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As the afternoon October sun dropped low across Cades Cove, my husband Bob discovered a shortcut – a primitive gravel road that exited onto a curvy Tennessee highway. I had spent the day reading hilarious quotes from A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson. We figured if this guy could tackle the Appalachian Trail, we could at least drive our SUV through parts of it with our three-year-old child Ella.
 
We were arrogant tourists, inspired with an inflated sense of possibility. As our beautiful day came to an end, Parson Branch loomed before us, only wide enough for one car. We estimated that /this shortcut could save us three hours as we made our way towards Ellijay.
 
Bob and I debated questionable merits of reaching the end of the trail before we were locked in the park for the evening. How long can it really take? Bob asked. This trail sign says eight miles in an hour, but I’m thinking I can make it in forty minutes. While not paved, this road did show up on our national park map as a serviced path open to public cars. When GPS verified its existence, off we drove.
 
There was no sunlight, cell service, or opportunity to turn around as we entered this densely covered forest. Bob hugged his side of the trail while I peered over the opposite edge looking for bears. We heard soft crunching of leaves and eerie creaks of small wooden bridges under our tires.  As we followed a winding creek, neither of us spoke. Ella slept.
 
Bob faithfully pushed forward, persevering while I prayed over our insane decision. We whooped with joy when our headlights panned across an opened park gate after ninety minutes of off-road adventure. We still didn’t know which way to turn onto the highway.
 
In honor of this success that occurred despite our stupidity, we now refer to any consideration of a new adventure as a Parson Branch kind of decision.

This is my take on it. Bob has a few more things to say about it.

It’s perfect porch weather this morning, and I am craving a good gathering of my people. I’ve been missing the way we congregate- laughing and eating and talking over each other. In the South, our porches go by other names- decks, patios, verandas, balconies, or stoops. They are extensions of our homes providing a little bit of shade so people can gather to celebrate, eat, sleep, read, or pray.
 
Porches like people come in all shapes, designs, and ages. The perfect porch is only surpassed by perfect porch weather. Around here, that’s early fall – you know, when the sun stills follows summer’s rules but a sweet morning breeze doesn’t.
 
As a kid, my weekends were spent listening to grown-ups talk on these porches. They sat in a makeshift circle with fans buzzing all around. We always seemed to be eating something good like watermelon or homemade pineapple cherry sherbet. I’d run past these adults, weaving in and out of their chairs chasing cousins. I have this great memory of my grandmother snagging me around the waist and bringing me in for a big hug, whispering to slow down and be careful. In one simple wink, she communicated how she loved me so, but she meant what she said, and I’d better be careful.
 
My grandmother also taught me that I should have my porch ready all the time just in case a friend comes over. In the South, someone always does. Miss Mary has the prettiest porch I’ve ever seen with her beautiful flower beds leading our eyes to the lake view. I love her expansive porch, beautiful yard, and unique version of gracious hospitality that always begins with Y’all come on in. Let’s go sit on the porch.
 
On these porches of my life, there have been birthday parties, Sunday lunches, homecoming and prom dinners, bridesmaids’ luncheons, and one epic beauty pageant. The incredibly fun Miss Shezalthat  spectacle included a talent show portion. The details of that night live on in the remember whens of our more recent gatherings. The only evidence of our fun is an elusive group picture.
 
On our family Duck Pond porch, we celebrate traditions while looking out over moss covered Cyprus trees that have witnessed more than one big family announcement or a sweet stolen kiss.
 
In Apalachicola, we live on the screened porch, soaking up the salty air. Here we rest and plan future trips before the current one ends.
 
Porches in Costa Rica teach me the inspiring power of Christian fellowship as my friends and I  gather with purpose to eat and celebrate our faith.
 
Haiti porches teach me that warm Caribbean sun will sustain my passion for missions and languages. A simple concrete roof top can hold powerful women who know what is most important in life. I miss that porch.
 
