In my experience, there is nothing more humbling than a beauty snafu or a fashion flub. Whether it has been the unintentional swallowing of a false eyelash at a business dinner, wearing a dress backwards in a fashion show, accidentally wearing a maternity dress to work during menopause, or falling asleep with wet nail polish and waking up with my ring finger glued to my pinky (probably a sign that I should just go ahead and remain single for the rest of my life). All of these glamour blunders let me know that God has his own special sense of humor. Rather than wallowing in my own embarrassment, I appreciate His gifting of writing material that’s too outlandish to be born of my own limited human creativity.

That said, I had some recent unexpected antics among friends surrounding a ballroom dance in Biloxi, MS. Friends from Texas to Florida met up to socialize through the centuries’ old art form and some modernized partner dancing. I am blessed with a dedicated dance partner who shares my study of our craft. We share weekly practice and dance debriefing while enjoying seafood at our favorite dive. This is is not based on any pescatarian dietary restriction, rather it’s just because we love it.

I felt it was only fitting that I give us a proper send off before traveling to the Biloxi dance by frying up a batch of fresh homestyle catfish. Though I had run out of olive oil, we went “down home” with some good ole peanut oil. Then we got all gussied up and arrived early to the Gulf coast. Completely aloof to the fact that I was in a semi-formal with fishnet pantyhose, my dance partner suggested we RELAX at the beach rather than wait in the AIR-CONDITIONED ballroom.

On top of my never having been to the beach wearing fishnet hose before and obviously his underestimation of my hair’s ability to react to nature, we took to the beach, pre-dance, on a gorgeous afternoon until our group caught up with us. Later at the ballroom we had already started dancing when I noticed a few dancers’ absence—not a good sign, but this concern did not thwart our ability to take to the floor. I’ve noticed that in the dance world the band’s downbeat is as serious as any stage play curtain call, even when only dancing socially. I saw the last of my friends arrive out of the corner of my eye and thought from the looks we exchanged “Oh, boy…this night is going to be special.” Additionally, this was one of the first social soirées for my friend after her husband passed away. Would her new instructor be able to draw her out? I didn’t want to see her in a corner just sitting there. I’d keep an eye on this.

Back on the dance floor things were moving right along. Movin’, that is. I ain’t gonna lie. I’m normally a pretty modest dresser, but this time I didn’t realize just what my dress was saying prior to my leaving the house. There was a whole lot of woman going on. Somehow, in a hustle to “Brick House” I started bustin’ a move and my disciplined Asian dance partner whispered… “Slow down.” I thought: Buddy, if you wanted this dance to be a slow ride you shouldda brought Mustang Sally. The band’s bass was awesome with my choice of song of the night a toss-up between Aretha’s “Respect” and Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk.” I was totally feeling it in that red ruched Hi-Lo. I got a little breather when the Texas Two Step started playing. That’s when I can expect my Asian dance partner will go full-on cowboy after finding a pretty girl to transport his memory back to the place where he was first trained as a country and western dancer in South Dakota. But this time, before he could locate his cowgirl, a little lady came over and extended her hand–great for me because I could take a much-needed break.

I watched as he nearly spun that little lady off her feet and at one point I heard him give the command, “Duck!” He has done this to me before. First in the waltz, when I never suspected it, he announced forcefully and suddenly, “Now, kick!” Although he was wanting a développé from me, he got a huge belly laugh instead as I completely stopped the dance, doubled over, then looked at him like he had three heads.

So I watched to see if this little lady would respond to “Now duck!” And she DID! Here went the little lady. Backwards, ducking under his sweetheart hold on the right side of his body. Wow! I was so impressed. My awe turned to horror shortly when I realized that my dance partner’s right arm had completely knocked her hairpiece off. This certainly was the conundrum topper to my swallowing of an eyelash at a business luncheon.

Panicked, I gave the signal to another friend on the dance floor and she used the right foot of HER développé to kick it to me as the little lady just kept dancing. That thing looked like a little white critter, so I quickly retrieved it from the floor and pretended I had a crumpled napkin in my hand as I started acting like I was tidying the table. Meanwhile, when the dance was over, I watched that Asian Cowboy proudly exit the dance floor feeling like the Country & Western King of Korea, all because the little critterless lady followed his lead on command to “duck” on his very first try. I snagged the little lady and whisked her off to the bathroom where I helped her assemble her “do” back together while assuring her NOBODY had really seen what happened.

Once I calmed down, I was so pleased to see that not only was my widowed friend dancing, but she was strutting and leading her instructor by the tip of his necktie. We’re going to be alright I told myself. Shortly after, the band played their goodnight waltz and we all headed for home. I am getting really good at all things ballroom, including my newfound friendship with false eyelashes—haven’t swallowed one again. Remembering my seasoned friends’ advice about using olive oil to remove them, I also remembered that I had run out. I was so tired, yet there stood I, balling. Eyeballing the leftover pot of fish grease, I thought here goes nothing. Those babies came right off.

Despite the sand in my reinforced fishnet toes and smelling like fish grease, it was a pretty incredible night of friends, art, and food. If I never find anything more than this hobby to entertain myself, I would be okay with that. It’s one of the sweetest experiences of my life. One of life’s gifts is the human pursuit of fulfillment through a preference of his or her own “fish net” hobby or otherwise. Whether we catch fish, fry fish, strain fish grease for eyelash remover, wear fancy fishnet clothing with sparkles, use a little Aqua Net, or become a fisher of men of sorts, any one of these makes for a chapter of a life story too imaginative to possibly predict. In one day, I felt I had experienced a small part of them all!

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Davy Crockett is remembered as a wild, rosy-cheeked, bear-taming hunter become statesman who lived from 1786 to 1836. He has many “best known” accomplishments, but perhaps he is more fondly remembered for The Alamo than any other.

