Being a "be-er" in a "do-er" world

There has been discussion as of late about "being" vs "doing." I am a "be-er." All my friends are "do-ers." A few weeks ago when I was in Colorado visiting my soul twin (a "do-er"), I was so content to sit in her sun room and stare out the window at the mountains for hours, especially when the abnormaltime snow came. (I thought she was going to push me off the mountain I made her so stir crazy in that cabin!) Ahhh... to sit and enjoy the sweet life that God has graced us with each day.

The time I enjoy being most is around 7 or 8 am when I'm still so sleepy that I'm a grump. Even though I despise the ungodly hour, I love the silence of it. I love how the coffee pot disrupts the silence and awakens all of my senses. Then to sit in the early morning light with two of the most precious gifts God has ever given: coffee and His Word. To sit there and read that He delights in me, He desires to give me more than I can ever ask or imagine, that He has given me His divine power to do more than conquerer type things and His spirit to be more like Him. That is a beautiful moment to be.

The necessity of this world calls us to "do" in order to survive, though, and so I have this new job that requires several weeks of training before moving overseas. This training--very DO oriented. All my "do-er" friends would be pleased with this schedule, while I sit and think, "what kind of international training is this? The word 'schedule' doesn't exist overseas, nor does business begin before sunup." So those early morning moments of just "being" with God have to be pushed back to 6am--or earlier. The be-er in me skirms in resistance to all the doing required of me in this place.

But I was reminded this morning that before Jesus sent the apostles out (to do), He called them to Him (to be). (See Mark 6). These crazy people around here may want me to do until my curly hair goes straight from running so much, but my Master has called me to be. And I'm just crazy enough to get up in the detested pre-six hours to be...with Him.

October Cotton

I have bruises on my feet from tripping over my suitcase.

You'd think I'd put it away, and yet I've been living out of it since at least May (maybe earlier, it's hard to remember anymore). I also have blisters (big ones) on my heels from wearing closed shoes for the first time since at least April. I figured since I would spending the fall in Virginia, I can't get away with my flip flops on a daily basis anymore and ought, therefore, to warn my toes. I should have warned my heels...

The trip this last week was to Opelika, Alabama, neighbor to the great town of AUBURN. War Eagle. It is amazing how quickly one can learn to incorporate that phrase to their vernacular. I donned my orange and blue for a week, wishing I'd chosen years ago to be a part of that tradition. Maybe I'll go there for my doctorate.

For a few days I was a southern belle, Scarlett for the 21st century. I drank sweet tea while sitting on the back porch of my cousins house, who is so far out in the country I was denied cable television, internet, and cell reception. They took me out for my birthday to the Good Ole Boys Restaurant, and asked if I wanted a cow bell rung in my honor.

As I looked at the fields of cotton that is ready to be picked on my drive home, I thought about the snow I'd seen the week before. October Cotton is the closest Alabama gets to seeing snow on a normal year. (Let us not forget that snow is so rare in the Dixie state that Scout Finch thought the sky was falling when she first saw it). I'd like to return some day to Alabama in October to go to the Syrup Sop Fest in Loachapoka... or maybe just to find that quiet spot on my cousin's back porch.

But the suitcase must move on for now.