A good porch party in Americus means eating well, laughing much, and listening to good music. We don’t try to solving all the world's problems, but we do plan, fellowship, and support one another.
 
David had his caves. Abraham had his fields. Moses went up his mountains. Mary Magdalene sat by a well. God met them there.
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I love my porches. God meets me on a porch wherever I am. I may not be rocking in a chair or swaying gently from a swing. I am usually sitting with feet propped up. A journal in my hands is sometimes just as meaningful to me as knees bent in prayer.
 
I think one reason God met them at these places is because this is where they were still enough to clearly hear Him. God’s amazing grace finds me where and when I need it. I need those moments when I allow God to show me the fullness of His love. When I hear Him call my name.
 
God finds me, sustains me, reminds me of joy, and prepares me for what is to come.
Where He wants me to go.
What He might have me do.
 
Even if I want to stay longer on the porch, with all my good intentions and pretty scenery, I must get up and move. I’m grateful for powerful blessings and powerful porch lessons.  This morning, I am loving our perfect porch weather.
 
It’s fall, y’all!

I was a “cat only” person until Fargo.

It took me almost thirty-five years to get over my unfortunate dog encounter. I was a typical middle school girl riding a supercool green bike with a basket and a bell. On this bright South Georgia summer morning, I was speeding my way down 19th Avenue towards Lara’s house to go swimming.

There was nothing quite like riding a bike to a friend’s house in the early 80s.
Pure freedom for my kid soul.
No phones.
No Life360.
No worries.

Until…

Three big black dogs appeared a block before my friend’s home. I knew these dogs and who they belonged to, but they had never run after me before.

I first thought, “Oh they are just saying hi.”
Uh, no. It was all about the chase.

I was surrounded, two on my right and one on my left. They plunged toward me, biting at my butt like they wanted to ride the bike with me. Stopping did not seem to be an option.

I started yelling at them and screaming for help. They started barking louder and mocking me for being afraid.
I pedaled fast. They ran faster.

At the end of their block, they suddenly stopped, turned around, and sauntered back to a yard. I can now relate to Katniss Everdeen in her Hunger Games arena when wild beasts swiftly attacked and unexpectedly retreated. Unfortunately, the damage was done. I have no idea how I stayed on that bike.

My fear mixed with a sudden realization. As I almost passed out from hyperventilation, I understood that the dogs were not trying to hurt me. They were living their best dog life of running with me.

​This began my long epoch of dog aversion. This may or may not have influenced my decision to be an Auburn Tiger. It was quite a while before I even tried to pet a canine cutie.

Thirty-something years later, along came Fargo, another big black dog. My mother-in-law needed a new home for this bouncy, barking guy, so Ella pleaded, and Bob reassured. I was outvoted and could not even change his name to something less bizarre.

When I asked Mama Polly why she chose Fargo for this dog’s name, she laughed. “I had a call to come pick up a dog from people who couldn’t take care of it. I kept driving and driving trying to find the place. I kept thinking – how FAR will I have to GO to get this dog? He was such a crazy sweet dog and the name just seemed to fit.”

After four years, I ask myself myself how far will I go for this dog? I might actually consider staying home more.

When our wonderful dog-sitter was unavailable, I briefly considered staying home instead of going on mini-vacay with Bob. Fargo hyperventilates when it storms, and rain from a hurricane was predicted for three days in a row. Fargo and I share this in common. I hate to hyperventilate, too. He was going to need constant attention and good medication.

A tear or two fell down my cheeks as I dropped him off at the vet. Or maybe that was the sweat from trying to get him out of the car. It was obvious to all that it was the first time I had ever done this. I returned later with his best doggie bed, (we have four) and a feast of all his favorite foods, including snacks and doggie dental treats.

Once we reassured one another that it would be ok for three days, Fargo only glanced back once. I love when that dog smiles at me.

