"I Can Do This by Myself!"

I wasn’t trying to be provocative.

I wasn’t scantily dressed; and though I was dancing to the music, the fact that I possess very little balance on my own two feet, much less on roller blades, meant that I was less than graceful.

My hair was a complete mess at this point, and my make-up had long-since departed.

 I could feel my feet beginning to blister since we’d been skating for more than 3 hours; going around the same circle over and over and over again.

Honestly speaking, I was glad everyone who would have liked to take a picture was skating as well, because I felt large and completely unkempt. But, since no one was there to staple this moment into the books, or to video tape my clumsy skating, I was content just making faces at my friends and doing all that I could to avoid running over one of the little kids who also occupied the rink.

So, when a man that I assumed to be the father of one of these little kids motioned me over, I didn’t feel threatened at all. I didn’t look too good, especially right then, and I just figured he’d ask me a question about the rink, or ask my help with his kid or… something like that.

I stopped at the wall next to him.

We talked for a few minutes, during which time I came to find that he was a 21 year old who’d made a bet with his ‘buddy’ (who was also older than 18) on how old I was. The man told me openly that he just wanted to know, but… he refused tell me why. There was a part of me that felt like, “So… we’re in Kindergarten again? Cool.” But the way he said things, leaned in, looked at me… it made me feel odd, examined, and vulnerable. I wasn’t sure what was happening, just that it wasn’t good. He openly flirted, and it’s not like I’d never dealt with flirting before. It was just the way he said things, it made me feel uneasy and I quickly felt a strong desire to get away from him.

I didn’t make a scene, just smiled and replied to whatever he said to me. I made a joke or two, shook his hand and said that I understood the “Misunderstanding of my age”.

Then, with that break in our too-long conversation, I took my leave; skating over to one of my friends. I watched as the man and his buddy exchanged words. Then they left the rink.

I felt like I’d been victimized to the mental processes of this man. I knew what he meant by his words, the way he looked at me and spoke to me. He wasn’t simply curious. If I’m going to be totally honest about the situation, the man was curious as to whether or not I was 18 or older for… reasons not nearly as innocent as friendship.

I felt… dirty. It took a minute to set in, but when it did, I felt a flush of anger. “How dare he? How dare he?! I am not just a trashy piece of meat put on display for him! I don’t even know him!”

And there was a part of me that then looked inward, “Is this really what my actions and clothing cause men to think? Is this really the way that I am presenting Christ to the world? Because if it is… I’m doing a horrible job. I should be a light, not just an addition to the darkness…” I felt low, dirty, used and confused.

And as I told what had just happened to my friend, others from our group began to skate over.

I was basically done talking, and now I just needed to think for a minute. So, I skated away.

Evidently she told the others about the man, and soon enough I had my guy friends and brother threatening to beat the living snot out of him.

It was at that moment where I was struck with the stark contrast between males who live self-serving lives and men who choose to follow the Lord and use Him as an example of manliness.

You see, the man at the skating rink, he is what is acceptable for society. As you were reading, there was probably a part of you, or possibly all of you, which felt unaffected by my story. “He was just being a guy.” That is the mental excuse for guys all over the place.

Selfish, lazy, girl-chasing losers, they’re allowed to be that way because we make excuses, “They’re just being guys.”

Well… I say no.

I say that is completely wrong.

You know what, “Just being a guy” should be? The reaction my guy friends had. “Where is he? I’m gonna deck ‘im.” And they did not just react this way because I’m, “One of them.” They reacted this way because it is ingrained in them to protect women.

I understand that guys tend to protect their own, just as girls do, it is human nature.

But, when my friend looked me in the eye and said, “I honestly wanted him stay and try one more thing, just so I would have an excuse to punch him in the face for being a pathetic waste of male flesh.” It didn’t surprise me.

You see, God has blessed my life with young men who are truly becoming MEN. Not just males; but young men who are embracing the role of manliness as God has ordained it to be.

