“Just a little longer.” He said. “Nine-thirty, okay? ” 

My list of to dos had grown a country mile in just the last hour so I bolted from the sheets. Hanging up my clothes had been a goal for some time. Must have been twenty five garments, not counting the suitcase which had already waited two weeks for unravelling. At 10:00, laundry sorted and everything hung, I returned to the bed to wake “Sir Sleeps-Alot.” ​

“Seriously, Rog.” I said. “We’ve got to get moving. We have a lot to do today and I’m              genuinely hungry.” I then made an unusual request in a very unusual way.

“I want to go right now… and I want to go to Original Pancake House, the north store. We never go there.” Like a spoiled child I continued, ”And I want to eat chicken fried steak!” 

If you know me, you know a chicken fried steak breakfast on any menu is a ridiculous amount of food for me to consume… but I didn’t care. It was what sounded good to me. I’d had no dinner the night before and I was determined in that moment to fulfill the desire of my heart. 

We left without showering. Both of us in baseball caps. Me in a pair of yoga pants, tennis shoes and a winter coat. We set out to make my dream come true, hoping we wouldn’t see anyone we knew.

Roger dropped me at the curb, perhaps a first in our twenty-eight years of marriage. I put our name on the waiting list. Didn’t know how long the wait would be but I didn’t care. My plan was in motion and I was hungry.

I don’t usually sit in waiting areas. I just feel more comfortable standing. This time I sat… perhaps attempting to go unseen and to meld with the others waiting to be served. The hostess stand was to my right, the exit to my left. As I assume everyone does, I glanced around trying to figure out how many tables were ahead of us and how many people were in their party. After parking the car, Roger joined me on the bench. Together we waited. 

About ten minutes in, a little boy, all of five or six, came running around the hostess stand. Arms outstretched, he took a look around the lobby. His eyes met mine and he spoke. 

“You’re still waiting?!” He asked.

I was surprised he knew we had been waiting at all. First time I’d ever seen him but I quickly replied, “Yes we are!” Then he disappeared back into the restaurant. 

A few minutes later he returned to the hostess counter with his parents. I looked up from under my baseball cap and noticed his mother looking right at me. I dropped my head as they passed. Watching the little guy in his joy I commented to Roger, “He’s so cute.”

His mom stopped suddenly at the exit. She turned back around, looked right at me again and asked, “Are you Julie?”

“Yes, I am.” I replied, wishing I had showered.

“I’m Carmen.” She said. Then she bent down and whispered in her little boy’s ear.

Without hesitation the little guy walked toward us. Standing directly in front of us he began singing. Not just any song… but one which I had written. 

Right there, in full voice, in a lobby filled with waiting guests he sang;

There’s a still small voice that I hear when I’m silent
And it speaks to the depths of my soul
And I know that if I’ll only take time to listen
Then I won’t be the same anymore
Your spirit will guide me for you live inside me 
And I won’t be the same anymore
No, I won’t be the same anymore

My jaw dropped. I could not believe my ears. Fighting back tears, I managed to speak.

“You are amazing.” I said, when he had finished.
He replied quite confidently, “I know!” 

That made everyone in the lobby laugh.

His name was Gideon. I asked if I could hug him and he said yes. I told him he had blessed my heart that day in a very big way. 

God knew I had been doubting the validity of my past and any good I may have brought to the world through music and ministry. I have worked so hard. It all came pouring in as his parents spoke of Gideon’s impact at a recent Young Life  camp. That little guy stood up and sang that song for 250 of his peers and then he taught it to them. "We used to sing it at bedtime." His mom said. "Now we sing it on our way to school, sometimes."

I was so taken by their story I didn’t even notice our name had been called. Roger left us to take our seat in the restaurant. I remained for just a bit to say thank you again and to get another hug from Gideon.

About a year ago, my dear friend and partner in matters of the Spirit, Jennie Capezza, called from Florida. She was asking for prayers and that I consider coming to help facilitate a Speaking to Sparrows retreat for young women. It didn't take long for her to receive my, "yes." It was an opportunity to minister, to listen and share, to learn and grow on some very important topics.  

Beautiful high school sophomores, juniors and senior young ladies dove into issues, some more difficult than others, having to do with body image, self worth, relationships and more. It was a wonderfully fruitful time together.

Strange for me, was the fact  that I was the oldest person present. Even the priest who came to say Mass under the giant oak tree at Lake Aurora was younger than I. The oak tree, most obviously, was not. It provided a glorious umbrella of Spanish moss, which moved with the Florida breeze and provided shelter from the sun as we shared together in the celebration of the Mass.

