A hotdog with mustard changed my life nineteen years ago. 

Late  in October, after fifteen hours of labor, I decided to defy the laws of logic by feeding my (already in turmoil) stomach a hotdog with mustard. I didn't even like mustard. But more, I didn't like having to wait for you for another minute. I'd been waiting for you since I'd found out about you the beginning of March. Really, I'd been waiting for you most of my life, as do all girls with dreams of motherhood. 

 That hotdog changed things. My piddly do-nothing contractions accepted my challenge. I didn't know they were piddly until the real pains came on...after the mustard. I battled pains for seventeen more hours before you arrived the next morning. I believe it was on a Friday. 

Funny how, when they brought you up close to my face and I talked to you, both our terrors ceased.  We knew each other already. 

Within days, memory of life before you was fuzzy. 

Your dad and I had no idea what we were doing even though we had taken birthing classes. I'd practiced diapering and soothing my fussy nieces and nephews but this was different. Your dad told his two friends who were afraid to hold you, to hold you like a football. He also called for your nurse at the first surprising diaper no one had warned us about. 

Those first days were terrifying and wonderful. 

I've gotten used to both of those emotions. Parenthood can easily be compared to a rollercoaster ride, but there's still an important difference. I've ridden "The Judge Roy Scream" at Six Flags more than twenty times. At this point I can handle when the coaster goes careening down those steep rickety tracks. I know what happens. With the ones you love, life continues in unexpected twists and turns. 

Life with you has had a steady element of surprise and thrill (with still a little bit of terror). This has been especially true as you've traveled off to college. You're making your own decisions.  You're buying your own gas and getting yourself up for class without me there to remind you to not forget your notebook. I'm not there to tell you to fix the left side of your hair seeing it looks like clown hair because you took a shower and then went back to bed and fell asleep on it. 

But there's also still wonderful. There's a new kind of wonderful. Texts and phone calls aren't taken for granted. You won't find me telling you that "hugs shouldn't hurt" like I did when you were four and your hard (and sometimes out of nowhere) hugs seized my breath and near cracked my ribs. 

I anticipate hearing about each new exciting thing you're doing like writing articles for "The Houstonian", the school paper. I'm still working up the nerve to ask you to send me a picture of you or your new friends every once in a while but I've held on to that weirdness so far. 

This new chapter has been trying to say the least. But in all the newness and sadness and through the frightening, I know what happens. 

 I can look back through every year and see how wonderful God's plan has been so far and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that His plan is in a most exciting stage for you now. I can see how He is "working for the good" in your life; you've been called according to His purpose. I'm a grateful spectator who's hanging on to her mom-powered binoculars. 

This is your first birthday away from home. I'll spend today wondering what you're doing, limiting my texts to let you enjoy a little bit of it. I'll spend the day thinking over just how thankful I am for your humor and your love of deep conversation. 

Your dad and I are proud of you. We love you like we did so many October 30 mornings ago. But we love you different. Deeper. 

Thankful for that hotdog with mustard that precipitated your coming nineteen years ago. 

Happy birthday Hayden

About a year after Jason and I got married we bought an old house that qualified for a historical marker had we pursued the paperwork. 

  
My favorite thing about this old house was the porch. It extended around the part of the house that jutted out in front. It faced our little street on the edge of town; a town so small that it was just made up of edges, no middle. 

Our porch had a white-painted wooden swing and two squeaky screen doors whose trim Jason's Papa painted the prettiest plum color. 

We spent nice afternoons on that porch, though looking back, I wish we'd spent more time there. 

We love the house we live in now, seventeen years later. This house lacks a proper spot for a porch swing; primarily because there's little porch at all. There's a covered spot leading to the entrance with a doormat and two sickly plants. There's just enough room for three people (tops) to squeeze in if its raining.  

There's no room for rocking chairs or coffee talk (not that I'm a coffee drinker). 

I wonder if we had our old porch back if I'd perch myself there in the evening hour watching the sun finish its final leg to the horizon. Would I be there waiting when neighbors walked by on brisk mornings with an eager wave that said "How's it going?"? 

We were busy back then. We were working jobs and caring for a toddler. We had family two to ten miles in nearly every direction whom we were going to see with hopes of bumming dinner most nights. We spent little time at home, much less on the porch. 

We're even busier now; still with jobs and with three kids. Our family and friends are scattered...and they're many. (And they're busy too). 

Had we a front porch now like we did in Iredell, we wouldn't have much time for sitting on it. Calendar-wise and square-footage wise, there's not enough space for that kind of front porch living in this season. 