These young men- the young men I am privileged to call both friends and brothers in Christ, (and for one, both biological and spiritual… sibling-ship!)- They’re the ones who stand up and offer their chair to a woman if one happens to walk into the room. They’re the ones who carry heavy things for girls; sometimes just taking things from a woman’s arms because, “They can get it.” They’re the first ones to offer a girl their jacket on a freezing night, not because they ‘like’ her, but because… she’s a girl; a woman, a female. And she should be taken care of.

So, when a jerk at a skating rink makes a girl feel vulnerable, my friends are all over that. Not in a crazy, “We are men, hear us roar” way, but in a way that says, “Listen. That’s not right, and don’t make excuses. Either apologize or get out of here.”

Now, this is a call to women- girls, of my generation.

I know it hasn’t seemed like that this far, but… I’m getting there!

In describing my friends, I’m more than sure that there was a part of most girls that said, “Uh. I can do all of that on my own, thank you very much.” And I know from watching, seeing, and doing it myself, that most girls will say, “No, I’ve got this” when a guy tries to step in and give a hand. We, as women, feel so sure that we can, “Do anything they can do better, we can do anything better than them” that when a guy, a young one especially, tries to step in and be manly, we squash him.

“What?! You don’t think I’m strong enough to carry this myself?!”

“Um, no, if I was cold I would’ve brought my own jacket.”

“I can hold my own door, thank you very much.”

“I’m fully capable of pulling out my own chair.”

“I’m not a baby, I can do this.”

“Stop!!! Just let me do it! You’re doing everything wrong!”

“Go away. I don’t need your help.”

With these types of comments, we squash them. We raise ourselves up, because… we’re women and don’t need them anyway, right?

Wrong.

We’ve allowed society to become completely backwards, and it needs to stop.

When a guy pulls out a chair out for you, don’t treat him like he committed a horrible disrespecting act towards you, because it is quite the opposite.

By pulling out your chair, it’s his way of… taking care of you- for lack of a better term. It’s his way of being a leader through servant hood.

And that is exactly what Biblical Men are supposed to be- it’s what Jesus was! He was the Leader of leaders! Yet, it was He Who washed the feet of His followers. He knelt down and served all the days of His life, and death, through selfless love, and yet all the while, He was the Leader of leaders, the Lord of lords, the God of gods.

He was not a chauvinist Leader, He was a servant.

That is what men should be. They should be the first to step up to a position of authority, and treat that position as a great responsibility, all the while, not hesitating a moment to stoop to the side of one in need.

Now, the feminist movement has done lot for America. It has shown that we, as women, can be strong and we can support ourselves without men, if necessary. To an extent, I believe women should be this way. I believe women should be strong; we should have the ability and the drive to pull our own weight and then some.

I believe this is Biblical. Just look at the Proverbs 31 woman. She was nobody’s wimp. She worked all day, she earned money, and she even had her own business outside of the house! She was strong, and she helped to provide for her family! She bought land on her own! She was a strong woman.

But the Bible also says to be submissive.

That’s where the balance comes in; balancing Womanly Strength with our call to meekness.

Unfortunately, this is where feminism took over and why everything is backwards now. We focused on our ability to be strong, and through pride and self-satisfaction we “proved” (to men especially) that we can handle ourselves. And because of this we became bossy, control-freaks. That messed everything up.

Who are the majority of the Sunday School leaders in churches?

Women.

Who are the majority of teachers at schools?

Women.

Who are the ones on the PTA? Or on “The Board”?

Mostly Women.

Even in high school, who are the ones to coordinate dances and extra-curricular activities? Who are the ones most likely to volunteer to serve at high school fundraisers? Who are the ones most likely to pray publicly?

Girls. Women. Females.

We step up, beat men down, and they let us… Why? Because we tell them that we can “Do it better.”

So the vicious cycle begins.

Men try to stand up.

We beat them down.