Though he had only lived in Texas for three months at the time of his death, he had a storied history that included a feud with Andrew Jackson over the treatment of Native Americans. Following the New Madrid earthquakes of 1811-1812, the West Tennessee hunting lands were cut so deeply that a bear once found shelter from Davy’s pursuit in a four foot ground crevice that was unreachable by Crockett’s hunting dogs. He was so determined not to be outsmarted by the bear that he crawled into the hole himself and pierced him in the side. Davy: 1, Bear: 0.

Crockett is also famously known not only for his bitter sendoff after a failed attempt at returning to Congress, but also for his heroism at The Alamo where he is buried today. He was a man of the land and worked around the challenges thrown at him.

If you have been following the recent discussions surrounding the total solar eclipses of the 21^st century, you will have read it is the first time in 211 years where X marks the spot over America’s New Madrid fault lines. The suggested link of similar 19^th century events in 1811-1812 changed the topography of Davy’s hunt lands as well as caused the Mississippi River to flow backwards. Today, take a tour of Mississippi River history at Mud Island in Memphis, TN.

Will the Great American Eclipses of 2017 and 2024 be recorded as prophetic or, simply, historic? Faith-based hopefuls continue to make their case for the return of Christ through wars, rumors of wars, famine, pestilence, and earthquakes as told in the Bible. Yet with all of the signs and wonders in the sky, bitter skepticisms exist in the intellect-only theologian circles, agnostics, and the “I don’t give a flying Freda” category, staking their claim, at best, on a position of pure folklore.

When a geophysical event has previously been logged in the history books and validated by scientists, its legends, myths, and far-fetched theories seem to be more acceptable. Take, for instance, the celestial phenomena that drew historical voices including the likes of many sources from Mark Twain to NASA. To the secular public, they have become more revered predictors of subsequent world events than Dutch Sheets, Jonathan Kahn, or David Wilkerson.

Social critic Mark Twain, born Samuel Clemens, entered this world in 1835 with a blaze that rivaled Halley’s Comet and in 1909 predicted his own death by it saying, “I came in with Halley’s Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it.” And he did. Perhaps not so ironically, the comet’s boom was heard at the Alamo where American frontiersman and Congressman Davy Crocket did ultimately perish.

Good ole Halley’s Comet has been around for some things that do make one raise an eyebrow, such as the Norman invasion. Shakespeare gave the comet credit for predicting the death of princes. But for some skeptics, signs and wonders like Halley might as well be Evan Almighty.

Halley’s Comet last appeared in 1986 when major world events such as Chernobyl in Ukraine, the U.S. Space Challenger disaster occurred, and America declared its first MLK Day that year. Three years later, the great “pop-culture” historian Billy Joel wrote his 50^th birthday state of the union single “We Didn’t Start The Fire” when he referenced the constant turbulence of a declining culture by spouting 119 prominent headlines over the course of his lifetime from 1949–1989.

I thought I would also take a stab at this by challenging AI to produce the top headlines of my (eh hem) 50 or so years. What took me be surprise is that AI kept going beyond 2024 to predict a future I had not requested. While I now know (according to AI) everything that is going to occur until 2070, I am relieved to report that in 2061 Halley’s Comet will not ACTUALLY hit planet Earth, but only come real close to doing so. Whew.

In spite of the comet missing us, it’s probably not too much of a stretch to say we are living in Biblical times. For those of us who grew up churched, we sang children’s anthems about the B-I-B-L-E. As teens, our parents thought it clever to refer to The Bible as “Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth.” That quirky sentiment is feeling more real every day. The truth is that no matter what happens here, this world is not our home. It might get a lot worse before it gets better (cue the locusts and darkness), so there is no time like the present to get your affairs in order and I’m not talking about writing your will.

The bottom line of all of this is that while in the past some geophysical events preceded other major world events, including the birth of Christ. As a nation, our hope cannot be simply on signs and wonders. It must be on the Word of God. That said, the year 2024 has been one of these years to watch for geopolitical junkies. And watching the earth can’t be all that bad. Even the Magi followed The Star of Bethlehem for up to two years to find the Christ child. Incidentally, some star gazers have said that Halley’s Comet actually IS the Star of Bethlehem, but others have debunked it. Either way, just as Halley’s Comet has come before and will come again, Jesus came and he will come again. The time is at hand.

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It was over a decade ago when I encountered a new friend Beth at a business luncheon. After our instant connection, though total strangers, I mentioned that she must come with me to Las Vegas for an international consortium. She didn’t want to come at all, but I insisted under the premise of three major things I need to survive: uninterrupted time with the blow dryer as I tackle my hair into submission, no talking before coffee, and don’t mess with my laptop. If she would get herself on the plane, I would take care of everything else. Beth agreed to come, but also broke every one of my self-made rules within the first day of our trip. Nevertheless, we got all dolled up and did everything we set out to do, leaving Vegas as friends. Little did we know that our chance meeting and trip to Vegas as roomies would continue to open concentric circles over the next decade.

While in Vegas, Beth recounted all of her stories of growing up with missionary parents, though I took one look at this glamorous gal and I could not reconcile the two worlds. She mentioned her father’s radio ministry around the world and how her sisters had become famously known for their harmonious vocal blends while performing Gospel songs. After departing from our iconic Vegas trip with Beth’s diamonds and furs and my bad hair, under-caffeinated moods, and lack of personal space, I thought the story was over, but God has continued weaving together our relationship with mutual connections. We had the souvenir of a lifetime with an epic photo of us appearing behind Keith Urban during his concert for approximately one nanosecond. To this day, whenever we visit with mutual friends, they still are entertained about that photo and our 1.3 seconds of fame in Vegas.

Admittedly, I initially doubted Beth’s tales about her famed Steffins Sister singers and missionary upbringing in Uruguay and Paraguay, I eventually found out that she was not kidding. Because of meeting Beth, her sister Jenny became my ride or die since we lived close in proximity and Beth lived some distance away. Jenny and I met for country club dinners and lodge slumber parties where we analyzed our own battles together. We grappled through issues over Mexican food, late nights, and places where doors opened for us because strangers knew we needed them to be. We bonded while in discussion, prayer, and the Living Word. When we were exhausted from talking into the wee hours, the giggling would start until somebody pulled out an inhaler.

