Tony and I just got back from Muskogee, Oklahoma, our hometown. We spent sweet time with our families, time that included a Stark reunion, and I’m happy to say I made it back to Missouri tonight with my purse.

Anyone who knows me well knows that one of the things I do with my life is lose things, especially purses. Naturally, and it makes sense, one of the many times I have lost my purse was on the way home from that wretchedly hot and tiring vacation at Disney World (which I carried on about last week).

By the time we had crossed the Florida border and stopped for a late lunch somewhere in Georgia, Tony and I had finally cooled off. We chose one of the kid’s favorite places to eat. But after we had not been waited on, even acknowledged, for ten minutes, we got up and went next door to another one of their favorites. We’ve never left a restaurant after being seated before, and I would have felt bad except, honestly, they didn’t even notice us leaving.

Two things account for our impatience. One, we waited too long to stop and were ready to divvy up, salt, and eat Tony’s New York Yankees baseball hat. And two, Tony, one relaxed man during the vacation, is quite the opposite on the trip back. The official vacation is over, and he’s the horse heading for the barn. It’s a wonder we hadn’t sped through a drive-thru.

As it turned out, we should have.

Full and sleepy, we were four hours further down the road before I needed my sunglasses and began rummaging around for my purse.

No luck.

I enlisted help: “Has anyone seen my purse?“

After a thorough search, we knew one thing: it wasn’t in that rented van. My heart sank. If you’ve ever lost a purse, you know what this means: canceling credit cards, securing another driver’s license, mourning pictures you’ll never see again, wishing you’d spent that last forty dollars, borrowing someone else’s cell phone, squinting the rest of the way home without your prescription sun glasses, and trying to accept the fact you put your digital camera and the pictures stored there in that miserable purse.

After we spent some time reconstructing events, we decided I had probably left that purse of mine on the back of a chair in the restaurant we had left in a huff; this would be the story of my life.

As soon as we got home, I called. Not only was my purse still there, but the manager had already packed it for mailing, even bubble wrapping the camera, and would not take money from my purse to pay for postage. I could not believe it (and felt terribly bad for walking out on him).

In fewer than three days, my purse was back-for the time being anyway. I sent flowers and a nice note to the manager and the employees who didn’t steal my purse or let someone else steal it or leave it under the counter until I made it back to Georgia.

When you lose a purse (or anything else you value), it is so nice when an honest, kind, helpful person comes to your aid. Well, it makes all the difference. I hope you have been blessed that way. I hope you have blessed someone that way.

We take a family vacation every year.

Every other year or so, we head to the beach. Until recently all twelve of us were Midwesterners who couldn’t afford to fly every year and didn’t have the time to drive for days, so our only realistic option was the Gulf coast. Thus, my husband Tony and I rent a house on the beach, and we all settle in to relax and enjoy one another for one glorious week.

On the alternate summers, we try to go somewhere the kids will enjoy almost as much as the beach. Two years ago we went to Yellowstone. The scenery was wondrous. If you’ve been there, you know I’m not exaggerating, although our accommodations on the edge of Yellowstone were so rustic one reviewer wrote: “For the love of God, keep driving!“ I suppose we shouldn’t have laughed, but we did (we still do, every time we think about it). We also stopped, and we were glad. We must have been a little heartier than the reviewer.

This year Tony and I and Leanne and her bunch flew to Stacey’s in California and spent time in Yosemite, where we saw scenery that rivaled Yellowstone. Tony and I and our daughters had visited Yosemite when the girls were children. I believe that’s where I stood with outstretched arms on a precipice overlooking granite-walled mountains, waterfalls, and a magnificent valley floor, and sang the first verse of “How Great Thou Art,“ while the girls looked around furtively, hoping a bus load of people wasn’t walking up. I refrained this year but barely. (I’ll have to put up some pictures on the website one of these days.)

