process has been a redemption of my creation- the restoration of the person God meant for me to be. All the phases of the process- my attempts at protection, my refusal to completely discard the broken parts of me, the people and circumstances God used to clear the way for His work, and God’s miraculous healing- are equally worthy of praise and thanksgiving because they have all been part of God’s miracle.  I know what I am saying in this blog post is weightier than my usual offerings. It feels scary to write it and post it. It is easy to see Thanksgiving Day as simply the springboard to the busy, festive, frantic holiday season, but my me-heart must praise and thank. So, today, nearing Thanksgiving, “I will not be silent.”  Thank You, my precious Lord, for Your goodness! I will shout Your praises all the days of my life.

Have a miraculous day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What makes your heart thankful on Thanksgiving and every day? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

PS. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I AM SO THANKFUL FOR YOU!!!! MAY GOD BLESS YOU WITH LOVE, JOY, AND PEACE ALWAYS!

Wild Or Mild? Part 2

As our visit to Tennessee continued, I loosened up a little. As touristy and garish as Pigeon Forge is, the Smoky Mountains are definitely a place that markets adventure in the great outdoors. In an attempt to blow a raspberry at the emotional impact of turning 65, I decided I wanted to partake. In my world, having an adventure includes a tour guide, a driver, and a souvenir shop. I’m into carefully controlled adventure and planned spontaneity.

I scheduled two different pink jeep tours. I have never been on a jeep, nor have I ever gone off-roading… at least not intentionally. Both jeep adventures were fantastic. Everything was so beautiful. The trees, the rivers, the waterfalls, and the sunlight dappling the fields created an exquisitely tuned symphony of primitive perfection. We made multiple stops along the way to give us the chance to wander a bit and climb down to creek beds to get a better look. The Great Smoky Mountain National Park is one of those places that expanded my mind to a new level of beauty perception. It happened to me the first time I went to Hawaii and the first time I went to New England. I was so profoundly aware of not realizing somewhere so beautiful could exist until I saw it with my own eyes. The Smokies had the same effect on me. At the end of each tour, the guide took us off-roading on a course specifically designed for thrills and chills and no broken bones.

There was so much exhilaration in walking on unpaved trails, climbing down a slope so the guide could take our picture right next to the river, sliding my feet through fallen leaves, filling my lungs with so much crisply clean air flavored with forest, looking for bears in the trees,  and giggling maniacally when the off-roading experience popped my butt off the seat and into Max’s personal space.  That exhilaration made me feel young, vibrant, carefree, and wild. My mood felt unfettered. My muscles felt loose. My vital signs felt like they clicked right into optimal normal range as soon as we officially entered the park. The adventure created so much superpower in us, we could actually be in two places at once. See the pictures below showing us behind the jeep and at the front of the jeep in the exact same photograph. To be honest, I felt like a bit of a badass.

On the other hand…. I was inept at getting out of the jeep. Getting in was not too much of a problem. I could grab onto a handle and haul myself up into the back. Getting down, however… that was harder. I did not feel steady enough on my feet to dismount the vehicle and find the ground while still remaining upright without holding on to at least one other person’s hand. I am a rather short person, and that ground did seem pretty far away from the back of the jeep. Still, no one else seemed to need life support to get out of the jeep. It was embarrassing.

It was also embarrassing when a visit to an old house shone an even brighter spotlight on my unsteadiness and extreme lack of coordination. There were three steps up to the porch of the house and zero bannisters. Most people visited inside the house. I certainly had that intention. When I came face-to-face with the steps, I wisely realized that I could get up them without a railing but would be stuck there forever until bears ate me or I died of old age because there is no way I was going to be able navigate descending those steps.  It was a humbling feeling for my newly declared badass self.

Another day, we took a trip to Skypark in Gatlinburg. We took a chair lift about 500 feet up the mountain. It was the coolest thing we did on the trip. I had considered ziplining but chickened out. Skypark was my compromise with myself. The view from the ski lift was fantastic and, arguably, I appreciated it much more than I would have at the breakneck speed of a zipline. It still felt pretty wild.