Fast forward to fall of 2022 when my dear friend Mark drove three hours to play keyboard at church one Sunday. We went to lunch with a group after the service and said our goodbyes. A few weeks later, my unforgiving schedule demanded that I relinquish my coveted tickets to an anticipated big band event. Since the event was taking place in his hometown, I called Mark to see if he would put them to good use. God was already weaving this story.

I knew both Mark and Jenny, but they never met in spite of having hundreds of mutual friends. It was there at the big band concert where everything changed for Mark and for Jenny who was linked to the group putting on the concert and in attendance. It was like the movie “Sliding Doors.” One missed train, or one red light in Mark’s case, and somebody would not have been in the right place at the right time to say hello. A few days of Mark and Jenny bumping into each other that seemed to be divine appointments that led to a date that eventually led to their upcoming wedding! When I got the call, I reached out to my steady dance partner to explain that we HAD to go out of town for this wedding that was taking place partially as a result of us giving up the tickets to the big band.

Don’t get me wrong. Leading up to the wedding, I went through girlfriend grief. Jenny and I were the midnight calls. Mark was my male mastermind into the soul of men. I felt I was losing both of them from our single faithful. How was this going to look for me now that they had each other as number one? Eventually, I survived the shift in all of our relationships as I watched Mark and Jenny graft into one flesh under God’s loving care. Though we were warned in advance that there would be no dance floor at their wedding, my big band dance partner came anyway just to experience the wondrous result of our giving up those tickets. We were all overjoyed at this marvelous thing God had done!

I am no fool to think that God is not powerful enough to orchestrate connections without any help from me, but we got so tickled that we had a small part in their love story. God’s bigger design for Mark and Jenny has been such a sweet move of the Lord as I witnessed my two BFFs join together in marriage, something all of us midlife single gals that are still called to marriage hope to experience. Scores of my new “midnight talkers” get down and dirty talking Ruth and Boaz on a wild Saturday night just to get by. Jenny hasn’t disappeared either. She might be an old married woman now, but we still invite her to the underground party. We still defer to Mark when we need the male perspective.

This story of meeting Beth continues today with the growing tapestry of lives that are entwined from the fateful girls in Vegas trip. We could have never imagined how some day in the future we might sit back and look at the unseen hand of God revealing a little of what He had been up to all along. If that was all happening then, surely He is still working today on something precious only He will reveal in time. When God shows His face in this way, these are the moments of life in which our cups runneth over. Goodness and mercy are in hot pursuit. This is no time to resist change. Instead….hang on for the ride! Dwell in God. Rest in God and wait. Don’t discount the people God is bringing into your path. You never know what He is doing behind the scenes unless you are willing to walk it out, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Without Beth coming into my life, the way things look today could have been very different. When people see Mark and Jenny, they see bliss. When I see Mark and Jenny, I see those two girls on Keith Urban’s screen. Strangers, but having the time of their lives and never knowing they were part of a God’s grander scheme for a divine purpose.

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Can you picture Louisa innocently walking through her family’s apple orchard during autumn of 1868, completely unaware that her “Little Women” would stand the test of time? I would have loved to just run up and spoil her solitude by squealing with excitement about how we’d still be talking about everything she was currently writing.

People still love to revisit the notion of the infamous, albeit only semi-fictional, March girls in their earthy country home surrounded by Marmee in her rustic kitchen. I think I get a small glimpse of it every November when I take a trip home to my rural roots where I traditionally gather a little gift left behind from my late father…kumquats. We try not to pick the citrus gems from the trees in bulk until a hard freeze is coming. Until then, I just pop them in my mouth one at a time as needed or until my eyes water, first from being sour, and second because they remind me of my Dad. The kumquats bring back so many memories of such a home as described by Alcott, lending gratitude to a lady of the house who knew how to make blackberry pies, lemon cakes, pecan pies, and how to preserve those precious fruits of the land for year round enjoyment.

Some of my dear friends feel the same way I do about their grapefruits as they do about my kumquats. They have their own canning-savvy grandmother awaiting in the kitchen. This year before the recent deep freeze, they picked 1,500 pounds of grapefruit in just a few days. I was blessed enough to take 300 pounds off their hands. Could I live up to the women of my youth by canning these in a water bath? Grannies of yesteryear naturally preserved food as a routine way of life. While this has become a lost art, Pinterest and Preppers have popularized it again similar to the way I remember canning and pickling foods being the norm when I was a young girl. The bountiful time capsules graced our table at almost every meal. We didn’t dabble much in fermenting or drying foods, but making jellies and jams was commonplace, as well as making biscuits from scratch that didn’t shy away from lard or butter.

Our grandmothers survived times and places we cannot imagine through our lens of modern conveniences. Perhaps we will know such a world again in the coming years if doomsday arrives, causing people to depend on sources other than the world’s infrastructure as we now know it. It’s a scary thought to fathom: living without connectivity, electricity, or adequate food or water supplies, but in the current turbulent world, it seems that the most abnormal phenomenon should never be ruled out.

When I picked up my grapefruit haul, there I found her— a mom and grandmother in her robe working heartily in her kitchen. While canning grapefruit in a water bath, she told me stories about her experiences and it reminded me of my own Grandmothers, my Mom, and Aunts who respectively possessed a mastery of survival skills that masquerade as a mere hobby. As they were busy canning, sewing, harvesting vegetables and meat from the land, or running off varmints by whatever means necessary, I studied them all while I played the piano in the background or cross-stitched pretty wall hangings.

How do we get back to a place like that with all its resourcefulness for basic survival? I thought maybe I should take a stab at being one of them for a day with my 300 pounds of grapefruit. I had already canned my father’s kumquats and ordered even more trees since they offer a lingering remembrance of our years together.