Five summers ago we decided to spend our family vacation at Disney World in Orlando. We had taken our oldest grandchild Scott there when he was nine, the year Leanne and Scott adopted him and Leanne gave birth to Mariah. Nine years later Scott had joined the armed forces, but the four middle grandchildren, ages 7-11, were anxious out of their minds for their turn to visit Disney World. This is the sole reason Tony and I agreed to a destination that struck us as less than relaxing.

And I have to say our two daughters, their good husbands, and the grandchildren had a blast. The only exception to that general rule was my son-in-law Steve one of the afternoons we all rode back to our hotel together on the Disney bus. Steve happened to be the designated holder of one-year-old Cade. From the time he and my daughter Stacey sat down, Cade screamed hysterically, his volume intensifying unimaginably during the twenty minute ride.

Knowing we couldn’t help a baby well past his breaking point, Tony and I huddled together a few seats away acting like we didn’t know the screaming baby arching his back and flailing his appendages. Nor did we know his helpless parents. We did exchange amazed looks with the four older grandchildren.

So, I’m sorry, but that was the one and only week of Family Vacation that Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Tony and me. We couldn’t have been happier the morning we packed the car and bid adieu to the giant plastic Dalmatians standing sentry outside our motel rooms.  No fewer than three days earlier, Hot and Tired had conspired to do us in.

Stacey and her family stayed an extra morning before heading for Indiana, where they were ministering at the time. Jake and Avrie wanted to see the Star Wars parade (Cade was all smiles again). Leanne and her bunch aren’t such Star Wars fans, and it’s a good thing, because they didn’t have that option. Living only two hours from us, they had ridden in our rented van—and, make no mistake, that van was leaving the premises shortly after sun up. As we trekked to the parking lot, I told Mariah and Sam, still under the influence of so many dreams coming true, that I might be willing to talk about their favorite things at Disney World, but not before we crossed the Florida border.

But even that family vacation was special. It thrilled the kids and grandkids, which, once we cooled off, had to thrill Tony and me. And as importantly, that tiring, steaming vacation gave us plenty to remember. We thank God for the opportunity to be together in such a way each year. It is a gift we do not take for granted. I hope your summer will include some great family time.

Day breaks, and my husband Tony is ready to get going.

He usually begins with some kind of breakfast, after which he will read the newspaper and play a rousing game or two of Spider Solitaire on the computer before hopping into his golf cart and heading to the club house to team up and play eighteen challenging and joyous holes of golf.

This he does every morning of his life if we’re in town and it isn’t sleeting. Or, to be fair, this he does if someone doesn’t need him for something before one in the afternoon.

The morning of my sixtieth birthday, Tony was kind enough to linger in bed with me awhile before throwing back the covers to embrace the day.

When I opened my eyes on the morning I had been dreading my entire 59th year and realized that I had, in fact, lived long enough to be 6-0, I groaned.

Of course, somewhere underneath the angst, I was thankful still to be alive, with things yet to experience and accomplish before this mortal puts on immortality, but I’m sorry to say, dread trumped gratitude.

My only defense for such a poor attitude is that the most down-to-earth Christian woman I know told me across the pew one Sunday when I was 58 or 59 that turning sixty had been her hardest birthday. Thanks, Dorothy, your confession was salve for my wounded ego as I prepared to slither through this birthday with so little grace and dignity.

“Tony,“ I muttered, when my foot discovered he was still beside me that wretched morning. “I don’t think I can do this.“

He laughed and said, “Sure you can, Slick.“

He’s sure we can do anything.

I appreciate his confidence. It was a lot better than saying, “I don’t think you can either, Slick.“

Nevertheless, I need more than his reassurance to make this transition into what Jane Fonda has called Act Three.

Just over fourteen years ago, I remember receiving a call from my older daughter, Stacey, who had been married only four months.

“Mother!“ she exclaimed. (This was frightening as she always calls me “Mom.“) “Come over here and tell me if you think this is a plus sign.“

Five minutes later four of us were in our daughter’s little kitchen gathered around the table looking down at the most obvious plus sign I’ve ever seen. Our first grandchild was on his way.

