A Worthy Life

counting our blessings

You've heard this song, right?

Count your blessings, name them one by one
And it will surprise you what God has done!

We did that today, counted our blessings one by one. Our list grew and grew and grew. Seems gratitude is the perfect antidote for discontentment. All our sorrows and complaints faded in importance and severity as we were reminded of our great wealth and provision.

Already fall is fading into winter here. Instead of thinking of frostbite, we're thinking of snowflakes upon our eyelashes. Rather than shiver at the thought of wet toes, we're thinking of steaming hot chocolate. Though the weather outside may get frightful, we'll be beside our fire, thankful for a warm home and family beside us.

Have you counted your blessings today?

sing the blues...away

My daughter cannot sing to save her life.

(Luckily, I have three daughters so you'll never know whose vocal chords are so very un-gifted.)

I'm serious about this. I'm listening to her right now and feeling the vibration of her stomps and jumps trickle down the hall to me, seated here at my computer. She shouts more than sings. She screeches sounds, not exactly melodious notes.

Funny thing is, she's in time-out. Her speech this afternoon to her sister wasn't much prettier than her solo serenade. So she's missing out on an afternoon video and instead spending some alone time in her room.

And yet, she shouts. She would insist she's singing. But it's not the sounds or the perfection of the attempt that matters. What matters is her heart.

Bubbling up from her heart of contrition is joy. Pure and free. She could be sulking and holding on to deeply rooted bitterness at a mother who is so inhumane that she disciplines her daughter, refusing to listen to this woman's words of rebuke. But she doesn't.

She chooses joy.

Even if at the moment she didn't feel joy or even if she didn't really want to accept the consequence for her words, she choose to put some music on and dance her blues away.

I couldn't say exactly when I heard her blues melt into vibrant yellows of sunshine, but I'd venture to say it was somewhere between the first and second half-notes. Chased away perhaps by the dreadful sounds emitting from the soloist's throat or drowned out by the effervescence of a spirit gone happy. But nevertheless, gone.

Swallowed up in a symphony of joy.

perspective

Just a little over a week ago from today, I was handed a life changing gift.

It was wrapped in the guise of a traveler's haven just off a quiet road. To unwrap the gift, all I had to do was open the door.

Inside was a woman, an old friend of the family. A woman whose body was convulsing with sobs as she held tight in the embrace of my husband. Newly homeless and destitute, she clung to the buoys of friendships around her.

Those buoys were few.

Fearing for her life, she had fled her husband with police escort. She had only one lifeline, only one friend who was able to answer the phone when she called. Up in years and with many medical concerns, there was nowhere else she could go. At a woman's shelter she would become lost and confused yet the hospital had to clear it's rooms for the most needy. A vacant hotel room was the only alternative, the only place where safety could be masqueraded.

We were there for a visit only. Hearing only about her plight that morning, we had wanted to visit her immediately. Our visit needed to be brief. I was still lagging behind in energy after fighting a prolonged health issue myself and I had a prior commitment to make before falling into the comfortable embrace of my bed.

Each of our children came to sit on her hotel bed. Each staring at the scene before them and their eyes filling with concern and bewilderment. Yet each greeted her warmly, putting aside their fears as if somehow intuitively sensing her need for love was greater than their own desire to hold back.

Her sobs mingled with laughter as she enveloped Emmanuelle and brought her onto her frail lap. This was the miracle that she had asked God for over three years ago. Today was the first time she was able to personally lay eyes on the miracle her God had granted her. Educated as a doctor, she knew well the dangers associated with my pregnancy and the scientific impossibility of a healthy child. Yet, when I was weak, on bed rest and faltering in my own ability to believe the impossible, she continued fervent in her prayers. And God did not disappoint.

Here, in her arms, was the anchor and testimony that she had so long since clung to when the impossibilities of her own life caused her faith to question God.

Now, she was the one who was weak. Without money or home to call her own, she had nothing but her faith. Nothing but the devotion of an unseen God.

Until Jesus showed up at her door.

Taking on the form of the unlikeliest of motley crews, our family was led to be His hands and feet to a woman in need of a savior.