There were a few non-wild moments, however. When we pulled the lap bar down on the chair lift, I did not immediately realize that there was a security support bisecting the center of the main lap bar. Instead of the bar gliding smoothly over both our laps, I somehow managed to bring the security support down directly on my thigh. I was apparently sitting too close to Max and was not in my own lane. I ended up having quite a lovely bruise on my thigh after that. When we reached the end of the ride, I also found that my purse and sweater were hopelessly tangled in the lap bar. It required two quick-moving attendants to extricate me from my accessories and get me safely back on terra firma.

Once we got off the ski lift, I poured on the wild again. We walked across the skybridge- the longest cable bridge in North America, which spans the 400 feet or so from one mountain top to another. The bridge also boasts a 30-foot section where the footpath is not wood or stone or anything that feels solid. Instead, that 30-foot section is made of glass. As you traverse that section of the swaying bridge, you can look beneath your feet and see nothing between you and the ground 500 feet below. Max and I had no issues walking the bridge. We suitably impressed ourselves with our courage when we made it #PassTheGlass. I even conquered the swaying and managed to stay on my feet. Handrails, even when made of rope and cable, are my friends.

Now that the vacation is over and I have had time to reflect, I must admit that my badass self was maybe not quite as edgy as I first believed. I look back at all my adventures and feel enormously proud of myself. To be honest, I don’t think I saw any other short, pudgy, 65-year-old women braving jeeps, ski lifts, and swaying glass bridges 500 feet off the ground. Still, it is humbling to think of my wobbly dismounting from the jeeps and clutzy exit from the ski lift. It is also only fair to go back to my original point, which is that my adventures were carefully controlled, and my spontaneity was planned. So, what is your verdict? Wild or mild? I think I’m going with wild AND mild!

What do think?  Am I wild or mild?  Is my ass bad or good?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a wild day!

Terri/Dorry😊

#PassTheGlass

Wild Or Mild? Part 1

Recently, we took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. With uncharacteristically excellent timing, we managed to plan the trip between two tantruming hurricanes. I was driving from our home in central Florida to our ultimate destination- a distance of over six hundred miles, each way. Previously, the furthest I’d ever driven was about 380 miles to Charleston. I had some trepidation about upping my motoring game that much. I know plenty of people who regularly make 600-mile trips in one day, but I ain’t one of them. To be honest, I was not convinced that I would even have the stamina to do two back-to-back driving days of three hundred miles each, but I told myself to get a grip, put on my big girl panties, and embrace the wheel. After all, God made cruise control for a reason. As a sop to my anxiety, I did decide to stop overnight in Macon, Georgia instead of driving the whole distance in one day.

At the beginning of the trip, I began to think that I had become an adventurer in my old age. I felt super comfortable the first day driving. I was puffed and chuffed about my performance. I felt very peppy and full of myself when we pulled into the Homewood Suites for our overnight respite. I was really feeling my oats. I felt confident enough to suggest to Max that we might be able to cancel our overnight hotel reservation on the way back, but I wanted to see how I felt after Driving Day Two.

Waiting until after Driving Day Two to make that decision was one of my wiser moves. The next day was much more difficult. As we inched our way through Atlanta traffic, I found out that fifty miles of northern Georgia is not equivalent to fifty miles of northern Florida. Time, as well as the traffic, stood still. Just when things started flowing more rapidly, we were exiting the freeway to approach Sevierville, where we were staying.

I should have been suspicious. The owners of the Airbnb we were renting told us that the house was about six miles from Dollywood and six miles from Gatlinburg. That information did seem to coincide with what Mapquest and the GPS (why only rely on a belt when you can have BOTH a belt and suspenders?) were showing me. However, the GPS was saying it was going to take half an hour to get to the property. This turned out to be accurate. The traffic on the main drag from the freeway to the turn-off to our house sludged its way across the miles even slower than the traffic in Atlanta. I could not believe the number of cars and the number of pedestrians walking along the Parkway.