I regret that this is the case, but it is the case, for us at least. We limit our kids activities. We're learning to say no to some things because there are ceaseless things to do and places to be. Still, our time is spent traveling from red light to red light and speeding through green ones.  We scurry like mice trying to get even our limited list completed. 

Having time to enjoy our surroundings and spend a quantity of time with people is difficult in this high speed age. We have blips of time. We must use them wisely. I like to think I put some of those blips to good use on Facebook. 

Facebook has become a new front porch. 

Before you do a face palm at such a statement, hear me out.

 Certainly Facebook doesn't substitute for face-to-face interaction. Facebook interaction, on its own, is superficial. We scroll, we like. Some times we click on comments and type in the "prayer hands" or "heart" emoji. If we're really touched, we tap out encouragement on the keys...a thirty word sentiment to cheer you on. 

 It doesn't have to stop there. Facebook is a setting, where sometimes, otherwise impossible friendships are forged. Just don't let Facebook be the whole of it. 

The front porch is where you wave. It's where you say to the person in passing..."It's a beautiful day!" or "Is your family well?" Most waved to from the porch will keep on going, glad for greeting. Some will mozy on over to where you are to engage in more meaningful conversation, especially if you invite them. 

I don't believe I'll ever say anything on Facebook that will have much effect on anyone's day, much less their life. But just like the old front porch in Iredell, Facebook is a place where a greeting or an encouraging comment can lead to so much more. 

I've had Facebook interaction that has led to meals with laughter. My engagement on Facebook has led to partnering in prayer with people, which does have the possibility of changing lives. I have developed friendships with several people I've never met; people with whom I have important things in common, people with which I can relate. I have plans to meet one lady in the next year whom I've prayed with for more than a year. She lives out of state, but we message each other frequently in hopes of encouraging one another. 

Facebook is a front porch with boundless possibility. Unlike the five-foot by five-foot slab out side my door, my electronic porch has grand dimensions. It reaches across oceans. Sure relationships aren't made of "likes" and emojis, but it can be a good start.
Purposeful relationships are for the taking and building, starting with your fingertips. 

Because even good things should be in moderation, I'm working on a post that includes smart Facebook guidelines. What would you include?

Don't forget to subscribe if you'd like to receive these posts by email. 
 

 Comfort, yes, comfort My people!’ says your God. Isaiah 40:1

  
Warning: slightly gross and unnecessary pictures in this post. 

I diagnosed my toe as broken on September 14. 

I hurt it in the middle of September. I took pictures (at least a dozen). Lucky recepients received a picture almost immediately. You, however, had to wait. The good news is, you now get the picture AND  a post. Good things come to those who get stuff late (or something like that). 

I had tried to convince myself that I was being dramatic. I hobbled to church the evening I hurt it because that's we do when we "adult", we keep moving. 

  
After a mostly good night's sleep (when I didn't roll wrong and writhe in pain),  I woke up to my foot having grown increasingly bruised and puffy. 

Sidenote (because I know you may be curious as to how this happened): I was running down the sidewalk barefoot and jumped over our brick edging, not clearing a brick with my left pinky toe. The pain was so severe, it left me mute for five minutes. 

For the first week after the injury I wore my gold Old Navy sandals; the ones I've had since approximately 2006. They're stretchy and the strap goes between my first two toes which worked because nothing was allowed to touch my third through fifth toes or the top left part of my foot. I walked pigeon-toed with my left leg. (I walk a lot working with small groups at school ...so I needed a system.)

Two weeks later I worked my way back into my Converse tennis. I was pleased with my progress. 

A little over five weeks have passed. Yesterday I decided, that healed, I would wear my favorite boots because it was looking to be a beautiful fall day.  They're brown and cute. They make my feet look smaller and my legs longer. 

It was an especially long day. 

My left pinky toe was quite the trooper; so much so that I decided to put on those same cute boots again this morning. That's when my fifth toe protested announcing its promise that it would make known (by way of pain) how foolish I am should I decide to go through with my initial choice in cute footwear. 

No, I remembered, my pinky toe does not play around. 

Instead I chose a pair of tan fuzzy Sketcher boots who also joined my shoe family around 2006, and whose middle name is comfort. I slid the left one on gently, seeking consent. 

My toe sighed relief.  

My comfy Sketchers served me well today. I am resting in my sock feet currently, but will put them back on as I go to church in an hour. Paired with a dressy black sweater, my ensemble is wrong on a number of levels.  I imagine that some may wonder why such apparel has been chosen. 