Then we do the job the way we think it should be done.

We tell them how well we did.

Then we act surprised when a weirdo like me says, “Hey. Let men stand up” because by now we’ve beat them down to a point where they are no longer expected to stand. Ever.

Fathers become passive because any time they try to make a rule, they are overruled by their opinionated wives.

Brothers become uncaring because their sisters don’t need their, “Little brothers butting in.” And they also become wimps because their moms and sisters, (older ones especially), boss them around like there’s no tomorrow.

Friends become nothing more than an opposite gender attraction waiting to happen because now that’s all guys are good for.

Life takes a shallow turn where we are in control and men are allowed to be useless pigs.

We then treat them with disdain, we treat their lust for women like a horrific disease, yet we don’t help by wearing clothes that are practically painted on our bodies.

And when they try to stand up? When they try to take control? When they try to be men?!

What do we do?

We beat them down.

Then, where do we find ourselves?

At the skating rink when some guy motions you over. You have a conversation with him and realize that his thought process is not only considered “Normal guy behavior” but that it would not be shocking to many, if any at all.

The difference is, if we girls keep treating guys the way we do, then by the time we have daughters, they won’t have brothers or friends to look to. They won’t have Daddies to stand up.

There will be no one to stand up.

We women say, “Oh, I’ll stand up.”

Well… As great as that is, it’s not enough when it comes to a situation like- and much, much worse than- the skating rink incident. That man was obviously not threatened by girls, and most men aren’t threatened by us. At all.

I don’t care how big we think we are. We’re women. And one day, there will be a time when we will need someone to stand up, and we will look around to see that we have beaten down all the men around us… and we are virtually alone.

I am by no means implying that we should be doormats. As previously stated, I believe that is completely unbiblical. It’s wrong.

But, we need to be strong enough to admit that we are weak.

We need men.

We need men to be protectors, because we can’t always do it on our own.

It’s just the truth. And just as we can’t get through a good, happy life without leaning on them, they can’t get through it without us uplifting them and supporting their attempts to become the Godly men that the Lord has called them to be.

I’m not saying we need to bow to men.

I’m not saying we need to give them everything they ask.

I’m not saying we have to find them to get a job done.

What I am saying is to quit beating them up.

If a guy opens the door for you, swallow your pride, (which is all that little voice inside your head is) and enjoy the moment- enjoy being taken care of, then look that guy in the eye and say, “Thank you.” Smile, and go on.

Give them opportunities to care! It is amazing how safe and special it make you feel to be surrounded by a group of young men who would go out of their way to carry something heavy for you, or hold open a door, or beat up a jerk.

And (letting you in on a little secret) it makes them feel good too.

Whenever we do what God has called us to do, it makes us feel good. Maybe in the moment, when you’re overcoming your pride, it doesn’t feel all that great. But eventually when you can accept a generous offer of protection from a man without feeling like they are trying to take something away from you… then it feels good. Really good.  

And then one day you’ll look around and see that the little portion of this world that you call your own has gotten a bit brighter, because you’ve taken a backseat, and you’ve chosen to treat people in a way that allows God to be center-stage.

And that is exactly where He should be.

And God Smiles Back

            It had been another long day.

            At 11 o’clock that night, I was done.

            After I had successfully protected my teeth from any possible cavity invasion, taken out my contacts, and wabbled to my room, I laid out on my bed.

            My fan blew in rhythmic circles above my head, and I just let out one of those letting-go-of-the-entire-day breaths.

            I was very ready to sleep.

            But, as I went to turn off my light, I spotted my Bible.

I wish that I could say that every single time I see my Bible my heart leaps at the thought of reading the words of my Savior. It is an amazing ability; to read the words of the One Who breathed life into me. When I think about it, I can hardly contain tears. It is a dumbfounding blessing to read His Word.

But, at 11 o’clock at night, after a long day of cramming for school, in partial blindness due to nearsightedness, and my whole body screaming for the comfort of the sheets, it seemed like the most exhausting thing I had done all day was reach over and pick up that Bible.

