A Servant's Smart

I have spent many years of my life with a servant's heart. I was a waitress at one time and believe it or not, I (mostly) did very well. In those days I had a razor sharp memory and could recall what someone had previously ordered even if they had only been in my restaurant once. These days don’t ask me to quote more than three...or two passages of scripture in one sitting or ask me to recall the names of the U.S. Presidents, all 40 something, maybe, I think. I now have what my family calls Selective Memory.

In my waitress days I once served dinner at a benefit featuring Bob Hope as guest speaker. What a spectacular event, with special effects…created by me. What happened wasn’t totally my fault the way I (selectively) recall it. I accidentally set the flowers at my table on FIRE… but we were able to stomp it out without injury …except to my ability to collect tips. Some people thought I was paying homage to Lucille Ball in honor of Bob Hope, especially after I lied and said that I was.

In my quest for Servanthood, one year I decided to volunteer at the hospital…WHAT? Me?? “No Gory Lori”? Needless to say, gagging in front of the patients did not cheer anyone up. Then I read a quote by Frederick Buechner that basically said: “Your calling is where your greatest joy and the world’s deepest needs meet.” Bingo, I started teaching adults how to read and successfully did so for five years. I learned to use the qualities and quirks that God gave me in ways that would honor Him.

Being a servant enhances life for all those we encountered if one is willing to humbly be used. Mark 10: 45 says, “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” The Messiah himself chose to be a Servant Leader. That much I can remember. It’s not just caring, it is a life fulfilled if a servant’s smart.

Trains Of Thought

I live near the railroad tracks in a Nashville suburb. Every night I hear the low wondering blare of a train whistle and the clacking of the wheels on the tracks. I love those sounds. It reminds of me of being home and going places, of the routine of everyday life and adventures in Europe.

My travels taught me many interesting things. Certain sounds and smells still trigger the memories. In my youth I once sat knee to knee with strangers on a Polish train. That was awkward. I could swear it smelled like sausage. I was too queasy to investigate and did I really want to know the answer? The next ride I took was the overnight train to Florence, Italy. I must have read too many spy novels because I talked my fellow travelers into sleeping with the window open so thieves couldn’t put sleeping gas in our car. Umm…what???...Why these kind hearted foreigners listened to me I’ll never know. Perhaps they thought it was safer to indulge the crazy girl than to distress her into a psychotic fit on a moving train. I felt personally victorious when I woke up the next morning freezing but un-robbed with my money still pinned to my underwear. Ha! Take that you thieves …except don’t actually take it especially while it’s pinned to the undies. I forgot about that last high tech security measure until it was time to pay for breakfast. ….Again with the awkward moments on a lamebrain’s train.

The trains that go by my house only carry cargo so they don’t have a strict schedule. I never know when I will hear that whistle blow but I always sleep better after I’ve heard it. During the recent floods the railroad tracks were damaged so there were no trains for several weeks. It was eerily quiet. Amazing how much I missed a jolting whistle in the blankness of night. Like the voice of my old friend that grew silent, I missed the familiarity. The loss of both put a hole in my night like a girl that missed her train.

There are no locomotives in the Bible, but there are trains of people lined up to follow the cloud of God through a wilderness. The most vivid train of people that come to mind is the one that passes through the Narrow Gate to the Kingdom of God as told in the book of Matthew. It describes this gate as small enough for only one at a time. It is mostly misunderstood as being narrow minded but the beauty in that story is that everyone has to walk through on their own choice and not dragged by someone else nor sneaking through without making their own commitment. Each one in a train of people taking their turn to step closer to God. Once you give your heart to the Lord of Creation then it opens up sounds of the familiar calling you home and new trains of thoughts will guide you in the night.

Sometimes Bad News Is Good News

Sometimes bad news is good news… in the end. It might take a long and winding road (with moldy pathways and muddy waters). The day I dyed my hair Marilyn Monroe white by mistake it did not look like good news nor did I look like Marilyn Monroe for that matter. That was the day I decided to (quickly) go back to my birth color of Irish Red and received the first compliments ever on my hair. Maybe God really does know what He is doing when he designs each of us. That is good news.

So many times I have started down one path and it diverged into another. I clung for dear life to keep from making any unscheduled turns but most of my learning experiences came from U turns and detours. I planned to write something humorous the week of the Nashville Flood of 2010 but it seemed so inappropriate to laugh at bad news when it still is bad news. I took a detour and instead of writing I offered my hands as manual labor. In the process of letting go of my plans I was blessed by the spirit of love and grief, in the rally of volunteers who aided those who lost all in the flood. That kind of giving is good news.

After the flood I looked at the yards of my neighbors that had all of their private possessions spread out for all to see including muddy undies, various awards and funny pictures from their grandchildren. You can tell a lot about a person by what they treasure most. They laughed at their smashed Gold Records but cried at the loss of photos and letters. I admired them all the more. While the flood was bad news the friendships forged through the shared experiences will last long after homes are rebulit. Building homes is an act of energy, building relationships is an act of love.

My new, dear friends and flood buddies: Bob & Jayne Farrell, lost all possessions in the flood and gained new friends. Be a friend to these fine folks who dedicated their lives and careers to sharing the Gospel of Christ through their musical talents.

There will be a Benefit Concert to raise funds for Bob & Jayne Farrell and a tribute of thanks for their gift of music. Y'all come, be part of the good news.

Lifesaver Tribute: A Flood Relief Concert
Benefitting Farrell & Farrell
Wednesday, July 28th 7pm
The Village Chapel, Nashville, TN.
Featuring Pat Terry Group, Amy Grant
and more surprises

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I have spent the last ten years following the lead of a beautiful dog named Georgie. I learned more about unconditional love (and biting) from this little stinker than anyone I’ve ever known. Georgie has shared some of my most personal moments of triumph and heartbreak along with some of my most embarrassing scenarios. I can see the wisdom in God designing these creatures without the ability to talk so they can be our “keepers of the secrets”, (not to mention who wants a chatty dog keeping them up all night?) But make no mistake; even without words Georgie would express his opinion. If Georgie objected to any command, he would throw himself across his pillow and pout like a rebel without his paws. In his later years he became the guardian of my well being and self-appointed top dog. If I worked too late at night, he would stomp into the room huffing until I turned off the computer and headed to bed. He also chimed like Big Ben at 5pm everyday to “subtly” remind me it was time to walk. In many ways he saved my life by forcing me to keep a regular schedule of meals and exercise.