Fargo has stolen my heart. It must be said that Fargo is not my dog. He most clearly belongs to Bob. Fargo is special to me because he patiently showed me how to love dogs again. How to trust them. How to play with them. How to appreciate the amazing comfort that they bring. This is the dog who guarded me from that wild coyote. Because of Fargo, I now have Daizie, Katie, and Annabelle as doggie friends.

Thank heavens that Fargo loves each of our cats. He eats their food, snuggles up with them, and generally protects them. Fargo lets Marvin crawl all over him and gnaw on his tail without killing him.

In fact, I’m convinced that Fargo secretly wants to be a cat. This would solve a lot of problems. You see, I just can’t bring myself to say I’m a dawg person.

A couple of weekends have passed since a group of teacher friends gathered at JoAnn’s. I hear echoes of laughter and Kim’s occasional snorts. There was Charlene’s beach yoga (not that I got out of bed in time) and gluttonous consumption of Patti’s cookies and sweets. I savored witty banter with Carey as much as I appreciated our meaningful conversations. Joyce captured only what we wanted captured with her advanced photography skills. I was the getaway driver.

Oh yes- a VERY good time was had by all.

It’s a wonderful thing to be witness to our tornado talking. Four conversations swirling at once and each of us jumping in and out in a divine dance of the divas we were that weekend. Even though a few of our group were not with us, we tripped down our memory lanes, sharing good and bad in our lives for the last several years. When I couldn’t keep up, I simply listened, utterly mystified by their fabulousness!

The rise and fall of our voices would resound with giggles much like a punctuation mark at the end of sassy sentence. There was no competition to be heard, no tension to out-talk.

To be with them filled me with absolute joy. And calm. And peace. It was three days of resting in a circle of time-honored trust.

We wound things up with sighs of contentment for who we used to be and for who we are now … all the while promising to gather again soon. These brainy broads continue to teach me by example.

Charlene, Kim, Joyce, Patti, JoAnn, and Carey are each clothed in strength. Clothed in dignity. These FABULOUS ladies laugh a lot because they know it is always better than breaking down and falling completely apart. They understand fear of the future but choose faith. Each woman recognizes that when God is within her, she will not fail.

They are far more precious than jewels. These women know me well and love me anyway- because of all they know about me and because I may be the punch line to some of these infamous stories.
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They are powerful women. They refresh my soul.

Being with my sister Amy, my life-long partner in crime, has a similar effect. Amy and I reach MARVEL levels of awesome when we travel together and decide to combine forces. Anything can happen.

Take today’s ultimate goal- getting a flying palmetto bug out of my car.
-as we drove into a state park on Hunting Island.
-as we screamed and hollered at the top of our lungs.
-as we sat stoically still and perfectly silent as I drove back to Elise’s house.

Despite our best efforts, this bug had escaped into some special bug hiding place inside my car and was waiting to surprise us again. A palmetto bug by any other name is still a big, ugly, flying cockroach. South Carolina just likes to be fancy.

Amy and I are always better together even though she did try to throw the palmetto bug in my face.

Amy is a powerful woman.

Even though Amy and I were raised by beautiful women from our family, there was another equally impressive group of ladies who influenced my life: the Cordele moms of my childhood friends.

This iconic group always held us to high expectations -everywhere and all the time. They modeled grace and determination as they worked and worshiped in different churches but to the same holy God.

Powerful women like Miss Kay Hurt.

This beautiful mama to my childhood friends Sharon, Susan, Dana, and Virginia is celebrated as a kindhearted woman who gained honor among all the girls’ friends. She is remembered for noble things and how she set about her work vigorously. She loved each of us not only with words or speech but with her actions.

Sharon and I have a bond of childhood friendship that has withstood the test of time because it is rooted in our faith. This faith will now sustain Sharon and her precious sisters. They are powerful women just like their mama.

Great women of faith will come together to lift each other up.
Women of faith are powerful in their ability to continue traditions, to overcome sorrow, or to remind others to choose joy.

