Category: Uncategorized

“It is what it is”

“Strode”

“Slather”

“So, I did a thing”

These are just a few words/phrases that, for no obvious reason, rub me the wrong way when I see them in print. This is by no means all of them. They are not things I’ve ever said. I don’t know if this is an oddity of being on the spectrum or if it’s just an oddity of being me. I asked my son recently why people preface FB pictures of tattoos and new hairdos with “So, I did a thing” I didn’t 100% agree with his explanation, but it certainly fits the gist of this blog, so I’m going to use it.

I’d been following the revival taking place at Asbury University in Lexington, Kentucky, since its start weeks ago on a Wednesday following morning chapel. It was interesting, and I was curious about how long it might continue. Clearly, it was instigated by God, so maybe it would go on until He sent Jesus back to earth.

Alas, human logistics stepped in, and it concluded last week.

Eight days ago, I was in my office finishing up the bulletins and power point slide shows for Sunday’s service.

“I should go”

The thought wouldn’t leave. I prayed, sought Godly counsel, yet it remained.

So the next day, I did a thing.

Raspberry Shortcake and I started what I thought would be a 6-hour (but turned out to be a 7-hour) trip across a large portion of Illinois and Indiana and a smaller part of Kentucky until we reached my lodgings for the night, a place called Shaker Village.

Travel: 1. Listened to Shane Idleman podcasts the whole way. Excellent way to get myself in the right frame of mind. 2. No car trouble. 3. Didn’t get “lost” until I left I64 to Harrodsburg. This was near Shaker Village, but it was dark & I couldn’t see my instructions. In Harrodsburg, there was a sign for the road to Shaker Village which God allowed me with my nightblindness to see.

Shaker Village reception had an escort who led in his truck down a winding road to the West House, a distance of about 2 miles. He went with me to my room to make sure I got in. The building had dual staircases, just like the old Chestnut Grade School (didn’t realize it had been designed by a Shaker). My room was beautiful. Hard-wood floors, old-style furnishings & NO TV—thus, no distractions. I fell asleep listening to a Westside Christian Fellowship Service from that morning.

The next morning I drove straight to Asbury. The 10-mile road between Shaker Village and Asbury was twisty, hilly, and it was never possible to achieve the posted speed limit of 55 on the straightaways because there really weren’t any. 20 minutes were required to travel the 10 miles. I made a mental note to leave the revival before dark.

After leaving the twisty-turny road, the university was easy to find. What was not was a parking space. I drove around several times before finally remembering to ask for help. No, I didn’t go to a gas station.

15 seconds after asking God, there was a spot. The parking lot said “Residents Only,” but I took my chances.

It was a 2-block walk to what looked like the beginning of the line. The weather was great on February 23 in Kentucky, a little overcast but not cold enough to require a winter coat.

I don’t think there were 10s of thousands of people but there were certainly thousands in the line I entered at about 10 am. Oldsters were to be permitted into Hughes Auditorium at 2 pm. Only 4 hours to go. Okay. Father, help me.

It may seem like a crazy thing to some that a 61-year-old widowed grandma would make such a pilgrimage in her car and then on her feet.

Thank God He did not think so. This was confirmed by the personality of the 1^st person I spoke to in the line. It was obvious after about 5 seconds of conversation that the 12-year-old boy was on the high functioning end of the spectrum. He and I spent the next hour to hour and a half talking about his interests which included facts about the revival, engineering, and chess. His mom and some other people from his church were with him, and I introduced myself. That group eventually left the line and I did not see any of them again. This happened several times throughout the day, and I felt blessed to have met them for however long a duration.

Fairly early in the day, an older gentleman began playing a shofar and explaining what each of the melodies represented. That afternoon, another older gentleman in the line who was probably a pastor prayed for him because he was experiencing severe hip pain. The hip pain vanished and he was left only with some tiredness. But maybe we were all feeling that.

There were prayer circles, prayer duos, worship leaders, throughout the line. The Salvation Army was handing out bottled water and snacks. Several times, I thought about how many times I’ve stood in a line (granted, a shorter line) at places like Six Flags for a ride that amounts to less than 5 minutes. The anticipated “ride” at the end of this line was far superior.

The line continually advanced, but there didn’t appear to be anyone going into the auditorium which was now visible to the naked eye.

2 pm came and went, and I was still in line. No one around me was commenting on this, though, and everyone was still in great spirits. Those who grew too tired or worried about their children or their own health, went to some chapels which were simulcasting the Hughes revival. I was starting to feel pretty bad with arthritis being felt in the knees, hips, back, and hands; but I never felt clear direction from God to go to one of the alternate chapels.

