Julie Echols Reyburn

Sometimes I don’t know what to say. In life, yes, but also here. It seems an odd thing to admit because as a writer I feel words should be abundant.

I have struggled for at least two weeks to write what I feel is the right thing. This weekend alone I began and abandoned three blog posts.

It’s hard to type when your fingers are crossed, wishing for words to click.

Fridays are a day I write with intention.  But life outside of my computer last week kept me from engaging my thoughts in any sensible way. To salvage the day, I logged into my Hope*Writers library, a writing community filled with how-to tutorials, and scrolled through until my interest piqued. A thumbnail image titled “Developing Your Writer’s Voice” grabbed my attention, as mine feels grossly inadequate of late.

As we so often do, I expected immediate gratification and answers – a step-by-step instruction to excel at writing.

I found just the opposite. Instead of “write” I heard “wait.”

The new-to-me author named Ashlee Eiland talked about the practice she engages of stillness, silence, and presence.

On a morning when her father was scheduled for surgery, she stepped onto her deck and looked up at the sky.

“I saw a canopy of trees above me,” she said. “I saw there was not a cloud in the sky and I was given this overwhelming peace to say that ‘Ashlee it might seem like everything is swirling around you but it’s clear up here.’”

“It’s clear up here.”

I’ll take that on a t-shirt.

What is swirling around you today?

We are trying to buy a new car.

Swirling.

Fall break, while welcome, is interrupting our routine.

Swirling.

Even when I’m standing still my life right now feels like one of those corn mazes that are so popular in pumpkin patches this season. I may as well be surrounded by 7-foot stalks because I can’t see where I’m going or which turn I should take.

So, instead of looking forward I’m learning to look up.

I carry close a letter from my daddy. It’s tucked inside the front cover of my Bible so I can retrieve it when I need him. His words are appropriate for my looking and waiting.

“When in doubt, PRAY,” he wrote. “And then wait on God to lead you.”

Because God says, “It’s clear up here.”

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding; think about Him in all your ways, and He will guide you on the right paths.”

(Proverbs 3: 5-6)

The feel of fall has nudged me towards nostalgia, stirring sentiment for the Saturday traditions of my childhood.

Football, yes. Food. A wood-burning fireplace.

And Saturday morning cartoons.

The Smurfs (La-la-la-la-la-la), He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, (By the Power of Greyskull!)  and Transformers (More than Meets the Eye!) were among the lineup. My brothers and I watched from our living room floor, wearing our pajamas, and eating sugary cereal on tin lap trays that folded over our legs and featured our favorite characters. My tray pictured Strawberry Shortcake.

The sound of the vacuum cleaner running through the hallway was a given on Saturdays, and sometimes the smell of Comet from the bathroom tub. Mom wore sweat clothes and no makeup as she dusted, scrubbed, and mopped.

Daddy worked a lot of Saturdays. On his rare days off he would golf, then come home to watch Alabama Crimson Tide football.  He would raise the living room windows, sit on the floor in front of his recliner and, while the TV was on, listen to the radio so he could hear Eli Gold’s play-by-play. The neighbors could hear through our open windows how well (or not) the Tide was playing by my daddy’s commentary.

Mom cooked, despite cleaning all day, though Saturday dinner was usually a one-pot meal: bacon goulash in the electric skillet or hobo dinners (hamburger, potatoes, carrots and onions wrapped in foil) on a sheet pan in the oven. While we ate, we watched Hee Haw or WWF wrestling. 

My hair was long, past my waist. Mom washed it on Saturday nights so that it was clean for church on Sunday. I would beg her to let it dry naturally while I sat in front of our wood-burning fireplace in the living room. I was cozy there. I still remember my favorite fleece nightgown, white with thin, pastel stripes and matching slipper socks that stretched up to my knees. (My hair never did dry enough in front of the fire and inevitably mom would sit me on the bathroom counter and use the hair dryer.)

I didn’t expect as a child in the 1980s that these routines would resonate in my adult life. My parents didn’t realize it, but they were creating a legacy. So are you.