What really struck me was the way my friends’ Grapefruit Granny escorted me to her secret place where she showed me her stash, tucked deep inside a closet. I once knew a closet just like that and in an instant I could almost taste sweet pickles with a hint of cloves that we served on a china saucer next to our gumbo. Those were the days when we talked about life, as we sat around a table together.

Though nobody really agrees on how gumbo is to be prepared or served even, we always chose the side saucer filled with our pickles, a sweet potato, and saltines. We splashed pepper vinegar and filé as a garnish—green onions if we felt like it. Washed it down with a Coke or just some ice water. That was home. All soda is Coke in the South, but we drank the real thing, sometimes in glass bottles and often with peanuts in it.

It’s funny how a little trip to the pasture can unlock the best memories. I hope I never forget each one of them and all of the people who made life sweeter on the rural homestead. Getting back to civilization, I’m pretty sure that kumquats wouldn’t actually save the planet if we have a global disaster, but I would hope I would have a secret closet full to remember the more precious times. I would think it would have made my Dad proud knowing that between his kumquats and my stash of grapefruit preserves, I’d have one major food group covered for at least a whole week.

The post The Soapbox: Grapefruit Granny appeared first on Cross Timbers Gazette | Southern Denton County | Flower Mound | News.

Happy New Year, Dear Reader! How are you doing? Everybody okay out there? I’m hoping you made it through the overwhelming Holiday season with more joys than sorrows, with more friends than riches, and with more wisdom than pure intellectual prowess.

Here we are just on the heels of the December white elephant exchanges and somehow, some way, the expectation of chocolate and flowers starts to give us all the romantic feels.

As I recap my wonderful Christmas season, I remembered what my tribe has lovingly come to know as The Great Ornament Exchange. My friends Doug and Debbie have been doing this even before there was a Debbie, when there was only a Doug. No matter where I lived throughout the last 30 or so years, I received a card in the mail inviting me to the annual yuletide gathering. We always tried to connect in years when I could not attend. This year, the card came signed from the two lovebirds and I was so excited for the upcoming tradition and to see my friends. I had no doubt that we would gather around the piano and sing carols, laugh, and eat the best cheese dips and fudge on planet earth.

On the week of the event, I was short on time therefore I pulled a new beautiful glass ornaments that resembled a piece of red fruit from a collection I was going to personally use. Without much thought, I felt compelled to write in cursive on a little card and attach it to the bag: I am my Beloved’s and he is mine.

Once I arrived at the party, a man picked up my gift as his choice for white elephant and read the words aloud. Don’t get too excited, for this was no Hallmark ending though it would have made for a really great story if he would have been my one. When he opened my ornament which I had only ever overlooked as just fruit, without hesitation he stated, “Oh! It’s a pomegranate!”

The next morning I remembered my little verse and the glass ornament then I realized how closely the pomegranate was linked to the very passage of Song of Solomon that says the same words I wrote on the card. I am my Beloved’s and he is mine. Solomon wrote those magnificent words for his woman, likening her temples behind the veil to halves of a pomegranate. I imagined his depths of devotion in this lovely declaration of commitment between the two as a metaphor for God’s personal pursuit of us as a bridegroom seeking after his own bride. I remembered Doug’s famous bachelorhood coming to a screeching halt when he met Debbie, now his wife of many years. Back then, I felt honored to sing in their wedding and to see them grow together as a married couple. And of course, I thought of all my single friends called to marriage who are constantly reminding each of how the Lord is a husband to the one with none.

God’s pursuit of His Beloved is also reflected in the story of a man God used named Hosea. He continued to run after his wayward woman who had a very odd girl name of Gomer. Wherever Gomer was found, even in her shame, he purchased her back with his money, but more importantly with his steadfast love. Have you ever loved someone so much that no matter what they did to you or to bring shame to their own life that you ran after them and brought them back home, so to speak? That was the kind of love Hosea showed to Gomer and that is the kind of love that God has for His own. It is an unwavering display of bleeding heart commitment in spite of her running after all things that sparkled, fantasies of her own design, and running into all of the swankiest parties in her most alluring clothing.

It is the Lord who gives Hosea the wherewithal to walk the painful and costly journey of Gomer’s redemption, an impossible ask. Hosea’s life is a picture of Christ’s redemption of mankind with this, the ultimate act of selfless love.

At almost every wedding I have attended, the passage from 1 Corinthians 13 was presented. Otherwise it is known as the familiar love chapter containing a collection of “love is” statements that often end up on plaques in someone’s kitchen or penned into Valentine’s Day cards. In the case of Hosea, we see that love is not self-seeking. We also see that love is patient, one of the aspects of love that is also known as a fruit of the Spirit.

Somewhere between the Christmases and the Valentine’s moments of relationships, there is certain grind that rivals a bitter January. These moments require a patient love that does not demand anything we do not willingly want to offer, rather, it is a love that allows us to love not only the unlovable, but also the undeserving since we ourselves are so undeserving. Not every love is a mutually giving one like my friends Doug and Debbie or Solomon and his Shulammite woman. Sometimes we are called to be a Hosea.

The most difficult to love person can see Christ in us when we show patient love to them. Who do you know that is a Gomer in your life that needs your patient love? Are you stuck in the relationship doldrums like a bitter January day somewhere between Christmas and Valentine’s Day? Perhaps, you just do not know how you, yourself, are going to make it through much less how to give from your own resources to those whose presence makes life challenging? As we gear up toward even a silly manufactured holiday about love, let’s count all the ways in which we have been shown love when we ourselves did not deserve it. Let’s gear up to make it more than a Hallmark card somewhere between Christmas and Valentine’s Day. A patient love will not grow weary and will produce a harvest just when we least expect it.

The post The Soapbox: Somewhere between Christmas and Valentine’s Day appeared first on Cross Timbers Gazette | Southern Denton County | Flower Mound | News.