Shofar man and his wife, Lisa, and another woman with them were now in front of me in the line. It looked like we would be going in about 4 pm. That would give us 1 hour in The Presence.

We submitted to a cursory search for weapons and then were on the dozen or so steps leading to the auditorium. As they went in, I became separated from shofar man and his group and was again alone. There was a young man who had been slightly ahead of me in line who was also alone. The person tending the door asked everyone how many were in our group. He and I both said “one”. The attendant began calling groups in and said he would get to us. Apparently, the young man noticed this too because he asked me if I’d like to be part of a group of two, and of course I said yes. We got in right after that.

We were shown to seats on the main floor about halfway to the front and sat together. We exchanged names, and unfortunately I don’t remember his, but it was something like Reynaldo.

There were a guitarist, a vocalist, a pianist, and a drum of the sort that is held between the knees and beat on with the hands. Those were the only instruments. The guitarist, pianist, and obviously the vocalist led us in worship choruses, some familiar, some not. They taught us a new chorus based on the portion of the Sermon on the Mount that has to do with Blessed are the peacemakers.

No one ever told us to stand up, raise our hands, shout, or even sing. They let God instruct us. There was great liberty. Which was really great for me because I could no longer stand.

At 5, the guitarist told the Gen Zers, as they were called, to find a place to have supper so the oldsters, some of whom were still standing in line outside and had been for some time, could share in the experience. All the youngsters gathered their things and left. More oldsters came in, and seats were exchanged to make room for them. Reynaldo and I prayed for one another while this was going on. But the music never stopped. The worship never stopped. Everything ran very smoothly.

Recovered, I was able to stand, and had no difficulty doing so for the last hour. I made the most of the liberty, listening for what I thought my Father wanted me to experience. I was not disappointed. The long drive, the 6-hour stand with a few steps interspersed, the fact that I would be traversing that twisty, bendy road after dark, were worth it.

A few weeks ago, Pastor Larry Moreau preached about the Mount of Transfiguration stating it was his belief that there were times when the veil between heaven and earth was thinner than usual; the experience shared by Peter, James, and John was one such time. I believe revivals are such a time.

Did I have an experience like that shared by Peter, James, and John? Or even the woman who posted on FB that she was overcome with tears on simply approaching the auditorium?

No. I didn’t cry at all.

But my soul was revived.

Sometimes I think YHWH just wants to see if we’ll listen to Him and do His will. So, although there were no supernatural manifestations for this attendee, unless you count the fact that I was able to walk and stand for 6 hours on knees that need replaced, it was a blessing and continues to be so now nearly a week after my return home.

The Asbury revival has ended, but many others continue throughout our great land. If you feel God directing you to go. . . Go.

Acts 2:17

Although I don’t personally know Megan Fatheree well, I went to youth group with her father many moons ago. It is through him and his wife that I became aware of her writing.

This is the first book of Megan’s I’ve read. Hopefully, it will not be the last because there is a secondary character in Codex whose story needs to be told. This book is so well written it would be intriguing to see how Megan’s future works evolve. Add to that the fact that I am a word nerd, and she has a couple words in there I’d not previously known. It’s always good to learn as one reads.

Codex could easily fit within a genre popular in the 1970s called the gothic romance. There is a spooky mansion, an element of the supernatural, and an abundance of dark, brooding, mysterious men. If I hadn’t read the description of the book, I would not have been able to tell with 100% certainty until the end of the story which of the two principal male characters would wind up being the hero.

Amorette is a quintessential romantic heroine. She is a young, a bit naïve, brave, enthusiastic, too-curious-for-her-own-good woman who falls in love with an older–much older–man.

The ultimate winner of Amorette’s heart is not very likeable at the beginning of the book, but he becomes more charming as the story progresses; and he is clearly a genuine good guy by the end.

The secondary characters are more fleshed out than is common in a novel of this length; and, as mentioned previously, there is one I hope to see as a principal character in a future Megan Fatheree novel.

Any female over the age of 15 will be charmed by this well-crafted story. There is no sex or language, but there is quite a bit of violence; it is for that reason I would not recommend it for a younger reader.

Although the theme is not overtly Christian, and Jesus is not mentioned at all, the writer is a devout follower of Jesus; and good, evil, and redemption are well delineated throughout.