I didn’t know what to read. I could continue my trek through the New Testament, but then again, I also wanted to further explore James and Psalms. There were too many possibilities in this little book, and I was just too tired to care.

Then I remembered something my cousin had written; I’d read it just the day before: “Have you ever really thought about prayer? About what it is? About Who you're talking to?! It’s really quite amazing. YOU'RE TALKING TO YOUR CREATOR.”

And then I realized that I really needed to just talk to God. It’d been a while since I’d really shared my heart with Him and I needed to talk some things out.

Have you ever had a friend that you don’t really talk to for a while? And usually they're the friend that you usually go to when you just need to sit down and talk about anything, everything and nothing altogether.

I have friends and family that I can talk to about absolutely everything. We can have hour-long conversations about rabbit-trail thoughts! And yet, there are times when I’ll get really busy with something, or they’ll get really busy, and suddenly we start having small-talk: “Yeah” “MmmHmm, that’s great…” asking, ‘How are you?’ and sort-of-but-not-really-caring about the response because we’re so preoccupied with our own thoughts.

Usually these spells only last a little while, and soon I’ll realized that I haven’t asked my friend how they are, I mean really asked, for a while. So, I’ll grab my cell phone, and send out a quick text, ‘Hey! How are you?’ not that I’m expecting some great issue to have come up, “Oh yes, Melissa, my whole life is in shambles and I think I just want to die.” sometimes their reply is a bit dramatic, but usually it’s the casual, “Hey! I’m good. You?” and then we just start talking about nothing; our days, our weeks… anything really, just touching-bases and checking in on each other.

And with that conversation, which on the surface just looks like a conversation about… nothing, is really an open time to share. It’s one person saying to another, “Hey. I care about you. So, tell me how you’ve been.”

And, I think it’s the same way with my relationship with God.

I’ll go through these super-busy times, and my prayer life has a way of being severely shoved to the side and the more shoved it gets, the more stressed I become, which means it gets shoved even more! Then, eventually I realize that I haven’t really talked to God in a while, and that’s where I was the other night.

I thought about Who I was talking to.

My Creator.

My Savior.

My Father and my Friend.

I breathed deeply as I sat on top of my comforter, pillows pilled behind my back. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind, Who it was that I could talk to. Who it was that I could so easily be pouring my heart out to, and Who it was that actually… cares.

It constantly amazes me that God truly cares about my day-in and day-out life.

As I started lifting up people who were burdening my heart, and I knew that He heard my thoughts, my prayer, He knew the desires behind every word I spoke.

I began feeling complete again.

The more I asked Him to care for this person, to mend this relationship, to show me guidance in this area, all sprinkled with praises to Him after a moment of silence where, for a little bit, I was overwhelmed by the fact that I was talking to my Lord, the more complete began to I feel, until, once again, I was whole. I finally felt like me again. My burdens were lifted… and in their place, relief and peace.

I felt tears rolling down my cheeks.

Yes, this is what I had needed. I just needed to catch-up. I needed to ask for His Guidance in several areas. I needed to thank Him for being there.

And now that I had poured out everything, I just sat… not bored, but… peaceful. Waiting, listening, enjoying the moment when I knew my Savior was there, in the room. He had just listened to everything, and He completely understood.

A man I know had once told me, “Prayer is a two-way street and Christians have a way of forgetting that. They just pour out everything and then move on, but God does answer… you just have to listen.”

Ever since then, when I can, I try to just… be, after praying. And that moment of being, saying nothing, thinking very little, just enjoying that time of closeness with my Savior… that’s a moment worth living.

It’s like that moment after a really good conversation with someone and you both look at each other and smile… it’s a silent agreement that all is understood, and you mutually care for and respect one another.

That moment of silence is, for me, simply that. It’s the moment when I smile at God and He smiles back; it’s a moment of closeness that words cannot describe.