Love came down at Christmas. The all-knowing only wise God in flesh was born in a stable and for his 33 years on earth never ceased to amaze everyone he met. There have been poems written about his solitary life, songs named for his wonders, and the Holy Scriptures that have recorded His promises. Since the birth of Jesus Christ, there has never been and will never be another man like Him.

When we think of Jesus as a man, there is always the underlying understanding that He was also fully God, but that does not negate the recorded history of his life on earth as Joseph’s son. Skilled in the trade of carpentry, Jesus performed ordinary tasks as He walked out His mission in a home where we are told He had very little honor among His brothers. It was not until post-resurrection that Jesus’ brothers fervently believed in Him as Savior, writing books into the Bible, and eventually martyred in the case of James.

In consideration of His ordinary life, we believe him to be humble in spite of His gifts that resembled cinematic superpowers. Rather than touting His divine identity as some hoity-toity know it all, He exhibited His true heart by holding children, reclining for a meal with friends, and drawing lines in the sand that set sinners free.

From the hill overlooking Jerusalem, on the Tuesday before His death, the would-be man of sorrows Jesus Christ articulated what is commonly known the Parable of the Talents. He issued instructions on making the most of our God-given gifts and skills. We recall the gifts of the Magi as being tangibles brought to the Babe in the manger as well as imagined folklore of a mystical “Little Drummer Boy” who had nothing to give but his song. It is there at the Christmas manger that we can ask ourselves: what do I have to give Him more than my heart?

Today, Christmas is a meeting of secular and sacred in a world that wants material acquisitions to sparkle and shine while making our lives brighter, only to leave man unfulfilled without love. We often learn the hard way that it is better to give than to receive, though the Christ of Christmas gives us eternal life, we give our talents to Him and through Him to others as we discover what it means to be blessed.

The very heart, mind, and hands that he has anointed for his good pleasure, this, we maximize for the Lord, developing both sides of the brain as His workmanship to the benefit of society. Of the world’s foremost geniuses, Albert Einstein was notably said to have strong use of both sides of his brain. In 1919 he debunked Newton’s theories and catapulted to distinction when he completed the general theory of relativity. The T.S. Eliots, Picassos, and Stravinskys of the world were carving pathways of genius in literature, art, and music, but none so much had ever reframed the world as did Einstein who was said to have the corpus callosum of corpus callosums, connecting his right brain to his left therefore opening his mind to higher ways of thinking. He was still found working at his desk until only hours before his death. The phenomenon of Einstein’s talent was so rare that upon his death, pathologist Thomas Harvey harvested and stored his brain for four decades just to study it. Today it remains on display in the The Mütter Museum of medical history.

How ironic that the very father of neurology himself, Silas Weir Mitchell (1829-1914) is also known to have a commanding use of both sides of his brain having been not only a physician, but also a novelist and poet. Over the course of a lifetime, he studied the cerebral epicenter of talent and motivation, even to the influence of an atheist like Freud. But his renown in medicine never prevented him from writing a poem from time to time. He was a learned man, a patron of the arts, and a premier scientist of the rest cure known today as “bed rest.” Like Einstein, his talents were amplified with his dogged effort.

All of these genius men who walked the earth were able to close their eyes in confidence to the Creator that they never buried a talent. Though they were some of the greatest of thinkers, not one of their accomplishments on earth can rival Jesus Christ in His many documented miracles and resurrection. The King of Kings was born into a broken world where wise men offered him lavish gifts. Kings and governors in authority today still write about the many things Jesus said. The disciple Jesus loved, John, wrote that if every one of His works were written down, that even the whole world would not have room enough for the books that would be written.

So what can we give King Jesus at Christmas when He already has our hearts and talents? We can give Him our time. For in spending time in His glorious presence, the image bearers of Jesus reflect His light to a world that is still most certainly broken, but also still completely redeemable by the Prince of Peace even as war brings its terrors. The Star of Bethlehem is still the star of the love that once came down at Christmas.

The Star of Bethlehem:
The Day of Gifts

Brief symbol of God’s greatest gift
Beneath Thy radiance born,
To be for earth eternal light,
The sunshine of an endless morn.

Where art thou now, O virgin star!
That o’er the village stood?
Why chosen for this holy task
From night’s fair sisterhood?

You may be sent to other worlds
And equal errands given,
On gentle embassies of love
With messages from heaven.

Still in our heaven of memory keep
Remembrance of the gifts He gave;
The guiding life, the star of love,
To glow for us beyond the grave.

—Silas Weir Mitchell

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In this column, I will answer the question of what a woman truly is in her being, her role in her family as well as her society. I will not belabor any musings of exactly how many proposed genders there are in the current cultural climate, nor will I take any political detours of how we have arrived at this point as one nation under God. Instead, I will begin in the beginning, and I will do it from my perspective as one of them—a created woman.

This is the account of the heavens and the earth when they were created, when the Lord God made the earth and the heavens. Since creation began, historians, scholars, archaeologists and Truthseekers have long studied the divine origin of man presented in Genesis Chapter 2. The words speak with uncluttered candor: God made the heavens and the earth with neither shrub nor plant nor rain. There were no hands available to work the land, nevertheless streams came up from the ground to supply the earth with water. Then God breathed his ruach “wind” into the nostrils of the man he had formed from the dust, giving life to flesh with His spirit.

When God saw it was not good for the man Adam to be alone, he created the animals and presented them to him to see which names he might choose, but the animals did not satisfy Adam’s desires; therefore, God caused Adam to fall into a deep sleep whereby He created Eve from Adam’s rib and presented her to Adam. Whoah man, was she incredible! She was the most beautiful thing that Adam had seen thus far in the Garden of Eden.