One word. 

Comfort. 

We do have to keep going, and sometimes our cute boots don't cut it. Comfort is what we need. 

I mentioned in a recent post that I made a closet into a prayer room. This morning I didn't want to leave it. But as the adult world would have it, we have jobs and kids. We have busy schedules. And no matter how much our ailing pinky toe (or in some cases, our pained heart) says otherwise, we have to pick ourselves up by our fuzzy Sketcher bootstraps and keep on walking. 

Sometimes comfort comes in the form of the right footwear. But I find that the kind of comfort  I seek on a daily basis is found in prayer where my I cast my weary soul to the healer.  Words of comfort penned tenderly for me get me through a long day. I look to chapters that start in suffering and then move to victory. 

As cross as my pinky toe and I have been, this is something on which we agree. 

Nahum 1:7 The LORD is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him.

Don't forget to subscribe if you want to receive these posts by email. 

Psalms 116:1-2 I love the LORD, because he has heard my voice and my pleas for mercy. Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live.

It's Thursday and I have a special guest post. My cousin Angela is sharing her story. I hope you're as blessed reading her testimony as I have been, watching it lived out. 

Praising God in the Difficult Times

Written by: Angela Dorris

It's always easy to find ourselves seeking God when everything seems to be falling apart. I used to be that person that only truly searched for God when things were going wrong. 

In my life, I have lost my sister, my great-grandmother, my first husband, my grandmother and am now on the verge of losing my aunt. Most of these losses have something in common; praising God in the difficult times. 

 I would like to start with my sister Kelli. She was the kindest, sweetest little angel I have ever met who had the biggest heart for God. You see, she was born with a heart condition and only lived to be 5. 
 Her dream during her short period on Earth was to go to school. That opportunity did come open. She was able to attend Early primary school. She wasn't able to go for very long because of her health. 

  
  Kelli spent a good part of her life in the hospital. The very last month she was alive, she attended Vacation Bible School at Early First Baptist Church. I'm so grateful for that week because all she talked about was how Jesus was her friend. Kelli wanted to make sure that her sister Holly had Jesus as a friend too. At that time my brother Shawn and I were already saved. Holly did not accept Christ before Kelli died, but she did later on in life. 

 Kelli knew and understood how much God loved her and it didn't seem to matter that she was really sick. That was the beginning of knowing what it truly means to praise God in the difficult times.

Now, on to my great-grandmother. She was truly a woman of God who always wanted to teach. The best thing I remember about her is that she taught people how to read. The only book she used was the Bible. During her 90 years of life I never heard her complain or blame God for her not feeling well. She is the one who walked down the aisle with me when I became a Christian.

  
My first husband was taken away from us when my children were very young. He died in a car accident. I remember people coming over to the house the night he died commenting on how much peace was in the home. The only way you can have peace like that is when you put all your cares into God's hands. I was only 29 at the time of his death, with no job and still in college. 

 God provided for me and my children.

My grandmother passed away 3 months later due to complications from a heart attack and a stroke. I remember years before when she had the heart attack, my family came together and starting praising God and praying.

My dad had never really been sick a day in his life. One day he was taken by EMS to the hospital, and then transported to another hospital in Ft. Worth. My dad was in ICU for less than a month before he passed away. I remember the doctor calling my other grandmother and telling her to come quick because my dad wasn’t going to make it much longer. 

On the way, I made a wrong turn that would eventually cause use to be another hour late. I remember asking God to help my dad hold on until we could make it there. I am a person who loves to sing and I was feeling anxious because I didn't know if we would make it time. 

 I had a praise and worship CD that I had been listening to from time to time. We all started singing on the way to the hospital even though we knew the outcome for my dad wasn't going to change. We did make it in time to see him. God put so much peace into my heart after my dad passed away that we were also able to sing praises to him on our long drive back home.

Now my aunt is dying from cancer. I haven't had a chance to go visit her but I wanted to share what the rest of my aunts and my mom did this past weekend. My aunt is in a nursing home and all of her sisters gathered around her. They were able to create t-shirts together and talk, laugh and cry together. The thing that stands out the most to me is that they sang praise songs to God together, even that aunt that is very sick. 

 It's always easy to love on God when things are going well. Job knew how to praise God in the difficult times. Let's all learn to lean on God and praise Him during our difficult times too.  

                   Psalms 50:15 …call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me.