A fellow Hope*Writer shared this idea on her blog in August. Rebecca Meeks writes,

“With intention, we are building a heritage that will make a difference for future generations.”

I invite you to read her entire “The Legacy Maker’s Manifesto” and consider the ways the rhythm of your life is impacting your home. What routines, rhythms and traditions remain with you?

Saturday life evolved as we got older and, of course, when we moved to college. One of my favorite parts of the letters my daddy mailed to me when I was in college are the details of his and mom’s daily life. I found a few with postmarks dated September and October 1996 and 1997:

“I am going golfing tomorrow… I done some work on our house and (Uncle) Donald also… Your mother wants a closet organizer in our closet. I have bought one but she doesn’t know about it yet. When I get time I will put it up.”

“I hope to have this old dead tree cut down before ya’ll get back home. I have got to go to bed so I can go to work.”

“… Sunday we found an entertainment center at Mazer Furniture… I went today and pick it up and it looks really good…”

I bet it looked good while he sat on the floor watching Alabama football and listening to Eli Gold.

I felt a little like my mom this weekend as I dusted and scrubbed on Saturday. Abby Kate bounced between TV and Toys. Lily enjoyed a friend’s birthday party. When I picked her up she said “I had fun but I’m ready to go home.”

Like my childhood Saturdays, ours now are simple. Television. Easy meals. And now, the feel of fall.

Life was good when I was a little girl.

It’s good now, too.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above..”

(James 1:17) 

I have been thinking about stuff. The things we own. Especially the ones that tell our story.

I clicked a video on Facebook last week and watched Rachael Ray tell about a fire that destroyed her New York home. I don’t give much attention to celebrity news, but I have enjoyed her cooking and talk shows. Home has always seemed important to her, and I like that, so the headline got my attention. In the video she shares that the fire burned her notebooks, drawings, and photo albums, and claimed her musician husband’s music charts. Their “life’s work.” My heartstrings stretched when she spoke of losing cards and letters that held her mom’s handwriting, which has severely deteriorated because of macular degeneration.

I know the treasure of letters and handwriting. They are almost all I have left of my daddy.

When I began to write two years ago, I purchased a small fireproof and waterproof safe. I could not bear the thought of losing the cards and letters daddy wrote to me. They are the inspiration for this blog (and maybe one day a book) so I want and need to keep them intact. My mom has since given me his Sunday School lessons and notes, the journals he kept while working in the coal mines, and pictures from his growing up and military service. Those are tucked into drawers, boxes, and bags. After watching Rachael Ray’s story, I said to my husband, “I need another safe.”

My mind has also wandered over the past several days to the people out west whose entire lives have been all but erased by wildfires, and those along the coast who are similarly impacted by hurricanes and flooding. Their immediate thoughts must be intent on where they will sleep and what they will eat. I wonder if in the back of their minds they are also mourning irreplaceable family heirlooms.

A weathered brown box hangs in my mom’s kitchen. Hand-painted words decorate the front: “Lollipops For Good Little Girls And Good Little Boys.” The box has been on her kitchen wall since I was in the 4^th grade when my parents remodeled our kitchen. It belonged to my great-grandmother, Mama Bailey. I do not know exactly how old it is, but my mom remembers it from her childhood so I would venture at least 60 years.

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I asked Mom to refresh my memory on the story of the box. She reached out to her cousin Bill, whose dad, my great-uncle Clifton, made the box. Bill writes:

Wow. That was a long time ago… We had one hanging in our kitchen. He made Mama Bailey one and maybe a few other aunts. Every time someone would see one and say something to dad, he would make them one. Of course, Mama Bailey was the only one that kept her box full for all us grandkids. Everyone else would just let them run out but not her. As I recall it took Dad about 2 days to make one and most of that time was for the paint to dry and he would make them outside and the freshly painted boxes would be hanging from a pine tree branch by a piece of wire to dry. He did all the writing and painting on it freehand with a paint brush.