Since that very day of the creation of the first woman, the role of true womanhood has been one of lover, helper and nurturer. In the modern era, the makeup of a woman is no different, but the challenge to do all of the things that women were made to do is increasingly more complex with the changing world. In her being, a woman is a natural multitasker and rises up to the challenge. She undertakes the web of details that must be executed daily for her family. She is the wisdom behind the scenes, a resourceful guide to impact every life she touches. In her world, she is known in the marketplace for her ability to buy and sell, to see about the needs of her people, and to give attention to the things that concern them.

According to author Rebekah Merkle, “Eve in Exile,” women were made not only to subdue the earth, but to fill it. Eve was the first solution-giver in the Garden of Eden. Adam could not have populated the earth without her since he was just one man, but with his introduction to Eve, he has become the entire human race. But, the role of woman goes far deeper according to Merkle. Women were not created to be boring creatures, rather insightfully interesting.

A woman was not only created to bear children or to adorn a palace. Instead, she is powerful in her ability to channel her gifts, skills, and talents to create wealth for her family even from her laptop computer while a pot of spaghetti comes together on the stove. She is an amazingly resilient creature whose heart can create tears that leak from her eyes at times, when necessarily a man would not have such introspect to understand life so tenderly. The life-giving comfort she offers cannot be manufactured by another human or by a scalpel, due to her personal touch that is custom made for those whom she is assigned to love.

The truth of what a woman is has become more maligned by modern dating than any political ideology, for women have fallen into the trap of disingenuous predatory phonies who use and discard her at will only to flippantly move on to their next piece of carnage. Only when a woman values herself as a unique, whole individual will society wake up and remember that a woman was created for more; yet the separation of sex from motherhood has unraveled society’s admiration for the role of true womanhood.

Society’s understanding the truth of what a woman is determines the future of her people. This understanding is in no way an attempt to disparage the impact of men, for there is ample evidence of the weight of their impact when removed from fatherless societies where young men are falling by the wayside.

The simple question of “What is a woman?” has a simple answer. She is a divine creation, knit together by the hands of God and no other. Though many have tried, none have successfully been able to match the intricacies of her essence. To describe a woman is very clear. Even as her depths cannot be captured in one thousand words, a woman is a present help to her beloved as she represents the healing arms of God. Just like Adam’s first glance, it is easily seen that a woman is something to behold! She must become beholden to herself, however, with unscrupulous ownership of her own worth while waiting on the man than would be more fearful of God than to ever make any attempt whatsoever at redefining, genuinely, what a woman is.

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Moving to a new town, while daunting, can oftentimes become one of the experiences of a lifetime. There hasn’t been one assignment I left behind in which I didn’t cry my eyes out all the way to a new home that should have been exciting, but necessarily was not. Nobody likes a new doorknob, or the closet door that opens the wrong way, the coffee being on the wrong aisle in the grocery store, and feeling like your very soul is being split into pieces between your will and God’s will. Yet, it is generally the case that when you leave some things behind with the courage of a big girl, you grow in ways beyond your capabilities in a new time and place.

Once, in a new season I had not yet welcomed well, I discovered how much I loved the Latin Dance that, in a sense, found me! Walking into my very first class with only a handful of students and a cup of coffee, my expectations were low, still reminiscing about the tap class I left behind in my previous town. I was about to fall in love with an entire culture and didn’t know it.

For the love of tacos, my family concurs with my assessment that if I had not been born as “me,” I should have been a señorita, though our genealogy will vehemently deny it. Nevertheless, Latin dance became my own. Before long, just like all those missing socks and bobby pins that evaporate, my tap shoes were somewhere in the house never to be seen again. Though they have not surfaced to this very day, I never missed them much. Believe me when I say that it is possible to possess a love of dance that exceeds any actual ability. That is the beauty of this sport. There is room for everyone, since you only have to dance better than yesterday’s version of yourself.

Fast forward a few years when I consider it more than happenstance that my father died too young and I was forced to make a move out to the countryside to handle the world he left behind. When I say country, I mean the deepest kind of rural. On my way out of town, I cried off my makeup with weighty tears, fighting the loss of the world behind me AND the world before me that currently offered less kindness than an evil stepsister. I have no idea why I felt compelled to stop by the dance store and buy what I thought would be the last pair of split-sole dance sneakers on earth. Amazon hadn’t become mainstream yet, so there was a good chance I could have been right. I knew those dance shoes represented my holding on to a season that was being stolen away from me in exchange for one I did not care to embrace. Again.

Even though I was positive that my only dancing with the stars from now own would be coupled with coyotes and rattlesnakes, the same old dance sneakers have been with me all these years upon demand. If you have been following my column, you’ll have seen all my tales about later entering the formal ballroom dance society in mid-life which required a completely different shoe. From kicking my own toenail off, being stepped on and losing another one, having a dance partner suffer a heart attack while dancing with me, and ultimately questioning what is really in the heart of a man and why would anyone willingly participate in this dangerous, rigid contact sport—I have continued my study of the congruent paths of dance to life and life to breath and breath to our own God-ordained spirits. The bite-sized moments of the dance are immortal in a sense, mimicking our own respective journeys to a waiting eternity with a living and active God who is sharper than any two-edged sword.

This is why I knew it was the hand of God that reached down and sent me two new Latin friends who are not only the most physically beautiful people I have ever seen, but also sojourners of the true art they bring. While first learning the intricacies of Cuban formation, it was hard not to start giggling when Luis, who is what I consider a Latin Fabio, shouts out expressions to his men in a heavy accent, “Leader her!” We all follow quickly due to his formidable, commanding frame wrapped in a gorgeous smile between sets.