Just like the rest of my family members, Georgie and I shared some hilarious memories. I still laugh out loud when I think about the day I caught him stealing my socks as I yelled “Drop it Monkeyboy!” at the exact time the trash man was picking up the trash. The trashman thought I was yelling at him while Georgie tried to muffle his giggles with a bark but I heard him. He was quite the prankster. I could almost swear he pushed me the day I fell in the man hole. That Son of Lassie was no help at all. Georgie was on his back laughing while I had to crawl out of the hole and drag home one bloody leg like the Bride of Frankenstein. It is no wonder that I took his medicine by mistake thinking it was a piece of cheese.

Animals hold a special place in God’s kingdom. God created animals even before man. He designed dogs to think, feel and express joy in their own way. A wise friend told me that God created our pets with a shorter life span for a reason. I think that it might be even harder on them to lose us, than for us to lose them. It is the loss of innocence, of companionship and unconditional love. Surely all dogs go to heaven. It is with deep sorrow that Georgie was laid to rest this week due to health problems and chronic pain. I will end this story with the simple prayer that has been on my heart since his passing, “Lord help me be the person my dog thinks I am. Amen.”

Loving Family

I wasn’t born on a lamebrain planet. Perhaps I was transported at age three after a head-whacking fall off the kitchen counter while making a peanut-butter sandwich. (Thus began a life long pattern of self-inflicted suffering and snacking.)

I started out in a Loving family, the middle daughter of an architect/painter and a clever well-read homemaker. I can trace parts of who I am back to my circles of influence. (Okay, a lot of people just denied knowing me.) The ever-changing, zigzagging map of my life has been formed by “family”, whether it was self chosen or God given relationships. So what makes a family? There is: closer than family, adopted family, church family, work family, spiritual family, core family, like family and Loving family. Some people who seem like family stay for a season then fall away. Sometimes I attempt a common goal like the workout-but-never-lose-weight group. (I probably shouldn't have eaten pizza after exercise class but it's part of my self-inflicted suffering and snacking compulsion.)

One of the first groups I joined as a girl was the youngest level of the Girl Scouts called The Brownies. I joined thinking it had something to do with making brownies to eat. I soon discovered it was about earning badges by accomplishing goals. Because of that experience I can sew on a button with minimum bleeding while making chocolate toast with minimum burning. (Seeing a pattern yet?)

I have been a participant in all manner of groups since then: track team, volley ball manager, high school sorority, Singles or Suffer (SOS), Prayer Babes, Club Read and various church memberships just to name a few. Each of these "like family" groups shaped me physically, mentally, spiritually; bruising, building, and blessing me all the way. And in the reoccurring theme of my life there was plenty of snickering, sobbing, stuffing; giggling, grieving and gorging.

They say that “friends are family you choose” but our core family is by God’s choosing. I believe He put us in families for a reason. Realizing Jesus was born into a family changed my life. He could have appeared on earth any time as a full grown man. There is something about this life long family connection that is an important process to God. It is the first place where we learn to communicate and to sacrifice. Jesus is our perfect example of both.

I am especially thankful for the Loving family that God chose for me. There will always be at least one lamebrain family member and unfortunately....it's me! Since my family can’t get away from me so easily they might as well endure the suffering and pass the snacks, preferably brownies please.

Telemarketer, Tell A Sin

I think a lot about forgiveness. It’s a big deal in the Christian faith and definitely one of The Essentials. I need forgiveness for telling my sister there was nothing stuck in her teeth...when there was. I need forgiveness for listing my weight as only 100 pounds on my driver’s license...when it wasn’t. And I need forgiveness for putting that telemarketer to “hold on” while I went out to make a ham sandwich. (Okay, that one should be exempt in the book of sins.)

I started to learn about mercy at an early age concerning the giving and receiving of compassion. At six years old, I had to forgive my older sister Toni for promising me, on a sweltering summer day, that I would never have to have another shot if I rode my bicycle around the block ten times. I relived the untrueness of that promise last year when I fell in a rusty man hole and still had to get a tetanus shot. When I became the older sister, I had to ask for forgiveness from my sister Sheri for making only a sarcastic one word reply of “SO!” to every statement she made when she was six years old. (Apparently like the mark of The Beast, age six is a pretty rough year in our family.) SO!

All sins are considered equal even though some transgressions leave a deeper impression. A silly prank is easy to forgive. To be unkind is harder to forgive and nearly impossible to forget. Try as I may, I cannot justify speaking harsh words. I cringe at the meanness I am capable of doing. One scorching statement can leave a lasting scar long after the healing of reconciliation. There are bells I cannot un-ring and foul words that will hang in the air long after they are spoken.

God has a sense of humor and may allow me to walk around with food in my teeth or even let me fall in a man hole. But the loving kindness of the one true God will never spew the word “SO” at my confession of sins. The compassion of the Creator is my example of perfect reconciliation. Through the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross, my sins are pardoned. Yes, forgiveness is a bottom line essential element in the Christian faith. I continue to keep the lines of communication open to work on giving and receiving grace, one telemarketer at a time.

Adornments Of Easter

Yellow dress, white shoes, pearl necklace. . . and that’s just last year's Easter outfit! Easter has its own style and color that parallels the blossoming of spring. Like a parent who can’t bear to favor one of their children over another, I cherish each holiday equally but for different reasons. Each one is a mixed blessing of the sacred and the secular, yet I can appreciate both aspects and not feel conflicted. I have no problem snacking on a chocolate bunny all the way to the holiest church service of the year.