 
About Angela: Angela is one of my older cousins. She's a beautiful soul. With one of the most indomitable spirits I've ever witnessed, she has walked through fire, not once, but numerous times. Don't be fooled. She also has the gentlest of spirits. She plays the piano. I am imagining that the music David played that calmed Saul's troubled soul must have sounded something like it. She's the mom of a handful of boys (some, now men)and is married to a great guy who praises God alongside her. She's also a teacher. Oh, is she a teacher. In more ways than I can count. 

If you're interested in writing a guest post for A Thursday for Your Thoughts, shoot me an email. You have a testimony. Tell it. 

kristiburden@gmail.com

You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.

Psalm 32:7

The first time I sat down in the floor of my closet was the beginning of August. I had gone into my son's room suggesting he start to get some of his things together to prepare to move to college. Just the mention of such a thing made my eyes brim over with tears. I turned quickly before he could see me and went to my room. I locked the door to my room and went into my closet and cried. 

I don't recollect any words coming out of my mouth, but I remember thinking how I would have to trust God to get me through the next month. And he did. 

Last week was a long week. By Thursday I was overwhelmed. Getting ready for work, I unplugged my flat iron and put my makeup in its drawer. I noticed I had five minutes left before I needed to leave.  So again I stepped inside my closet, leaving the light off. I rested my back against the door frame and said a quick prayer. 

This morning I did the same thing. Pandora was playing one of my favorite songs, "Multiplied" by Needtobreathe. Just like in August, I just sat quietly as if I didn't have anywhere to go. I listened as if I didn't have anything to say. 

So moved was I, that as soon as I got in the car to go to work, I decided I needed this space to pray. I figured I'd move the big basket of kid keepsakes and the dirty clothes hamper that took up space. I'd put the container of extra sheets and blankets somewhere else. I planned it out in my head and made quick notes as soon as I got to work. 

I wouldn't call it a "War Room"; possibly because I don't want to this room to be created from a fad. So far I haven't done much warring in its quarters.  Thus far it's a place I've gone when I'm too tired to fight. It's a place I've gone to hide. You don't talk too much when you hide. 

The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still. Exodus 14:14

I didn't pay a dime creating my own space. If you look closely you'll notice I used a tapestry Jason brought back from Africa and an old doll blanket just to add a little color. I stole several thumbtacks from the kids' posters in their rooms. I got the polka-dotted pillow for three dollars several weeks ago. Jason said it was the most ridiculous pillow he'd ever seen. I was starting to agree until I found this spot for it. 

I hope it lasts longer then my prayer chair. Someone, whose name I won't mention (that thought my cute pillow was ridiculous), made a habit of covering my prayer chair with his clothes. While it's convenient to blame him, I found myself easily distracted in that chair. 

 My new spot feels shut-off from the world. 

I'll still be praying while driving behind slow-moving cars and on starry nights with my head on my pillow corralling dizzying thoughts of what lie ahead in the tomorrow. My mouth will still utter requests when I get a text from a friend suffering difficulties or before I put my fork in mouth at dinner time. There's no place I won't pray. 

I'm sure I'll be lifting up burdens by the dozens in this room. 

But here, between the row of clothes and words that come out, I hope I find the space to listen. 

Don't forget to subscribe if you'd like to receive these posts by email. 

This piece was originally written for and published on txb.life.

I had a plan at an early age.

 I wanted to become a preacher's wife; to be just like our preacher's wife, Ms. Nelda, whose face was kind. Her husband was well-spoken and always jolly. He seemed quite like an angel to me as he stood in the baptismal waters on special Sundays with light from heaven, shining on him and the one he plunged into the waters. 

They lived in the holiest spot in town, in a gingerbread-looking rock house right across from the church. They were lucky enough to have a constant stream of friends, including myself, who would cross the street after church inviting themselves into the Rust's chain-link fenced yard to play with Nathan and Lisa, their children, and their blind dog Frisca.

 I wanted to marry a pastor.

 I met my husband Jason in High School. He was a class clown who watched Bart Simpson. His career plan was to make millions. And he was Methodist! I didn't foresee him becoming a pastor. Still strangely, I knew almost instantly that he was "the one".

 Five years after we were married, while Jason was working at New York Life starting on his millions, he walked through the front door one day announcing that he was being called to the ministry.

 We've never looked back since that day, but admittedly, we've looked "up" a lot.

 It's a beautiful journey we're on, but in that childhood dream, I'd somehow failed to realize that my part would require things I'm not all about, like speaking or praying in front of groups of people.