Conversing with the Holy Spirit in my heart and silently communicating with my husband's eyes, I thought how nice it would be if we could be her new family, if our home could be her home. How nice, indeed. If only I was feeling better. If only my husband wasn't leaving in a few days for a trip. If only the school year hadn't just started. If only I had done laundry yesterday.

The conversation was short. And that's when the real Jesus stood up. No, she couldn't yet see Him. He was still urging me, challenging me that whatever I do to the least of these, I do unto Him. Reminding me that His grace was sufficient, that His strength and glory is revealed in my weakness.

By then, she must have know He'd arrived. After my husband and I exchanged that all-knowing look, "He's talking to you too, isn't He?", we reached out our arms to her and invited her to come home with us.

And here she's been for the past few days. And how mightily His strength has enabled me to love her and listen to her.

Each day since has been a gift. Her life, her story, her companionship the last few days has awakened in me a desire to love our Jesus like never before. Seeing her faith, hearing her recount the horrors of her situation, and yet her trusting, holding on with but a strand of hope, has challenged my own faith. It has caused me to see my blessings in a new light. What so long has been my imagined obstacles fell away by the revelation that today I am not homeless or destitute.

Today I have every blessing in Christ Jesus.

And I want to share more of it with others...

does your salvation need a workout?

When I started this blog, I truly intended that it be simply a way of chronicling the days in my life. And, the crazy thoughts that are so oft swirling around in my head. My desire was that by glimpsing my own life (think It's a Wonderful Life here, imagining me as George looking at his life through a different lens) through the days and weeks and years I would have some gauge by which to measure my life. Am I growing, is my life maturing, is my light glowing brighter as I live more worthy of His great love each and every day?

Today the progress is duly noted. Today I was handed a new lens through which to view my past. And what I saw weren't always so perty.

As I take note of many of my posts, I see within myself an ambition for recognition, a pursuit of personal fulfillment, and the blindingly obvious holy grail: my own success. Success in many arenas: motherhood, marriage, money, anything that would satisfactorily give me a monopoly of the accolades I concluded were only mine by right. Many of these goals are honorable and respectable. Many of them I pursued even at some sacrifice to myself. Many I pursued even at the cost of others. But somewhere in the silver lining of each there was always a promise of selfish gain.

Don't think me overly humble here. I know well that the intentions of my heart were mostly good, mostly for the common good. But believe me when I tell you there was that within that thirsted for something else, something not so good.

Truth is, I was thirsty. No, I am thirsty. I still am thirsty for a life that has meaning. I am thirsty for a life of purpose. But no longer do I want to be defined by efforts toward my own glory. No more do I want to build and accumulate things and positions that are here today and gone tomorrow. I want to live more and more each day in light of eternity.

While driving home the other day, I was reminded of something I treasured dearly as a kid. I can't remember exactly what grade I was in (or was it that I am too afraid to admit it might have been when I was quite old...;o) but I can see with perfect clarity the manila folder that held all of my treasures. And I can almost smell it just as clearly. It was a folder decorated with all of the stickers I as an overachieving student had received on a job well done. (My new found humility restrains me from telling you just how full and crowded this precious folder was.)

Many of the stickers were my favorite tokens of praise: scratch and sniff stickers. Oh, how I loved them, as told by the faded color and design of each. I would scratch and scratch and sniff and sniff. Each whiff reminded me of my achievements, each whiff served to fully fill my ever swelling head.

I wondered on my drive the other day just where that folder is now. What was once so prized and cherished has no doubt filled a random landfill years ago. (Ok, maybe the folder wasn't big enough to fill a landfill on it's own but it was mighty durn close.) Today's prize became yesterday's purtification. (Really, can you imagine the putrid scent of a ton of scratch and sniff stickers rotting in the warmth of the earth?? Yeah, it probably wasn't a ton and I'm not so sure that they rot myself but the exaggeration lends itself well to my point...)

What reminded me of all of this while on my drive was the local road kill of the day. A skunk. All maimed and splattered, blood oozing out it's sides and head and well, whatever body part that used to be. One of my favorite stickers on my folder was one on which a smiling skunk looked out with a doe-eyed expression, making you love and crave the sweet skunk smell a quick scratch would evoke.