As I tuned my guitar in preparation, I struggled some to settle myself. My head was foggy. Thirty minutes before Mass  began, I stopped by our cabin to freshen up a bit. The cute little day bed  where I had slept the night before called my name and I made the mistake of lying down. I fell hard, fast asleep. I awoke to the sound of Jennie's voice.

"Julie, are you awake?"
I shot up like a dart. "What's going on?!" I shouted in a whisper, "What's time is it? What's next?! It's not Mass is it?!" 
Softly, she replied, "It's Mass." 

I tore out the door, hair disheveled and my belt hanging out. Jennie and some of the girls laughing behind me. She told me later I had sleep marks on my face. Nice. I grabbed my guitar and music from our meeting space and scurried to the giant oak. There I was... blurry... but instantly blessed by the gift of nature, an amazing group of women, a priest who knows how laugh and the presence of God. Not a bad ending to an unexpected power nap. 

We were there to explore body image, self worth, relationships and more. I had committed that morning, in a small way, to walking the walk; no make-up all day. Those of you who know me, know I don't wear much. The little I do, however, makes a big difference in how I feel, about myself, in public, especially after a long winter. 

The girls were being challenged to not care so much about the quality of their selfies. One of the adult chaperones had stood before the group the night before and spoke about her own issues with photos and social media. A beautiful woman, she shared adorable pictures of herself with her children and admitted that what she sees in those photos, rather than their love and joy, are the crows feet around her eyes and the condition of her thighs. I could totally relate. A healthy self image can be hard to keep, especially in this age of endless photos, filters and countless mediums in which to share. It’s so much easier to see others as beautiful. Perfection is truly a lie. We were born this way and at what point do we just rest in and appreciate the truth of it? 

A long time ago God gave me a revelation about loving others the way God knows they need to be loved. Since then, I have tried to make that the first prayer in my heart with every encounter. 

As the retreat came to a close, I heard it a little differently. I felt God saying, “Love YOURSELF, the way I know YOU need to be loved.” I'd been coming down pretty hard on myself lately and God knew it.

Everywhere I’ve been, everything I’ve done, mistakes I’ve made, battles I’ve won and lost, it all matters and comes into account. God has been there right along and understands my every choice and decision, every word which has come from my mouth has been heard. We are all works in progress. I have earned every uncomfortable moment, every age and sun spot present on my skin. Every wrinkle and scar could tell a story. I think I’ve got pretty nice legs but it’s the spider veins I struggle to accept. It’s all me… and it is ALL OF ME whom God loves.

When Jennie called, about a year ago, I knew I needed to come. In the weeks before, I questioned the necessity of my being there. I am thankful God’s voice was louder than the temptation to back out. I powered through and left many an issue out of my hands, not an easy task for me, especially during a difficult time. So glad I listened beyond my fears and control. God knew where I was supposed to be and the choice I made, made all the difference. 

There is more of this Florida story to tell. For now I must move on to the restaurant we own, which has been closed due to fire damage since March 16th. It will all come together and we will be back in business… soon I hope. In the meantime, God blessed me with the gift of this retreat and the lovely women who attended. I leave here inspired and grateful. We have been exposed to truth. May we carry it out into our lives and the lives of those around us. May we love others the way God knows they need to be loved and ourselves as God loves us.

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING
I will be true and faithful. I will show you constant love and make you mine forever. I will keep my promise, and you will really know me then as never before. I am the Lord, your God.
Hosea 13:4

What makes a man? Life, I suppose, how you live it and what you make of it.

At the age of fifteen, the second eldest of seven children, he opted to stay home and not go sledding in the mountains. A terrible accident on their return forever changed the shape of their family. He never saw his mother again. Of all the people in the camper that day she was taken. Harsh but true; after her death, his dad found solace in a bottle and frankly never came out. All record of their mother and her family was removed from their home, except, of course, for their silent memories. 

No one attended his high school graduation. I'm sure he's not the only sibling to say that. He got himself into Oregon State University where he majored in Health Care Administration and wrestled there all four years at 126 pounds. He didn't walk for graduation, not because he didn't want to but because he was already working in his field. 

He married his high school sweetheart and paid her way through law school. She divorced him not long after passing the bar. They were married for ten years. 

He had a best friend. They grew up together and graduated from Oregon State with the same degree. They both went to work in medical practice management. One wintry night, after an office party, they got into their respective cars and drove away separately. He went one direction, his friend the other. Not far from the party, his friend lost control of his vehicle and was hit by an oncoming car. On impact, his best friend's car burst into flames, flew from the road and down an embankment. He was dead at the scene.