 I forgot the part where I might be called to live far away from my parents and siblings.

 I missed somehow the knowledge that preachers are always on call; I'd have to be good at sharing.

 I don't like conflict. Unfortunately it finds itself within the church from time to time.

  Did Ms. Nelda go to EVERY meeting? Did she fret the times she disappointed church members? How did she handle when people used a vast amount of time complaining to her husband? Were her feelings terribly hurt when they fussed about her husband?

 I dreamed of being a pastor's wife not knowing I would be confronted with all manners of trials that fly in the face of my anxious, overly sensitive nature.

  Our difficulties remind us of our constant need for a Savior. Our trials and inadequacies keep us in prayer.

 Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God. 2 Corinthians 3:5

 He gives us courage to do those things that have us shrinking in terror; like approaching the room to hold the hand of a dear church member who is in her last hours, praying when words don't come easy.

 He provides us with Christian brothers and sisters who love us as their own when we are called to live hundreds of miles from our family. He leads us through times of conflict with brothers and sisters; an ever-present help in times of trouble.

 There are days, and even seasons, when ministry isn't easy. But in our failings and through each difficult situation, God is good. He bids us come close under the shelter of his wings. HIS faithfulness [is our] shield and rampart (Psalm 91:4).

 Filled by His grace to overflowing, we have much to offer the family and community we've been made a part of.

Don't forget to subscribe if you'd like to receive these posts by email. 

These were the good old days. It was much easier then. (At least I remember it that way). Things weren't so pretty last night. 

  
I became my mom. I was just sitting in the living room unwinding from the day. But from the way words were spinning from my mouth, you'd think I was sitting behind the wheel of a two-tone tan suburban with a tight perm and polyester pants in 1990. The conversation I was having with my daughter sounded like one between my mother and I had been resurrected in the spirit of Halloween. 

All she wanted was a Halloween costume. 

Let me back up. My daughter is into comic books. Recently I flipped through the ones she'd checked out at the library because somehow I had it in my head that they were unwholesome. I guess there's a little bit of violence.  The heroes are, after all, fighting the bad guys. The problem is, the superpower for the females in the book is always the same. They seek justice with nothing more than some crazy cleavage and a ten inch waist. 

They're all sexualized. I realize all male superheroes wear those spandex suits too. (Feminist readers beware:) But I don't think girls look at Superman (in his tight blue suit) the same way the male mind looks at Batgirl when she's barely "holding them in".  

Our daughter wants to be a superhero.  After looking online at costume choices I've been the buzzkill. When our son was Batman (at a young age),  the costume was a felt-feeling kind of material that looked like a one piece pair of pajamas with a cape attached. The costume didn't fit every single curve on his body. Costumes these days, especially for anyone above the age of five, leave little to the imagination.

Let me throw this in. My daughter didn't want to be a sexy superhero. That wasn't the argument. It was how long the pursuit would go on in searching for one that was pure. 

My mom had one rule regarding Halloween costumes. And I thought she was terribly unreasonable. We couldn't be anything evil. This meant that I couldn't use fake blood or those plastic vampire teeth like my friends. I couldn't wear a pointy black witch hat either. I thought this a mild form of child abuse. 

It turns out I'm worse than my mom. I have three rules concerning Halloween costumes. 1. You can't be anything evil. 2. Your costume needs to be cost-efficient. (Would you believe that even some of the low-end costumes at Wal Mart are costing around $30?). 3. And your costume has to be wholesome. 

I know my mom will agree with rule number three, and I'm guessing it would've been her rule had sexualization of children been such a problem  two decades ago. 

I had someone ask me last year how I felt about Halloween with its having roots in darkness. I responded that I'm pretty comfortable with Halloween. We Christians have done a nice job hijacking the holiday. Think about it. The majority of trick or treaters make their way to a church parking lot or gym these days to get their treats. Along with their jolly ranchers and mini packs of M&Ms, they receive dozens of warm  smiles. They usually get an invitation to church dropped into their plastic pumpkin, and more importantly they receive an invitation to know Jesus.  

...put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness Ephesians 2:4

I don't know if you'll dress up this Halloween. I get a kick out of costume viewing Halloween night while eating the best pieces of candy out of my candy bowl. Will you have rules for what your kid can wear? Will you be conscientious concerning you own costume?  

As for me?  It ends up, I'm going to be a female superhero.   I'm going to be my mother. 

Don't forget to subscribe if you want to receive these posts by email.