My parents kept the box full of Dum-Dums candy. Daddy loved to give the lollipops, we called them suckers, when kids would visit. One day I hope the box will hang in my kitchen, still filled with lollipops and love.

The Bible cautions against loving our stuff. It’s not going to last. House fires, wildfires and hurricanes prove that. Instead, Matthew 6 instructs us to focus on the treasure we have in heaven, to seek God as the center of our lives instead of stuff. Eternal impact. That’s what matters.

Rachael Ray called her notebooks and journals her “life’s work.” I suggest our life’s work, her life’s work, is not entirely found in the stuff we can see, touch and hold. It may also be defined in ways that are intangible. I do not know Rachael Ray but if I did, I would tell her that her life’s work is also found outside her burned home. It is written in many meals shared around countless kitchen tables. I, for one, made a chili recipe from her magazine just last night.

It’s OK to cherish journals, photos and lollipop boxes. They are part of us. What matters is the way we value those things, and what they say about our heart’s intent. I hope my love for that lollipop heirloom defines me as someone who loves my family, my story, and my roots because those are the treasures that will last.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

(Matthew 6: 19-21)

Grief paid an unexpected visit last month. I didn’t want to let it in but like a nosy neighbor it crossed the threshold before I could shut it out.

I never saw it coming.

Lily climbed into the car after school with “a surprise” for me and Abby Kate.

“But mostly for sissy,” she said.

When Abby Kate buckled in 4 miles and 9 minutes later, Lily produced from her backpack their 2019-2020 school yearbooks.  Abby Kate squealed with excitement and together they flipped pages, pointing out favorite pictures of themselves and friends.

I was excited to see the book myself when we arrived home, and especially loved that someone submitted a photo from Abby Kate’s trip to Washington, D.C. where she and 3 classmates laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown soldier last October.

Then, I noticed the page opposite that D.C. picture.

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled yearbook…” declared an italicized black-and-white banner at the top of the page.

Bullet point text detailed the disruption of COVID-19, beginning with the first report to the WHO in December. The last line is dated March 26, 2020, when Alabama Governor Kay Ivey declared school closed for the year.

I closed the yearbook. I didn’t want to look anymore.

It is right for the timeline to be there. I appreciate the historical context of what happened to the school year. Except we had to live it.  We are still living it. And that’s hard.

A text exchange with Abby Kate’s 5^th grade teacher turned to lament as we remembered what we lost last year.

“We didn’t get to finish,” her teacher typed. “It’s like that Band-Aid that keeps getting ripped off.”

That is exactly what it’s like. Just when the wound has healed, the Band-Aid comes off and creates a new sting. However short-lived, it still hurts. Inevitably a new cut or scrape or sore must be nursed, and the proverbial Band-Aid removed again. Another sting. Maybe even a scar. One that will never entirely heal.

I thought these weepy sentiments would subside once the new school year started but they remain, lurking in loose ends from last year. I don’t think I will ever revisit the spring of 2020 and not grieve the milestone moments we missed or the carefree and virus-free school days my daughters deserve.

Short of time-travel, which Abby Kate aspires to someday, we can’t reclaim those days. So, we adapt to new normals and accept “indefinitely.” The good news is (Yes! There is good news!) God promises to turn our mourning into joy.

I carried Psalm 30:6 in my English class binder my 10^th grade year of high school.  I can only imagine what I was weeping over in high school, and will probably be embarrassed if I ever do remember, but the verse clearly resonated because I still carry it 25 years later. 

“Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

2020 kind of feels like a long night, doesn’t it? I’m not a morning person but even I would set an alarm to witness the break of this dawn.

We are eager for the morning.

Weeping. Waiting. Watching.

For Jesus. For joy.

I hesitate to speak joy because I don’t know the depths to which some people must reach to find it or how hard they work to hold on to it. COVID has stolen a lot of things and your joy may be one of them. The virus has, at the very least, complicated our pursuit of happiness.