Powerful women are also responsible for calling each other out in love when we are wrong. We are commanded to forgive, to resist the desire to banish those we no longer consider close.

Women of faith are never more powerful than when we stand together. I am grateful when my friends- old and new- include me in their life and enfold me in their love.

As for sisterly love?
Stay tuned for how I get Amy back for throwing that big, ugly bug in my face…

It seems I can go home again.

My online graduate school journey eventually ran out of zoom, so I made a long overdue drive to the Loveliest Village on the Plains.

Auburn University was my home for six unforgettable years as I completed undergraduate and grad school from ’88-’94. I won’t say I did it all, but I can say I lived it up and made the most of every moment.

Some of the best times of my life.
Some of my hardest.

Auburn is a home to me, and my Auburn family is a communion of people around the world who share similar values. Auburn people can throw a WDE pretty fast when we spot our colors. I’ve found Auburn fans in Italy, Haiti, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, and England. We love this university the way Bulldog fans love Athens, and the way Tech fans love their slice of Atlanta.

My AU family grew last year as graduate school handed me a diverse group of colleagues who are sharp, oh so funny, and eager to embrace languages as much as I do. We might be a bit quirky, but we appreciate that unusual desire to navigate different languages as a profession. We share a passion for learning and sharing what we know in a world where language instruction is a bit of an enigma. We answer that relentless question, “Why would you want to learn another language when one is hard enough?

Our response is simple.
We want more.

-More combinations of sounds, accents, vowel blends, and nuances of vocabulary that are sung, said, or written through literature, science, math, or music
-More history and opportunities to meet unique people who share their stories through it
-More art in all its imaginative forms, including food and unusual works of art that transcend spoken word
-More culture and a multitude of perspectives that emerge through simple or complicated customs

We want more of our world and less of ourselves.

A few weeks ago, I approached the education building at Auburn hoping I would recognize something- anything. I swung open double doors to a swoosh of thirty-year-old memories and was pleasantly surprised that Haley Center has not changed too much. While Auburn’s campus doubled in size with beautiful new street designs and impressive architecture on every corner, HC stands near the heart of campus, not too far from our beloved stadium, Jordan-Hare.

Was what I felt simply silly nostalgia of an Auburn alum returning to campus? Another seminar took me back last weekend. I decided this isn’t nostalgia; it’s coming full circle. Coming home.

Recognizing those strange echoes of former years brings a smile, but I embrace them in the present. A personal favorite- my mild panic of being late while searching for classrooms in quadrant after quadrant. Some things have not changed. I inhale that intoxicating mixture being young and growing up. I still feel young-ish. I’m still trying to grow up.

My good and bad memories, accomplishments and regrets, twist together as bittersweet facts of life. Sometimes we learn the easy way and sometimes we must learn the hard way.

I know now I can go home again and build new memories upon old ones. Thirty years ago, I stood at a payphone in the basement of Haley Center when I received the news of the birth of my youngest cousin Adam. Last Saturday, I sat in class in this same building receiving texts and updates as Adam passed along news of the birth of his first child, Logan.

Curious, I rode the elevator up to the world languages department. My old GTA office is now a mail room. Another pleasant surprise- my current teaching assistant is an Alpha Chi alum like me.

I used to think my life ran like an arrow from point A to B to C, a sequential chain of events. Now, I see these lines embedded in circles that swirl in a loop around an infinite number of possibilities, some bringing me back to a starting place in a way I did not imagine for myself.

Staying on a straight line does not interest me anymore.

After classes, I drove back to Americus by myself, anxious to get home because my precious people were waiting there, too. Americus is home, but so is Cordele and Apalachicola.