Then, the moment passed...

I opened my eyes and breathed deeply.

I then crawled into bed, snuggling deep into the sheets.

In the darkness, I smiled, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

My Missing Marshmallow

            My Granddaddy was… akin to a marshmallow.

            He was huge. 6 foot-something, weighing 300 pounds or so, and he had a heart to fit the body. He was as warm as a person could be; with a deep voice and a country accent, he was a person that I could talk to about anything. He never made me feel silly or insignificant. He listened to me like I was the most important person on the face of this earth. I meant something to him, and he proved that to me constantly. 

            I don’t remember ever feeling like I couldn’t tell him something, or like he would judge me for something I said or did. I just remember feeling completely comfortable. Talking to him and spending time with him... it was like coming home.

            He was a funny, funny man…

            He loved older songs. “Oh, you’re ugly”, “5 foot 2” and “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” are the ones I remember the best.

            One time, he took me to get my allergy shots. (I was allergic to my heavenly cat, so I got shots to help me… breathe.) I got them every week, and I was becoming quite the pro at accepting the pain.

            Anyway, it was a rainy day, and for some odd reason, he and I were the only ones in the waiting room. Usually there were several people there, but on that day there had only been one, a woman, who had gotten her shot and left.

            A nurse poked her head out into the waiting room and said that it would be a minute before they could see me.

            So, I just slumped back against the bench with Granddaddy on my right. I snuggled my arm underneath his. My legs were too short to touch the floor, so I mindlessly kicked them back and forth. He was humming “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” and, (because of him) I knew the song by heart.

            I started murmuring the words quietly, and then he stopped mid-hum and began to sing along with me.

            Before I knew it, we were both singing at the top of our lungs, laughing between verse and refrain. I was dancing around the waiting room, doing my own motions to the words…

            I can never hear that song now without thinking of that day.

            After several years of poor health, my Granddaddy could hardly walk. His legs could not support his large frame.

            I didn’t quite understand what that meant at the time. I only knew that one day Grandmamma, the other kids and I went to get him a powerchair from the Scooter Store.

            That chair became the center of many childhood memories; riding around Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s yard, marveling at the wonder of the leather seat and its very small speed. It was a happy thing.

            I remember when he first got the chair; he and I went on a walk.

            It is the first time I can remember that we had ever walked anywhere. Of course, neither of us actually walked.

            He was in his powerchair, I was on my rollerblades; but still. We were outside. Together.

            We chit-chatted about yellow butterflies and obnoxious neighborhood dogs. He said we could finally go to the mall together! And he promised me that we would.

            Moving steadily beside him, I could imagine proudly walking through stores with my Granddad. How fun it would be! I couldn’t wait!

            …Unfortunately, it never did happen. He and I never did go to the mall together. But it’s okay… even in that moment when he promised that we would, I knew it would be okay if we never made it to Macy’s or the American Girl’s Store; because we did go on that walk… And that was enough.

            There are so many little memories of him that I have.

            I wish I could re-live them all… or see them again. I thank God for memory. Because in my memory, my Granddaddy is still alive, singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” in his deep, southern voice…

            It was a Friday.

            Mama had dropped us off at Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s house for the afternoon. She had told us to ask Granddaddy if he would read 2 chapters of the book, “Pocahontas and the Strangers” to us, since we hadn’t finished that part of our History lesson before we had left our house.

            Mama handed the book to me.

            We, (William, Robert, Elizabeth and I), all ran into the house. We kicked off our shoes and hugged Grandmamma, who was in the kitchen.

            Then we all went back to Granddaddy’s Den, where he sat, reading his Bible which rested on a green-foam prop in his lap.

            He had his gold-color-brimmed, square reading glasses on, and he was starring at the page in front of him, pen in hand.

            That is the one outstanding, constant memory I have of him. He was always reading his Bible the moment before we ran into the room. Before he completely realized that we were bounding down the hall, he was engrossed in God’s Word.