What are you counting on to restore your joy?

Children returning to school?
Travel restrictions lifting?
Shopping without a mask?

I wish all those things with you with the caution that if we expect those things to make life all better, we are destined for another disappointment.

A popular T-shirt slogan advises “Choose Joy.” If only. Joy is not found in our circumstances but in the presence of Jesus. Maybe the shirt should read “Choose Jesus.”

I struggled to finish this writing and confided in a friend that the words “Choose Jesus” seem insincere.  My only defense is that they are not my words. They are His. The book of Psalm is rich with invitation to find fulfillment in God’s presence:

“You reveal the path of life to me; in Your presence is abundant joy; in Your right hand are eternal pleasures.” (Psalm 16:11)

“The Lord is my strength and my shield. My heart trusts in Him and I am helped. Therefore, my heart rejoices and I praise Him with my song.” (Psalm 28:7)

“Taste and see that the Lord is good. How happy is the man who takes refuge in him!” (Psalm 34:8)

And as we return to Psalm 30 and read beyond verse 6, we find hope that God will do for us as he did for David.

“You have turned my lament into dancing; You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness so that I can sing to You and not be silent. Lord my God, I will praise you forever.” (Psalm 30:11-12)

Forever. And I might add, even in a pandemic.

The weeping will not end or the sun rise at the same moment for everyone, but I believe it will come for all of us. And unlike the grief I try so hard to shut out, I will welcome the morning joy with my door and arms wide open.

“Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”
(Psalm 30:6)

Discipline does not come naturally for me. I don’t often finish things. I’m good for about 80% and then I lose interest or energy and quit.

I bought the book “Discipline: The Glad Surrender” at the recommendation of a college friend whose faith I admire. Secretly I hoped it held magic words that would instantly improve my character flaw.

I ordered the book September 4, 2019.

I began reading the book September 19, 2019.

I finished the book September 3, 2020.

Clearly my discipline is a work in progress.

I suppose it all worked for good though. As I read through car line recently, I found inspiration for this writing appropriate for Labor Day (or the day after because lack o’ discipline, y’all.)

My Ticonderoga pencil worked hard through chapter 12: The Discipline of Work. Words, sentences, and even complete paragraphs are underlined, circled, and asterisked to highlight what I believe are Elisabeth Elliott’s best thoughts on work.

Early in chapter 12, she writes:

“Every one of us has a line of duty marked out for us by God.”

My job as Communications Director at Kids to Love supports a ministry that meets the needs of children in foster care. Even on days when my work feels very ordinary I can connect it to a purpose bigger than myself.

Other careers may not always feel dutiful to the Lord. I think of my daddy, laboring for 30+ years in the coal mines. He carried in his lunchbox a pocket planner, and wrote each day the hours he worked, who he worked with and what he did: run scoop, move equipment, load rock, run buggy.

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I do not know true labor. I have never had to work hard with my hands. On the rare occasion a job has required me to break a sweat, I’ve accepted the work was temporary. Never a career calling or a day-in, day-out duty.

The Bible tells us whatever we do, we should do it for the glory of God. So, whether you’re deep underground or above it at a desk, consider your character. Daddy proved himself a man of integrity. When the company hired its first female miner, she was assigned to work with my daddy. Mom said it was because daddy’s supervisors knew there would be no risk of disrespect or misconduct.

I have no doubt mining coal was daddy’s mission field, and that God was honored through his hard work.

There is so much more I want to say about Elisabeth Elliott’s writing on the discipline of work. But I’m about 80% done with what I set out to say and that means it’s time for me to move on. (See sentence #1. I may not be disciplined but I’m funny!)

Whether you’re starting a new work week today after enjoying Monday off or just starting a new day, I offer you this verse, also included in Ms. Elliott’s work:

“Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us and establish the work of our hands yes, establish the work of our hands!”

(Psalm 90:17)

Other notable thoughts from chapter 12: The Discipline of Work

• “Let us rest assured that God knows how to show His will to the one who is willing to do it.”

