This week I’ve rolled my eyes at the news about the trend in potty training for newborns. These moms are claiming their babies are able to communicate the need to potty and who’s baby’s bottoms will never feel a diaper around their chubby cheeks.

Back in the day when my kiddos were babies I had a pile of cloth diapers that I washed and folded daily. It was more work but the $avings was great. I did get diaper envy on occasion when my friends could wrap a burrito and toss while I did the swirl and flush with the cloth diaper in the toilet bowl. On occasion, I would splurge and purchase a box of disposables for the convenience. It was rare when I could afford them.

And while I did diapers the old-fashioned way, I fed my babies the old-fashioned way too. I breastfed my babies when all my friends used bottles. They enjoyed the new fangled playtex bottles with disposable inner liners, microwaving the formula to the perfect temperature in the middle of the night. Or at a 7-11 sandwich stop. I picked up my babies and fed them. No mess. No fuss. Perfect temperature every time.

I was renegade with my cloth diapers and mode of feeding amongst my peers in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. My choice of diapers was led by economy. My choice of feeding was led by desire, low maintenance and economy.

And when it came to potty training, I listened to the stories of my friends who claimed to have little Johnny potty trained at 1 year. Or little Susie staying dry at night by 8 months.

But I learned the real truth.

My mother filled me in.

The babies weren’t trained. The mothers were.

I have an office a few miles away but I only spend about half my day there. Its convenient and has all my work stuff lined up on my desk. It has my business phone and is the place where the mailman knows my name.

But my favorite place to work is in my own living room in my yellow french country chair with the red striped ottoman. I prop my feet up. I use my mouse on the arm of the chair. I turn on HGTV for background entertainment. And wedged in next to me is my favorite dog.

She jumps up to the ottoman, backs into place. And when she is thoroughly relaxed, she flips herself over onto her back for her nap.

Its an oddity of the wienerdog. They like to sleep upside down and under the cover of a blanket. Since its too hot for a blanket when she is next to me, I don’t provide that for her during the day. And even without the blanket to create her den, she dozes. Just like this.

How many business professionals do you know that can work with a wienerdog upside down sharing their chair? Its an art I enjoy.

Six or Seven years ago, I headed to a MOHS surgeon’s office for special work on my nose. My husband drove me but once we were inside the office, he was best sitting in the waiting room although they allowed family members to come to the OR to keep the patient calm.

Draped in a sheet, laying on a table with lights overhead I was awake and would remain that way throughout the day. The surgeon would not be putting me to sleep.

I was alone. I was frightened.

Right before the surgery started, the nurse entered the room and bent over me. “Your friend is here. Would you like her to come back here with you? She said she would come and sit with you.”

I nodded, gulping back the tears.

She had taken off from work to find me in this surgeon’s office, not knowing she would be allowed in. She sat with me, holding my hand. I couldn’t see her, but her presence calmed me. Her voice reassured me.

She noticed when my chin quivered. She championed my need for valium to calm me. She asked the doctor for additional local pain medication when she noticed me clinching her hand. And at the point where I didn’t know if I could endure anymore pain or anymore discomfort, she dug back in her memory to remind me of our life when our grown children were young and we spent the afternoons sitting at the park. The swing sets were full, the slides stayed busy.

“Remember when we took a picnic to that park?” “Remember those big trees?” “Remember how funny the kids looked when they chased each other?”

She took me back to years long ago, when life was filled with the sounds of children. Which was far better than the sounds in that surgeon’s office.

Hours dragged by with the warmth of her hands and the memories of our youth.

She helped me to my feet after the surgeon repaired my nose with a long line of stitches that was covered with bandages. I had gotten through the day because my friend of many years had been by my side.

Today I was able to spend a few hours with her. We spent the time picking right back up where we last left off. Remembering our youth. Swapping stories of our present.

Last week I had lunch with a new friend. We are making new memories. Spending energy to forge a new relationship. And investing the time to grow it.

Make new friends and keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.

I have seen firsthand the faithfulness of a church in the midst of difficult days.

I have seen firsthand the faithfulness of a staff to continue to care for the sheep.

I have seen firsthand the faithfulness of a search committee who were charged with the task of recruiting and managing hundreds of resumes looking for the one.

I have seen firsthand the faithfulness of our elders who stepped out in faith as God’s men with God’s responsibility to the church.

I have seen firsthand the faithfulness of our God to deliver us through it all.

To comfort us through it all.

To provide…..Our teaching pastor!

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.

He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;

but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40: 28-31

I often visit my sister in east Texas where the streets are cobblestone and the signs indicate the city is the oldest in Texas. Lots of history. Lots of antique stores.

I visit her a few times a year and with each visit we have a set agenda. We must go downtown to the antique stores. We must work out at Curves. We must eat a scone at Java Jacks. We must drink Diet Coke in the afternoon while we laze away the day, catching up with our lives. We must eat enchiladas at Rancho Grande.

Recently, in the midst of our normally pleasant visit while walking into one of the pleasant antique stores, our pleasantness was interrupted in the heat of a summer day.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a darting critter who ran along side the historic brick building, cutting in front of me, attempting to gain entrance to the store.

It was a rat.

Not a mouse, mind you. Not a tiny little mickey creature that made us go “Awww!”

It was a humongous, furry, ugly as sin, rat with a long tail and beady eyes that at the first sight caused me to jump up and down with a sound of squeal emitting from my throat involuntarily. My sister, not knowing why I was screaming and jumping up and down, joined me. It’s a sister thing.

Finally, her eyes traveled to the object of my panic and her squeal intensified just as the rat turned from the glass door and headed towards her. She jumped. I jumped. We screamed while the rat headed off the curb and across the street.

Traffic had stopped. For the red light. And for us. We were downtown entertainment and while the traffic came to that stop, the rat dove under a stopped car and disappeared from sight.

We poked out heads into the antique store to explain our street song and dance because we are, even in our fright, regular southern women who do not want to be impolite. We glanced through the store briefly before we headed to our appointments to have spa pedicures at McToe’s Nail Salon. Even the foot soaks couldn’t take our minds off the unpleasantness we had endured.

We placed a call to the city to let them know about the daylight sighting of the unpleasant rat monster on the downtown streets of Pleasantville.

And eventually, the scones helped.

And the enchiladas, too.

And just knowing that my sister will walk through anything with me, helps the most… even if its not Pleasantville.