If you like investing in new authors in hopes of discovering a future best seller, as do I, pick up this book. It is available as an Ebook and paperback via your favorite bookseller. Thanks and God bless you.

Mom and I like to watch the old Datelines on channel 49. Every single time, at some point, the narrator will say something like “Then nearly 5 years ago to the day. . . ” or “just over 8 years ago to the day”. If any qualifying adverb appears in a statement such as that, it pretty much nullifies what it is describing.

I am not qualifying my statement with a “nearly” or a “just over”.

Five years ago today, I sat in a chair at a beauty shop while Wendy made me as beautiful as possible so that I could do my husband proud. After doing my hair, she watched me apply my makeup and told me I had accomplished my goal.

Next, I headed over to the church to change into my new outfit bought especially for the occasion. I think the pastor was already there, but I’m not sure anyone else was. For a few quiet minutes, I had the whole place to myself, a bit of time to prepare my soul for what was to come.

The bathroom where I changed clothes was not far from the sanctuary and directly adjacent to the hallway leading to it, and when I heard the noises made by several people rearranging things, I knew it was time. As I write these words, it is 4:55 p.m. That is the time this occurred on February 11, 2016.

I asked my pastor if I could go ahead and go in, just for a minute before everyone else started to arrive.

“Of course.”

I opened the double metal doors leading to the sanctuary, the set that was nearest to me, half expecting to be blown away by the smell of chrysanthemums.

There were a few plants, and there may have been some flowers — I honestly don’t remember — but certainly not enough for the scent to permeate the air in the cavernous room.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the front.

There he was.

If he’d been there, really been there, he would have been annoyed with me. We had discussed this possibility, half-heartedly, of course, anticipating the occurrence sometime far in the nebulous future; and he always told me to just “throw him in a field somewhere.” Aside from that being illegal (I think), there was no way this would happen, and I told him so.

As was usually the case with me when we were together in public, at least for the previous 6 years anyway, I made my way toward him, the one whom God used so greatly to help heal my mind. He was my safety net. He was the one who helped me not be so afraid to socialize. The one who prayed for me daily in such a way that I could feel it. The one who not only thought I was beautiful but told me I was a blessing! He was my angel.

I took his hand. Rod was always hot, no matter the temperature; but I anticipated his hand this time being cold.

It wasn’t exceptionally so, but as I slipped my long fingers around the webspace between his massive right thumb and index finger inserting their tips into the space formed by the palm of his hand where it rested beside him, there were no similarities between any other time I’d held his hand.

Nonetheless, hold his hand I did. I talked to him. I don’t think I cried. Couldn’t mess up my makeup. Wanted to make him proud as he’d so often been throughout our 6-year marriage. To this day, he is the only person who has made me believe that is proud of me.

Then the people started coming. The woman in charge wanted me to take a place at Rod’s feet. I refused, wanting to be near his precious face. He had not been ill prior to his death–it was sudden– and he truly did look like he was simply asleep. The muscles of his face were so used to being in a smile, the person who prepared him for the viewing couldn’t completely get rid of it, and the left side of his mouth was tilted up ever so slightly.

Many people passed.

Some of his guy friends dropped things in with him. One young man came through the line early, and upon seeing the knives and hunting paraphernalia already there, went home to retrieve one of his favorite pocketknives, returned, and left it there as well.

Most said something along the lines of “If there’s anything I can do. . . “

Of course there wasn’t. Well, there was, and many of them were already doing it. Praying.

Not for Rod. No one who knew him could doubt he was now healthy and whole and happier than he’d ever been in the land of the living, happier than any of us could even imagine.

No, they were praying for me. His daughters. His sisters.

Those for whom this day and the day 4 days prior had created a tremendous hole in our worlds.

Rod was a Valentine’s Baby. He missed his 56th birthday by 7 days. This Sunday he would have been 61.

I didn’t know you were an angel when you were here. I do now. And even though I know you probably can’t hear this. . .

And don’t want to read it. . .

I miss you, my angel.

In Memory of

Roderick Lloyd McDougall

February 14, 1960 – February 7, 2016

I just finished reading through this whole thing. That’s right — the whole ?? pages/words of this blog!

I was taken aback by how many grammatical and spelling errors were present. If you are an Aspie — and if you’re reading this you might be — see how many you can find.

More troubling was the fact there hasn’t been as much soul relinquishment and spiritual takeover as I’d hoped at the beginning.

But this is a journey. Or better, as Steven Curtis Chapman put it, a Great Adventure.