Home is a choice. It is anywhere that I choose to take my faith and find family.
It’s when I stand in a circle of book club friends singing praise God from whom all blessings flow.
It’s where I laugh, cry, panic, and hug people who know my best and worst and love me anyway.
It’s why I work so hard and pray so hard and love so hard.
It’s Georgia, Alabama, Arizona, or North Carolina. It’s Haiti, Costa Rica, France, or Spain.
It’s how I feel when God places his gentle hand of Peace over me, asking me to rest a while in His grace.

Going home is not an Auburn thing.
It’s not even a Southern thing.
For me, it’s God directing my path.
He goes before me; I just have to follow.

P.S. War Eagle!
P.P.S. Thank you God - for Bob for knowing this about me and for giving us the chance to take home on the road every now and then.
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I love to laminate. It is a most gratifying process to which I have recently become addicted. My students do not get to help me because I hoard the experience for myself. There is something about laminating that calms my spirit.
 
An ordinary piece of paper fits snuggly into a protective cover. It slowly- and I mean slowly- enters the machine. It will not go fast. Its purposeful pace is constant and a soft hum signals that the sheet is rolling on through.
 
Heat seals the cover, but heat also changes the images on the paper. They become brighter, more vivid. They are now shielded and protected from being torn or crumpled or pulled into pieces. No matter what the days ahead may bring, this intensity seals up all that is good. It removes all wrinkles. The paper inside becomes its best version unless it rolls through crooked or stray scraps appear or the paper itself shifts. This process must then start again from the beginning.
 
I now search for things I need to laminate. I’m obsessed.
 
I’m obsessed because I know I am like that piece of paper. Something ordinary wanting to be vivid and bright.

I roll through whatever heat I confront, anticipating a chemical reaction to transform me (and I trust me, I don’t mean menopause). I want that protective covering that keeps me from being torn or pulled into different directions or worn out. I really want all these creases I have recently discovered on my face to be smoothed out too.
 
God is watching over this process. He is humming a song into my heart so I will not falter as I roll through. I can hear this hum on days I choose to move slowly. I’ll come out transformed unless I go through the process crooked or my heart shifts. God will simply start the process all over. I’ll repeat the mistake until I learn my lesson and correct it. When I recognize that He always goes before me, I can relax a bit more. That is the lesson I must keep on learning.
 
I need to be certain that what is written on my heart is His word and His will so that the desires of my heart will fill up my beautifully broken and restored page. As I choose to trust Him with the pieces of my life- really trust Him- I glimpse a vivid and bright mosaic of me that He is creating. I can live the peace He offers me each day.
 
A mosaic of my favorite colors, hues of blue, orange, green, gold, and black.
A mosaic of animals I love such as a cat, dove, tiger, turtle, and of course-  a goose.
A mosaic of all of it : those places that change my perspective, my people who love all the crazy parts of me, my friends who sharpen my mind, and millions of words in French and Spanish and English that fill my head and eventually fall out of my mouth.
 
That cross in the little girl’s backpack from the photo is laminated. She was so happy to have it but didn’t want it to get crushed or bent or torn. The cross survived the trip to Haiti in my suitcase thanks to the lamination, and she carried it home as a treasure.
 
How long does the influence of a moment like that last?
Her gratitude and my memory keep it going. I’ll add her witness to my mosaic.
 
I will include a little of my gulf and a lot of that tiny Tuck River. A white swing and a setting sun.
Perhaps one great big heart filled with tiny ones for each student I have taught and loved.
There’d be a watermark of my favorite bible verse from Psalm 34.
No place for regrets or hard feelings. Plenty of room for hope and adventure.
All my crazy pieces smoothed out like new.
 
This week’s cray-cray of Cinco de Mayo involved 800 churros, 142 t-shirts, 55 walking tacos, and five extended partnerships with other groups giving my 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade French students a chance to reach their $1800 goal to help others. I’m a super proud and exhausted teacher. Thanks to some awesome kids and friends, no churro was left uneaten!
 
Somebody asked me, What’s next? What else do you have planned?
 