So much loss for one person, for some too much to bear. But not for him. Life has continued on and God has managed to build blessings out of ashes.

He vowed never to love again... and then we met.

What makes a man? Perhaps an open heart, faith in God and a bigger plan, integrity, ingenuity, the ability to dig deep and forge on in spite of life's circumstances. 

After thirty years in medical management he made a change and began selling milk for a living. It's not an easy line in which to make a profit... but he loves a challenge and people. He rarely has a bad thing to say about anyone... even when they do him wrong. To a fault, I say, when I know he deserves better than what he receives.

He's worked hard since he was eight years old and had a paper route. He can still remember most of his customers, where they lived and how they preferred their paper be delivered. A drive through the old neighborhood with him is a stroll down memory lane. He's in his sixties now and my prayers for him have been answered. I didn't ask for money. I prayed he would have joy. He's worked hard most of his life and he deserves to have joy! I promised God I would do anything to help... then we bought a restaurant.

What makes a man? Love and hope, generosity, perseverance, grit, courage and grace.

​He's been the one to drop everything and help as needed, no matter how difficult the work, whether family or friend. He takes on more than most could handle and does it with absolute steadfastness, determination and even excitement. He's the only guy I know who shouts, "Woo Hoo!" when bank statements arrive in the mail. Truth is; he simply loves to balance.

He has two smart, funny and successful adult children. One recently married and the other engaged. When I think back, I can hear him in the kitchen every morning happily singing and making sack lunches for the three of them. I did the math when our youngest graduated from high school. He made approximately 2,340 lunches over a thirteen year stretch. He estimated that about 93 percent of those lunches were made with peanut butter and jelly; crunchy for his son and creamy for his daughter. The remaining 7 percent of daily lunches were made with some form of meat; turkey, ham or tuna fish.

What makes a man? Hunting and fishing... even without a catch. Providing for his family without fail no matter how hard you have to work.

Fast forward to January 2017.

As Roger headed out for the frozen tundra of Eastern Oregon on a Chukar bird hunting trip, I made it my mission to pray for a miracle. I asked God to reach out and touch Roger’s heart; to give him the inspiration he needed to get happy, to find the joy he so deserves and seemed to have lost over the past couple of years. I trusted God for a miracle. I promised I would do anything to help. I prayed off and on throughout the days and nights. I even brought one of his shirts to a Healing Mass, believing, miracles do happen! In my creative mind, God had the power to find Roger in the snow and to speak directly to him, in words only he could understand, even, perhaps, through the soft warblings of a Chukar bird.

​The mighty hunter returned home several days later, tired and empty handed. It was not the reunion my expectant heart anticipated. I waited until he had showered and shaved before I told him about my prayers for a miracle. When the time felt right we spoke.
​
“I prayed for you while you were gone. “ I said. “I have to know, while you were away, Did God speak to you? Did you hear anything?”
​
Roger answered simply, “No.” 

Genuinely surprised I threw back a barrage of questions; 

“No?” What do you mean, No? You heard nothing… not even a word? Not even a single thought came to mind, an idea or inspiration?” His response remained the same, only this time he added, “I’m sorry… but no.”  
​
I wondered aloud, “How could I have prayed so hard and received nothing?”

Though wisdom and experience have taught me not to doubt, I was still disappointed. I assured myself that God hears every prayer, and answers them. 
“Well, Roger,” I said “I guess I’ll just have to wait, this time.” 
​

The next evening, we went to dinner at that familiar restaurant down the street. Roger and I knew his brother was thinking of selling the place. After thirty-four years in the same business, David was ready to “retire.” 

As Roger and I sat across from each other, at a table, in the bar, we held hands. Roger got that dreamy, slightly mischievious look on his face, the same look he gets when he daydreams about winning the lottery and what he might do with all that money.

Pretty much out of nowhere Roger asked, “What would you think if we took out our retirement and offered to buy this place from Dave?” 

I paused for just a moment and thought to myself, “Holy (expletive).” What if this is the miracle? I promised God I would do anything and this might be it!”

Roger and I agreed to take this possibility one step at a time. One step at a time quickly turned into a one hundred yard dash and on June 1, 2017 we became the new owners of Geppetto’s Italian Restaurant. Located at: 616 Lancaster Dr. NE in Salem, Oregon, Geppetto’s has been serving up Chicago Style Pizza & Pasta dishes since 1974. We are open seven days a week. Monday through Friday 11:00am-10:00pm, Saturday and Sunday 4:00pm-10:00pm. Dine In. Take Out. Or call for Delivery!