My childhood Easters are now speckled memories of patent leather shoes, fidgeting like a bunny in church and finding (then re-hiding, then losing) Easter eggs. One memory that stands out is the Easter I spent in the hospital with a broken arm after showing a friend my new circus maneuver: a monkey-like dismount off a clothes line pole. After anesthesia, I became violently ill and had to revisit the multitude of candy eggs I had eaten earlier in the day. I don’t eat candy eggs anymore; neither does anyone who witnessed that technicolor spectacle (and possibly not anyone who is reading this story.)

Like all holidays, the hardest part for a child is the night before the big day, the darkest hour before the dawn. Eventually the sun bursts through with excitement and the fulfillment of wishes. It is a life lesson that has resounded since the Resurrection. How let down and discouraged the followers of Jesus must have felt in the evening hours of Friday and Saturday. Then HOPE in all its brilliance rose so perfectly on Sunday morning with the Risen Lord. It is the constant message of encouragement that I cling to. When I go through the bleakest of Friday nights, I have to remember that Sunday morning will shine again.

Now I see the deeper adornments of Easter:
Yellow like the beaming dawn of Resurrection,
White like the brilliant robe of an angel in the empty tomb,
Pearls like the wisdom of the gift of salvation.

Going Through The Change

Call me fickle, but I like to change my mind as often as I change my appearance. It's just my prerogative. Someone once asked me over the phone if I was the one with the straight blonde hair or the curly red hair? I answered, “Yes.” I have been both and more. It would have been just as logical to ask if I was the gal with the straight red hair and the Spanish accent (iQue raro!) Lately I've started to notice how my appearance is aging. Whether I like it or not, I seem to be going through “the change” right in step with the seasons. When the weather goes through its temperature spikes, my body chemistry also surges with hot flashes. It gives the term “hottie” a whole new meaning.

I also have warm memory flashes of the springtime of my youth. Back then the blossoming of love and being discovered by boys were the only things on my mind, that and the constant concern about my appearance. Besides continually changing my hair color, I had to have the perfect Coppertone tan. We didn’t have tanning beds back then, but we did have the next best (artificial) thing: sun lamps. Simply put, a sun lamp was just a huge infrared light bulb that we clamped onto furniture and presto, it burned one section of skin at a time. I was hot all right: red, hot and peeling. The only reason I was accepted socially was because most of my friends were also burned to a crisp or worse, they had a “natural” orange glow from the fake tanning products of the day. As I transition into the autumn of my life, I'm beginning to accept the fact that my freckles are never going to come together to form a beautiful tan. "I am what I am and it ain’t tan” is my new motto.

Fads change, seasons come and go, while the cycles of life continue on. I love that God created seasons so that Mother Nature—the Mother of all mothers—is perpetually in motion. Spring bursts forth and the earth is reborn, then all things living eventually die off by Winter. Year after year it is the same and yet different. The master plan repeats but the details vary, as though God Himself did not want to get stuck in a boring routine. Maybe Mama Nature is described as feminine because she reserves the right to consistently change her mind and her appearance at the same time, not unlike the way I operate.

How comforting to know that God remains constant in His faithfulness and His ultimate plans for our earthly days. The wise words of Ecclesiastes 3:1 'spring' to mind: “There is a time for every season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Whatever I am going through, I can remember that it is only for a season and there is an intentional purpose. Hair colors change (naturally or not), tans fade (or peel), but thankfully, God's love is for forever.

Irish Spring

This week is when I celebrate what I call an Irish Spring (and I don’t mean the soap.) It is the week of St. Patrick’s Day and the first day of Spring. Even though I am only part Irish I feel a connection to all things Irish this time of year. I honor my ancestors with comments like “Saints be praised” in an Irish brogue I didn’t even know I had (and neither did anyone else.)

My mother’s mother was an O’Reagan. That's where I get my Irish heritage and my red hair (well, that and Miss Clairol.) People often comment on my Irish looks, but sometimes I wonder if they are politely inferring that I seem leprechaun short. Coming from a family where the rest of the members are blonde and German-looking, I don’t think much about being part Irish except on St. Patrick’s Day. I think more about the culture of hard work and integrity they passed on to me. They didn’t run around drinking green beer or telling me to kiss a blarney stone, but Lord knows I could have used it! They were a proud people of humble beginnings who first came to America as migrant farm workers. They dropped the 'O' in O’Reagan to fit in more easily with their newly adopted homeland. They didn't want to call attention to themselves or stand out like newcomers in a crowd of strangers.

I'm not sure how they would have felt about me with all my stories of calamities and my not-so-lucky charms, except I do know they did like to share a good laugh. I hope they would have laughed that I accidentally dyed my hair green and it wasn't even St. Paddy’s Day. They probably would have cried when they heard that as a waitress I once slipped and spilled a perfectly good glass of Irish whiskey down a lady’s back. The Irish I know are lovers of great stories. . . so many stories, so little time.

The real St. Patrick has his own story that has nothing to do with leprechauns or libations. While I'm no Irish historian, here are my favorite parts of St. Patrick's legend: After years of captivity in Ireland, pre-saint Patrick was visited by an angel telling him he would return to Britain. He became a priest and had another vision that he was to “become the voice of the Irish” by returning to Ireland to Christianize the pagan natives. He used the three-leaf shamrock to illustrate the Holy Trinity as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The “wearing of the green” shamrock became a symbol of faith. He became the patron saint of the Irish and now his day is a time to celebrate Irish heritage all over the world.

The craziness associated with St. Patrick’s Day is all in good fun. Traditions sprang up of drinking beer, the pinching of anyone not wearing the signature color green and—my personal favorite—the slogan, “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.” Silly traditions aside, I can never look at a shamrock the same way again. It's more than just a lucky charm, it's a symbol of faith. St. Patrick dedicated his life to serving God. As a fitting tribute, I raise a symbolic glass of green beer to toast St. Patrick for being a man of faith and and a deserving saint of a noble people.