Poor skunk. How well I could relate to him! Just trying to survive another day, trying to fend off feelings of uselessness, and accusations of a life wasted, he pulled out the only ante he had. His only gift, his only glory. Spent. Wasted. Because in the end, his life was soon over. His only legacy, the sickeningly sweet aroma that would be quickly gone with the next wind.

All that I could pursue, all the desires to leave a legacy, to make a name for myself might bring me glory for awhile. But death comes to all us. Our glory so quickly fades away as time marches on without us.

Unless. Unless...

The worthiness of my life is meant to bring Him glory.

What I'm getting at, friends, is that you should simply keep on doing what you've done from the beginning. When I was living among you, you lived in responsive obedience. Now that I'm separated from you, keep it up. Better yet, redouble your efforts. Be energetic in your life of salvation, reverent and sensitive before God. That energy is God's energy, an energy deep within you, God himself willing and working at what will give Him the most pleasure. (Philippians 2:12)

So, ok. I trust that there is something over the past few years of keeping public account here that has brought glory to His name, since I've sincerely desired to live a life of obedience to my God. But this here today is a redoubling of my energy. A renewed desire to give my faith, my salvation a workout that will boast huge results for His glory.

It's only Day 1 and I think I feel the burn already...

grace, 'tis a charming sound

Nothing she did would make them love her more. Yet nothing she did would make them love her less.

What Serena Williams experienced yesterday afternoon after her doubles win with sister Venus was nothing short of grace and mercy.

Unmerited favor. Unwarranted compassion.

Serena did a bad, bad thing. Prior to the doubles match, she played in the singles finals when a call made by the line judge did not agree with her. Screaming profanities and uttering threats as she approached, Serena Williams let out all of her frustrations at the line judge who was just calling things as she saw them. This gross error in judgment cost her the match and $10,000. An in-depth investigation will tell if her rampage will yet cost her still more.

Hours later she would be introduced once again to the court of public opinion. As she took her first steps onto the stage where the last battle would be fought, she stepped out as a woman marked for anger, judgment, and ridicule from the audience, many of whom were long time fans.

The broadcasters paused, allowing a dramatic silence to usher in the unknown. Would her fans so quickly forgive the unforgivable? Or would they express their disappointment, their "you-shoulda-know-better"s with boos and heckles?

The brief silence was broken with cheers. Not a bit quieter than past welcomes. Her fans still loved her, still adored her for who they believed she was and still could be. Still welcomed her based on more than her most recent failure. A welcome she didn't deserve.

Once the doubles' victory was secured by the Williams' sisters, a broadcaster interviewed the winners. Thinking this the perfect time for Serena to impress on the world her sorrow and regret for her behavior, he prodded repeatedly to get her to address her guilt. Then the boos began, not at the likely victim, but at the self-appointed judge who thought it his duty to impress upon her the blame for her malfeasance.

Nothing I can do can make God love me more. Nothing I can do can make God love me less.

I am not my most recent failure. I am not my most thrilling achievement. I am simply...loved.

Not on the basis of merit. Not because I deserve compassion. But because God, the Final Judge, sees me for more than I do and believes in all I can and will become through His grace and mercy.

Because of her fans' belief that she is more than her last indiscretion, Serena will no doubt be inspired to do better, conduct herself in a manner more conducive to one who is aware of the love that gifted her with a public pardon.

Because of my God's belief that I am more than my weaknesses, I am compelled to conduct my life in a manner worthy of His great love, more conducive to one who has been made aware that I have been eternally pardoned because of love.

"Who can be good if not made so by loving?" ~ Augustine

any given sunday: sundays we did, sundays we didn't

Sunday mornings are a funny thing.

Even as a kid, I remember them as days of the pendulum, some days good, some days not. Some days we woke up with a smile on our face and a song in our heart. But most days we woke only after a gentle massage followed by a hearty "time to get up" from our dad. Who, on some Sundays, had toasted a few bagels and set out some hard boiled eggs for us to take on the road.