Making an investment like this requires intel, otherwise known as; due diligence.

I recall the first meeting we had with our banker, Randy, who knows my music ministry very well. He told us he never recommends people go into the restaurant business, especially people he cares about. 

“But, Randy said, “I think you guys are going to be really good at this.” 
​
From that point on Roger and Randy began to talk about “the numbers.” I kinda checked out of the conversation for a bit. Suddenly, I spoke. As though I was talking to myself but accidentally said it out loud.”

“What is this going to do to me?”

As both Randy and Roger turned to look at me, Randy reached out and put his hand on my arm. His wise words and kind voice spoke to my heart; “Julie, just because you do this, doesn’t change your ministry. You are who you are no matter where God takes you.”

Randy was right. Opportunities to minister abound in the restaurant business. Discernment is paramount. Rest assured, I continue to be who God called me to be, using the gifts I’ve been given. I will go as God calls.

​What has happened since the start of this new venture will be the subject matter of blog posts to follow. Stay tuned!

Please pray for me as I pray for you. Come and see us if you can. At Geppetto's we are maintaining tradition through one of Salem's longest held and best kept secrets. 

With Love and Blessings,

Julie

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING:

Joshua 1:9
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

“I love you and I miss you so much.” I said. 
He spoke, his voice soft like a whisper, “I love you too.”

I could feel his hands on my back and his back in my hands. So real was the warmth of his neck against my cheek.

Outside there was a large crowd. George stood atop some sort of scaffolding. The people were climbing to reach him. Everyone was dressed in white, not a “hurt your eyes kind of white” but a soft, warm, cream color white, the kind of color easy to look at. Everything seemed to glow with light. So many were there to see him. I couldn’t tell if we had come to him or he had come to us. It didn’t matter. We were all together after too long apart.

Then I woke up.

I sat up in the bed and looked around. I was a little shocked and disappointed to find it was only a dream.

I went to the kitchen to brew some coffee. As happens sometimes, our fancy coffee maker malfunctioned. Hot coffee and grounds poured out all over the counter top. As I cleaned up the mess, my mind, still reeling from the intensity of my dream, I wondered aloud, “Well, George, what did you think of Lady Gaga’s performance at the Super Bowl yesterday?”  Out of habit, I then reached for my phone to check Facebook. Not that George’s reaction to the Super Bowl Half Time Show would be there but I figured the rest of the world might have had something to say about it overnight and I was curious. 

​I logged in and right off the bat Facebook did as Facebook does these days and brought up a memory. To my amazement it was a photo of George together with our family. It was taken when he blessed our marriage on the occasion of our 10th wedding anniversary.  ​

Just then I received a text from my sister, Jane. It was a video link to a new Reba Macintyre song called, Back to God. No kidding, I thought.

As I listened I wondered, “George, what do you think about the state of our world right now… about all the strange stuff going on? And by the way, could you please do something about it?” In my heart all he really said, as he touched his fingers to his brow and shook his head was; “Wow. Just wow.”

I talked with my sister Jane for a while when another sister beeped in. I merged the calls hoping she had good news to report about her seemingly never ending job hunt. After months and months of prayers without ceasing we were so happy to hear, “I got the job.” I thought to myself, I wonder if George had anything to do with this? I knew I had asked for his help. Maybe everything was finally going to fall in to place. Maybe he really was interceding for us.

I hung up the phone and said, “George, if you had anything to do with this, thanks.”

Then, suddenly, it hit me. What day is it? Answering my own question by looking at the calendar, It’s February 6th, 2017. I wondered, when did George die? I had to Google his obituary to confirm. In fact, it was today. Three years ago today, February 6th, 2014. Unbelievable. Wow. Just wow.

My dream felt like deep grief. I felt it in my gut. I didn’t realize I carried so much. At first I thought, maybe I should blog about this. On second thought, maybe it’s too sad a topic. Then a third thought came to me, it’s okay to grieve. I have been reminded that grief doesn’t end it just changes. It ebbs and flows with life. I was deeply consoled by the opportunity to see and feel the presence of my dear friend. I am so thankful and inspired to continue this walk of faith toward eternity. 

Dear God, Thank you for the opportunity to see my friend and to feel him present. 

Below you will find the YouTube video for; White Collar Blues. It's a little song I wrote for Fr. George for the 25th Anniversary of his ordination into the priesthood. It features the fantastic harmonica stylings of Greg McManus and the enthusiasm of a great crowd at Ilahee Hills Country Club.