He instructs the entire dance in Spanish. Enchufe, Doble Enchufe!! During my first few experiences in Cuban formation, he could see the menopausal empty-nester Mom fear in my eyes, therefore, without a word about it he switched to English for a few expressions. That was just before I heard him whisper to his wife, Dilandia, something like “Ella no lo sabe tampoco en inglés.” I knew enough Spanish to detect the meaning of “She doesA notA know it in EEEnglish eeeeither.” Still, I was being formed into an official señorita by the best, trying to understand what is required of me. During my most recent class, I looked up and there were pieces of black rubber littering the studio floor from my very own old shoes’ soles. Representing all the pieces of a life that God had chiseled off of me, this time it wasn’t my toenails, but my joints and marrow had literally danced the soles off of my shoes hoping nobody noticed the source. I wasn’t sure if anyone were to ask me why I hadn’t replaced my aging shoes whether I’d be able to hide the real reason of holding on to the past.

On my way out of class, my friends and I all said our goodbyes and without one single bit of hesitation or painful recollection of my old life whatsoever, I tossed the old shoes in the studio trash can. I think oftentimes we know that we WILL get over all the things we are forced to leave behind in due season, but God gives us the grace to take our time in discerning the thoughts and intentions of our own heart when releasing something extremely dear. Eventually he replaces, restores, and gives us something new that is more than we could have ever asked or imagined. I came home and plopped into bed, barely able to hold my eyes open from the long day. Just before my eyelids became too heavy, I got on my phone and ordered a new pair of black split-sole señorita shoes. Order complete. I turned out my light to get ready for another new day in the new abundant life that I might have never known, thankful that God was able to do it again, exceedingly.

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But then you have The Friends descended from Job’s friends. The ones that should never go to school to become paramedics. They would stand over you as your half dead body is in a ditch full of water where you are 10 seconds away from drowning and say things like, “Man, this is bad. I don’t see how you’re gonna make it.” They are the critics that can’t handle things, including watching your girlhood fade into the menopausal mess it has become. You know you’d benefit from new friends, but they know too much. You have history. And heck, they’re getting ugly too, so you feel sorry that they wouldn’t find anyone else who’d love them like you do.

Tammy Wynette was right. I’ve been agreeing with her for years that sometimes it IS hard to be a woman. Recently, I had been so busy I barely looked in the mirror but still managed to throw myself together for any meeting or event. While at one particular meeting, I had the pleasure of meeting a lady who gave me a helpful hint for me to quit using that big black pencil to draw in my eyebrows. That it was too much. And over the top. And I look ridiculous. I didn’t have the heart to tell her those were the REAL ONES. I simply hit beauty 9-1-1 on my phone and scheduled a wax.

The next week, I was sitting down at a ladies luncheon and another friendly acquaintance was standing there talking to me about all things life when she abruptly interjected…you know you can get help for those roots. I asked her if she had seen my EYEBROWS. Then I proceeded to just bleach my whole head of hair blonde.

Everything shifts during the menopause years. I took a picture of my stomach and texted it to my OBGYN asking whether this is NORMAL?!! She said absolutely! Not to worry!!! It’s called menopause belly whereas it used to be flat but now the L is silent. I didn’t want to know what her response would be if I told her that now I’m also clumsy.

Recently, I got so excited doing The Hustle that I danced my own toenail off when my right heel kicked my left toenail. Let me not misspeak. It wasn’t completely off. It was still attached by a few millimeters. So kind of off, but still kind of on. I pushed it back on like one of the old Lee press on nails of my youth and I painted that baby pink. I was looking fine with my new blonde hair, big black eyebrows, and big pink toenail.

This lasted only until I attended a wedding reception where I was dancing with an overzealous dance partner when his right foot and my left collided. Later that evening, I met up with some real dancers at a regional event with a big ugly white toe. In my purse was my hot pink toenail that I had saved from the wedding, God rest its soul. I brought it to my dance partner hoping he could do some Superglue Surgery on it, but when I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him he just shook his head in a way that let me know my toenail was no more.

At the end of the night, we all sat around and showed each other our foot injuries and missing toenails then talked about how dance has helped us to battle our midlife mishaps.

It’s funny how we don’t really think too much about our own decline until someone happens to point it out for us. I walked away from that luncheon that day and all I could hear in my head was – Who told you that you were naked? For at the source of that comment from Genesis is condemnation, itself condemned, and that is not God’s design for his daughters.

As women, the world requires a little too much of us right now. Without the self-confidence to accept who we are in Christ, we could fall apart underneath all the added pressures of perfection in every way, including beauty, career, raising kids who receive scholarships, having the prettiest pet. It’s all too much.

A colleague of mine recently completed her MBA in 12 months despite having a high-powered career that requires frequent travel. When she received her diploma, she left some amazing advice for all of those coming behind her:

“It took me a while to write this. I failed many exams, I dropped a class, I skipped studying on many courses, I made 2 C’s (the max you can make) some nights I forgot I had an exam, some days it was easier to just take it and say screw it, and some days I just didn’t wanna do anything. I wrote good papers & bad papers. I scored more lows than I did highs, but… I graduated.

 I say all this to say- I didn’t aim to be a perfect student, my job didn’t care what grades I made- I didn’t force myself to be a straight A student but I survived & you will to! My mental health was more important & I always made it a priority so I slept, ignored, but I didn’t give up.

So shoutout to the students that did JUST enough.”

That wasn’t all she wrote. Perhaps the most poignant phrase of her entire message was the following quote: “Give yourself some damn grace.”

Sorry for the expletive, but it represents the Hell that woman are putting themselves through to survive in roles for which we were never designed, but ready to step in and take on when the need arises, even as our thyroids abandon us and estrogen plays its cruel joke.

So, yesterday I went to my group gym class. I felt like the instructor might have been profiling me when she kept looking at me during dips and yelling for more. I think she was giving me the side-eye and wondering if it was the fried chicken I ate or purely menopause. All I could think was, “Is it hot in here?”

In the month that Barbie returned to pop culture at almost 85 years old, a rural school board miraculously decided to change their stance on sending students home if they showed up to school with anything other than their natural hair color after a local judge declared that classroom teachers would also be required to wear their own natural hair color. That de-escalated quickly.

