I'm contemplating this gift, a bronze cowboy boot on a rust colored chain, white and black beads dangling at the side and embossed lettering spelling the word: Jolene. See, Marge remembers back when I was kicking things aside and making some space for myself to live and breathe and get my hands dirty in the garden. But I had forgotten. I was plowed under by the worry and activity. I haven't had this much gray hair in my life. (And, yes, I'm going to dye it. My Grandma Aanonson started going gray at 18, and she dyed her hair for years, back to the same jet black color, sporting her red lipstick until she said her eyebrows started to fade. So, once my eyebrows start to fade, I'll pack in the dye. I promise. Until then...)
I was starting to feel soul weary, kneeling in the kitchen and asking why I only feel as if I'm moving objects, giving directions, feeling like I was getting it wrong somehow. And down on my knees again because He knows I can't live quiet, can't live part way, can't pretend I am alive through the motions of living. I was calling out to God for some real live living, for Him to show me why He made me so I could get to work. I don't know how it happens or why it happens so frequently, but when the devil comes to steal, he takes my boots and it's those boots that help me walk with Him kicking aside the lie that I am quiet and good. But I'm not quiet and good. I've got too much to say, and I am also a sinner. The thief can try to convince me that if I just try hard enough to fit into that quiet and good space, I can make God happy. But that's a lie. I don't know what God made me yet, but I've been finding out from one day to the next, and Lord, you didn't make me terrified. You gave me boots. And I will hang on to You this whole way through knowing I'm not quiet and I'm not good, but You know what You're doing, and I trust You, so stand me up again with a little kick in my stride because You've got a live one here.
Thank you, Marge.