The slow traffic did give me sufficient time to really take in the sights on the Parkway. How would I describe the scenery in Pigeon Forge? The first word that comes to mind for me is tacky. Not that tacky is necessarily a terrible thing in my book- my favorite color is glitter, and I leave a little pixie dust wherever I go. The Parkway was overstimulating even for me, though.

There was a smorgasbord of souvenir shops, restaurants, miniature golf courses, mountain coaster parks, more souvenir shops, escape rooms, bars, ice cream parlors, and even more souvenir shops. Oh, and did I mention souvenir shops? The souvenir shops touted “hand-crafted” Smoky Mountains products. I later discovered that the products might have been “hand-crafted,” but that crafting was done in China. The mention of “Smoky Mountain products” apparently referred only to the fact that they had “Smoky Mountains” printed on them.

The buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder like people standing in an overcrowded elevator. It even felt like the buildings were hunching their shoulders to avoid touching each other, so aware of the lack of personal space. They were huge, painted in bright colors that had faded over time and weather. Much of the architecture was campy and bizarre. Every building was clearly competing to catch the eye. One souvenir shop had a huge alligator covering the middle third of the façade. That alligator was as wide as my entire house. It wasn’t even just painted on- the front of the building was molded into the shape of the alligator. I did not even know they had alligators in Tennessee. Another building had a huge bear, roughly equivalent to the height of the building, spouting from the roof. There was a large wax museum that included a building in the shape of a castle bigger than any Disney royal residence. The main building was shaped like the Empire State Building, complete with King Kong hanging on its side. That King Kong sculpture had to be four stories tall.

As we turned off the Parkway, the roads got narrower and curvier. Thankfully, they also got less populated. As we meandered into the outskirts of the city, I began wondering if we were on the right track because there was not much around except trees. Max began to express concern emphatically that we were out in the boondocks and were overly isolated.

As we reached the last mile of our trek, the concern level elevated. As did the road. I knew I was renting a “mountain cabin,” but I guess I didn’t realize just how much of a mountain I was getting. After living in Florida- the flattest state in the union- for nearly ten years, I’ve apparently forgotten what mountains really look like. I’ve also forgotten what the “roads” up the mountains feel like. I navigated one hairpin turn after another up a steep 2-way road that was only wide enough for about one and a quarter cars. There were no guard rails on either side, so a misstep would mean plunging to our death in the valley below or ramming into the wall of a mountain.

One of the reasons I chose this location is that it sounded like it was part of a community, which felt safer than being out in the wilderness completely alone. The cottage was part of a community, but there were only three or four houses built together before the road curved off into some new curlicue. Even once we located the community, finding our cottage was a challenge. Part of that challenge involved making several wrong guesses. This required driving up multiple blind steep hills and some death-defying U-turns. It also required me to drive in Reverse, which is always death-defying in my case.

When we finally got to the house, I was tired, hungry, anxious, and felt like there was a steel bar between my shoulders. I was also pretty testy. The house was very nice, though. The view was lovely. It was cozy and quiet. There were a couple of neighbors, which made the drive seem less terrifying. After all, if the neighbors could navigate that road on a regular basis, surely I could do it for a few days.

My adventure in the Smoky Mountains certainly started in the “wild” category. Between changing lanes on the freeway through Atlanta without having any idea of what lane I needed to be in, traveling through the Pigeon Forge fever dream of a landscape, and navigating the mini-road up to the cottage, I felt quite the thrill-seeker. I even ventured out back into town to get some dinner, which necessitated coming back up that mountain after dark. The mild part? We cancelled any thought we had of evening entertainment on this vacation. After making that trip in the dark, I decided discretion is the better part of valor. Besides, what is a vacation without several hours of YouTube videos each evening?

Have an adventurous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is the most adventurous trip you have ever taken? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.