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING:
1 Corinthians 15:51-57
51 Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, 52 in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. 53 For this perishable must put on the imperishable, and this mortal must put on immortality. 54 But when this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, then will come about the saying that is written, “Death is swallowed up in victory. 55 O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” 56 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; 57 but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. 
(NASB)

One of the strange benefits of being a tow truck driver is finding fun stuff. When vehicles are abandoned so are their contents. If the owner wants their personal property back they can have it but if they don't come and get what they left behind it becomes free game. Being a tow truck driver, Alex, our son, has found and brought home some pretty interesting items.

A couple of weeks before Christmas Alex called to tell me he'd found a guitar in an abandoned car. "It's got eight strings and it's got the words Zim Gar on it." I'm bringing it home, he said. It's pretty messed up but I think it's cool and I can't wait for you to see it."

At first glance I knew Alex was right. It was pretty messed up. It was an old twelve string steel that had certainly seen better days.

"Can you play it?" He asked. 

There were eight of the twelve strings present but only seven tuners would turn. The screws in the headstock were stripped so the tuners themselves were actually bent and popping off. There was no way to tune it. Even the eight strings that were there could not be made to make music. I felt bad for Alex. He was disappointed when I told him I thought it would take somebody who knows what they're doing and a good deal of money to repair it.

Curious, we Googled the model and brand name and found out just about nothing. We did gather that it was made in Japan, probably some time in the sixties. It had been without a case, in an abandoned vehicle full of trash, for God knows how long. It was one sorry guitar. The old strap was tied on with one of the broken steel strings to the broken peg at the bottom end. I told Alex, "We should wash our hands." There was something sticky all over it and the strings smelled funny. God only knew where it had been or what it might have been through. It was sad and cold and had certainly been left for dead.

A couple of days later, unbeknownced to Alex, I took the guitar to a local music store to have it evaluated. The guy I spoke with was very helpful and rather interested in the instrument and it's unique qualities. He said it was an old sixties twelve string steel. "It's just a plywood top, he said, but that's the old kind of plywood, good, solid and strong." He also told me I would likely never find a set of replacement keys for it, "Because they don't make twelve string guitars with slotted heads anymore." My dad had a twelve string when I was little but never having owned one myself... I didn't know, "They don't make them like that anymore." 

I told the guy I wanted to make it play in time for Christmas morning. I mostly wanted Alex to be able to hear what the twelve string steel guitar he'd rescued sounded like. The guy liked the idea but spoke honestly, "You can leave it here if you want but it will take a good deal of time and probably hundreds of dollars to fix it. Certainly more money than it is worth, he said, and with no guarantee that it will ever play." 

I made the decision to buy a set of strings and see what I could do myself. I left the store a little sad but inspired to try. I wasn't about to give up on the bedraggled foundling. So, back in the car it went. Still without a case we headed for home. Out loud, I thought, "I'm not giving up on you yet." I knew nothing except that I would do my best.

I took the strings off first. That took a while and grossed me out a little. I wondered who might have touched those strings last and what were they smoking as they did. I worried a little when I was stuck a few times by the metal and started to bleed. Hand sanitizer, Neosporin and bandaids became an important part of my repair kit.

Having played accoustic, classical guitar since I was a little kid, I had plenty of experience changing strings. In my younger years, without supervision, changing strings led to taking the whole guitar apart every time; screws, keys, strings and all, just because I could. I don't know why I thought I should do that but it felt good. I enjoyed cleaning and polishing every inch of my guitar and putting it back together again. Perhaps my youthful experience was about to come in handy.

I removed the tuners and keys from the headstock, put toothpicks and wood glue in all the stripped screw holes and straightened the metal pieces. I used a solvent called Oops to remove paint splatters and Goo Gone took care of the rest of the unidentifiable sticky stuff. Even without strings this projects looks were improving.

The dining room table became my workshop. Each time Alex came in the house I shut the lights off and threw a blanket over the whole mess; the Dremel, the drill, the pliers, the Goo Gone, Oops, razor blades, tooth picks, glue and sand paper all made a difference.

The next day I reinstalled the tuners. I was surprised a generous helping of valve oil and some slight adjustments got the keys moving again. I thought getting the keys to move would certainly be a skill above my pay grade. One very major hurdle behind me, I was greatly encouraged. 

Next step the next day; strings. I'd never strung a set of steel strings before... let alone twelve of them. For me, three nylon classical strings and three wound steel were no problem. Steel strings on the other hand, were a whole different animal, at least for me. 

