tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63639329086021555202024-03-08T06:50:14.365-08:00What I KnowAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-86726243413703314372014-04-16T04:59:00.002-07:002014-04-16T05:18:25.038-07:00"Quilt Scraps" ~Shannon (Sosebee) McChristian<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My Grandma Sosebee always had a quilting frame up in her house. It occurred to me recently that my future grandchildren may never even see a quilting frame, in spite of the fact that it was such a regular and expected part of my own childhood. The quilting frame has gone the way of working large gardens and canning the food picked from them. There are still a few hold-outs who hang on to these traditions, but for the most part they have gone the way of the eight track tape and wall mounted telephone, fading into a time that is quickly becoming history.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The quilting frame of my childhood was a perfect indoor fort for us grandchildren, although Grandma would shoo us away if she caught us playing beneath it. I can remember laying quietly underneath the frame until she came to sneak in a few stitches, then grabbing her ankles and giggling as she squealed. If you multiply the grief I gave her by eight, which is how many grandkids she had under foot at one time or another, it’s amazing that I don’t ever remember her raising her voice to me in anger.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My grandparents didn’t have much money, but my first lesson in a charity cause was my Grandma’s church quilting circle. I must have been about ten when I understood how much money a quilt could be “raffled” for when the church ladies finished it. It was shocking to me to think that something I used just to wrap up in on the floor on Sunday mornings and watch cartoons, could be worth that kind of money. I had stacks of things Grandma had sewn and quilted for me in my closet. I was suddenly inspired to take her up on the sewing lessons she constantly offered me. I saw a great money making opportunity and couldn’t understand why Grandma wasn’t rich!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> After many hours of her patient tutelage and my sore and bloodied fingers, I decided the time and effort needed wasn’t worth the earning potential. Quilting was quiet and tedious work. More work than my ten year old self wanted. I was soon ready to rejoin my brother and my boy cousins outside, to chase chickens and fish in Grandpa’s pond.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Grandma often sewed baby clothes, hats and tiny quilts for the newest grandchild, dresses and shirts for the adults, and beautiful handmade doilies in between. Almost anything you could think of or need, she could find a pattern for. I can close my eyes and still see stacks of patterns, boxes of buttons, and multiple rolls of brightly colored yarn. On Sunday afternoons after a big lunch, the bolts of fabric would come out and she would share her latest projects. Occasionally a finished quilt would be brought out for all of us to “ooh and ahh” over. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Grandma always had “scrap” bags, and nothing was ever wasted at her house. This was a lady who saved every butter tub and bread bag she over purchased, and was amazed at ziplock bags. She carefully washed and reused every one many times. Grandma didn’t worry too much about decorating her house or how things looked. Every item stacked in her cabinets had a function and could be used many times. The things that had no oblivious use “might come in handy” and were saved for “someday when we may need that.” Left over food was scraped off the kids plates and fed to Grandpa the next day, then his leftovers were saved for the animals. Milk cartons were used for all kinds of good uses, cut and reshaped in every way I could imagine- and some I couldn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The point is that my Grandma had a good imagination and lots of ingenuity long before Pinterest was ever a thought. Oh, what she could have done if she had been able to Google “uses for quilt scraps!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As the oldest granddaughter and only girl in a houseful of boys, I had full access to the quilt scrap bags, and Grandma often encouraged me on one small sewing project or another, but I never developed her skill or natural talent for quilting. How I would love to sit in her lap again as she patiently guided my fingers and pulled out my crooked stitches.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Grandma’s social life, what little there was, centered around her little country church. And only as an adult did I understand how she must have looked forward to her afternoon quilting sessions with the other ladies. This was the closest thing to a support group or therapy session she ever took part in. These ladies prayed for each other, cooked for each other, and helped raise each others children. They talked quietly for hours at a time, sharing recipes and concerns about bills and cranky husbands. Many times in my daily life I long for a quilting circle of my own. I think my generation lost a treasured resource when we decided life needed to move a little faster…and in the process we gave up quiet afternoons in church fellowship halls, with our children playing at our feet, surrounded by women who loved and supported us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My birthday was last week (they come faster and faster these days) and I came home from work to find a handmade eight foot tall quilt rack that my dad had built for me. I spent this cold winter morning unpacking my Grandmas quilts and hanging them one by one over the