• “Interest and challenge can always be found in any task done for God.”

• “What constitutes a ‘great work for God’? Where does it begin? Always in humility.”

• “We need help. We may write the book, sell the policy, cook the meal, do the job, whatever it is, but there will be days when we do it halfheartedly, other days when we do it despondently. If the work is soaked in prayer, the beauty will be there, the work will be established.”

• “Let us never say ‘God has given me nothing to do.’ He has. It lies on your doorstep. Do it, and He will show you something else.”

The title of this blog post puts me in a Christmas mood. I think all of us are ready to usher in December because that means 2021 is close. I don’t know what we expect a calendar change to do exactly, but never have we wanted a new year more than now.

Today’s words are not the ones I set out to share this week. I had an entirely different post planned and mustered the courage to start writing it Saturday night. But it required emotion I couldn’t quite express the way I wanted.

I’ll try again next week.

The sermon from my church’s online worship service Sunday morning inspired this substitute writing. Our pastor spoke of the ways nature “preaches” the presence of God. I was immediately transported to Lake Placid, New York and a wonderful summer I spent in 1997.

I still have the handful of cards and letters my daddy mailed me during those months. I searched them for an excerpt to accompany today’s reflection, which I originally posted to Facebook in June 2019. These words seem entirely appropriate for this season we are in:

“Hi Julie Doll!!! There is no greater security or peace than in the hands of our Savior. Do not depend on what you can do but put your faith in what God has done & what he can continue to do. It was a joy & blessing to talk to you the other night. Pray fervently – serve Him diligently and worship Him always!”

God was very near to me in Lake Placid. I saw Him in the magnificence of His creation, and still carry close those encounters.

(Originally posted to Facebook on June 14, 2019)

This mild weather has triggered memories of the summer of ’97 when I served 10 weeks as a BCM student missionary in Lake Placid, NY. We spent a lot of days exploring mountains and creeks, and wearing sweatshirts more than you’d expect in June. July 4th was cold and rainy. I bundled up in blankets to watch fireworks.

I experienced God’s presence in Lake Placid in ways I hadn’t before. I remember talking to Him as we drove along winding roads on our way to some hideaway creek. I remember sitting in a folding chair for Father’s Day services with majestic mountains as a backdrop instead of the more traditional baptistry.

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I remember how well my host family, The Hodges, loved me and also how well they loved each other. I remember another family, the Appletons, and Bible verses displayed on cabinet doors, walls and furniture inside their home, and thinking I wanted my grown-up home to reflect Jesus like that.

My travels seem pretty plain sometimes. I am happiest at home. But on a 60-degrees June morning in Alabama, home is not a bad place to be.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims the work of His hands.”

(Psalm 19:1)

Fried pork skins are not a usual grocery purchase. They feed my soul more than my stomach, a different kind of nourishment. When nostalgia sets in, I let the potato chip aisle take me home. I bought a bag last Tuesday and munched through it as I sat in car line.

My Pawpaw Carlisle ate fried pork skins, Golden Flake brand of course because it’s a Birmingham, Alabama staple.  A clear, plastic bag bearing the bright yellow-and-red logo sat chip-clipped on Granny Carlisle’s kitchen counter almost every time I visited.

Those visits became fewer when I was diagnosed with allergies. Cigarette smoke was a severe trigger and Pawpaw smoked a lot so I couldn’t be around him very much.

He wasn’t usually home anyway. He loved to fish and would be found in his boat on Bayview Lake more than his living room couch. His signature orange toboggan (a hat here in the south) could not be missed against the backdrop of trees as our car crossed Bayview Bridge, nor could the fuzzy white dog called Snowball who accompanied Pawpaw wherever he went and especially on his boat.

Pawpaw picked up aluminum cans that were cast alongside the road so that he could cash them in for money. On my way to school in the mornings I would see him walking, carrying a black garbage bag and wearing, still, a toboggan. 