Note: steel strings are sharp. I stuck the heck out of my hands and fingers along the way but persevered. The process took so long my hands hurt from winding.

With one final string to go, the lowest one, I said a little prayer, blessed myself and began to wind. Inching ever closer to being in tune, the winding suddenly stopped. I tried one more time to turn the key and "Snap! Bang!" The stinking string BROKE!

I let out kind of a growl, an expletive and a sigh. Not knowing if I had done something wrong or if there was something wrong with the guitar, I hoped a new string would be the answer.

​So close to done I made my way back to the music store to buy a single string. I was disappointed to be met by the store's owner. I call him, Mr. Scrooge. He's always crabby, impatient and condescending. For over twenty years I have tried to shop at his store because I like to support local business. As long as I don't encounter him all is well. Alas, there I was, stuck.  As he was discouraging me, judging my project and my progress. I watched in silence determined to learn from his technique. With one last question from me and one last blank stare from him, I knew I would never be back. I was due a nickle in change. I told him to keep it. I retrieved my guitar from the counter and left the store. Although I was upset by the experience, at least the last string was installed. First thing I did when I returned to my "workshop" was post a scathing review of Mr. Scrooge and his ways.

I sat to make the last turn in tuning and believe it or not the same, dang thing happened again. Key stuck. "Snap! Bang!" The replacement string broke! I growled again. This time a little louder. I cursed Mr. Scrooge and headed to Guitar Center, a music super store at the mall not too far from my house. I purchased three single strings as potential replacement and an extra complete set just in case. In faith, hoping I would ultimately be successful, I bought a case for it. I spent considerably less money than I would have at Scrooge's place and left with wonderful encouragement and advice from the Guitar Center clerk. "Check for any rough spots." He said. It doesn't take much to break a string. He added, "That's a super special thing you're doing there, for your son and the guitar. Good luck and Merry Christmas."

I returned home and sat quietly for a moment. I felt for rough spots and couldn't find any. Slightly battered and a little exhausted, I said another prayer and tried again.   

It worked! It not only played, it played beautifully.

Truthfully it sounds great. Actually... it sings!

On Christmas Eve night I opened the case. I admit I half expected to find strings snapped or the saddle separated from the body. No such thing. All was well. I fine tuned it a little and set it aside for the big surprise Christmas morning. 

After all the other gifts were opened we told Alex he needed to close his eyes. My husband brought the guitar out, laid it on the floor and told him to have a look. When Alex opened his eyes he looked, at first, to be a little confused. When he opened the case his mouth dropped and he said... "What the heck?!"  Is this that guitar? Did you have it repaired?"

"Nope, I said. I did it myself."

Alex suspected nothing, I'm sure, except for the fact that I had most likely tucked his "find" away in the basement in order to get it "out of the way" for Christmas.

Alex asked, "Will you play it for me, mom?" 

I played it but couldn't sing through the lump in my throat. It was the strangest thing... not only was Alex floored but there was a feeling in the room that the guitar had found a family. A new home, new life and the opportunity to sing again. It was as though we had all found each other.

Here in lies proof that we get out of life what we put into it. Fixing up that guitar was not on my to do list for Christmas. I thought there was no way I would have the time or ability but I responded, "yes." When invited to enter the scene I entered with everything I had to give. The result has been one of heartfelt joy and great satisfaction. Another wonderful bonus... Alex wants to learn how to play and he asked me to give him lessons.

My advice:

• Care about people and things. ​
  
• Don't be afraid to try... even if you don't feel quallified.
• Jump in with hope and joy.
• As my good friend Fr. Ray Carey says, "Enter the scene fully and completely."
• Bring something. ​
• Don't be a Scrooge no matter what time of year or what your business.
• Step out and see what happens.
• Never, ever give up. You just might find new life and somewhere wonderful to belong. ​

Adapted Liturgy is an opportunity for anyone and everyone.

It is a place for those with special needs, both seen and unseen, to celebrate and participate in the Mass as we are able.

Adapted Liturgy is a safe place to come as you are. It is Mass simplified to facilitate love for each other, acceptance and freedom to be who we are, as we are able. It is a wonderful, refreshing place to share God’s word in love joy and the gift of Holy Eucharist.

For more info email me: julie@juliehoy.com
You may also contact Kelsey Rea: krea@archdpdx.org
Or visit: http://specialneeds.archdpdx.org/adapted-liturgies

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING:
Luke 9:48
48 and said to them, “Whoever receives this child in My name receives Me, and whoever receives Me receives Him who sent Me; for the one who is least among all of you, this is the one who is great.”

