When You’re Redirected

Today’s the day! Around 10:00 AM, this little blog will redirect to my beautiful new author website designed by the team at Moody Publishers.

What a great new verb! Redirect means to send something to a new place or in a new direction.

Have you ever in your life been redirected to an unexpected place for an unexpected purpose? Most of my life has felt like I was going in one direction, and God “reached down from on high and took hold of me” (Psalm 18:16) to redirect me. I was like a toddler constantly moving towards danger or like a mouse in a maze that went to every dead end.

But God redirects. And when He does, something extraordinary happens.

I never planned or even imagined that one day Live with Flair would become part of a larger journey of writing and speaking. I never imagined that tracking thousands of ordinary days would lead where it has.

After all this time, I’m ready for a redirect because I trust the One Who Leads Me.

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Unlikely Sucess

Today, Jack alerts me to a beautiful bird in the Weeping Cherry.

He talks to the bird with that strange broken meowing sound, moving his jaw rapidly.  I’ve wondered for years why cats make this sound when they look at birds. 

My husband tells me that cats imagine eating the bird and therefore make munching sounds with their mouths.

Jack’s on the hunt, imagining success.  Would a cat ever capture a bird like this?  Unlikely.  Would a cat with one eye, indoors, catch a bird like this?  Never.

Still, the cat munches.  Still, he visualizes success.

Maybe one day.  The confidence of my One-Eyed Cat inspires me.  The bird flies from the tree, uncaught, and Jack, undaunted, settles under the lights of the Christmas tree.  Maybe, in his mind, he simply let the bird go. 

Oh, Jack, you crazy cat, living with flair, in lights for all to see.  You don’t give up.  We won’t either.      
__________________________
Happy Saturday!  Are you inspired to persevere today? 

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Make Yourself That Somebody

For months, my friend and I travel by this one treacherous patch of sidewalk on our walk to school–the place that dips down towards a jagged ravine of rocks and icy water–and say, “Somebody should really put a fence up.”

We rescue kids as they slide off the sidewalk, shake our heads and say again, “Somebody should really put a fence up.”

As the months go on, we realize how much we say, “Somebody should really…”–whether referring to cleaning the house, fixing something, or generally improving the world.

We laugh about this expression: somebody should really. . .

Who is this Somebody person?  Can I meet her?

It occurs to us that we are the Somebody.  We stop saying, “Somebody should really put a fence up,” and we decide to make ourselves that somebody.

I don’t know where to start, so I ask someone at the school who tells me I should “call the county.”  (I didn’t realize you can call people in your county and get help with things your community needs. You can!)  I look up in my phonebook the name of my township and call the number there.  A man answers the phone, and I explain that children are slipping off the sidewalk and falling into a ditch on the way to school.  Can we put a fence up?

“Yes,” he says.  “Let me check who owns that property, and I’ll send a crew out today.  We’ll take care of it.”

I even ask the man if he could make it a nice fence, charming, and not some metal thing with orange mesh reserved for danger zones.

He sends out his crew and builds our fence.

Now, on the walk to school, my friend and I look at that fence and remember to make ourselves that somebody.  

My Charming Fence

She says, “Somebody should really write a book with that title.”

Up the Big Hill Towards School

Somebody should.  If you make yourself that somebody, you can really change something.

In fact, what initiates my friend’s 100 pound weight loss last year is a t-shirt she sees that says, “Somebody should really do something about how fat I am.”

She decides to make herself that somebody.

I want to make myself that Somebody in 2011.

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“The Lincoln”

There’s a new challenge at the pool.  It’s more like a dare, and for teenage boys, it’s hard to resist.

It’s called “the Lincoln.”

I’m watching teenagers take running leaps off the diving board and land flat on their stomachs or backs.  But every once in a while, a boy will complete the impossible trick dive called the Lincoln.

You run, you dive, and mid-air, you turn to the side and do a side flip.

The Lincoln.

“What makes it so hard,” one teenager explains, “is physics.  You’re going one direction, and you have to tell yourself to turn to your side and do a flip in a perpendicular direction.”

I nod, wondering why it’s called the Lincoln.  Then I remember that gravity experiment when a penny falls straight down after you push the round tube it’s sitting on to the left or right.

All the older boys line up and try to do the trick.  Of the group, only one can do it.  The lifeguards cheer.  This is the stuff of summer legend.  Somebody can do “the Lincoln!” 

Then, a little boy, maybe 6 or 7, gets up on the board.  He runs, he dives, and, smooth as butter, turns to his right and flips in the air.  The Lincoln.  Collective silence all around.  The lifeguard stops twirling her whistle.

“No way,” the guy who knows the physics and how hard this dive is says.

The little boy, the one who hasn’t had physics yet and only knows gravity by experience–and not theory–, surfaces, smiles, and says: “That wasn’t hard.  I didn’t even have to think about it.”

Changing direction and form, mid-flight, is hard for anyone.  I hate change.  I hate everything about it.  But watching that little boy just get some speed and do it, without over-thinking the difficulty, inspired me.

Yeah it’s hard to do whatever it is I’ve got to do.  But today, I want to pick up some speed and do it.

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