The road trip from home to Sunday meetin' could sometimes be filled with singing, old hymns and Bible songs learned as kids. But mostly it was full of sullen scowls for having to wake too early and frustration over what was surely the worst hair day ever. Mom would always sit up front, applying her make-up in the visor mirror while her hair set in her hot rollers. More Sundays than not we'd have to swing by 7-11 and pick up a pair of last minute nylons nestled in their plastic egg.

My friends all had parents who seemed to have it more together, or so I thought. I envisioned everyone else sitting down to a three course breakfast prepared by a mother who woke at 6 a.m. and who had remembered to buy her nylons the night before. Dresses would have been ironed the night before as well so all the nice little children would have to do was wake with a smile and slide into their meticulously prepared Sunday best. No doubt singing in perfect harmony as they drove.

I assumed that growing up in a Christian home meant we had to be perfect to do Sundays right. It didn't seem real or authentic that gettting ready or getting there could produce such un-Sunday behavior. Sure, Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me" but He really meant only the ones with perfect pigtails and radiant smiles who obediently followed their parents' command with hearty gusto.

But as I grew older, and a little wiser, I realized that it wasn't how we went on Sundays or how together we appeared. It was just that we went. Sunday after Sunday. Good ones and bad. That it was most authentic when everything in us wanted a few more minutes nestled under our covers and when we worried that we didn't have anything appropriate to wear. That we went, not out of religious compulsion, but because we knew that we, as a family, still needed Jesus. And that we had so much to thank Him for.

Even today as a mother with four kids to get ready on any given Sunday I feel the pressure of getting everyone out the door without any major catastrophes or significant melt downs. I (usually) have my make up and hair done before getting in the van but can sometimes be found combing out knots in the girls' hair from the back row. I try to wake with a smile and greet my husband with a kiss and set a good example for my kids. But some Sundays I don't.

But still we go to Sunday meetin'. Not because we are perfect and want to show and tell all that we've done right to a God who watches with furrowed brow to see if our nylons made it there without any runs. But because we know how good God has been to us from Monday to Sunday. Because we know there is no better place for a heart centered on itself and it's own concerns to be transformed to a heart full of gratitude for who He is and what He has done for us.

I'm grateful today that I had parents back then who taught me that we shouldn't wait until we have it more together to go. But just to go. And once there, to be again reminded of His great love for me, someone who may or may not have it together on any given Sunday.

to the hole family

The other day a friend gave me what at the time I considered to be the greatest compliment I've ever received. He said that when he describes our children to others he does so by telling how our children aren't like perfect little kids, since everyone knows how boring they are. Rather they are good while still being hip. They have spunk and wit and aggression (I think he meant the good kind on that last one) and yet still know how to be respectful and obedient (on occasion).

Today I'm wishing they were a little less hip and a whole lotta more perfect.

Yesterday at the park I met a record number of new people, moms who like me find a few hours on the playground and digging in the sand an ideal way to let our little hip and aggressive kids burn a bit of energy. Each and every one marveled at how beautiful my children were.

I muttered to myself, "You should see them in the throes of rebellious tantrums and the dirty looks that spew from eyes of venom in hopes of a direct impact with their siblings." Wishing then that their innards were as praise worthy as their outtards.

I realized recently that this job of motherhood is only going to get harder before it gets easier. That I'm going to have to deal with a whole lot of ugly before there is any consistency in the beauty. Sure, my kids are well behaved when compared to the neighborhood bully and yes, they are pleasant and responsive and polite when they have just been fed and are well rested and things are generally going their way. And that's a good 88% of the time. But it's the holes, the intermittency and lapses that prove to me that this is not a job I can do laying down.

Our daughter Eliana wrote a letter, "To the Hole Family", that she read aloud to us at the dinner table. I must say, had I the time to share you would be riveted and engrossed in her literary aptitude and grasp of vocabulary, but you can read it sometime yourself from the original source that she copied it from. Still, the theme and application she chose was quite fitting for a specific internal struggle she has been having of late.

