Homecoming.

My CASA girl celebrated it on Saturday night. She was SO EXCITED and was looking forward to getting ready for the dance.

I kind of remember those days. Not mine so much, but my two girls’ experiences. Homecoming was a big deal. This Mama really loved seeing both of her girls crowned Homecoming Queen.

Homecoming.

I have such fond memories of coming home, seeing the ecstatic joy on Mom’s face, hearing her squeal, “Get in here!” when she opened the door and then having our “guts squeezed out,” as my daughter so eloquently described it once.

Homecoming.

It’s a wonderful thing, when there is a good home for which to come. It isn’t such a wonderful thing when home is carpeted with emotional eggshells, when family members bicker and ignore each other, and hurtful words filter through the air and are thrown as darts aimed at the soft spots.

Sam was gone for days last week to harvest corn. Dad was visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Indiana.  It was nice for a few hours to have quiet and my own agenda, but as the sun set and night blanketed, I missed conversation and companionship. I had no interest in checking off the boxes of my to-do list. It was foreign to me, the realization that I was alone for days. For two nights, I slept in short naps, every noise waking me. But, as the week progressed, I began to understand that this was good for me. It was good for me to be alone, to learn that I was okay by myself, to realize I could handle this sudden solitude and total independence.

And then Sam returned, and I wanted to squeal, “Get in here!” when I heard the garage door open and I wanted to squeeze his guts out. Sam came home.

On Sunday, our church celebrated 25 years. It was so good to sit in the chapel and hear the message of how the vision began and where we are headed. It was so good to hear how so many people have come to call The United Methodist Church of the Resurrection “home” and work diligently to spread Jesus across this city. It was so good to feel that connection, to have a sense of pride, to know that this church is where my heart is. It was so good to write on the steel beam that will be a part of the new sanctuary, “I am home.”

Last night, Dad came home. Almost all is right with the world again.

I remember almost three years ago now, several people spoke of Mom as she began to labor in breathing like we had not seen previously, and the words they used were comforting to me: Grace is going home. Grace is preparing for her homegoing… Her heart was here, but really, her heart was THERE.

So, I am grateful that Sam is home. Dad is home. I am home. Mom is home. And all is almost right with the world once again.

I’m in the middle of this book. It’s about Bobbi Jo Reed and her story that she has chosen to share with the world. I read this morning about the time when her only option for living was under a trailer in a parking lot. Her first reaction was to be wary of seeing someone she might know from her past, but she had gotten to the point where it just didn’t matter any longer. She was who she was.

My counselor told me this week something so simple but so profound: If you are feeling slightly irritated or frustrated or angry with someone or dismissive of them, you are most likely looking at them with a little judgment and condemnation. How quickly I forget. How quickly I slink back to Pharisee frame of mind.

We are all different. None of us are the same. We grew up with unique experiences. We all have a story that has shaped us into a particular personality and with the character traits we exhibit.

Story. Each one of us has one. Before we decide on worth and credibility and impressions left, do we take the time to learn the story behind the person? Behind the behavior? Do we offer grace and a listening ear, a hand held out in order to help and hold? Do we assume we know their story because that’s what we heard from someone else? Because we stereotype “those kind?”

I remember. I remember being on both sides of that line. The side that assumed and came to a righteous conclusion without knowing firsthand. And the side where it just didn’t matter any longer. The sins of my life were for all the world to behold, real and exaggerated, and it just didn’t matter. I was who I was.

That is when God met me where I was. Broken. Alone. Seeking. And full of remorse. He used a few people who didn’t turn their back on me in disgust and righteous indignation. He used those who pointed fingers with their silence, and their hurtful words, to teach me how it felt to be on the other side. He used my parents full of grace and arms wide open. He used key people who remain in my life today to walk beside me and love me in the pain and the ugly. He used my sister to start me counting every. last. thing. He used scripture to fill my mind, hymns to bring me to a song once again, and He used my new church home to provide me with safety and security and a sense of belonging, a church that seeks the lost and the broken in spirit. And because of that, all of that, I have learned to be grateful.

This afternoon, I shared part of my story with Hong. She is a gentle soul who made me feel safe enough to share and be vulnerable enough to peel back a few chapters of my book. I am grateful for Hong and our new friendship.

I am grateful for my church, The United Methodist Church of the Resurrection, celebrating 25 years of ministry to the people of Kansas City this weekend. I am so grateful that Sam took me to his church, because, his church became MY church, my church introduced me to my counselor who has been with me for three years now, my church gave me the opportunity to play piano in ministry once again after I thought I would never again have the chance, my church provides multiple ways in which to serve the Lord in this city, my church gave me the gift of meeting with a group of feisty Bingo players every Tuesday evening, going on three years now, when I had an emotional heart pain that needed a bandaid, and my church provided an introduction to The Healing House.

Finally, I am grateful for Bobbi Jo and her very large family on St. John Avenue. I am grateful that Dad wanted to serve there last Saturday. I am grateful that Judy sent us to the Ruth house and we were able to visit with Tammy and MJ and Ken. I am grateful that in serving, WE were the blessed.

And I am grateful that in a small way, because of my story, I can say, “Me, too.”

I’m fairly certain I have the best counselor in the history of the world. She has a way of redirecting my thinking and correcting my attitude without condemning me. I know that when I walk into her office, I am in a safe place, I am speaking to a trusted confidant, and I can say anything bitter and frustrating. I can be sad and angry, I will have no answers, and she will not look at me less but will offer words of gold and suggest positive with a smile and a hug before sending me back out into the world to try again.