rails, all the way to the ceiling. So many sweet memories are stitched into every piece of material. I can lay my hands on her straight even rows and feel so close to her. Some of the quilts still have county fair ribbons hanging on them. I had to swipe them from her house when she wasn‘t paying attention- as she doesn’t see the value of ribbons. Some have my name and the date they were completed stitched discreetly into a corner. One or two of the quilts are very tattered and old. After my house burned, she gave me those particular ones to replace the many I had lost in the fire. She had quilted them as a little girl with her own Grandmother. These quilts are some of my greatest treasures on earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> If she walked into my office right now, she would be puzzled and a little disappointed, as she always thought she had failed when we displayed a quilt instead of using it. She would be polite about it, but in her heart she thought it was “wasteful.” She made the quilts to keep her family warm. She knew what it was to be hungry and cold. Therefore much of her life was spent canning food for our bellies and making quilts for our beds. It was how she tried to show us her love. If I could make her believe one thing today, it is that she was very successful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My grandma couldn’t imagine a world when I would hang all those quilts on a rack just to look at every day. I often wonder what she would say about the waste I see in my world every day. I don’t think she understands it, and I’m glad she doesn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Lately I’ve been wondering what my own grandchildren will inherit from me someday. Sadly, it won’t be my quilting or canning skills. But I know I can tell them my stories. Stories of the many generations of love they come from. Stories of heartbreak and happiness, hard work and ingenuity. I can tell them about their sweet little great-great grandmother, and I can show them what she could accomplish with just a bag of scraps, a patient heart and a little love!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-18523922750127631252014-03-05T04:52:00.001-08:002014-03-05T04:52:27.466-08:00"Jeremy's Story" ~Isaiah 41: 9-13<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My baby is fifteen as I write this. He was the third chance God gave me to raise a child right. Third time is a charm. I like to tell the other two I just practiced on them. My husband travels for work, so most of the time these days it is only my youngest and me at home. He is my quiet one. My deep thinker. Blond and blue eyed. He is wise and funny and wonderful when he wants to be. My baby. My heart. My company in middle age. My surprise child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He almost didn’t exist. I had a boy and girl already. Two years apart. Typical American family. No plans for a third child. My older two were both in school. I was going back into the work force. Things were tight financially. My marriage to their daddy was struggling. Hard decisions were being made. I was facing raising my children as a single parent. I was hurting badly. Not in a good place. Scared and overwhelmed by the needs I couldn’t meet for the children I already had. Trying to hold on. Clinging by my fingertips. And that’s when God, in His infinite wisdom, decided to surprise me. An unplanned pregnancy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I wish I could say I trusted His wisdom gracefully, accepted His will, glowed in a Madonna type way. That’s what happens in the movies. But that’s not exactly the way my story really played out. I was angry and confused. I yelled at God, alone in the shower. I cried giant messy tears. A lot of them. I prayed. I questioned and reasoned. I told Him about His bad timing. About my bills. About the heartaches of my marriage. I told Him I wasn’t capable. I told Him I was weak. Empty. And I didn’t tell a soul that I was pregnant. For months. Oh, how scared I was for this tiny child I carried secretly. How unsure his future looked. I was devastated for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I had many angry questions, but God didn’t give me a lot of answers during that time. He was quiet in the face of my rage and uncertainty. Finally, calmly and gently, he gave me a promise to cling to. And it may have been the biggest one of my life. He led me to Isaiah 41:9-13. Please read it slowly. It’s a whopper. It quickly became my lifeline. I played it over and over in my mind like a broken record as I hung my head with morning sickness, crying into the toilet bowl. I taped it on the fridge and in my checkbook. Closed my eyes and repeated it to myself when the anger and fear overwhelmed me. ”Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” I felt so weak and unprepared to be what this child was going to need. I felt our chances of success together were slim. I was the epitome of “dismayed“. I was exhausted and terrified.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I gave birth in joy in spite of it all. My baby boy was sweet and perfect. And so loved. However, the years ahead proved that many of my fears would come true. Although his daddy and I hung on for a while, we did eventually divorce in a messy, heartbreaking way. Today we are on more solid ground. Our children will always link us. And our youngest is now the most active part of that link. He has a tribe of parents, stepparents and grandparents raising him and loving him. It’s not just me. Financially, things did get tough for a while. We all struggled. My faith was weak. Many times my children did not have all they wanted. But I promised my babies God would provide enough for the day. One day at a time. One hour at a time. It was a blind and trusting faith. And He did provide. We made it. We held on. He held on tighter. His mercy carried up through.