What got me thinking was her opening address. The Hole Family...does this title she unwittingly chose speak to our struggle as a family? Are we content to be 88% good and relishing our presupposed hipness while ignoring the holes in our character, the holes in our defense of the Truth, and the holes in our offense of our children's moral construction?

To be honest, I sometimes want God to fill only the holes in my own life, only the areas I'm not good at, the ones that my natural understanding cannot find an obvious solution for. The other 88%? Got it God. I'll let you know when I need a hand, or a hole-filler.

The truth of the matter, whether it be my approach to motherhood or my personal approach to my God, is that He should be involved in everything, in my whole life. By understanding my own limitations and His boundless wisdom, I should run to Him for discernment. When fearing the challenges and obstructions in my way are too large, too numerous for me to handle (I am outnumbered 4 kids: 1, oh Lord!), His reassureance that I can do all things, huge, whole things, through Him is my strength.

When seeking encouragement in God's Word, I'm reminded that God will deliver on his whole promise, for the whole family, for the whole nation, for the whole world, for the whole of eternity to those who seek Him with whole hearted devotion. Not just for the holes.

~that's my Eliana in the photo above, she's the one in the hole

objects in mirror are closer than they appear

The signs of aging are already there. Some just a whisper of what is to come. Some marching in with vicious progression.

I tell myself I am young at heart. My mind is understanding but my body must not have got the memo.

When with my older sister, we joked about what work we would have done if we could. While nursing two kids at a time, her chest is one woman would pay for. I told her she should have them photographed or immortalized in a bronzed sculpture. She'll need the reminder when they soon deflate after the suckling years are over and she is reduced to rolling up the sagging remnants and pin and tucking them into her Victoria Secret prosthetics commissioned to give the illusion of having had work done. I speak from experience so she laughs at the Grim Reaper foretelling such news.

Personally, I'd get implants a little lower. Not the front, but the back side. No, literally, the backside. I can't blame this one on pregnancies or engorgements, just terrible genetics that leave it slipping and sliding into the future without the desired perkiness. I've heard tell that Victoria has a secret for this too so that may be edging it's way up my grocery list soon. To buy: veggies, fruit, bread, hummus, diet coke, a lift for the booty. I'll sneak it in subtly so when hubster does the shopping it will seem a very ordinary addition to the cart. He'll thank me later, oh yes he will. He'll wonder if I splurged on those $200 pair of jeans. Nope, it'll still be my clearance rack specials, just a little more filled out.

We talked about altering our appearances, whether through cosmetic camouflage or surgical alterations, my sister and I did. While I am all for painting the outside and embellishing natural beauty, I am mindful of the message our beauty obsession is sending my children. When I look at them, I see nothing but flawless perfection. Not because they are flawlessly perfect, but because that is the way I view them. Created by an Artist so skilled, so precise in His sculpting and so exact with His brush that I, a complete illiterate in the world of art, seem ill authorized to question His masterpiece in each of them. The only credentials I hold in beauty are the ones that came hard drived into me through the images of the culture around me. Had I been born a few hundreds year sooner or in certain tribes in Africa, my natural slimness would be frowned upon and would give me little hope for survival in time of famine. My understanding reminds me that what I consider beautiful is temporary, evidenced by the sudden and constant march of change in fashion and cosmetics across the short time line of my life.

What I do with my body and my face is contributing to the hard drive of my children's understanding of beauty. While I may yet spring for that series of special dermabrasion, I may not. If certain scars and age marks are removed will I then be content, finally happy with my external beauty? By fixing just this and just that and only spending a thousand here and a thousand there, will I finally be finished? Or will my pursuits only gain rapid momentum as new procedures and miraculous claims continue to bombard me?

When will I learn to accept the masterpiece that He created instead of altering it to fit my finite and amateur idea of what I'd rather it were?

Will this be the year? I'm turning thirty, you know. With every increase in age, I'd rather see a decrease in complaints against the One who put me together. I'd like to hope that with increase of age, my wisdom too is increasing. That I'd be all the more wiser to know that it'd be just plain stupid of me to suggest to Monet, "Your artistic approach is a little fuzzy to me. I'd rather know the precise details of each person and every fragrant bloom. Your little dabs of spotted paint seem rather dull and drab to me."