Pawpaw died in 1998, my junior year in college.  He asked my daddy to give final words at his funeral. I have the index cards with daddy’s sentiments. In red ink he wrote:

“Lawrence Carlisle was just a simple man enjoying the simple things of life.”

Simple things. Fried pork skins. Fishing. Aluminum cans. A dog named Snowball.

Pawpaw was not a man of many words, and when he did talk the things he would sometimes say we weren’t allowed to repeat.  You might curse too if you raised seven daughters in a house with one bathroom. So, it’s surprising that my warmest memory of him is, in fact, his words.

I was visiting Pawpaw and Granny before leaving for college, and in a rare moment Pawpaw joined the conversation and offered me this advice:

“Don’t take anyone’s opinion. Find out for yourself.”

He was talking specifically about people and the importance of knowing someone personally before making a judgment.

I put Pawpaw’s advice into practice pretty quickly.

The name McKerral struck fear in many students at Troy State University’s Hall School of Journalism.  Temper. Terror. I didn’t know these things – how could I? – when I received a letter naming Gordon “Mac” McKerral as my academic advisor. I was sitting at the Dairy Queen in Troy prior to the start of freshman year when I shared Mac’s name with a senior student who knew him well. She extended me her sympathies.

As predicted and described, Mac was shouting into the workroom of the Tropolitan (the school newspaper of which he was the advisor) when I arrived at the Hall School’s lobby to meet him.  He was angry or aggravated or whatever emotion causes teachers to burst. My usual brisk walk turned timid with trepidation as I all but tiptoed toward his office. I tapped on his door and he turned to greet me… with a smile.

Mac was never anything but kind to me. I was not his student, technically, because he left Troy State before I could complete the pre-requisite courses for his Media Law class. And since I was on a broadcast journalism track, I did not work for him at the “Trop.”  My opinion of him may have been different if either of those had transpired.  Instead, I have a treasured postcard from him dated 1997 and a favorite picture of us together in front of the Hall School of Journalism where I had the good fortune to know him.

I have not talked to Mac since he left Troy. To my knowledge, he is still teaching (and maybe terrifying?) college students. And while I was never officially one of his students, Mac did teach me a lesson that I still apply: to remember Pawpaw and his sage advice.

“Don’t take anyone’s opinion. Find out for yourself.”

Wise words.
Precious memories.
Simple things.

They feed my soul. Just like fried pork skins.

“…For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

(1 Samuel 16:7)

It is presumptuous to think any of my words are profound, but today’s post seems exceedingly simple.

It’s about an old, white, wooden box.

The box sat behind the altar at my childhood church. It was a drop spot for missions money; tape on the top with hand-written words designated three ministries.

To me, the box was a birthday tradition.

Services at Bayview Baptist Church began on Sunday morning with a brief devotion and song prior to the start of Sunday School.  Before we dismissed, anyone with a birthday was invited to stand by the box at the altar for the congregation to sing “Happy Birthday.”

An offering for the birthday box was encouraged. Some years I slipped a quarter through the slot, others I dropped a dollar bill. In hindsight it doesn’t seem like much. But God doesn’t need much, does He?

Fish and bread.

A widow’s mite.

The faith of a mustard seed.

I visited the church, alone, in March as COVID dictated social distancing. As I walked through, I noticed the box was absent from the altar. I found it stacked on a bookshelf in a room now used for storage. I brought it home with me, anticipating that I would write about it one day.

Sunday was my birthday, and it seemed an appropriate time to tell the story.  The box has given me a tangible memory to hold onto, a reminder of my belonging at Bayview Baptist Church. Not just in the building, but with its people.

I celebrated my birthday in pajamas, eating pizza and reading a plethora of meaningful birthday messages.  The birthday box was close by.

It is a cue to celebrate the gift of my life, but more importantly to consider the gift my life should be to others.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

(Ephesians 2:10)

My bathroom counter is covered in an assortment of accessories: eyeglasses, earrings, and bangle bracelets bearing quippy quotes. The glasses I wear as a headband more often than I use them to adjust my sight. They’re tossed sink-side at the end of the day when I pull my hair into a ponytail.