Usually my blogs are written out in a Word document before I ever even open up the blog. Not so this time. It’s truly seat of the pants writing and probably pretty boring. As a brief aside: I do not like to use the word “boring” and have tried to convince my 7-year-old granddaughter it actually means the same thing as “fun”. Neither she nor her 4-year-old sister believe this.

I implore you, reader, to read some of the previous blogs. 2 Corinthians chapter 1 tells me I have not gone through any hardships simply for the sake of going through them. These experiences are to help others.

One thing I noticed on my read-through was how many times I mentioned music. Therefore, I’ll conclude this short post with a Midnight Special live performance of my all-time favorite song. It was released in 1977, the year I took Behind the Wheel driver’s ed, and I can remember it playing in the training car. It is not a Christian song, and its message is a bit depressing, including the prominently and well but sung but disturbing line “I just don’t care”. Ignore the words if you can and just enjoy the music. And please, check out some of the previous posts (and the much more uplifting lyrically and nearly as wonderful musically songs).

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?view=detail&mid=191CEC011F92C5777C56191CEC011F92C5777C56&q=smoke+from+a+distant+fire&shtp=GetUrl&shid=3ac560cf-b7b4-46fc-86a4-c7b72a460047&shtk=TWlkbmlnaHQgU3BlY2lhbC1TYW5mb3JkIFRvd25zZW5kIEJhbmQgIlNtb2tlIEZyb20gQSBEaXN0YW50IEZpcmUi&shdk=TWlkbmlnaHQgU3BlY2lhbCBwZXJmb3JtYW5jZQ%3D%3D&shhk=csmTCfoJXaRSAuXa08VjFCf2cI5v2xwNJI8i1MESkz8%3D&form=VDSHOT&shth=OSH.cvugAD%252FegFhmzVKRfc1a2Q

God bless you always.

I am in the middle of an attempt at reading through the Bible in 90 days. Today I am in the book of Isaiah. Chapter 45 verse 9 just jumped off the page, and I felt my Father telling me to pause right there and write these words.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ. The most common word for one such as I is “Christian”. Over the centuries since He for whom we are named walked the earth, the word has lost much of its meaning. Now I sometimes just say I am a lover and follower of Jesus.

I also have Asperger’s. This is not a disease, a curse, or a disability. It is simply a difference. Because of the black and white thinking that often accompanies it (and certainly does in my case) some aspects of following Jesus are easier. It is quite easy for me to accept the Bible as the absolute Word of God. Jesus is called the Word. Both are absolute TRUTH.

Being an Aspie does come with hardships, such as fellowshipping with other believers and sometimes even understanding them. When my husband (neurotypical to the extreme) was alive, he was utterly confounded by my lack of desire to socialize between the two morning church services. I was so uncomfortable with this activity I would often go sit in the truck at the conclusion of the service and wait for him to finish speaking with everyone in the church. Now, of course, I just leave as soon as it’s over.

But for the purpose of this post, let’s talk about one of the potential positives of Asperger’s – black and white thinking.

What do you see in this picture?

How about this one?

This one?

Which is the most beautiful?

Which is the most useful?

With which do you most identify?

If you are an Aspie it is most likely the last picture.

I would. Throughout my nearly 60 years here in the land of the living, I’ve compared myself negatively to nearly everyone I’ve met, Christian and not. I’ve researched this tendency of mine to make comparisons and don’t think this is a trait of Asperger’s.

But compare I do. It’s probably one of those things God will spend the rest of my earthly life trying to correct.

So, what sets apart the last picture?

Different.

A little odd looking (at least to standard perceptions).

Maybe difficult to determine exactly what its purpose is.

However. . .

Do you think the person who created this last pot was not proud? Did he not find his creation utterly beautiful?

If the creator were not proud, surely he wouldn’t have shared it on the internet where everyone could behold its beauty and, yes, speculate on its utility.

I am God’s clay pot.

You are God’s clay pot.

His workmanship.

He is perfect and good and everything He makes is perfect and good. Yes, the perfection and goodness have been distorted and lost in a world that has rebelled against Him. But you, in the untouched form in which He created you, are perfect and good.

His masterpiece.

When you bemoan the fact that you are so “different” from everyone else, you are telling God He did it wrong. Ugghh. Not to say I haven’t done exactly that. Your thinking and mine have been distorted by the master of lies.

God created you beautiful, and He created you for a purpose. Quit arguing with God. Instead relish in your unique beauty while you seek out and perform His purpose for your life.