So many places to go.
So many beautiful people to love.
So many pieces of my mosaic still left to fall into place.
 
I have decided that I don’t need a bucket list.
I just need a bigger bucket.

Mama Polly in her favorite dress, with her two favorite people (and yes, I mean favorite!), eating at her favorite fish restaurant in Thomaston, Georgia.

My mother-in-law Polly is an original, one-of-a-kind woman, devoted teacher, pianist, cat lady, and character in the truest sense of the Southern phrase. She is beloved!

Here’s the plain truth (according to Elise).
If Mama Polly doesn’t get into heaven, there’s no hope for the rest of us. This special woman has a servant's heart that leads her family with her undeniable faith.

Mama Polly’s childhood stories continue to teach us, they enchant us, and they remind us to pray. Today is her eighty-sixth birthday. I would like to share one of my favorite stories from Mama Polly- the story of her tree.
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It was Friday, a beautiful spring morning in 1941. I was six years old. A yard swing hung from a tall walnut tree in the front yard of my great aunt’s house. I stayed with Aunt Bessie while my mother was working. Aunt Mattie and Uncle Ben lived across the wide hallway on the other side of the duplex. A large “L” shaped porch framed the front. They used to live in my house. When I was a baby, they decided to switch houses with Mama and Daddy so I would have a room. Family was a big help to us.The two houses were in sight of each other.

Mama was at the mill and Daddy was working at the grocery store. Uncle Ben was still in the fields. He stayed there until long after dark.

Sitting on the yard swing, I kept an eye on my dirt road and my house on the other side of the road just down the way. I began to pray. Even though I did not understand the idea of sin, I knew how to talk to God. I knew how to ask God to keep me from doing wrong in my life.

I whispered, God help me.

The next morning from my bed, I continued to pray. I still felt the same conviction of my prayer from the day before.

God help me.

Mother was there too, and I heard her quietly working around the house. She always kept a clean house. No clutter. Everything had a purpose. If she thought an item was no longer of use, out it went. Mama was always mopping those floors, keeping them so clean.

Our house was like so many country homes in Georgia at that time. We didn’t have sub-flooring or linoleum. We didn’t have a telephone and had to walk the store to use one. We didn’t have a car until a few years later. Mama’s sister Rose and her husband Theodore agreed on a price with Mama and sold her our first car.

Vegetables came in summertime and we always did have plenty of corn. The hogs were for November. Fall also meant that the fire would burn hot for the cane syrup mill that Uncle Ben had on his farm. I could watch the process but was not allowed to help. That was some real good syrup. I can still smell the strong coffee and crumble biscuit covered in thick syrup.

Getting out of bed, I decided what I needed to do. I got some hope and headed outside.

I located a shovel and walked across our dirt road to a ditch. It had rained the night before; this earth was soft. It didn’t take me long to find a tiny sycamore tree. It was only about two feet tall. I carefully dug it up and took it back across the road to my yard. I planted this tree near my house.

I was hoping it would live.
I prayed, God help me.

Using the tree as a symbol of commitment, I asked God not to forget my prayer. I asked him to keep me from doing wrong in my life.

My old country home has since been torn down.
The road is paved.
Undergrowth clutters the landscape.
The tree remains.

Times may change and how we are provided for may change.
But God- He looks after His people. He is faithful.


Happy Birthday, Mama Polly!
You are loved! We are grateful for your witness on our lives. Thank you for teaching us to pray…
God help me_________________! (She says we should fill in the blank for ourselves. God will hear.)

He is faithful and Mama Polly is always praying for us.

It’s kind of like the week after Christmas. I have celebrated. I have worshipped. I have been with family. There’s a routine to our holiday with traditions of Watergate salad and pineapple sandwiches. For me, Easter is now part of Spring Break, and it gets harder to focus on Easter when I begin thinking about taking a vacation.
 
This year, I did both. Easter on vacation.
 