Until this morning... I'd never gone to the doctor and asked, "What am I having done and how much is it gonna cost me?" 

This was my first visit to the doctor in a year. Again... I thank God I am healthy and that we did not meet our $13,000 deductible for 2016. 

"$258.00, without any lab work or other diagnostics." She said.

The thought of a bill in December for a minimum of $258.00 on top of our $914.00 monthly health insurance premium (for myself and my two children) was too much. 

Fortunately, my health care provider is kind and smart. She managed to eliminate (or postpone) three procedures I was scheduled for today. Don't know exactly how much money I saved... but I'm sure it is significant.

I hope the insurance plan I find for 2017 will be better. 

I just hung up with a broker. He assured me... "It won't."

Our health insurance situation is an absolute mess. No matter how you look at it, or try to justify it, it's one hundred ways to wrong. Middle class people like me pay the big bucks while emergency rooms and urgent care facilities are filled with huge amounts of people who will never pay a dime.
The change isn't working. The situation is worse. 

And so... here comes 2017. I guess premiums are going up. Oh, okay. Sure. Whatever you need. 

Btw.. I don't blame the broker. He's just the messenger. It's the people in those meetings... probably somewhere warm and tropical... where our insurance fate is determined... in terms of cost and benefit. Those people... the lobbyists and politicians who keep insurance companies in the money... they are the ones who should be held accountable. 

What about a "Good Health" policy; something like a "Good Driver" policy, where if you didn't use the coverage you were forced to pay for... you get some back at the end of the year?

If you know me... you know I don't care for buffets. That said, I want my cafeteria plan back! I know what my needs are and I did just fine trusting God for the rest.

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING:
Genesis 50:21 
So therefore, do not be afraid; I will provide for you and your little ones.” So he comforted them and spoke kindly to them.

When the clouds finally cleared, after all the liability paperwork was filled out, three hours of waiting and some shared snacks, my husband Roger and I were cleared to jump. While jumping out of a plane at 13,000 feet got me a little closer to Heaven, the fact that I was pretty near certain I would die that day brought me even closer to God.

For eleven months I processed through the fear of what I thought would be every step of the experience. At first I couldn’t comprehend the moment where you jump out of the plane. But as time moved on I got better at visualizing the possibility. Then my fear moved to equipment failure. Not much I could do about that, I thought. I was counting on the company we were jumping with to do their job right. One of the last points of fear for me, on the way to the airport that day, was whether or not the guy strapped to my back would have hooked us up right. I wondered, would we fall out and become separated? Again, nothing I could do about that. I would have to count on him. Well, sort of. Ultimately, I had to count on God’s plan for my life.

I enjoy flying, so take off didn’t bother me a bit. When the door opened at 13,000 feet and tandem pairs of perfectly good people started dropping out one after the other, I think I went into shock. My one and only expletive was uttered in that moment. I could not believe what we had long anticipated was about to happen. Surrendered to my faith in God and my new human savior, Josiah, we sat together in the doorway of the plane. As instructed, I wrapped my lower legs under the body of the plane. “Put your head back.” Josiah said. I did... and as promised he rolled us forward out of the plane.

Nothing could have prepared me for free fall. It  was crazy! While Josiah and I fell together through the sky at about 200 miles an hour, for 8,000 feet, I couldn’t process what was happening fast enough. I was determined though to make good on a promise to my friend, Pam, to keep my eyes open. My eyes were open alright and if you look at the photos or watch the video, you can see that they were filled with fear. My mouth, on the other hand, was filled with air. I couldn’t keep my lips from flapping or my teeth from drying out. That made for some lovely images.

To my delight, after free fall, the parachute opened. The shift in speed was abrupt but very welcome. I uttered some unintelligible words of excitement and continued to do everything Josiah told me to do.

The feeling of dangling from a parachute was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Turning was a rush. Imagine rounding a sharp corner while gravity is pulling you downward. From the moment we left the plane I had no idea where we were in the sky. I had no idea where we were in relation to where we needed to land either. I found out later, at about that same time, our daughter, Madeline, looked up from her safe place on the ground and asked, “Why is mom so far away from the rest of the group?” I was the one steering but I could not have been held responsible for where we were. Josiah knew just when to take control. My only responsibility was to enjoy every remaining moment of the experience and to stretch them for as long as possible.

Landing was sweet, gentle and easy. Josiah said we would land seated if need be. “But if I say stand”, he told me, Just step with me.”

When the time came and Josiah said, “Stand.” I stepped with him. In a flash we were two separate individuals again, safely on the ground. I casually walked away, my arms raised in victory!

