Smoky Mountain Season

The drive from Kentucky to Georgia offers several routes. One is mostly interstate, cities, trucks and traffic. One is a scenic four-lane highway through rolling countryside. And if you are not in a hurry, one is through the majestic Smoky Mountains, touristy, and worth the congestion. That is the route we took returning to Atlanta. We counted as two of the 9,000,000 people who visit the park every year who: picnic beside the rolling, chilly streams; hike on trails padded by pine needles and flanked by woodland ferns; and gaze at smoky vistas that take your breath away. No wonder it is one of the most visited parks in the country.
In 1900, nearly 70 percent of the current park had been devastated by the logging industry. Seeing that a beautiful part of our country was about to be destroyed, great efforts were made by individuals to buy and preserve the land and in 1920, the government started making efforts to buy up the land. In 1934 Congress established the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, and now almost 100 years later, the park encompasses over 500,000 acres of land - always in transition, always under the watchful eye of forest rangers and environmentalists, and always returning with new growth, new splendor, new life.
We stopped only long enough to get a sandwich for our picnic before heading into the park to find a roadside stop. Everyone else had the same idea, so we backed our car in, put down the tailgate and sat, munching on our lunch, admiring the view. I offered to take a picture for the people next to us. They were locals and I asked them about the huge volume of dead evergreen trees in the forest. They explained that a little bug had infested the Firs and Balsams and was destroying the forest. They said they would probably all be gone in the next 10 years. I wanted to cry.
As we drove out of the Smokies, I cherished those tall remaining trees, standing majestic among their fallen neighbors. I could not help but wonder what was being done to save them. I have learned that since the discovery in 1963 of the trouble maker insect - the balsam woolly adelgid - studies are ongoing to monitor and preserve the forest. Researchers are discovering that some of the firs are resisting the trouble-maker and saplings are re-appearing. Lush ferns are replenishing barren soil where the trees formerly prevented light. New life is appearing.
I remembered an earlier trip to Wyoming after some devastating forest fires and one scene comes back vividly. The forest beside of us was burned black. But if you looked closely, you could see a moose with her calf among the tree trunks. They were feeding on lush green growth at the base. Around them were vibrant wild flowers. New life and growth was bursting forth.
Our lives are very much like a forest. In a perfect world, we would have just the right amount of rain and sunshine and something like a balsam wooly adelgid would not exist. We would co-exist with others in a friendly environment where we complemented and nurtured those around us. Nothing would fight against us or seek to destroy. Our lives would be lush and productive. We would all live like The Three Bears in the forest, happily ever after.
Oh, how I wish it were so. Oh, how I wish there were remedies for deadly insects, deadly diseases, forest fires, and disasters of every kind. Today's falling leaves remind me that it is all for just a season. New growth will occur. One day disease and death will be no longer. We must wait. And while we wait, we can live in the hope of it happening. This is just a season.
My friend gave me a pie plate that quotes Ecclesiastes, " To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven." She lives daily with Multiple Sclerosis, waiting in the hope of a disease-free world. I wait with her. This is just a season.

The Homecoming

I mentally envision it being something like the old-fashioned Homecoming that I would attend with my family in Kentucky. The date would be set and everyone was invited who had moved away. It would be a day to return to rekindle special friendships, share a meal, sing some songs, and remember those who had gone on to Heaven. Children would be more grown-up. Newly weds would have babies. Some would look older. Some never changed. My father especially loved the fact that the best dishes from every home would arrive for the noonday meal. One year was special - my parent's church celebrated their 100-year anniversary. My mother made herself a long, turn-of-the-century dress with a hat to match. She labored over pictures and displays with other women of the church so that all who returned to celebrate could look at their lives with a fresh glimpse of the past. They would be glad that they had attended.
This Sunday, I will return to the church in Atlanta where Mike and our family attended for 20+ years. It is not "Homecoming" at the church - I guess those have gone out of style. There won't be picture albums or my mother's lemon meringue pies ( I wish!), but it will be a homecoming for me. I will walk into the beautiful sanctuary where my three children were baptized. I will admire the beautiful crystal chandelier and the serene white of the entire sacred place. I will see people I know and love. It will be like home. And I will share with those who attend the beautiful story of Megan, our oldest daughter who is one who has already "gone home."
I find it so appropriate to be invited to return to the church that taught her so well. Through Sunday School and mission trips, youth group and worship, Megan fell in love with Jesus at Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church. Who could not fall in love as Miss Connie, an elderly, beloved Sunday School teacher would greet every child on Sunday by taking their hand and holding each finger spell out L-O-V-E- love? Who could keep from loving the antics of those crazy youth group directors? And who could not feel loved by the many who came alongside my child to encourage her to grow in God's love?
It is out of gratitude for all that was done for my children and our family that I return to speak this Sunday. Oh, it might be a little emotional for me to walk through the doors again - remember all the special times we shared as a family of five. Maybe it will be a closeness I feel - of knowing that those who have gone home are waiting for us to come to them. I don't know, but I would like to invite you to be there with us as we launch the book, When God Comes Near.
Second-Ponce de Leon Baptist Church
2715 Peachtree Road in Buckhead at the corner of Peachtree and Wesley
4:30 p.m. in the Sanctuary
This event is open to the community, so please come and invite a friend to join you!
When God Comes Near will be available for purchase ($16 per copy). Marcia will speak, read excerpts from her book, and answer audience questions in the Second-Ponce Sanctuary starting at 4:30 p.m., followed by a book signing and reception in the Fellowship Hall.

The book arrived last week. I can hold it. I can turn the pages. I can look on Amazon and see it advertised. It is all very solemn. I look at my name on the cover and wonder about the author. I admire the beautiful jacket cover. No, the figure is not Megan or me. The path is not Megan's Path. But it is symbolic of a path we all must walk one day - a path that is long and just wide enough for one, maybe two.
When God Comes Near - Waiting in the Miracle of His Presence is the name that took hold and stayed the course of the writing. It is a name put together from thoughts of friends, ideas from books, and personal reflections of the journey. It is what we did - we waited and waited on God. He came near, stayed with us, said "no" to our pleading for Megan's miracle of healing, gently loving us through her untimely death. That "no" is not easily accepted. That "no" is still painful. That "no" has to be dealt with every day in our minds and hearts.
Had I stayed with the "no" of God's answer, there would be no When God Comes Near because I would never have seen the life He offered me as he allowed Megan to come to Him. I guess now I can say God intended for me to write about it. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I could have stayed with my grief, consoling myself, angry, miserable, and unable to see any of the light that was always shining through my pain. That would have been me saying "no" to God. Had I stayed with the "no" there could be no transformation of suffering into honey. There could be no movement through grief, experiencing the stages, stumbling, moving, backsliding, crawling on through.
As I write in the Acknowledgements, it takes more than one person to write a book. I could put so many names above mine. As I look back, every time I was about to give up on the project, someone would come forward, take it out of my hands, offer their contribution, and hand it back to me, pulling me up from the "sea of despair." I now look at the finished product and marvel at what great people surround me! I am the luckiest woman in the world. I am grateful and blessed.
And now, you can purchase this book that you lived. Although, many of you have read my journal entries, I think as you read the 12 chapters, you will read an important story told from start to finish. It takes on new dimension in story form. It is for sale on Amazon for $19.99. You can order it from me for $16.00 plus tax and shipping. The easiest way to do that is to email me at marciagaddis@gmail.com and we will do business. I won't be working until next Tuesday, so give me a few days to process orders. Just be sure to provide the name of the person who will be receiving it. The book is also for sale at the Dogwood Shop at Peachtree Road United Methodist Church in Atlanta. Signed copies are available for $19.99 and a percentage of that sale will go to outreach ministries.
My website (www.marciagaddis.com) designer read the book and said, "You took me to your darkest places and brought me through victoriously."
I never wanted to go to those dark places. That we could be brought through victoriously is a miracle. I am living proof
I hope you will read it and let me know what you think.

Tribute To Megan

The following was sent to me yesterday. It was Megan's birthday and this was written three years ago by an 18-year-old friend of Megan. With her permission, I share with you:


"There is a person who has been a part of my life since I was born. Her name is Megan. Megan is 26 years old and has been my neighbor, my babysitter and my friend all of my life. I have been thinking a lot about Megan lately, despite the hectic pace of my life as I begin my senior year in high school. As I run during Cross Country practice each day, as I make college visits, start college applications, do my homework – whatever I am doing, often, my thoughts are on Megan.

Megan has recently been diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD). Last Spring, while Megan was at our house, she told us that she had been unusually forgetful lately. She had recently been involved in two minor traffic accidents and, as she left our house that day, realized that she had locked her keys in her car. Since I have known Megan, she has always had an amazing work ethic. At that time, she was teaching elementary school full time, working on Saturdays in a book store and was house sitting and babysitting many evenings and weekends. Like her family doctor, we all thought she was doing too much and needed to take a vacation. As her symptoms progressed, Megan was tested for brain tumors, Multiple Sclerosis and other diseases. Everytime we got word that the tests were negative, we breathed a sigh of relief. We did not know that we would look back and wish those tests had been positive because, in most cases, there is some kind of treatment for those conditions. There is no treatment for CJD. The website says it plainly: “The disease in invariably fatal.” The typical time from onset until death is twelve months.

It is hard to face the fact that Megan may not be here on this earth when I graduate next Spring. Or she may be gone when I enter college. I have always thought the word “heartbreaking” is a melodramatic, outdated, useless word. I don’t feel that way anymore.

Sometimes when I think about Megan, I realize how lucky I am to be alive and healthy – something I never thought about before. Especially during this year of my life when my friends and I are all focusing on the next step in our futures, we never consider that the next years could be taken from us. We never stop to think that we won’t graduate, go to college, graduate again and go on. As busy as we all are getting ready for the future, who has time to enjoy a single day, an hour, a moment?

Other times, I think about all of the prayers I have said for Megan, all of the ones I continue to say. I have asked God for Megan’s full and complete recovery. From what I have learned about CJD, “invariably fatal” means that my prayers will not be answered. There is no one I know that deserves to live more than Megan. She is young, kind, intelligent, compassionate. She doesn’t drive fast, drink, take drugs – she teaches little kids in a low income school and asks us and all of her friends for donations of used clothes, books, computers for her students and their families. Why can’t our prayers for her be answered?

My family has spent some time these last months remembering all of the fun we have had with Megan over the years. When my sister and I were little, Megan would get every blanket and sheet out of the linen closet and build forts for us in our basement, despite my mom’s grumbling about the mess. She would create board games for us on poster boards, bake cakes with us, watch movies and play make believe with us. My parents would always call Megan on their way home when Megan was babysitting because Megan never got us to go to sleep when she was with us. My parents wanted a break from putting us to bed when Megan babysat but they never got one because we were having too much fun to go to bed.

As I grew older, Megan would come and stay with me whenever my parents went out of town. We would still bake cakes and watch movies, we would do something creative like paint pottery or bead jewelry. While we were together, we talked. Megan is a great person to get advice from. She really listens and she relates to what I am going through. She is not the person to take things too seriously or too lightly. Through the years, she has shown me that everyone has problems at times and most of them work themselves out if you do your best to be a good person. Megan told my sister and me about the times she embarrassed herself, the times her friends seem to turn against her, the times her sister and brother were annoying her, the times her parents didn’t have a clue about her life. All of those experiences had a very familiar ring to them.

I’m not sure I can identify all of the things I have learned from Megan. I think I will probably be discovering ways she has affected me for the rest of my life. There is no question that the diagnosis of her CJD has changed me. I will pause now and then during this busy year and be grateful that I am alive as I pray again for Megan. Problems that come up this year will be put in a different perspective. I will do my best to be a good person and try to be patient as problems work themselves out or fade in importance. As I continue through life, I will try to be creative and helpful like Megan has been throughout her life. I will try to be an example to a younger person as Megan has been – and will be my whole life – to me.

The last time I saw Megan, she hugged me and gave me a huge smile. She couldn’t remember many words so she didn’t say much, but I showed her pictures from my week at a Young Life camp in Colorado. She smiled and nodded her head and listened to me, as she has all of my life. I hope I showed her how much she means to me. I hope she knows."

Post Office Peace

Yesterday I went to the post office to mail something that would require several steps and a little time. I went mid-morning, thinking maybe the line would not be so bad. There were just six (!) in front of me and it seemed to be moving along. In front of me was an adorable three-year-old and we became fast friends. Her name was Olivia. She asked me my name and when I told her, she then asked why. That stumped me. She found a mailing adhesive strip on the floor and stuck and unstuck it to all the cabinets. Then she made a bracelet out of it. She gave a piece to me and I made a ring. We laughed at each other and before we knew it, she was leaving and it was my turn at the counter.

There was only one man working at the four-station counter and he could not have been nicer, faster, or more patient. His attention to detail and pleasant demeanor focused on me and seemed to not see the line forming behind me, the feet shifting, eyes rolling, and the body language that was screaming, "Hurry up!" Step by step, we finished. As I turned to leave and saw the 10-12 people waiting, I simply said to them in general, "I am sorry I took so long" and walked out. One man glared angrily at me and shook his head. I later saw him in the grocery and he avoided my line, barging in front of another next to me. There was no way he was going to be delayed twice in one day - by the same woman.

Anger. It spills out in places we don't expect. It transfers to situations that have nothing to do with the source. It even hides and waits to be resurrected. Sometimes it stays buried for years, only to fester and erupt at the wrong time and place. I was reading the verse in Acts that says, "I strive to keep my conscience clear." Thinking on those words, and asking God to show me what I needed to confess, He quickly reminded me that I had my own anger buried down deep in the bottom of my heart over the loss of my daughter - almost two years ago.

I was surprised. Caught off guard a bit. And so in my defense, I reminded God of what I had tried to do for Him through her illness. I had tried to be obedient. I read scripture. I had claimed God's promises. I had shared the story with the world. But as I defended my case, the truth came bubbling up and I began to see the real truth - that down in my heart, I held anger and resentment at God for not healing her. I felt great loss and despair of a frightening nature. I stopped in my tracks and confessed out loud to God, "I see it now. You are right - forgive me."

Then God said to me, "Through your obedience, your wrote truth. You shared what a life of faith looks like when you are blinded by despair. I, alone, kept you from acknowledging your own anger at me because it would have stopped you from writing. It would have sent you running into a cave. You are a such a little human, but I love you. The life Megan lived, she lived for me, not you, and I wanted this story told for my purposes. But you have to get rid of the anger or you will never have peace about it."

Peace is something we all desire, whether standing in a post office line, or the grocery story, or in the deepest part of our heart. We long for it - or at least we want to "just give it a chance" as John Lennon sang. We pray for it. We sing, "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me." But how do we find it? We ask for clarification from God above. We brace ourselves and ask Him to reveal whatever it is in our conscience that we are afraid to admit. But watch out. When He reveals it, we must obey or we will wrestle with it and our anger will show in all the wrong places.

I want to be like little Olivia - just three years old and content to take what had been thrown on the floor and make something out of it. Peace. She was content to wait in line for something too complicated for her. Peace. She trusted her caregiver. Peace. She looked around and smiled at the world, waiting and trusting as the day unfolded. Peace. Isaiah 11:6 says "A little child shall lead them."

Thank you, Olivia.

Book - Soon to be a Reality

I looked out the window to see lots of butterflies - monarchs and swallowtails everywhere, floating in the air and hanging upside down on the flowers. I think they gather in the late afternoon for their daily round-up of nectar - like we meet each other after work for a cup of coffee. In trying to give a name to this gathering of butterflies, I am told it is a "flutter" of butterflies. My first thought was that it is a "festival of friends" or a "choir" or a "company" of dancing butterflies. But flutter works. It means to wave or flap randomly - irregularly. Like the heartbeat of someone newly in love. Jittery, a little nervous, and pretty exciting.
It is not unlike my own feelings today as I take the final steps to make the book that I have written a reality. Hard to believe that three years ago, I began writing little updates to let family and friends share in the painful journey of the illness and death of my daughter. I continued to write after her death in September of 2008. In 2009, I "fluttered" at writing, flapping around irregularly, struggling with "how to write a book." I attended a writer's conference. I spoke with lots of knowledgeable people. I wrote and rewrote and threw away. Then in January of 2010, I committed to finishing the story and publishing it. By the middle of February, I finally felt I had written the story in a way that said it best. I then began to ask for help with the editing process from people I trusted and respected. Little by little, a book began to take shape. With the hand-holding of many people, it is done and ready to go to press with the title:
When God Comes Near
Waiting in the Miracle of His Presence
It is a story about hope. It is a story about faith when life falls apart. It is a story about choosing to believe in a God who was often silent, but always present. It chronicles the experience of receiving an incomprehensible diagnosis and waiting sixteen months for it to destroy the earthly life of beautiful 27-year-old Megan. And as the waiting continued, the writing progressed and wove itself into a thing of remarkable strength that helped me in my disbelief and despair.
As I say on this blog, I always wanted to write a cookbook. Well, this is hardly a cookbook. But my good friend reminded me that it really is in a way. He said it offers a recipe for walking through one of life's greatest hurts. Step by step, the book takes the reader from kicking and screaming in disbelief, to finding acceptance, and on to the discovery that suffering can be transformed into honey for others. Maybe that is what the book is - a small, transforming piece of hope that others can hold in their hand and read, discovering that they, too, can find hope and meaning through the valleys of life.
I continue to find quotes in Megan's papers. B.J. Hoff, the historical fiction author said, "I have learned to measure the ultimate strength of suffering, not by how much hurt it can inflict, but by how much of God's grace it will call forth." I look at the finished book, remembering all of the hurt, and yet, discovering the magnitude of God's grace that has been called forth throughout this time. Now I know that is the reason for writing and publishing the story. I hope you will read it and share God's grace.

In the Cool of the Day

The cool of a summer morning in my garden beckons me to work, work, work. As the sun comes up and the temperature rises, I move closer and closer to the shade of the porch and on into the cool of my home before the heat of the midday sun. The warming air feels good for a while, but some days the heat becomes unrelenting as the mercury climbs toward 90 degrees and above. And I run inside away from the heat realizing I am letting some things go in my garden. I become a fair weather friend, saying, "Ok, you're on your own now. I'm out of here. I have planted, fertilized, watered, and watched you. I cannot protect you from this heat. I'm sorry and good luck."
I make some notes as to what plants seem to do better in the extreme heat. Plumbago, my favorite blue annual from a more tropical region, is a perfect example of surviving. Maybe I will plant more of those next year in place of the petunias and impatiens who are screaming for relief. Their bright, happy colors have faded. I suppose they are a lot like people - they become somewhat pale and their veins recede further into their body when under stress. Preservation. Survival.
What makes us run when life get uncomfortable? Little things like the stacks of paperwork that needs our attention, or the laundry that needs folding, or the daily discipline of personal skills that need practice. Maybe it is simply writing a letter or calling a friend who needs our attention. We feel overwhelmed, overcommitted, and we run away from the heat of our responsibilities to find a cool place to find relief.
But finding what works to withstand the heat is a better option. Daily inspection of the garden does wonders for helping those struggling plants to survive. A little more water here and there, possibly some pruning or making a note to move something when the season changes will save the garden when the heat is unbearable. It applies to our lives as well. A quick, friendly call made, the paperwork sorted, work tasks and skills sharpened - whatever they may be - make for a meaningful day.
I ran into a friend the other day who is 86. She energetically told me that she took inventory at the end of every day as to what she had accomplished for good. She said she went over it with the Lord and allowed him to look over it as well and make recommendations or suggestions as to how tomorrow could be better. What if every day we began with the end in mind? What if we faced honestly the accountability of every part of our day? Would we be running or pruning? Watering or throwing out what was lost due to our own neglect? And at the end of the day, would we be willing to ask for and seek guidance from our Creator? Scripture says that God looked for Adam and Eve "in the cool of the day". He looks for us as well.