            And then, as always, he looked up at us and smiled, laying aside his Bible and the foam prop. We all hugged him, and sat and talked for a minute.

            “Granddaddy” I said, “Mom asked me to ask you to read this book to us.” I gave him the Pocahontas book. He agreed, and then we all bounded off to play.

            Well, we all forgot about reading the book.

After a while, Mama came to get us. She walked in and visited with Grandmamma for a while, but we had to get home for dinner, Dad was on his way from work, so we had to get going. So, with a day full of Play-Doh creations and crayon drawings under our belts, my 3 siblings and I piled into the car.

            Just as Mama was putting the car in reverse, I remembered the forgotten book.

            “Mom! I left the book in Granddaddy’s Den.”

            I figured she would ask Robert to go get it. Robert was the fast one, he was like The Flash, and… whatever it was he’d gotten in the gene pool, I had missed out on. In a big way.

            But, surprisingly, she asked me to go get it. “But hurry” she said.

            So, into the house I ran, bounding back into Granddaddy’s den.

            Once again, he was leaning over his Bible.

            “Hi! I left the book.” I said, as I grabbed it from the table.

            “Oh, alright.” He said with a smile.

            “Well, I gotta go, so bye Granddaddy! See you on Monday!” I said, leaning over to hug him.

            The Bible was still in his lap; the book was in my hand, pressed against his shoulder. I was leaning over, one flip-flopped foot in the air, my tangled hair was in my face, and my glasses were lop-sided as I pushed close to him. It was a pretty day, and from the window behind his chair, the sun streamed in on our embrace.

            The hug only lasted for a moment.

            I stood up straight, and started out of the room.

            “Bye Sweetheart! I love you!” He called to my back.

            I spun around, smiled big, and waved. “Bye Granddaddy! I love you too!”

And that was it.

I spun back around, running down the hall, back to the car.

I jumped into the left backseat, buckled, and looked at my Grandparent’s house.

It was a safe place.

I still hadn’t told Granddaddy about my horseback riding competition!

Well, that could wait until Monday.

I’d see him then, and he’d wish me luck!

I sat back and smiled, feeling a little guilty that we hadn’t gotten to read the book. It was probably my fault, I should have remembered. We’d just have to read it later…

It was Sunday, September 12, 2004.

All I remember is being called into the Den. I was wearing my light blue, long sleeved shirt with the big star in the middle. It was a special shirt; I’d worn it when I held baby lambs for the first time!

Grandmamma was over. I didn’t know she was coming over today!

I sat on our blue footstool, waiting to hear what Mom, Dad, and Grandma had to say. I must’ve done something wrong… I guess they wanted to talk about a fight us kids had at Grandma’s the other day… I felt a little sick as I sat down.

“Are we in trouble?” one of us kids asked.

My parents shook their heads.

Then what?…

With just a few sentences, my whole life changed.

He was gone. My teddy bear Granddaddy was gone.

It didn’t seem real.

Please, I thought, please, let this be a joke. This isn’t right! I’m supposed to see him tomorrow! We are going to celebrate Elizabeth’s birthday! I just saw him 2 days ago! He was fine! He said he was feeling better! He was sick for 3 days, but then he was feeling good! He told me so! He said he was getting better! His new diet was working! He was going to be okay! He told me so himself!!! I just saw him! I just… I just saw him.

It seemed surreal. The man who had always been there suddenly… wasn’t. He had never been gone before. He’d always just… been there. How could he be gone? It wasn’t possible. I knew people died, but… Granddaddy?

It took a long time for it to really sink in...

During the visitation, he had an open casket, and there he lay, just like he was sleeping.

My cousin stood next to him, holding his limp hand, crying so hard her face was red, her eyes matched, and her nose was swollen. I wished I could cry like that.

