I had a dream that felt sort of silly. The blip of remembering was simple, I looked in the mirror and saw myself having a day of “good hair”.

My hair is super thin and greying. My hair and I have always had an unhappy relationship.

What an odd dream, likely birthed from two conversations.

The first, a fun exchange, the second an honest answer.

I arrived early for my appointment with the doctor. I had my information and privacy forms completed in advance. The receptionist sort of celebrated that and smiled.

“I need an insurance card and her I.D.” she added. I provided both and she said…

“Tell her to have a seat and we’ll call in a few minutes.” One last question,

“Does she have an emergency contact, is it you?”

I answered yes and sat back down.

In a minute or two, I went back to the counter and in a sort of hushed tone I said…

“I’m Lisa.” And she was clearly puzzled.

I added quietly still, “You said “she” and “her” and I’m just curious why…is this a new protocol?”

And then to my surprise, she raised her eyebrows and mouthed an “Oh”.

She didn’t think I was the patient, she did not think I was 63 years old.

We both smiled and continued to chat about age and wrinkles and I told her so excitedly, she had “made my day”.

To know that I had been seen in a different way was the sweetest thing.

The kindest conversation.

Not like one that questions your age in a flattering way; no, one with sincere surprise that I was the patient, not the companion to an elderly parent.

“Lisa” they called and I was escorted to the scales. I slipped my shoes off, had to step off and on twice, the nurse said the scales were “being difficult”.

I acknowledged the seemingly unchangeable number was the same at home and casually said, “Good to know.”

And I had my check-up, scheduled another and went on with my day.

I bought a new bathing suit, one size smaller but seemed it may fit, lined in lavender and covered with painterly abstract flowers.

It was a bargain, really pretty.

Bought groceries, caught up with a friend and her husband who are grandparents to their second, a two-week old.

Then home to cook supper.

Decided to ask my husband a question, a sort of curiously brave wondering.

Not sure why, he’s super late to the game and needed a little education, but he decided to create a Facebook profile.

Now, he’s all in.

I warned him, it’ll draw you in. It seems he’s reviewed as far back as a few years ago, all of my posts, all of my content.

No worries, he’s often read this blog and he knows I can be a little deep, sometimes pitiful and I hope, always honest.

He mentioned a particular post of him recording a little song for one of our granddaughters on her little karaoke toy.

It was sweet. It was a few years ago.

Knowing he was familiar with my Facebook presence, I asked

“I post a lot about my faith, my struggles, my hopes, my learning to trust…The things I post are mostly about faith.

When you read those things, do you say to yourself, they don’t know the real Lisa, or she’s not really that way?”

Brave, right?

He answered, “No, not at all. It’s good that you’re that way. It’s good.”

Grace, right?

Just last night, I complained about something trivial and apologized for being “hateful” right away.

And last week, I came clean about my in general self-centeredness. The me that had become miserable and often, mean.

I’m learning to catch it quickly, see it for what it is, the enemy trying to taint the essence of me so that my light is too dim for others to see,

my story fading back to grim rather than walking towards the brilliance of light and living water worth sharing.

Healing from old mindsets is not a snap of the finger,

(I hope you know that)

It is a choice to choose the work of being a participant in healing, not a parader of our trauma as a reason to be hopeless or an excuse to be hateful, the darker side of you enveloping you.

When I bought groceries on the day my age was mistaken, I had in mind a gesture.

I cooked a meal for my daughter’s family, the meal (one of them) my mama was famous for.

My grandson and I sampled it.

It was lovely.

It was a small thing.

It came from that reservoir of grace God placed in my soul, the bubbling brook of mercy I don’t deserve, and the meandering path of my beautiful inheritance through salvation that I sometimes veer from because I get caught up in the before of me rather than the moment, the day.

And I find myself by the slightest ugly little pull, questioning the details of my life and I focus on what I don’t want to accept, the dark days of me and I’m prone to plop down in that dark dank place of not remembering good, only horrific

until I pray and count the gifts of today.

And I walk in the light, the place where my story, the lightness of it may give a little light to others on my way. And I notice and cherish unexpected light that came my way.

I felt old, a stranger blessed my day.

I felt hopelessly overweight, I was met by my own acceptance and a bathing suit that fit.

I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness. I apologized quickly and I cooked a meal with a nine-month old playing “drums” with a spoon at my feet.

All of my life, I have been loved.

I’ve often slipped and come close to falling.

I’ve been kept.

This is my story.

“The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.”
‭‭Psalm‬ ‭121‬:‭5‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Continue and believe.

The Lord is your keeper.