As I removed my contact lenses during my bedtime routine recently, I glanced the pile of glasses and considered the ways they help me see.

The readers allow me to enjoy Harry Potter books with my daughters. My doctor-prescribed pair helps me see at a distance, for example the TV screen or the clock across the room, when I don’t want to wear my contacts. Sunglasses shield my eyes so I can drive safely and more comfortably.

I have long required some sort of assistance to see. An eye doctor prescribed my first specs when I was in the 8^th grade. They were enormous and aqua-green, and I can’t believe my mother allowed me to pick such an egregious pair.

I digress.

In high school I began to wear contact lenses. My eye health remained relatively neutral until I neared middle-age. When I turned 42 my eyes demanded readers to, well, read.

Then, after registering high pressure in my eyes for more than half of my life, I was diagnosed with glaucoma. The optic nerve in my left eye shows deterioration so my doctor monitors it every 3-6 months. There’s no real concern of vision loss, thankfully, as long as I abide by her instructions.

Glasses, contact lenses and eye drops keep my physical sight in acceptable health.  Spiritual vision is not maintained as easily. My outlook has tendency to fix on what needs to be done today, not on why it will matter 10 years from today. True vision, I suppose, is found in balancing the two.

My daddy tried to teach me this. He connected my eyes to my heart, recognizing one would influence the other, and wrote often to tell me so.

“May your vision both physical and spiritual always be clear and your heart focused on God.” (September 9, 1995)

“Keep your vision clear and your heart open.” (July 24, 1996)
 
“I hope that the problems you are having go away or get move to somewhere else. But don’t let it blur your vision or hinder you from reaching your goals. Smooth seas never made a skillful sailor. Overcoming obstacles build character and strength in your confidence.” (September 22, 1998)

“Keep your eye upon the path and your heart tune to God.” (May 21, 1999)

“Keep your eyes open – guard your heart – do not be deceived.” (Undated)

Eyes and heart. I don’t need glasses to see the connection now.

Daddy also reminded me regularly that he could see things I could not.  Now, as a parent, I understand.

“Watch where you’re going!” is a familiar phrase to my daughters, though it’s meant with the most literal intentions. Scooting the sidewalk so they are aware of cars. Walking a store aisle so they don’t bump other customers. Climbing the stairs at home with eyes on their iPad instead of where their feet are stepping.

I’m pretty sure the only impact my words have on their eyes right now is when they roll them at me. I wonder if my daddy felt the same.

One meaningful-to-me Bible verse about vision is recited in my favorite musical, The Sound of Music. I watched it on VHS many times as a teenager, relying on my enormous aqua-green glasses to see the TV perched on top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom.

As the Von Trapp family is executing their secret escape over the Alps, Mother Abbess tells them:

“Remember: ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” (Psalm 121:1)

My Bible translates “hills” to “mountains.” The word stirs specific images in my mind’s eye, no glasses, contact lenses or eyedrops required.

Majesty.

Grandeur.

God.

The difficult days we are living have certainly directed my vision “unto the hills.”  But really, I don’t have to look that far to find my Help.

He is always close.

Even at a bathroom counter covered in an assortment of accessories.

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.”

(Psalm 121:1)

Digging through my daddy’s cards (and wondering when I would find the time to write this week) I came across a note that connects to last week’s story about sanctuary.

This one is postmarked September 17, 1996.

Dear Julie Doll,
It was great to see you and HUG you this weekend…

Praying & Loving U,
Daddy

These words about our Friday night hug felt like a bow to wrap up my previous writing (and, if I’m honest, a way to buy me more time to write my intended blog post.)

I’ve heard an encounter such as this called a “coinci-God” – a little moment divinely orchestrated to give a glimpse of His love and encourage us through our days.

If we look, we’ll see them.

Daddy advised me often to keep my eyes open.

More on that in my next post…

“… He restores my soul…”

(Psalm 23:3)