But all I saw was my sleeping Granddaddy. He’d been so warm and happy the last time I saw him. I wanted to hold his hand like my cousin was; but his hands were so cold and lifeless. They were nothing like the hands that I had known him to have; the hands that had held me as a baby. And as I got older, the hands that had grasped ‘Go Fish’ cards and checker pieces and caught me in the ‘Granddaddy Grip’. They were warm, welcoming hands. But now…

It wasn’t right.

As I stood over him, for a moment I thought I saw him breath.

New hope sprung into my heart. I held my breath, waiting. He wasn’t really gone! He’d just breathed! Dead people don’t breathe! He wasn’t really gone!!! I knew it! I knew it! Everyone was wrong! It was a miracle! He’s still-

Then it hit me…

No… he hadn’t breathed.

I had just wanted him to so badly that my mind had played a trick.

No matter how long I stood there, waiting, watching, biting my lip in anticipation, he just laid still.

He was gone.

And it was like I’d lost him all over again.

I avoided the casket after that; playing with other kids came easily. I wanted to grieve like my cousin was, like my mom was, but I couldn’t.

So I laughed and played with the other 9 year olds. My best friends were there. I felt so wrong having fun, but it was easier than being in that room. One of my friends told me that I shouldn’t be crying, because she’d lost her granddad years before I had, so if anyone should be crying, it should be her. I knew she was wrong, but being mad at her gave me something else to think about…

The funeral was so hard. I sat next to my mom, who was crying so hard that her whole body shook. I’d never seen someone cry like that…

I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that my Granddaddy, the warm, affectionate, kind man I loved was in that box. I couldn’t believe it.

The next few weeks were a blur.

I just remember that his Den was sacred to me.

I’d forget that he was gone, and I’d run back there to give him his usual hello-hug. I’d throw open the door, expecting to see him sitting in his chair, but instead I would find myself alone. I’d be confused for just a moment, but then I’d remember… he would never be there to hug me again…          

So, I would close the door behind me, and kneel in the dark room, my folded hands in the air, my elbows resting on my Granddaddy’s chair. I would pray, thanking God for all He had given me, and then I would say, “And God, would you please tell Granddaddy…”

I told Granddaddy all sorts of things; just like I had when he was alive. I told him how sad Mama was, and how much I missed him. I told him about my horseback riding competition and the ribbons I had won. I told him about the stray dog, Rocket, (who Granddaddy had disliked so much) how he was still hanging around, waiting on food, just like Granddaddy said he would.

I told him about anything and everything, just to talk to him.

And when I’d run out of things to say, and my face was wet from a few quiet tears, I would tell him again how much I loved him and that I would see him soon. Then my prayer would direct back to God Himself, “Lord.” I’d say, “Thank you for letting me say goodbye.” I’d remember that last sentence he spoke to me, “Bye Sweetheart! I love you!” I’d be quiet for a moment, re-living the moment, and then I would continue, “And God… if you could… let me have one more hour with him, please? Just… one more hour…”

I added that last request for what seemed like forever.

You see, if I had one wish, I would not wish that my future children would all be perfectly healthy and happy for their whole lives, or that my marriage would be completely wonderful, or that there would be an end to World Hunger, or anything else.   
Maybe those things should be what I would wish for, but from that Sunday when I learned that one of the staples in my life was gone; my wish has always been for just one more hour with my Granddaddy.

People tell you that things like this get easier with time. And in a way, they do. I don’t think about my Granddaddy constantly, I go weeks without even mentally acknowledging his existence.

But, it really hasn’t gotten much easier.

He died when I was nine years old… Nine.

And I missed out on so much.

Due to my young age, I had no idea what an amazing relationship I could have had with him. I was too little!

But oh, what I would give to sit at his feet and listen to him talk, just once more; to really listen.

I miss feeling like I would not be judged when I was around him. I miss telling him about my life, and seeing pride in his eyes. I miss him listening to me like I was the most important person in the world.

It has been 7 years.

I am now 16 years old.