Bob and I had big, beautiful plans for sunrise service on the beach, but we didn’t bring jackets for that unusually cold morning. Next, we decided to visit a local church, but my kid didn’t pack Sunday clothes because we said we would be on that beach for the sunrise service. We did remember that FBC was live streaming the service, so we worshipped with our church family.
 
No pineapple sandwiches, but I’m pretty sure there was fried grouper.
 
One tradition I did uphold: I reminded my family one more time about Luke’s Easter story.
 
As a little girl, I would sit in church each Sunday and flipping through my Bible. I was not allowed to snuggle down in my mom’s arms and nap. I was not allowed to draw on the attendance register. I was not allowed to sneak to the bathroom during service (we went before it started.) I could however count the stained-glass windowpanes and tall, imposing organ pipes as many times as I wanted, or I could spend an hour in worship. Many times, I would open my Bible to the Easter story in Luke.
 
It’s my favorite. It is where my name is found.
 
Lots of people I know are given fine Christian names from the Old and New Testaments. At that time, I didn’t know any people with my name, so I felt special to share it with such an inspirational person.
 
Always afraid of "that hush-up look" from adults in church, I quietly turned pages, searching for Luke’s words about Joanna who went with Mary and the other women to the tomb of Jesus. Since this was long before the age of Google, I felt compelled to reread the other gospels, fact checking the Easter story to make certain it was only Luke who mentioned her. The other gospels mention the women. Luke- the well-educated physician and writer that he was- named a few of them.
 
Like Joanna.
 
Joanna is introduced as the noble wife of a steward in the house of Herod. Some accounts also place her at the cross. She was a woman who had been healed by Jesus. Once restored to good physical and mental health, Joanna devoted her life to Jesus, helping in His ministry.
 
Joanna surrendered to His calling and was willing to allow God to work in her life. She was prepared to do His work however He asked. She honored Him with her words and deeds.
 
That’s a lot to live up to in a name, but then again so are the names Peter, Paul, and Mary. Oh- and John, as in John the Baptist.
 
I think about this Joanna, this woman who traveled with her friends as a witness for Christ.
 
I imagine how she approached the tomb with a heavy heart, perhaps still crying for her loss.
I imagine her quietly resigned to the task of preparing His body but deeply grateful to serve Him one last time.
I imagine her expression as she entered an empty tomb, perhaps angry or anxious to discover stones rolled away.
I imagine her wonder at beautiful light and angel voices as she discovered that she could search for a living Jesus; she would not find Him among the dead.
 
I did enjoy my vacation. I spent this week-after-Easter as still and quiet as possible. Those precious vacation days allowed me some perspective. I continued to think about this woman from the Bible, but then I questioned- what happened next?
 
I wondered what this disciple of Jesus did the week after those amazing moments at an empty tomb.
  
When she returned home, what did she say to her family?
Was she terrified like the other disciples?
Was she confused and anxious, choosing to just keep to her daily routine?
 
Or perhaps she was still, creating quiet spaces for God to find her.
Trust despite trembling.
Faith despite fear.
Wonder in the weakness.
 
When doubt crept in, I hope she remembered His words. I hope she remembered His teaching and His commands to love.
 
Maybe, she believed in His ministry just as she did before He died.
Maybe, she made a choice in those quiet moments to continue to serve Jesus as his disciple.
Maybe, she honored Jesus, remembering that love and obedience go together.
 
Sitting as still as possible on a beach last week, I tried to create some of those quiet places for God to find me, to restore me mentally and physically. I tried to imagine how my weeks-after-Easter can be filled with His love and my faith.  
 
If I need to go back to a beach to think about it some more, I will.
 
Did you know that some denominations even refer to this special woman as Santa Joanna?
It does have a nice ring to it.
Just sayin.

Luke 24
On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3 but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. 4 While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. 5 In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? 6 He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 7 ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” 8 Then they remembered his words.
9 When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. 10 It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles.