At the age of seventeen, Father’s Day became a mockery to me and my faith in my Heavenly Father took a serious beating. Almost twenty-six years later, I’ve learned not to see Him with eyes handicapped with biological and situational limitations, but with the spiritual eyes that reflect the brand/receipt of His DNA.

With them, I can see that He’s all that AND a bag of chips! (Y’all know I love food.. lol). He’s enabled me to understand that He despises my act(ions) that go against His word, not me. He’s taught me that the measure of forgiveness I receive is in direct correlation to the measure I mete out. He’s enlightened me with the knowledge that forgiveness is a gift I give myself.

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Yesterday I was musing on Fred Hammond’s “You are the Living Word”, “Lord Your Grace”, “No Weapon”… last night (while struggling to come up with a concept to describe an upcoming rally/outreach sponsored by our youth ministry) I heard the first cut on Kirk Franklin’s latest CD, Fight of My Life. If ever there was a title that applied to me… that was it! (no pun intended)

I have listened to it on Youtube at least twelve times already and don’t intend to stop anytime soon. Why? It speaks to me.

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With the fast approach of the celebration of Thanksgiving comes the expected question: what are you thankful for?

Each year my answer varies, but adds up to “my family and the fact that I’m still here!” Why so short you ask? Because really, I’m all about keeping it as monosyllabic as possible in order to do my part to keep the clock down and the food warm; cause invariably, there will always be someone who starts back at the year they were born and brings it forward.

This year, prompted by a thread in one of my groups, I’m putting it out there early and taking the time to elaborate a bit.

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Good Morning People!

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Saturday, March 4, 2006

Topic: Divine Placement

Good morning folks!

It seems as though I’m always apologizing to you all for my neglect, so once again I apologize. Even as I do so, I should really be writing but I just had to share this little snippet.

Ever set a goal, go after it determinedly and when you achieve it almost regret having done so? Sound crazy? Let me elucidate:

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There’s so much I want to accomplish in this life that my schedule is always overbooked, which at times results in feeling overwhelmed, a sense of frustration, a bit of self castigation and most of the time–self doubt.

One of my goals for this past year was to trust God more and live in the present. Looking at my improved sense of self-worth and mental stability, I believe I accomplished that goal.

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I have often wondered this

and I figure I’m not the only

one…

If I could, I would go back to my 22nd year. I mean look at me. I’d discovered the wonders of makeup, colored contact lenses, hair dye and, oh glory,…weaves! Dang if I didn’t look good, in spite of all that! LOL.

It was a year filled with ups and downs. My husband cheated and was kicked out, by his own mama, who changed the locks on her apartment door. (Yeah, we lived with his parents. I was 19 and he was 18…but that’s another story), I became a femme fatale…(translation: deadly female) and dater extraordinaire. In my estimation, there was safety in numbers. I was attending auditions for commercials, background singing spots and background dancing spots.

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Did I ever mention that I absolutely love the company for which I work? If I haven’t, please pardon my oversight and here goes: “I absolutely love this Company!”

This is a follow up on my post of Dealing with Death in which I mentioned the fact that a co-worker was killed in a car accident on her way home from work the Friday before last.

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Everything has been created through Him and for Him. ~Col 1:16b

“It isn’t? Does Dee know that?” is my usual joking response to the above title.

A co-worker and I began reading Rick Warren’s Purpose-Driven Life today. I read it aloud while she drove, and at the end of the chapter the thought to ponder was–you guessed it–“It’s not about me.” It called for reflection on areas of my life where I’d erected All-About-Dee altars and encouraged me to knock them down.

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I probably haven’t always hated my name (Diane … pronounced Dee-Anne). As a toddler, I was labeled “DiDi.” As I grew older, it metamorphosed into “Dids” or “that darn child!” In fact, if I recall correctly, my name being mispronounced hardly competed with the incessant urge to play or seek happiness, until an older sibling alerted me to the fact, that each and every occurrence was if not a hideous crime, at least a slight of indecent proportions.

What was a ten-year-old to do? Being the youngest of eight, my place in the family hiererchy was set. I should be seen and not heard, when told to jump, the only acceptable response was, “How high?” I had jurisdiction over the backyard chickens, one of the dogs, (can one ever have jurisdiction over a cat?) and my imaginary Indian friends. (Playing Cowboys and Indians was not yet considered politically incorrect)

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