Women have wanted to be beautiful far longer than Barbie could have ever influenced a generation. Aging, while a certainty, is not the real issue women are facing, though. The real issue occurs when fleeting beauty exposes a woman to her true self and she finds that at her inner core, she has no reverential fear of God.

I would agree with my colleague Lacy Lace of Dallas that we women need to give ourselves more grace, but we also need to refute the condemning tongues and remember the One True Source of our divine beauty who will never abandon us. Keep dancing like others wish they weren’t watching. And, above all, keep in step with the pursuit of noble things. That is the beauty that can never be taken.

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The world recently watched as Novak Djokovic was reduced to tears after he lost Wimbledon on Centre Court to fan favorite Carlos Alcaraz, a Spaniard. For die-hard Rafa Nadal fans around the world, this was poetic justice in action. Nadal, a fellow Spaniard, who is out recovering from surgery, sent a post-match tweet to Alcaraz expressing immense joy. He closed with one simple charge for the 20 year old: Enjoy the moment, Champion!!!

The word champion is readily tossed around at will in today’s television age of sports. We discover that it can be used as either a noun or a verb. One can be a champion after years of hard work or one can champion for something or someone they want to see succeed.

The overarching theme of athletes who are named champions is that they are not only the declared winners, but they also exhibit character traits of perseverance, strength, discipline, fortitude, sportsmanship, and the ability to overcome obstacles. When considering men’s tennis, all of The Big Four (Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, Murray) have found ways to win slams after obstacles like being two sets down. Perhaps, the most iconic comeback of all in recent history is Nadal’s 5th set victory over Daniil Medvedev in the 2022 Australian Open. Nadal, who has been plagued with more mechanical injuries than the others of The Big Four, is known to be the greater overcomer of them all.

To be a champion, c’est incroyable! To be a Wimbledon champion, c’est vraiment incroyable! It is really incredible! But why? Why is a Wimbledon champion held in such high regard?

Perhaps to examine this, we turn to the awe of the tournament itself and the historical grounds of the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club. The tournament has now been played on the original grass surface for the last 101 years. But before that, the tournament had nearly another 50 years in existence and still touts the second from original trophy (1887). There are other long-standing sporting events in the world that currently continue to make history like this, but few that rival the strong traditions of Wimbledon other than the Kentucky Derby which was founded only two years prior in 1875. The Stanley Cup (hockey) and The Claret Jug (golf) deserve a mention here as well, but something about paying an $8,000 ticket and sitting around a 100-year-old grass court in close quarters with the Princess of Wales has set Wimbledon apart through the years.

So this year, in the presence of two future Kings of England, Novak Djokovic was dismantled by the young Spaniard. With 44 consecutive undefeated matches in his previous Wimbledon appearances, everyone had The Djoker picked as the favorite, even himself. “I don’t want to be arrogant,” stated Djokovic in a post-match press conference days before meeting Alcaraz, but when the Spaniard took a 2-1 lead in the 5th set in the presence of his own King Felipe, Djokovic slammed his racquet into the net post with his young son and Prince George looking on.

Djokovic has already beaten history by surpassing Roger Federer and Rafa Nadal in the amount of Grand Slam trophies he has taken home. Had he won Wimbledon, he would have been only the second player in tennis history to hold 24 slams, tying a woman, Margaret Court. Notably, Serena Williams, like Djokovic, also banked 23 slams before retiring.

With all of this history at stake, Djokovic fans and FEDAL (Federer/Nadal camp) might as well be red and blue states with the polarizing venom of who will go down as the actual GOAT. This brings us to the question of the differences that set apart a champion from a GOAT. A GOAT may have all the trophies in the world, but may not possess the heart of a champion. Being a GOAT is based upon statistics. Being a champion is more of a rarity, like being a higher quality diamond than the others. In comparison of two stones, both are diamonds, but one is more refined than the other.

Can a GOAT give full display to anger and still remain as a champion in the hearts of the people? Initially, one would think no way. But then we must consider the original Bad Boy of Tennis John McEnroe a former GREAT and three time Wimbledon champion, who has entire YouTube collections based upon his angry moments when he, like Djokovic, taunts the crowd, terrorizes chair umpires, and gets in the face of his opponent in the world’s most polite sport.

Why then do we not give the hall pass to Djokovic’s public venting of anger? Do we accept McEnroe as today’s voice of tennis simply because his outbursts were not as widely known due to lack of coverage then? For it is true that some rabid Djokovic fans love him for making statements about the crowd such as, “When they chant Roger, I hear Novak.”

Why does the sports loving public applaud Coach Kim Mulkey for drawing a technical foul by throwing off her designer jacket and shouting a few choice words just so she can change the momentum of the game; yet, we hold Novak hostage to his pummeling a line judge in the throat with an angry out-of-play ball? Because of it, he did not get a hall pass for the 2020 U.S. Open, nor did he get a hall pass in subsequent years for vaccination status when he was banned from six tournaments.

In spite of a fickle public, the angry GOAT trend is not a good one. Frances Tiafoe had the tennis world eating from the palm of his hand in the 2022 U.S. Open after he downed Nadal, but by the time he exited the Wimbledon courts of 2023, the commentator said, “He is a very angry man.” If tennis had a Miranda Lambert, Tiafoe is it. Like Djokovic, his public venting of inner anger is souring the fan base.

So why do we give the hall pass to some and not to others? Perhaps, the McEnroes and Mulkeys come along when the respective sport needed an antagonist. Perhaps this is why at least half of the tennis world has become the Djokovic faithful and why Medvedev can be devilish and it’s okay. We salivate at the thought of the future marketing endorsements of a guy by the first name of Jannik but the delicious last name of Sinner. Perhaps we need that big catfish in a small pond to keep us, the lazy cod, feeling alive as mere spectators of greatness. Only time will separate the true champions from the angry GOATs, picking and choosing who gets our hall pass of approval even where evil villains are concerned. Perhaps, the answer is something we already know, but we just don’t want to say out loud….we championed for them because we just loved them more.

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