Many years ago, and I know I’ve mentioned this before, my brother and sister-in-law sent us their newsletter every month. One month, they included this quote from Saint Francis de Sales that I cut out and magneted on the fridge for YEARS, because I needed it as a DAILY reminder:

Complain as little as possible of your wrongs, for as a general rule you may be sure that complaining is sin; the rather that self-love always magnifies our injuries: above all, do not complain to people who are easily angered and excited. If it is needful to complain to someone, either as seeking a remedy for your injury, or in order to soothe your mind, let it be to some calm, gentle spirit, greatly filled with the Love of God; for otherwise, instead of relieving your heart, your confidants will only provoke it to still greater disturbance; instead of taking out the thorn which pricks you, they will drive it further into your foot.  – Saint Francis de Sales

My counselor is that calm, gentle spirit, greatly filled with the Love of God.

I am very grateful for my counselor.

I am grateful for wheels on the dumpster. I saw a dumpster down the street with broken wheels. THAT would be such a bummer. How privileged have we become as a society…

I am grateful for Beautifully Broken by Bobbi Jo Reed, the book that Dad insisted I open. I see why, now that I am a few chapters in.

I am grateful for sunshine at lunchtime.

I am grateful for the rare indulgence of a chocolate malt, and a very clever way to package it, with tiny cookies on the straw. Thank you, Pot Belly Sandwiches, and your very nice employee who didn’t judge me for indulging.

I am grateful for a to-do list. I’ll be more grateful to draw a line through everything on it.

I am grateful for post-season baseball and a Royals shirt to wear.

I am grateful for a tuna-free diet.

I am grateful for purple in my marriage.

And I am grateful that the Peanuts Movie is almost here – this would be the one movie for which I would stand in line at midnight in order to get tickets.

I am grateful for a microwaved egg in a cup to begin my day every morning.

I am grateful for morning routine to keep the flow.

I am grateful for clean teeth.

I am grateful that I am not in charge of the world.

I am grateful that today is Bingo day with my friends.

I am grateful that my Dad gets to take a trip today to see his son and I am grateful for his credit card with miles.

I am grateful for the beauty of wood grain.

I am grateful for the surprise we saw last night as we drove:

I am grateful that I live in this city.

And I am grateful for this silly song that calmed my fear on a ski lift gondola in Glenwood two years ago.

Sometimes I am an emotional wreck. Sometimes my wreck is justified; other times, not so much. Sometimes, outside influence causes my brain to crash into a mush of emotions and tears well up and just spill over. Sometimes, it’s the inside influence that blenders my emotions and water leaks from my eyes. And sometimes it is a good thing and sometimes it is not such a good thing.

Yesterday morning, it was a good thing.

I was already feeling the blender being plugged in before we ever left the house to go to church. Because, funny thing, the Holy Spirit works that way, pulling out the blender and setting it on the brain counter in preparation. I was anticipating a wonderful service by guest speaker, Bishop Viola Fisher, and I could sense that she would be a vessel used by God and a beautiful culmination to a busy weekend.

She was.

“I had come to see that the great tragedy in the church is not that rich Christians do not care about the poor but that rich Christians do not know the poor…I truly believe that when the rich meet the poor, riches will have no meaning. And when the rich meet the poor, we will see poverty come to an end.” – Shane Claiborne, in “The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical”

But even before she began to speak, I had tears. I had tears as we sat down in the chapel. I had tears at the first hymn. I love when I sense the power of the Holy Spirit’s presence.

So, I am grateful for the strong presence of the Holy Spirit that seems to fill a room even before words are spoken.

I am grateful for the opportunities to hear Kristin Chenoweth in concert on Friday night and to attend a dinner theater on Saturday night with friends.

I am grateful to have been reminded on Friday night at the concert of a young girl on the choir trip two years ago who sang to me on the ski lift in order to calm my fear. Jenna sang, “Taylor the Latte Boy” and took my mind off the swaying gondola chair – a memory I will always cherish.

Every time you forgive someone who hurt you, encourage someone who feels defeated, extend compassion to someone who stands alone, confront someone in love, open your heart to a friend, reconcile with an enemy, devote time to a child, you align yourself with God’s central purpose in this world. – John Ortberg

I am grateful to have been privileged to spend part of the day on Saturday working with my Dad and my husband, volunteering at The Healing House.

I am grateful to have met some very beautiful and broken people who are healing and living life on the other side now.

My neighbor is not the person who is like me, whose skin is the same color, whose bank account is roughly equal to mine. They need not be from the same culture or country. All that makes a person my neighbor, says Jesus (in the parable of the Good Samaritan), is their need of my mercy. – Michael Card

I am grateful for the opportunity to serve, because it is in these times that I am most blessed.

I am grateful for technology that allows me to save all these quotes that are “ah-HA” quotes, and then put them into my gratefuls to share with others.

I am grateful for co-workers who will participate in our food drive with us.

And I am grateful for blenderized emotions, the good ones anyway.

I am grateful today for the deep blue skies of October and the beginning of the most glorious time of the year, in my opinion.

I am grateful for the smell of classic Irish Spring soap.

Right now, I am grateful for no guns. Or maybe I am grateful for no guns in my little world. Or maybe I am grateful for an absence of knowledge of no guns in my little world. At a loss… I just know that I am grateful right now that my children and grandchildren are safe.

I am grateful for the anticipation of changing colors and naked trees.

I am grateful that my court report is written and submitted.

The tiniest dewdrop hanging from a grass blade in the morning is big enough to reflect the sunshine and the blue of the sky.

I am grateful for my Dad who puts the trash dumpster out to the curb and picks tomatoes from our mess of plants and makes sure the birds are fed and waters the grass every day.

I am grateful that although I love fall, I don’t have to eat or drink anything pumpkin-y.

I am grateful that I just don’t really care about TV shows any longer.

I am grateful for the person who thought it would be smart to combine peanut butter and chocolate.

And I am grateful for a paycheck with a bonus.