P.S. Since I am also part German, I'm campaigning for a day to celebrate the slogan, “Kiss Me, I’m German."
—Bernice Lori O’Reagan Broyles (BLOB), LOL

DEADLine Disasters

I finally figured out why they call it a DEADLINE, because at the end of the line I’m DEAD tired. Although I love my royalty accounting business and my songwriter clients are the absolute best, every 90 days of every year I have to work around the clock to get their quarterly statements out on time. Coincidentally, somehow every 90 days, every possible catastrophe just waits in the wings to rear its ugly head until the moment I am completely stressed out and totally snowed under a pile of ledger paper.

Just this week as D-Day approached, my copier went out. I quickly ordered a new machine but it took an entire day to get the customer support person to "support" me in agreeing the blasted new copier did not work, duh! I could have told them that hours before if they hadn't been speaking a foreign language I do not know. So back went the machine to the store and once again I ordered a (new) new copier and spent another entire day setting it up. Right now I can only whisper that it appears to be working on the chance that it will hear me and decide to pull a prank on me and break. . . all over again.

This is not the worst deadline disaster I’ve been through (she says, starting to sound like Moses.) One time I worked until midnight calculating paychecks where each payee was paid a different rate. People in the music business don’t like to do the same thing twice, that would be much too easy, way too routine. By midnight I finished all the checks, loaded them into the postage machine and then watched in horror as the postage machine chewed up every single check before I could slam punch the STOP button. I had to spend a night of déjà vu and redo the whole day's work. I made good friends with the graveyard shift cleaning crew as I spent many a night in that office trying to outsmart my own technology (and usually failing.) Don't you dare say it was "operator error"!

The mother of all messed up deadlines came one quarter when my computer crashed, taking with it thousands of data entries that had to be entered all over again (after anger management classes). As if that wasn’t enough, the heat went out and the water heater burst in my office the next day. I was cold, wet and stressed, but God knows I managed to get all the reports out on time. I regret that the plumber saw me crawl under my desk to find my computer backup.

The good news is that all these disasters are just time, money and things. No one was hurt, but my dog Chopper looked like he jumped out of his skin when I screamed like a banshee. Deadlines (and the accompanying disasters) are inevitable for me, but I can't let them steal my peace with endless worry. Matthew 6:34 says: "Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today." Well, that's the truth. One day's disaster is definitely plenty without adding to it by piling on what could happen tomorrow, like it's the phone's turn to go on the fritz. Talk about a dead LINE, hello-o-o-o-o? My friend tells me to pray because (he says) if I'm praying I'm not worrying and if I'm worrying I'm not praying. Maybe I should give it a try. At least I won't have to wait for the phone to recharge before I get Jesus on the line!

And The Oscar Goes To...

Every year I get so excited about the Academy Awards and this year is no exception. Lights, Camera, Action. . . and that's just me getting ready for the Oscar Party! I love the whole world of movie making. I'm fascinated at how a movie pulls me out of my everyday life and transports me into someone else’s world. Like most kids, I enjoyed playing “pretend” when I was little. I loved accessorizing my homemade costumes with sparkling jewels and silky scarves. My parents nicknamed my glamorous alter ego “Zsa Zsa”. Unlike most kids, I haven’t outgrown my alter ego nor the wearing of sparkling jewels and silky scarves: I am consistently the best-dressed person in the grocery store. You never know when I might be discovered by a hungry (and desperate) Hollywood director in—of all places—Nashville, Tennessee.

I have to say that Meryl Streep remains one of my all time favorite actresses. She can make me believe that she really is someone else. She is especially skilled in foreign accents which complete her transformation into a character. I also have an ear for accents and when I get absorbed into a drama I start to think like the characters. By the time I leave the theatre I am unconsciously speaking with a foreign accent, even when I don’t know what language was spoken. I hold my breath until the spell passes, hoping no one else notices my Pigeon English (Isn't that what they speak in Pigeon Forge near the Smokies?)

When I was in high school I did TRY to take Spanish lessons. The only thing I remember how to say is “iQue raro!” which means “How odd!” For my friends and me it became our secret catch phrase. To get the full effect we would roll our R's endlessly: iQue rrrrarrro! To which people coincidentally reacted ‘How odd!?!?’ It was the perfect answer to any question, and the meaning was determined by the facial expression. For example, "How do you like these shoes?" iQue rrrrarrro! (frown). "Jimmy thinks you’re cute!" iQue rrrrarrro! (smile). "What did you think of that test?" iQue rrrrarrro! (gasp). While going through this Meryl Streep method-acting phase, I got the rolling R’s stuck in my throat. To the annoyance of all adults and most friends, I could not rrrresist or rrrrestrain myself! "Who is your favorite president?" RRRonald RRReagan. "Who is your favorite actor?" RRRobert RRRedford. iQue rrrrarrro, SI!! The only way I could break this (almost perfect) Spanish language accent was to rrrrefrain from using any words starting with the letter R. I would have to come up with creative answers like, “Just turn to the. . . NOT LEFT, por favor.”

English is still my second language and I don’t have a first language. iQue rrrrarrro! Eventually I lost the accent. I did not become a method actress or a foreign language expert. Through my Drama Queen years I did learn something from the Bible about gaining self-control. Proverb 25:28 says, “A person without self-control is like a city with broken-down walls.” 'Broken-down walls' portrays a structural barrier lacking strength, protection and privacy. It is a place without boundaries. There is a time to control my speech by concentrating, not on the accent, but on what is being said. It takes a brave act of will on my part, but I am doing my Oscar-worthy best to save the lights, camera, action for the real actors. iQue rrrrarro!

Lori Logic

I’m exhausted. I just finished cheering, crying and eating my way through the Super Bowl and the Olympics back-to-back! I started thinking about the training, the dedication, the amazing habits of athletes. My habits are slightly different. Some people call them quirky, maybe even eccentric. I say I'm habitually consistent. In my mind it makes perfect sense to park my car on the same row every single time I go to the mall, no matter how many other spaces are available closer to the door. Using Lori Logic (patent pending), I don’t have to remember anything extra. . . like did I get there in a car? I have a hard enough time just trying to remember why I even went to the mall in the first place. I get side-tracked easily by shiny objects and goodness knows, the mall is a glittering distraction of "play pretties" for a girl with no blinders and even less willpower.

Some people have good healthy habits, like taking vitamins on a regular basis. I routinely take an aspirin before I get to the doctor’s office, because using my Lori Logic, it keeps me from feeling ill when I see a sick person in the waiting room. I have the “gift” of empathy and I can absorb another person’s pain just by looking at the expression on their face. My family will testify that I was not allowed to watch television shows about hospitals as a child. Whenever I did, then the next day I would be convinced I had the same dreaded disease as the television character. My mother would have to scream, "You've never been to Africa and you don't have Malaria, so get up and GO TO SCHOOL!" Now when I take my aspirin I don’t have to remember anything extra. . . like does the person who just sneezed on me have the plague?

'Early to rise' is a habit I did not inherit from my dad. It can’t possibly be good for anyone to be jolted awake by an alarm in the wee hours while it is still dark outside. I take care of myself by rising slowly with the sun much later in the morning. When I am forced to get up early for a flight, I literally sleep in my clothes the night before. Using my Lori Logic, I don’t have to remember anything extra in a groggy stupor. . . like what am I going to wear and more importantly, does it match?

I am actually a very systematic person. I like organization and efficiency. I just have my own personal (or peculiar) style of consistency. It takes a driving discipline to be a world-class athlete. It takes a focused plan to be a success and accomplish goals. The same is true of the inner life. There are spiritual disciplines that deepen my personal commitment to my faith. I take Communion on a regular basis in remembrance that Christ died for my sins. I fast once a year to let the hunger pangs remind me of the sacrifice of faith I should never take for granted. I read the scriptures so the Holy Spirit can speak directly to me, not relying on someone else’s quiet time for inspiration. Then I don’t have to remember anything extra. . . using my Lori Logic, Jesus is more than enough.

Lamebrain Olympics

Every 4 years I catch the Olympic Spirit. I faithfully watch sports I’ve never seen (and some I’ve never even heard of) to cheer on the best-of-the-best athletes in the world. The television commentators suck me in to the drama with their sentimental stories of how participants struggle to get to the Olympic Games. Like the young man who trained 8 to 10 hours a day (whoa, I thought, lounging from my well-worn sofa). He was a strict vegetarian (hmm, wouldn’t last a week in pork-belly Tennessee). He maxed out all his credit cards to pay his expenses (ding-ding! soulmate, I really get this kid). Now I am tearfully glued to every event wondering if my new “twin” will go for the Gold.

I realize it takes a very select group to qualify for the Olympics. There are the Olympic Games, The Special Olympics, so why not open this up to people on the opposite end of the spectrum (like me) and have Lori's Lamebrain Olympics? Let’s face it, I have a lot of experience. I know I can win a Gold Medal in several categories.

MOST RIDICULOUS SKIING TECHNIQUE
QUALIFICATIONS:
Snow Skiing With Boots On Wrong Feet (All Day)
Running late for the shuttle bus, I managed to slap my ski boots on the wrong feet. I knew something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger (or my foot) on exactly what the problem might be. I actually skiied better because instead of my feet sticking out sideways, they pointed inwards with my knees together. It was painful, but that’s what Olympic dreams are made of: agony and ecstasy, Winners and Losers (with a capital L).

WORST OUTFIT FOR A NON-COSTUMED EVENT
QUALIFICATIONS:
Passing Off Pajamas As Party Outfit By Adding A Belt (Futile Attempt)
In my fashion arrogance, I once had a motto called “Put On A Belt, Call It An Outfit”. I thought I could take any drab combination, add a belt and presto, I’m a modeling school candidate (more like a modeling school dropout.) One evening I used my motto to belt my pajamas and wear them to a party. My confidence started to erode when a guy at the party kept yawning at me from across the room. Realizing I was sending the wrong message, I left the party early in a panic, but here's the good news: I was already dressed for sleep.

MOST SOBER YET CONFUSED DRIVER
QUALIFICATIONS:
Driving Wrong Way Up Freeway Ramp (With Sister Screaming)
I try to follow directions closely. When the sign says turn, I turn on the spot. Unfortunately, I turned one turn too soon and drove the wrong way up a freeway ramp with my sister in the floorboard screaming at the top of her lungs. Thank the Lord there were no cars coming toward me and I didn’t have to keep the car on two wheels. I am no longer allowed to drive on unfamiliar freeways (whenever my sister is with me).

MOST INGENIOUS TRAVELER
QUALIFICATIONS:
Wearing Most Extra Clothes On Airplane (Instead Of Checking Luggage)
If you are a regular reader of my blog you know how this story goes. In the Olympics of my life, this one is worth an honorable mention again. The airlines was consistently losing my hideous lime green suitcase so I decided instead of packing my clothes I would try wearing all of them (brilliant, you say). You're right, it was a brilliant plan until I had to run through the airport padded like a polar bear and got all my clothes sweaty before the vacation even started. This event took planning, maneuvering and a little bit of acting skills. I would dare say that no one else has accomplished such a bold plan worthy of a Lamebrain Olympic award.

It has taken me a lifetime of practice and willingness to sacrifice all my dignity to qualify for The Lamebrain Olympics. My saving grace in this category is knowing that even lamebrains are fearfully and wonderfully made by a loving God, according to Psalm 139. We are all part of the body of Christ. Some people may be the muscles, some may be the brains, and others are the funny bone. Maybe I was born without common sense for a reason. God knew me before I was born and designed me with the sole purpose of being my best possible self. Whether I am the most awesome Olympian or the loopiest lamebrain, it won’t change the love God has for me. I was taught to earn a living, earn respect and earn a place in society. The Bible turns that philosophy on its head. I can’t earn—or lose—my place at the feet of the Father's throne. I may never earn any gold medals in this lifetime, but I will see streets of gold in heaven some day. That's a better reward than I can ever hope for here on earth.

Beat The System

I like to think I come up with creative solutions to problems. I like to think that, but then reality sets in. Some of my solutions are crazier than the problems. I've learned the hard way never to blab out how I’m going to “Beat The System.” Whenever I do, then you better beat the streets and run because something stupid is about to go down.

Looking back on my "BTS" philosophy I can see where it rarely worked, not that it ever seemed to stop me from trying. I once had a problem with the airlines consistently losing my luggage. I had to take a teacup-sized plane from Dallas to Abilene every year at Christmastime. The plane was so small there was only a curtain between the passengers and the pilot. I could watch the pilot read a book! And just why was he reading a book anyway? Surely it was not the airplane manual. It definitely wasn’t the luggage-loading manual. Needless to say, that would have been enough to ruin the trip. But there is more to the story. . . .

Like clockwork I landed with the same brain damage, looking for luggage that never arrived and never would. Was the plane too small? Was I too fat? Were the luggage handlers too busy to handle luggage? I tried to imagine the scenario as to why my suitcase was left orphaned in Dallas, waiting to arrive days later by a slow van. I admit it, I had an enormous lime green suit case. It stood out like a screaming neon sign just begging to be mocked and discarded. I could picture the luggage handlers discussing the problem. “Man, these passengers are quite a load. We need to leave off some poor slob’s luggage. . . hmmm. . . just leave behind that hideous lime green one!”

Here comes my "BTS" solution. The next time I flew home I decided to wear as many clothes as I could get on and still be able to walk through the airport with minimal gawking stares. The rest of my clothes were mashed in my small (not green) carryon suitcase. The only problem was that I had to make a tight connection and was forced to run to my gate. . . my gate that was a football field away. By the time I got to my plane I was on fire from running in what felt like a bear suit. I got to my seat and immediately peeled off my layers. Passengers curiously peaked around the seats to see why I had ripped off all those clothes and just what was I left wearing? To add punishment to stupidity, the flight home was the bumpiest I’ve ever experienced. I had to put my fingers in my ears to shut out the sound of people getting ill all around me. I nearly passed out. All I had wanted to do was "Beat The System" but my victory was hollow. I crawled off the plane carrying a bundle of sweaty clothes and looking as lime green as that missing suitcase.

In my experience, any time I try to "Beat The System" it generally turns into "Beat The Stupid." It's all a matter of when and what I am trying to beat. There are some systems of the universe that remain constant. I can jump off a mountain screaming I don’t believe in the law of gravity, but I am still going to hit bottom because the Lord created some systems that are unchangeable. I can say that I don’t believe in the laws of the Bible but if I stray from even one of the basic Ten Commandments, I'm headed for misery. The Lord doesn’t force me to obey His laws or the systems He sets in place in order to live the most fulfilling life. That is one time when I want to "Believe The System" and leave the theatrics for air travel.

In The Name Of Love

Valentine's Day is coming up next weekend which should trigger many memories of sweet romantic stories. Instead what comes to my mind are all the lamebrain things I have done In The Name Of Love. (Thank you, U2.) My dating experiences have required equal amounts of vulnerability and amnesia, with a fair amount of nausea thrown in for good measure. No matter how bad my dating recipes have turned out, I never seem to stop trying to jump, sing or eat my way headlong into romance.

For example, even though I am hysterically afraid of heights, I once jumped into a lake—off a 30-foot cliff—because my love interest jumped first. I hurled myself over the edge shrieking like a banshee and landed with my swimsuit floating around my neck. . . nice visual. I wanted him to be impressed. Oh, he was impressed alright. . . with the girl on shore in the perfect hair and makeup. . . who wasn’t nerve-shattered and nauseated from a near-death experience.

Despite the humiliation, hope seems to spring eternal in me, and once again I found myself drawn to the flame like a moth. One freezing winter night I was invited to go Christmas caroling by a very cute guy. I must've been snow-blinded by stupid love, me thinking it would be a fun adventure, even though only four of us showed up for the big event. We went from house-to-house, me croaking out a pathetic solo while the other three sang so softly even the dogs couldn’t hear them. It was sheer torture. The appeal I had felt for my date went completely flat by the end of that painful performance. Afterwards, I wished it had been a totally silent night.

Following the passage of some time and even some shame-based counseling, I was ready to try again. Perhaps I was overly confident because I actually tried to juggle two dinner dates on the same night. By the time I realized I was headed for a fiasco, it was too late to cancel. I decided I would spare each guy’s feelings by secretly going out with both (yeah right.) Date #1 worked the night shift at a television station, so our early dinner was over by 6 pm. That conveniently worked out in time for me to force down a second meal with date #2. What at first sounded like double-my-fun turned into double-my-heartburn, triple-my-guilt and me still. . . well, single.

I have been willing to do some crazy theatrics to please someone I love but, in all honesty, my basic motivation has been to convince a man to love me. After these painful experiences (disast-o-dates), I think I realize (finally) that true love is giving and not receiving. The things I do for love that matter over the long haul are not how impressed a guy is with me, but what I give of my spirit to him. There is no better description of love than in the Bible: "Love is patient and kind. Love never ends while it bears all things, hopes all things and endures all things." In other Bible words, "The greatest of these is love." Or to quote the late Michael Jackson from the movie, THIS IS IT: "It's all about the L-O-V-E LOVE!"

Talk About A Snow Job

I woke up to a soft blanket of glittery white covering everything in sight. . . Nashville's most beautiful snowfall in years. I immediately took Chopper outside, who used his snout like a snowplow to eat his way through the yard. I found an undisturbed place on the deck where I could gather up the cleanest snow, free of dirt and twigs (or worse), to make my favorite treat: snow ice cream. It all brought back so many warm memories of cold winter days from my youth.

Where my sisters and I grew up in West Texas, the landscape was as flat as a pancake. Whenever it snowed, we had to go to the closest overpass just to find a slope steep enough for us to sled. But with no real hills for sledding, nobody had a real sled either. So the older neighborhood boys improvised one by tying a rope to their Jeep and dragging us around on a trash can lid. . . through traffic! Why we didn't get flattened dead like roadrunners I'll never know. I guess the boys—and us girls too—thought because we were young, we were also invincible. Our parents sure didn’t know about our death-defying adventures. To cover up the truth (and to keep from getting grounded) we told them we were out building snowmen for kids who couldn’t go outside because they were too sickly. Talk about a snow job.

Other times my sisters, my friends and I would hide in the bushes and throw snowballs at passing cars in hopes that they would chase us. As little girls we knew if a car actually stopped, all we had to do was start crying and they wouldn’t tell on us. Talk about a snow job.

The best time for our snowball fights was right after the holidays. All the old Christmas trees were left in the alleys. We would gather up as many as we could find to build forts, using them as our shields. It was all-out war. If anyone asked what we were doing with the trees we would say we were stacking them up to help the trash man. Oh boy, talk about a snow job.

As kids, we got away with quite a few snow jobs. All in good fun, or so we told ourselves. Today I see it more from a heavenly perspective: the innocence of youth as fresh as newly fallen snow, each of us as unique as snowflakes, all drifting our own way in and through the storms. . . those that came and those still yet to come. Like a pure white blanket, Jesus covers our dirt-filled imperfections until we're sparkly clean and all the more beautiful to view. Talk about a snow job! How grateful I am for a forgiving snowfall, grateful for how it covers everything (past, present and future), and most grateful to the One who sends it.

Lost Cat, No Tail

Okay, I admit it: I have absolutely no sense of direction. Some would say it’s because I have no sense at all. I get disoriented quite easily and quite often. I once looped around a drive-thru restaurant and got lost by the time I came out the other side. Then I drove in the wrong direction for thirty miles before I figured out my error. From now on, should I ever get stranded on some deserted highway, I'll be more prepared. I'll put on a few extra pounds so I can survive by living off my fat and always carry a backup supply of emergency snacks. I may forget to bring the maps but I'll never forget the treats.

All my hours spent wandering around aimlessly has given me a heart for the lost. . . literally. The other day when I was walking my dog Chopper I saw this sign posted on the mailboxes:

Lost Cat, No Tail
Missing Tag
Friendly

My first thought was, ‘I need to let everyone know that Chopper had nothing to do with the loss of the tail.' I wondered just how many flyers I would have to write that on! And for the record, Chopper had nothing to do with the cat being M.I.A. He doesn’t have to eat cats: we have those emergency snacks. I must confess, I have eaten his treats by mistake and I'm sure they could hold us over during a starvation situation or a snow day, but they definitely need more sugar.

My second thought was, 'How would I be described if I got lost?' (or should I say when I get lost?)

Lost Redhead, No Tale
Missing Eyebrow
Friendly Unless Provoked (Easily Provoked)

What if I were only described by what I lacked? Hmmm, like my self-control over cheese, my ability to resist a sale, and my not-so-common sense. Yikes. Not to mention how I fall short on patience, kindness, and faithfulness. Whoa, that is harsh. If I want to be described any better than that, I'll need to fast forward to the last impression I leave and work backwards from that.

I'm learning that the best way to produce the fruits of the Spirit in my life is to begin cultivating them in my heart. If I am filled with the fertile soil of love then I truly will be known as loving, and not just in name. What is lost can be found. The end result is a new heart and a new sign:

Found Redhead, New Tale
Still Missing Eyebrow
Friendly, Less Easily Provoked

I Wish I Hadn't Done THAT

Life is good news and bad news, hilarity and heartbreak, love and loss all back-to-back. I like to blend mine into a swirl that makes me so dizzy I have to laugh. If I can snicker at my lamebrain disasters, then you can too. . . but please join me in laughter only and not the disaster!

I started this new year with a list of ways I would be positive and work extra hard to become the best possible version of myself. As a reminder NOT to repeat my mistakes of yesteryear, I thought it might be helpful to make a list of ways I wish I hadn't fallen, tripped or smashed regrettably into impossible situations. So here are my very own Lori Stories, a/k/a Top Ten Mistakes Not To Make:

1. I wish I hadn’t gnawed a big bite out of the Communion bread by mistake, sneaked it back to my seat and eaten the whole loaf in a panic, bringing Communion to a screeching halt.

2. I wish I hadn’t used a razor to do a tweezer’s job, leaving me with one eyebrow shaved off and forcing me to draw it back on for the next three months.

3. I wish I hadn’t eaten the entire case of candy Red Hots I bought off the Internet, giving me a hideous body rash. . . not to mention packing on five extra pounds.

4. I wish I hadn’t done that body builder’s workout, adding an extra inch to my neck and losing a whole inch off my bust.

5. I wish I hadn’t yelled, “DROP IT MONKEYBOY” when my dog ran off with my socks at the exact same time the garbage man was lifting my trash out of the can. . . and me lamely muttering, “You know I LOVE monkeys??” (Trash man not amused.)

6. I wish I hadn’t dyed my hair all white (by mistake of course), then correcting it to bright Bozo orange. . . trying four more times to fix it until entire chunks of hair broke off at the scalp.

7. I wish I hadn’t gone skiing without lessons, wearing my ski boots on the wrong feet ALL day long. . . in front of friends who never seem to forget anything (and tell everything).

8. I wish I hadn’t worn a tight skirt to the mall. . . with toilet paper hanging down my back like a tail, then waved at people on the escalator who tried to point out the problem (me thinking everybody sure is friendly today).

9. I wish I hadn’t fallen into a manhole, landing on a water meter and then hobbled home. . . dragging one bloody leg like the Bride of Frankenstein.

10. I wish I hadn’t hung up on The White House back when I was a receptionist (thinking it was a prank) saying, “Right, we’re too busy, call back later.”

It sure is encouraging to know that happiness follows suffering after awhile. It even says so in Scripture: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” I cling to that one, laughing and learning along the way. Just so you know how these disasters turned out: the rash cleared up (eventually), the eyebrow and bald spots grew in (finally), the wounds healed (more or less) and The White House did call back (and I didn't get fired!)

It's taken awhile for me to see the humor in my mistakes, but sometimes I wish these stories just weren't true. Imagine what it's like for me to wake up in a cold sweat, only to realize the dream I was dreaming was actually real? Yeah real funny, as long as you don't mind being a one-eyed, orange-haired, rash-ridden girl with her boots on the wrong feet.

Monkeyboy

Words are so very powerful. You can encourage, elevate and enlighten with a single statement. They can also be used in the negative to devastate, discourage and destroy. And sometimes words are used by a lamebrain to set off a mind-boggling sequence of events without any intention or forethought. If you've followed any of my previous escapades, it’s not hard to figure out what category I fall into.

A perfect example would be the day that my dog Chopper ran off with my freshly washed socks. I chased him outside and around the backyard. Chopper thought we were playing a game of tag and (as usual) I was “IT.” The closer I would get the faster the little chimp would run, giggling with his eyes, taunting me in his game of chase. I finally lost my patience after a few dizzying rounds through the patio furniture and yelled out, “DROP IT MONKEYBOY!!!” Unfortunately at the very moment the words left my mouth, in perfect timing like a synchronized swimmer, the trashman was lifting the garbage bag out of my can. I was totally unprepared to deal with the fact that the trashman would think I was yelling at him! We all froze like, well...like monkeys. In my state of shock the only thing I could think to say with a weak little smile was, “I like monkeys??” He was not amused. I couldn't stop to explain myself any further when I had a sock thief to catch.

I wanted to make up for my outburst. I tried to think of a note I could write: “Dear Sir: you are not a monkey. You are more like a bear.” Hmmm, I’m pretty sure that was a compliment but it was just too weird. My second attempt: “Dear Sir: You are doing a great job. I was not yelling at you, I was yelling at my dog.” Nope, I sounded like a crazy lady who yells at sweet little puppies. Instead I decided to try and encourage him the next time he came to my house with a wave, a thumbs up and cheerful chant of “Nice work!” The following week he transferred out of my neighborhood.

After that day I started to think about the consequences of a single statement. Words should not pop out of my mouth randomly like candy from a gumball machine. Psalm 19:14 says “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in Your sight. Oh Lord, my Strength and My Redeemer." That says a lot. Meditate on things that are positive, healing and encouraging. Then when the words roll out from the overflow of the heart they are words that bring life and love. I’m a bit more cautious with words now, at least as far as how I use them in my neighborhood. Our mailman’s nickname is Rabbit, but you'll never hear me calling him that!

Creature Comforts

I felt a twinge of sadness this week as I remembered my mother on what would have been her 77th birthday. Even though her passing was 23 years ago, I still miss her all the time. I especially feel her presence at Christmastime. I remember one year when I was a little girl Santa brought me a large wooden dog that walked when you pulled it on a string. The next morning my mother discovered that I had put Santa's gift in the bed to sleep with me. It wasn't exactly comfy—actually it was downright painful—but I wanted to be as close as I could get to my new little friend. Why my parents didn't give me a stuffed animal after that I'll never know.

Yesterday I was so happy to receive a special Christmas surprise from a friend who must really know me. It was a basket filled with wonderful and interesting treasures. The one item that couldn't escape my attention was the cutest little sock monkey which I promptly named Joaquin (seemed like the perfect name to me.) It's funny how receiving something like this transported me immediately back to my childhood. Last night at bedtime I wanted to put the whole basket in the bed with me, just like I did with that wooden dog. (One thing I have learned as a grown-up is not to sleep on hard objects. It can leave a scar, poke an eye out or heaven forbid, create a new wrinkle.) I opted to let the sock monkey—sweet little Joaquin—sleep in the big bed with me and my real-life dog Chopper (strategically on opposite sides of course). I think my mother would have smiled to see that I am still that same little wide-eyed girl with special gifts tucked beside her in bed.

Every year I share the holidays with people I love, creating new memories. I hope I never stop enjoying the gifts of Christmas with childlike wonder. It still amazes me how God uses events of the present to trigger memories from the past, especially those feelings of home that remain in my heart no matter where I am. I may be a grown woman (no snarky remarks please) but I will always be somebody’s child. I was blest with earthly parents who set my heart in motion and a Heavenly Father who will carry me through my days. . .and a sock monkey to remind me not to take myself too seriously.

Happy YOU Year

Every year I pick only one New Year’s Resolution to follow because that way I have to do it. It hangs over me like a cranky schoolmarm ready to guilt trip me if I get out of line. One year I resolved to lose weight, which thankfully, I did! However, I forgot to add the most important part of the phrase: Lose weight AND don’t GAIN weight (which I also did.) By the end of the year I had gained 25 pounds, AND lost 26 pounds which technically kept my resolution and the inner schoolmarm away from emotional eating binges.

The next year I was walking around saying, “I just wish someone would help me come up with a good resolution because poor little ole me is just too tired and uninspired to think of anything.” Then it hit me: I resolve not to be SO manipulative! It worked out well because I had the word SO in the statement to cover me in case I had to weasel my way through an emergency. An emergency like asking the question: “Does this outfit make me look fat?”…which is followed either by a compliment or by finding a new friend… an easy-to-manipulate, complimentary new friend.

This year I resolve to follow what Jesus called the most important commandments: To love God with all your heart and love others as yourself. I am calling it Happy YOU Year. I will say to myself every day: YOU will be the best possible version of yourself. YOU will love more, give more and be more this year. YOU will be the finest possible representative of Christ wherever you are. This year I want to celebrate Jesus all year long. This year will be less about me and more about YOU, dear Lord.