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Understanding of my surprise pregnancy did not come quickly, or in a flash of insight. It took a long time. It has occurred slowly in these later years of parenthood. My older two are gone now, out into the world to make their own way. My husband is away from home a lot. And who is here to fill my days and nights? To make me smile? To tease me and torment me? My surprise child. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He is strong today in spite of my many and vast failures as his mother. I believe he is who he is today because of the prayers whispered in secret anguish all those years ago. I begged God to take him and mold him when I didn’t have the energy or strength. I begged Him to use him in a mighty way. He was born into such a mess, and yet he is grounded in God, firm in his beliefs. He is an example of what God could and did do, when I couldn’t and didn‘t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> This child’s strength and faith are a living example of God‘s bigger picture. I know he will do great things in God’s name. I can feel it in my bones. He is one of the Chosen. God had plans that I couldn’t comprehend. How awesomely they are now unfolding. I can see His living promise. He makes me laugh and love every day. And his middle name is Isaiah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-91286625312991110462014-02-12T05:46:00.003-08:002014-02-12T05:46:28.628-08:00"Leaving a Legacy" ~Shannon (Sosebee) McChristian<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Christmas Eve just came and went again…I spent it the same way I have for the last forty-four years, with my Grandma. She is ninety-three this year and is beginning to fade a little. I treasure every moment with her these days. She is the only one of my four grandparents still living. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I found out over Thanksgiving that I will be a “Grandma” myself soon. In case you are the only person in the Charleston area I haven’t told about it, I’m on cloud nine! The news has caused me to do a little reflecting on my own grandparents and what they meant in my life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The four of them could not have been more different. But as I reflect in my adult years, I find that each of them played such a key role in developing me into who I am today. I’m grateful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My earliest memories include my grandparents farm in Ozark, trailing my grandfather as he tended chickens in his chicken house, fed dogs, horses and other assorted animals, all the while whistling and singing old church hymns. He was a large man, a giant in my little eyes. He only had one arm, but could hit a baseball, lead a church service, serve in County office, and spank a child if needed. He always had a large garden, and worked sun-up to sun-down it seemed. He was a church planter, led worship in a lively voice, and didn’t put up with those who didn’t sing along in services. The only thing I remember that he had trouble with was tying his shoes. One of my sweetest memories is seeing my little Grandma kneel each morning to tie them for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In his later years, he began to have “sugar issues” and was limited on sweets. This was a big problem, as my Grandma was an excellent cook. Many days he would send her outside on one errand or another and have me stand guard at the door while he downed half a pie or a plateful of cookies. The first time I was an accomplice to crime was in my Grandma’s kitchen. He and I would giggle uncontrollably while she chastised him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Grandpa was the head of our large Sosebee family. No one doubted it. Until the day he died, I never saw one of his children or grandchildren “talk back” to him. His three grown sons, including my daddy, always knew their place. Every Sunday afternoon, we would all attend church, followed by a huge pot-luck meal. Then Grandpa would take his place in his chair with an assortment of grandchildren fighting for a place on his knee, where he would pull out his old harmonica and play church hymns while my aunt played the piano and we all sang along. In the summer, the men would gather out under the shade tree in the yard and visit, while the women stayed in the house talking about quilting, canning and babies. The children played hide and seek, chased chickens and fought and made up. It was an unspoken rule that we never turned a television on, never mowed a yard, never missed a Sunday. That was understood. It was a day for worshipping God, visiting with family, and joyful rest. Oh how I miss those Sundays. How I took them for granted. I treasure those memories now. Sometimes I close my eyes and go back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My Grandma Sosebee was the opposite of Grandpa in many ways. She eloped with him when she was eighteen and he was thirty-two. Her dad was opposed because of his so-called “handicap” and so, after a secret courtship during church services, she took off and married him, leaving a hard life behind. They had a long and fruitful marriage, but it wasn’t until later years that I ever heard her stand up to him. She is a gentle and meek woman, but I have heard her “let him have it” on occasion- such as in the aforementioned pie and cookie incidents! Grandmas life has been a life of service. The lessons this lady taught me can’t all be listed. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, sewed, knitted, taught Sunday School, and baby-sat several generations of children to supplement their meager income. She raised five children, buried one, and had a large hand in raising us eight grandchildren. She’s working on the great grandchildren now, and my grandbaby will make her first great-great grandchild. Little did that scared eighteen year old girl know what God had planned for her. Grandma always had a baby in her lap or under her feet. She taught me to read my Bible, holding it in her lap with a bookmark underlining one sentence at a time. Taught me the books and stories in it, and taught me what patience really meant. Grandma always had time for me. As a child, there was nothing more important than that. I still get to spend some Sundays at my Grandmas. She still sews a little, still hugs me tight. Still inspires me and makes me strive to be a better person every day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My other grandmother we called NeNa. She was a “Lacy” from the Booneville area, raised in a family of nine beautiful girls and handsome boys. From her childhood she was different from her brothers and sisters- she dreamed of escaping small town life. She succeeded most splendidly, becoming a model in Tulsa, Ok, which in those days was the “big city,” very glamorous and far away. She was a head turner in every way. And left a trail of broken hearted men in her path. She gave birth to two children, one of which she also buried when he was twenty-one. The other was my mom. The pride of her life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> By the time I came along, she had settled in Barling, happy in her single life. She lived in a cute little house that seemed like a museum to me, with crystal in her china cabinet and beautiful knickknacks scattered about. I loved to go to her house, where I was the only child present and the center of everything. I felt like a “grown-up” there. We looked at fashion magazines and she let me sit at the kitchen table with her round lighted make-up mirror and practice putting on lipstick. She was of the impression that neither of us should ever leave home without it. She could dance like nobody’s business, and won several local contests even in her later years. She had a closet full of beautiful dresses and shoes, and put them all to good use.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In later years, when I was grown with toddlers, I would go and take her on her weekly shopping trip for groceries and necessities. I knew to “dress up” a little because if not, she would lecture me on appearances and taking care of myself. She kept an immaculately clean house, and baked a very good carrot cake. The lessons she taught me have grown in importance to me as I’ve gotten older. I learned many things from watching her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember her coming out to our little Vesta farm on the prairie to visit. She stuck out like a sore thumb. She was usually wearing her fur coat, lipstick perfectly in place and hair teased and colored. She was the talk of the town when we drove in to get cow feed in the old farm truck. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up and be her. Every time I put on my lipstick and jewelry these days, I realize that a little part of her lives on in me. I am so thankful I had her in my life, to learn from and to love. She was a beautiful lady. She loved her daughter, my mom, with a blind and total love. And that love extended to me, her granddaughter. There is nothing greater than that. I’m so thankful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> One of the men she left behind was my other grandfather, my “Papa Bud.” My earliest memory of him was while he worked full-time for Synergy Gas and lived in Ft. Smith. That may have been his “job,” but our little family on the farm was his “life.” On Saturday mornings, Cody and I would stand in the dusty driveway watching down our dirt road for his truck to come. He would arrive for the weekend, bearing bags of candy for us. Many times he bought us things that mom and dad could not afford. He had a giving spirit that my brother inherited. He spent his life helping others in quiet ways, and following us grandkids around. I thought he would literally “bust” with pride when Cody started performing in and winning junior rodeos. It was all he talked about. I remember when I was in junior high school and made the cheerleading squad- I came home to find a crooked hand lettered sign duct-taped to our old back door that said “Congratulations Sissy!” At some point he retired and moved into a little trailer up behind our house. He loved to walk down and take over the kitchen from mom, cooking whatever squirrel or rabbit had not escaped the hunting posse at our house that week. He loved fishing, music and baby animals. What I remember most about my Papa Bud is that he taught me laughter and fun, and to help others every chance I got. Great lessons from a quiet and hard-working man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Four great people. Four great lives of lessons lived out that formed the person I am today. I miss them all every day. The thing they all had in common was that they took time for me and made me feel like the center of their world. I pray every day that in the midst of the busy world I inhabit today, that I can slow down and have the time, energy and love to do the same for my kids and grandkids. This is what God intended. This is how one generation should carry faith, love and family history to the next. It is my firm belief that many foundational life lessons should be learned while sitting on a grandparents knee…I had some of the best. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I’m so thankful.