Because everyone knows that if you were but to take a few steps back to gaze upon the masterpiece, you would see more than random, imperfect splotches. You would see the beauty as the artist intended to be viewed.

Stepping away from the mirror and the speckled blotches and indentations, perhaps maybe I too could see the beauty in me, the masterpiece the Artist prepared with an eye for detail and a timeless and infinite understanding of what true beauty is.

lost at home

I have never outrun my husband.  Ever. Come to think of it, I have rarely outrun anyone. With the exception of my own children.

And in the exceptional event of having lost one of them.

We have out of town guests for the weekend. Old friends. The kind you can pick up after a year since seeing them last and still know how they're going to end their sentences and already know the punchline to their tried and true jokes.

So, we were laughing, full belly laughs and a few near drownings when one of us would make the near fatal attempt to take a drink immediately prior to an unexpected urge to giggle. The kids were running wild around the house, playing dress up, playing house, playing to their hearts content while the old folks stayed absorbed in our jokes about squeaky bedsprings and the passage of gassage.

"Mom, mama. MOM...I'm not feeling well."

"Ok, sweetie", I called with a casual glance her direction. "Go lay down on the couch and I'll be there in a minute."

But the minute turned into twenty while I cleaned up dinner and then went to photograph the deer practically standing in our front yard. I came back inside to find half of the family and our guests headed to the park and the other half waiting for me. I quickly wrapped up a few leftovers and headed out the door.

At the park where the boys were playing basketball, we joined the kids in the sand. We did a quick headcount to make sure we had everybody.

One, two, three, four little kids, ...

"Eden? Edie?! WHERE IS EDEN??"

This was The Moment. The moment every mother fears, the instant that time stands still as your heart races on ahead at a million beats per second. My daughter was missing.

In that frozen second in time, it was not fear that raced to my mind but rather an instinct to go out to seek and to find my lost daughter. I knew she was not with us. I knew she was not at the other park we had passed on the way. Her quiet conversation with me sprung immediately to mind. Amidst the merriment and the mayhem, she came to me. "Mama, I need you."

In my mind I saw her, waiting at home, on the couch, exactly where I had told her I would meet her. I ran without pausing to consider the pain in my chest or the difficulty of running with flip flops. I only knew that she needed me and I was far away.

Unlocking the front door, I could hear her soft cry. She was right where I thought she'd be having just awakened from a cat's nap and finding herself in a quiet house. I held her to me, rocking her to soothe away her sobs. She didn't know I had just sprinted home from blocks away. She didn't know that papa was following but lagging behind. She didn't know that while papa's heart was stronger, a mother's heart can inject speed and urgency into even the weakest legs. 

She only knew that I was there. Right where I said I'd be. In answer to her quiet cry. Holding her tight, ensuring her that I could comfort and protect her.

That was Saturday. Today I find myself running again. Running instead as the child seeking her Father. Today it was I who strayed far from home. I had wandered outside His direction and His safe keeping when I determined to follow instead my desire, my pleasure, my path of pride and stubbornness. The merriment lasted only a short while. Fueled only by selfishness, I always wind up empty, short on patience, short on love, short on respect for others. I needed Him and I was far away.

In quiet conversation I approached my Father and in that same moment felt enveloped in His embrace. I was aware of how child-like I still am in my faith and in my understanding. Wanting more than anything to be a Big Girl, able to go it alone every once in awhile, to succeed on my own in doing the right thing, I drifted away from the only One who could provide all the strength and wisdom I would need to accomplish even the simplest of these pursuits.

Eden was left, lost and alone. But I sought her out and took her again under my protection and love.

I left my Father, lost and alone. He drew me back with loving kindness and in my return, ran out to meet me.

It's good to be Home.

a wallflower picks her friends

I had the simple pleasure this evening of swinging alone in my back yard. Except for the gentle sound of water falling on parched grass, it was silent as day faded into darkness. At this moment, I experienced how solitude is a refreshing gift and silence it's blessed companion. After a day of noisy bombardment from the kids, the traffic, the tv, the radio, the computer, the vacuum, the sounds of life, I could finally think. I could think about whatever floated into my head from my heart, for now I could actually hear what it was beating.

