Father's Day once invoked mixed emotions. As a teenager, I stood in the card isle at Hallmark and read a variety of cards written for Great Dads: sober, gentle, loving, protective, nurturing, participate-in-your-life dads. It was embarrassing to put them back as beloved sons and daughters wore reminiscent smiles and selected more than one. Often times I left the store empty-handed and instead opted to recite the phone-script written for children who aren't close to their fathers. It covers all of the basics: weather, work, and the whereabouts of siblings. Edit the opening line from "Hi Dad!" to "Happy Fahter's Day!"and you're all set.

I used to judge my dad for his weaknesses. It was easy to do before Christ rescued me and then lovingly brought me face to face with my own. He knew of the pain my children would one day endure. The divorce, the re-marriage to a man who was drug addicted.

He also knew of our redemption . . .

There's a dangerously narrow, bumpy, and busy pathway that leads to my neighborhood. The city of Fort Worth refers to it as a road. I was driving on their "road" last Friday night when I noticed a puppy running alongside. Moments like this supercede my ability to react sensibly. Suddenly, I'm Wonder Woman, stopping traffic to save a life-- with little concern for the safety of my own.

I pull over. Where the heck are my hazard lights! With no time to waste, I leave my new car parked and running, to chase after the little dog. Just before I get to him, he starts across the street in the midst of on-coming traffic.

"I can't take it!" I cover my eyes. I can't watch an animal get hit by a car. One near miss is all I can stand. I run to the middle of the road, extend my right arm, and yell, "Stop!" My new-found friend makes it safely across the street.

I follow him to a fenced yard and watch as he tries to find a way back in. I call out, "Hello! Anyone? Hello! Anyone?" The owner finally appears and thanks me profusely for rescuing his puppy. "Good-bye rescued puppy!"

As I walk back to my abandoned car, a neighbor passes by and stops. "Wendy, is that you? Is everything OK?" "Yes, Brenda. I'm fine. I had to rescue a dog. I'm the idiot who left her car parked up the street."

My husband loves dogs, too, but marveled at the trembling and tears that accompanied  my story. I have many. It's not unusual for me to call his cell fifteen minutes after I've left for work, with a request to report for duty. "I found him/her wondering the streets. I'm late for work! Feed the dog. Find the owner. Gotta go!"

The next day my husband came home and told me a story. "You won't believe this, but I just passed a crazy lady standing in the middle of the road with her hand up, yelling, 'Stop! Sorry, I'm saving a turtle! I'm a turtle lover!'" He then kissed his own crazy lady on the cheek and smiled.

"A righteous man cares for the needs of his animals" (Proverbs 12:10).

I love that God sees me and you, lost puppies, and even turtles.  He cares. I know He cares  because He lives in me, and I most certainly care.

Your desire to rescue, nuture, save a life, or simply make someone's day easier, is evidence of God's heart toward all He created. What are you passionate about? Will you concede that God is passionate about it too?

One of my favorite quotes is from the 2010 movie Alice and Wonderland. The Mad Hatter attempts to explain to Alice how she used to be:

"You're not the same as you were before. You were much more muchier. You've lost your muchness."

The more I think of that line, the more I believe it is the reason forgivness is often so difficult. We long  to be the way we used to be before [fill in the blank].

Before the affair, I used to be much more . . . trusting. I remember well, the bondage of that thought; how it delayed healing and forgiveness for many years. I longed for a glimpse of myself before I fell apart--before my world fell apart. I was so preoccupied with reaching for what I used to be, that I neglected to reach for God in the reality of my today. I have since learned the hard way that we cannot overcome what we deny.

It was time to get real with God: Before the affair, I used to be trusting, sweet, kind, generous, loving, hopeful, etc. Now I'm too hurt and afraid to be anything but impatient, critical, stand-offish, lonley, angry, and confused. I can't find my smile.

Confession is an art form. The more specific we are, the more expansive and colorful our freedom will be. How about you? Can you recall a time when you were "much more muchier?"

Try it. Before [fill in the blank], I was much more [fill in the blank]. I promise that if you confess this to God, he will restore your beauty. He will defend your muchness and you my friend, will remember who you are, and smile again.