I have so much to learn, and I wish he were here to help me learn it.

I wish I could call him up, and ask him to pray for something. I wish I could break out in song with him again, singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” with no regard for any other person around.

Every now and then something amazing will happen. I’ll make new friends, I’ll have an inspiring conversation with someone, I’ll perform in a play, or write a new story.

And in those moments, I wonder what he would say.

In those moments, I wish I could hear his voice.

In those moments, I wonder if he would just hug me, or say something that I would remember forever.

In those moments, I miss him.

And after those moments, I cry, simply because there is still a big marshmallow-sized hole in my heart.

That does not go away.

I don’t care what people tell me; my Granddaddy will never be replaced.

I wonder what he would say to me now. What advice he would give, what words of encouragement he would have for me… I wonder if he would be proud of the person I am becoming…

I miss him more than I have ever missed anything in my whole life...

But I know I’ll see him someday soon. Just like I knew when I was nine. He is in Heaven; he is in God’s Holy Presence living in Eternal Peace…

And one day, I’ll be there too.

One day, we’ll sit together in the Presence of our Lord.

One day, we’ll walk to streets of gold together.

 And that One Day will last forever.

Inspiration

Inspiration is a weird thing, isn’t it?

            Someone can say the same sentence to many different people, something like, “Stop and smell the roses” and many will roll their eyes, ignore the old saying, and go on with their day. And yet, every now and then, there is an individual who will take that saying to heart, and they will stop, for just a moment, and take the time to look at life around them. They will have been inspired by that saying to do something different than their usual, maybe something different than everyone’s usual.

            Of course, there are many different kinds of inspiration. There are books and songs meant to inspire people to do something differently, or to think in a different way, or to be a different way.

            There are sceneries that inspire people to write or to draw or to pray.

           

            I think basically anything can be an inspiration.

            Anything relatively innocent that, when looked at in a different light, can create a thought or an idea which can them bloom into a meaningful decision.

            Inspiration is a powerful thing. It has the power to change people, to change whole communities if the entire group gets inspired by the same thought. And it’s a very strange thing as well. Something ordinary can bloom inspiration, something that most everyone overlooks.

            And then there are inspirational people, people who stand away from the crowd, and they stand for what they believe is right. That doesn’t always mean that they’re standing on a stage yelling about how right they are. It just means that they live their life in a way that people can learn from, in a way that makes others examine their own lives… in a way that makes others want to change for the better.

            And I think the most inspirational people are people who don’t TRY to be inspirational. They’re the kind of people who simply live their life the way they believe God wants them to be living it; humbly, constantly trying to conform their lives to His Word.

            They’re the kind of people who love selflessly, who greet you with a smile and ask you how your day has been. They’re the individuals who leave their fingerprints all over a very small number of people. They’re the ones who really make a difference in other’s lives, and the reason they make a difference in that life is simply because they care.

            I think inspirational people are caring people. People who really make others want to be better are the kind of people who honestly care about ‘the other guy’.

            They are selfless, loving and kind.

            They are completely unaware that others look up to them; they are simply living life the way they believe is right.

            I have never been inspired to do, or to be, or to think anything different than my usual by a person who stands on a stage, or wears fancy clothes, or flashes fame like it belongs to them.

            Those people do not inspire me.

            The people in my life that have made me want to be better are people who have simply lived and loved. They are people who have filled my life, who have cared for me, who have cared about me. They are people who have most definitely left their fingerprints on my life and I will never forget them. They are the ones who have shown me, by example, that I can be better than I am; that if I look to God and trust Him, then He can shape me into a real Christian. I have a long way to go, but I will always have these people to look to for encouragement.

            Not many people are inspirational.

            Too many people are looking for fame, too many are looking for the title of ‘inspirational’ but they really don’t know what it means to inspire.

            No.

            The real inspiration for goodness comes from people who will not be remembered by society, but will never be forgotten by the lives that they have touched.