I wanted to shout, “Woo hoo!“ But sensitivity to Stacey and Steve’s faces and body language kept me from saying or doing anything remotely celebratory. Instead we calmly reassured them that everything was going to be fine.

(We could wait until we made our getaway before rejoicing over the fact that soon, by God’s grace, we would begin loving and teaching “their children after them.“)

Stacey, after briefly processing just a smidgen of what this plus sign would mean, pointed at her dad and me and said, “We’re not in this alone, you know!“

Tony and I smiled.

“Of course not.“

And for sixteen years now, she hasn’t been. Neither has her sister, Leanne. Tony and I have been thrilled to help them any way we can.

As I lay in bed on that ominous birthday, overwhelmed at beginning this unfathomable decade of my life, I prayed a prayer much like what Stacey had said to us all those years ago: “I’m not in this alone, Lord.“

I uttered that prayer with great respect and confidence. If I’ve learned anything in the last sixty years, it is this: he will be glad to help. “I will never leave you or forsake you” is my theme verse; “Great is the Faithfulness,“ my theme song.

For this reason alone, I was willing to get up on that December 14th. That and an 11:00 doctor’s appointment.

As I’ve said—in this blog, in my articles, and in my novels, the loving and faithful presence of God in my life is my “astonishment”; it is the theme of my life.

Today if you didn’t want to get out of bed for a small reason or a very large one, I hope you remember that you are loved and you’re not in this alone.

I mentioned last week that only three weeks into my teaching career, I wanted desperately to quit. My husband talked me into hanging in there until Christmas, but my anxiety, coupled with sleep deprivation caused, no doubt, by that anxiety, led to an incident that I have called “the last straw.“

I was standing before my third hour class and someone said something funny that made me smile. When it was time to quit smiling, however, I couldn’t. The smile, becoming quite inappropriate, remained.

Even when I told it to go away, it didn’t. Though I’ve never heard of such a thing and haven’t experienced it since, it seems both my involuntary and voluntary muscles had shut down. I actually turned from the class and did what people have been commanding to do for years: I wiped that smile off my face!

Fortunately the bell rang, the kids called out, “See you tomorrow,“ and I walked down to the office and told the secretary to get a substitute for me the next day because I was going to be sick.

I actually went to the unemployment office that Friday. Whomever I talked to looked at me like I hadn’t slept in a week, and I left there and drove to the college where I had graduated with useless honors and spoke to some of my favorite professors. They said I wanted to teach like they do except they’d been doing it for years and years and not to come back if I quit. Or something like that.

You know, I don’t remember exactly what happened. I do know I continued to be encouraged by first one person and then another; I think of them as God’s ambassadors. And I do know, one day at a time, God himself helped me figure out what I could do to survive each class, and as the weeks passed, he helped me figure out how to convey the material.

And daily he gave me courage. I found his mercies were new every morning, just as Jeremiah said.

By Christmas, as Tony had counted on, I had enough success and courage to stay. For three years I taught at that high school, and then with this particular crisis behind me by two and a half years, I accepted a position at Ozark Christian College, where I had the pleasure and privilege of teaching a variety of English courses for twenty-eight years.

Goodness, there are so many things that could have made me give it up-the most recent took place before a new freshmen class and most of my peers the night I flew from bleachers on the chapel stage to the chapel floor, landing at the feet of a former student.

But there have been a string of catastrophes: singing with soloists, having articles returned with a version of thanks but no thanks, handling students badly though I’ve had the best of intentions, or a real favorite through the years, allowing some sin to so easily entangle me.

But in each situation he has come to me.