Tonight I thought about friendship. I thought back to the days when I longed for a bosom friend and a circle of companionship where I was accepted and appreciated for who I was. I always felt like the outsider looking in, wondering why I had friends but didn't seem to fit in with any groups. I used to wonder why my friends seldom looked like me or talked like me or even had more than one shared interest. With my teammates, I would talk volleyball. With my work friends, I would talk shop. With the girls who carried the same magazines through the hallways, I talked fashion and pop culture. I tried to stay within the boundaries that seemed specified by our connections. Yet, in each of those circles, I knew I was different. Most of the time, though I would be a part of much and with many people, I kept back part of myself, hoping against hope that whatever it was that was different about me would go unnoticed if I just did the right thing and said the right words.

Even though I knew I thought differently and wanted desperately to be unique, there was a strong desire to fit in. To blend in enough to not attract attention that would highlight what I thought was so blindingly obvious. I watched what others wore, how they acted, what they did and tried to assess if these were worthwhile decisions for me. I had a strong sense of what I would not to and had no desire to conform to their every motion but I also didn't want to stand out. I just wanted to somehow be everything that everyone was.

Over the years I have come to see that at the core of what makes me different is my faith, my assurance in the call of God on my life. I have recognized that what kept me from blinding following the crowd or bending to the will of my peers was a deeply rooted sense of what God wanted for me. I am a child of God and as such there is certain behavior and choices that exemplify what that means.

Yet here I am, at not quite 30, finding myself standing again against the wall and assessing what my friends are doing. What decisions are they making? Where are they going? How are they doing this? Why are they doing that? I'm observing to see if what they are doing and choosing is right for me, hoping that if I can find a majority that is doing what I hope to, I will have the boldness to walk that way too.

The problem I'm finding with that is that I am looking to too many people. I'm listening to the counsel of people that I can't say I admire completely. I'm tuning in to the experts who believe that we are all gods and finding our greatest purpose is our only real meaning in life. I'm striving to imitate friends whose lives I would never even want for myself. I'm yearning to live the lives of those I was not called to follow.

When I first moved away from home to a new country, the thing I desperately missed was friendship. I looked for it everywhere I could - the gym, the parks, my husband's work functions. And then, when I was least expecting it, a wonderful and beautiful friend made her first appearance in my life. She phoned me after meeting me one day and we found out that we lived only a few blocks apart, not a small miracle when the place we met was a good distance away.

Over the years our friendship has grown as our families have doubled and tripled in size. She is a friend that I honestly probably have very little externally in common with. Yet at her core, I catch a glimpse of myself. A woman who is striving to walk worthy, a woman who knows there is but One God and He gave us His Son Jesus Christ, and a woman who is learning to love Him, her husband, and her children a little more every day.

Today I got an email from her. Knowing that I am preparing for vacation and anticipating the stressful moments among the fun, she sent me this reminder:

It seems that the true success of a trip can rarely be measured by what we do and see, but rather by who we are in the middle of what we do and see.

In my world that is heavy with voices and influences coming from a thousand different sources and a hundred different friends, this was a quiet whisper that proved that this friend was a keeper. With her I don't worry about measuring up or comparing successes or pretending to have it all together. With her I can just be me and know that, because she is wise and discerning, she sees me for who God is forming me to be and will be there as He works to get His image impressed in my life.

Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, said it best when he said, "A (wo)man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

Again, he writes, "Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of one's friend springs from (her) earnest counsel."

Tonight my heart that was before parched by trying to meet the expectations, achievements, and advice of so many, was watered by the pleasantness of a true friend, a bosom friend, a sister in God's family. I am reminded that while I try to keep in touch with so many friends, choosing the right ones, the best ones is vital to me staying on track and gleaning wisdom from the piles of rubbish opinions.

Tonight I am still a wallflower of sorts, watching and learning from the crowds. But with a confidence and wisdom granted me over the years, I can continue to walk worthy with the support and encouragement of a few good friends picked up along the way.