Roger and I high fived, hugged and kissed right there in the landing zone. We scooted over to our waiting family members, answered questions and stood for photos. We then returned to the dressing room, surrendered our jump suits, goggles and hats. It felt good to get back down to my faith-filled shirt. I thanked the “packers” as they call them in the skydiving business. They’re the guys who pack the parachutes for every jump. I didn't realize until then we were counting on them too! Everybody did their job well. We go on to live our faith another day!

Skydiving reminded me that life and living are filled with opportunities to exercise our faith. As I saw it that day, my skydiving experience boiled down to three kinds of faith; Faith in self, e.g., confidence, trust, courage and willingness, Faith in others, e.g.,  Sometimes we have to rely on others, we have to trust their skills and knowledge to keep us safe. Faith in God - i.e., The ultimate safety net, e.g., never ending hope found in the promise of Eternity

​Unlike the hand game; Rock Paper, Scissors, where one thing will always have power over another, or where, when two like things meet, it’s a wash, A life lived in faith has a supreme force. Two of the three kinds of faith I have mentioned here can be beat. We all know; humans will, at some point, disappoint. Faith in God will infinitely out perform any amount of faith we have in ourselves or others.

It was most certainly my faith which gave me the courage to jump and the ability to trust. It was my faith that gave me the ultimate safety net. It didn’t matter how it ended. I knew, no matter what, I was going to be okay. Because of my faith, I'm gonna be okay, every moment of every day. I don't think we all have to go skydiving to figure that out. This experience increased the knowledge I have about my faith, the confidence I have in myself and the reality that there are times when we simply have to rely on others. For all of  that… I am thankful.

Roger and I paid a little extra to memorialize our jumps with video. Using Apple’s iMovie (thank you Steve Jobs) and some of my own music, I created a joint video. Roger and I hope you enjoy. See below... A Leap of Faith.

Scripturally Speaking: 

Joshua 1:9 (Thanks David... this is a great one.) 
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Hebrews 11:1
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

Proverbs 3:5
Trust in the Lord with all your heart
And do not lean on your own understanding.

Hebrews 11:7
By faith Noah, being warned by God about things not yet seen, in reverence prepared an ark for the salvation of his household, by which he condemned the world, and became an heir of the righteousness which is according to faith.

Pictured above is an Italian Roast Beef Sandwich from Chicago's famous, Giordano's. YUM!

Be where you are supposed to be and you just might help to save a life.

Before the first pitch was thrown (as I was wondering how soon we might be able to leave) my friend had to use the bathroom. I didn't have to go so I waited with her daughter outside the restroom.

Within seconds a frantic man approached, grabbed my arm and told me he needed me to go into the ladies restroom for him. At first I thought he might be joking but the look on his face told me something was wrong. He continued, "I need you to go into the restroom and get me the wheel chair. There is a man choking!"

I darted into the restroom, quickly looked around and located the wheel chair. Not realizing it was one of those chairs that had a release handle, I lifted it up and swung it around toward the door. (no easy task.) I then saw the release lever and was able to shoot the chair back out through the restroom entrance. The man took the chair and disappeared. 

There we were, left not knowing the choking man's fate. We had to let it go. A little shocked, we continued waiting. 

Strangely, a bratwurst with mustard was the next order of business. In my head I kept telling myself, "Remember to chew your food."

Suddenly, I spotted the man who asked me to get the wheel chair. I jetted over and inquired about the choking man.

"Is the guy who was choking okay?" I asked.

Frantic man replied, "Oh, you're the lady who got the wheel chair. "Jeeze, he said, the guy was choking real bad. He was turning blue and purple and all kind of colors. Emergency personnel hadn't made it to the upper levels yet, so we needed the wheel chair to get the man down to the lower level to find help. EMTs were able to help him and get him off to the hospital. He's gonna be okay. Thanks for your help. Glad you were there."

Me too. You never know what might happen. It's good to be where you're supposed to be. Might be wherever you are right now.

The Cubs won, by the way. Sorry to the Dodger fans who sat in front of us. It was a great game and a beautiful day for baseball!

Below is a little video clip for your enjoyment.

​Where else can you go, except for Wrigley Field, to watch your favorite Criminal Minds cast member, Joe Mantegna, belt out Take Me Out To The Ball Game during the Seventh Inning Stretch?! 

SCRIPTURALLY SPEAKING:

Matthew 15:17
Do you not see that whatever goes into the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled?
(Or not... winky face.)

Colossians 3:23
23 Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord rather than for men,
NASB