“Lord,“ I’ve said, “I’m an idiot!“

“Lo, I am with you always, Jackina.“

Of hundreds of themes, this is my favorite. I have a cluster of verses to remind me of God’s faithfulness. These verses are the sheep I count when I cannot sleep: “I will fear no evil, for thou art with me”; “I will never leave you or forsake you”; “Lo, I am with you always”; “It is I, don’t be afraid.“

Okay then.

Wordsworth spoke of a “timely utterance” giving him relief from pain or sadness or regret. I understand that, but as much as I love words, it is something else that gives me relief: He, the faithful one, restores my soul. And I can speak again, write again, teach again, love again, risk again.

The truth is, most of us have challenges to tackle, limitations to overcome or to work around, and failure to face and to forgive and to forget. But just as the disciples were not alone on the hillside to feed the thousands with a few loaves and two fish, we are not alone. He who is able is with us, breaking and blessing whatever we are, whatever we have to bring.

You should not doubt that it will be enough.

I try to post a new item every Monday. Twice now I didn’t get it done. I seriously doubt anyone has noticed, but if you have, maybe you’ll understand. My life is like most of yours—crazy. Good crazy at the moment, but crazy.

I’ve been posting things my students always seemed to like; however, the next two posts are from a devotion I wrote for the Ozark Christian College faulty. Like much that I write, it’s pretty transparent. I don’t mind that up to a point, not if it might provide insight or comfort to someone.

I got the title for this from Wordsworth’s great ode on immortality. I do love a “timely utterance,“ and something like writing in a journal has brought me comfort in the past, but there is something that has always been more helpful than that. That’s what I’m exploring in this devotion. If you need relief from an anxiety or heartache, I hope this will encourage you.

Kathy, a former student who has remained a part of my life for many years, gave me a Selah CD to thank me for some little something and also to celebrate a rather significant birthday. There’s a song on it, which I’ve been praying these days. It’s a testimony of praise for “The Faithful One.“

   I find no hope within to call my own,
   For I am frail of heart, my strength is gone.
   But deep within my soul is rising up a song
   Here in the comfort of the Faithful One.

   I walk a narrow road through valleys deep
   In search of higher ground on mountains steep.
   And though with feet unsure, I still keep pressing on,
   For I am guided by the Faithful One.

   Faithful, faithful to the end,
   My true and precious Friend.
   You have been faithful, faithful, so faithful to me.

My true and precious Friend is the reason I was able to teach for 31 years.

I went back to college when my girls were three and four and graduated at the top of my class at the age of thirty. I thought I was quite prepared to begin my teaching career, but when September rolled around and I stood before my classes, I ran into a serious problem. So serious I begged Tony to let me quit.

I had never heard this problem discussed in all my education classes, so it took me by surprise. From the first I enjoyed my students. My problem had nothing to do with liking my students, and it had nothing to do with discipline. My problem was I just didn’t know how to teach. Yes, it’s true. I didn’t know how to get what I knew out of my brain and into theirs.

Bummer.

One evening three weeks into the semester, Tony walked into our bedroom and saw me sitting cross legged on the bed staring at my book. He sat beside me.

“What the matter, Slick?“ he asked.

“I don’t know what to do.“

He was still teaching and understood teachers have a curriculum but can order its presentation any way they want. With English, at least at the time, there was a lot of freedom. He took my book and began leafing through it. “Why don’t you do this next?“

He had misunderstood what I had meant, but I answered his question anyway.

“I can’t.“

“How about this?“ he asked, pointing to a poetry unit.

“No,“ I sighed.

“This?“

I shook my head. “Please let me quit.“

“Teach till Christmas,“ he said. “Then you can quit.“

Of course, Tony knew if I made it until Christmas, I’d make it period. He also knew that Christmas might sound manageable to me. And it sort of did. I had to hold out only a few months.

“‘Til Christmas,“ I said, more question than statement.

But meantime I had to go back into that classroom and figure out what to do. I was so nervous I could hardly sleep. I’m quite sure sleep deprivation accounts for the last straw.

I’ll tell you about that unfortunate incident next week.