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-71109431563382446402014-02-03T04:53:00.004-08:002014-02-03T04:53:53.359-08:00"Broken Pieces" ~by Shannon McChristian<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There is a beautiful church in the little town where I grew up, built with ancient stones and colorful stained glass windows. The first time I visited it as a child, I stood amazed. I couldn’t concentrate on the message, the songs, the people. Just the windows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They were amazing. The sunlight poured through the color, changing the scenes minute by minute. They told the story of Christ. Scene by scene, image by image. They showed His suffering, His glory, as clear as day. Without using a word. Amazing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was an innocent little girl then. But those windows stayed with me as I grew. As a teenager, I sang a favorite “special” over and over in our little country church. It was called “Broken Pieces.” The words are embedded in my mind, even today. The song was about God being able to put things back together, when life has fallen apart. At the time, when I was young, it was just a song I memorized. But it seemed to speak to my heart somehow. I realize now that God was preparing me, even then. Giving me tools.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Many years later, my well-ordered, perfectly-planned life had fallen apart. I was filled with pain, ugliness and sin. Broken. Shattered in a million tiny pieces that ripped my heart and soul apart with every deep breath I took. I couldn’t go to work, couldn’t see friends or family, found it impossible to walk into church and face people. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I could pray, and I did. Constantly, without ceasing, asking for Him to restore me, rebuild me from scratch, make me feel whole again. Take the ugliness away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And amazingly, over the days, months and years, He began to put my pieces back together. One tiny slice at a time. It seemed an impossible, time-consuming task. It seemed hopeless. Pointless sometimes even, at least to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Some pieces were jagged and rough. Some smooth and liquid. Some ware dark and stormy, others clear and pale. But patiently He worked, day by day, reattaching the shreds, fitting the tiny pieces gently together and pouring His grace in the cracks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And a funny thing happened. The more scripture I studied, the more I prayed, the more I suffered, the more He revealed Himself and His truths to me. I lived in His world. I depended on Him completely, trusted Him deeply, relied on His strength, wisdom, and forgiveness to get me through each hour, each long day. And all that time He was rebuilding me into His plan. In His grace, He still is. All these years later.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As I say often, my favorite Bible character is Peter, without a doubt. Peter, Jesus’ loudest cheerleader. The one who pledged to witness and protect. Big plans, big promises, loud praises for all to hear. But God knew Peter was shallow. Nothing to back up the claims. No spiritual depth or knowledge. And when the chips were down, Peter folded, fell apart. The hardest thing for Peter, I think, must have been the next morning. Waking up to the truth and the consequences. Waking up knowing the world as He planned it was shattered and broken. Wondering where to go from there. Feeling like an embarrassing failure. But Peter is a story of redemption. Of God slowly and lovingly rebuilding him from the ground up. And in the end, God used him mightily, in spite of his own weaknesses. He put Peter’s pieces back together again, just like in the nursery rhyme. Just like me. Me and ‘ole Peter have a lot in common. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> These days, I can’t look at a stained glass window without tears springing to my eyes. For they represent what I strive to be. Many jagged, hopeless, shattered pieces that have been restored to make up colorful, changing pictures of Christ. That’s me. Stronger than before, better in spite of the breaks. My edges have been smoothed, my gaps filled in. Yes, I am a work in progress. I have to be maintained, patched up here and there. But I am so much stronger and better that the big shallow piece of clear glass that I once was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And I hope as people look at me, at my jagged pieces, my different colors and textures, as they delve more deeply into my picture, all they will see are the images that are reflected of His life, His work, His grace and forgiveness. His amazing, patient, loving Restoration. That is, just like Peter, the finished picture I want to reflect.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-7119602796367692552014-01-17T05:01:00.002-08:002014-01-17T05:11:09.009-08:00"A Time to be Thankful..." ~Psalm 106:1 <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It’s not Thanksgiving…and yet I am so thankful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am in the middle of Wedding season…my oldest son got married in the Spring. My middle child, and only daughter, will marry in the fall. It’s early summer now. I am in the middle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Both have had rocky relationships in the past. Not your usual teenage drama, but serious, scary, run-for-your-lives relationships. I have cried, prayed, begged and let go…then grabbed hold again. I watched and waited, praying we would all come out of them unscathed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And the miracle of it all is, we did... I am so thankful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I publicly and privately gave my son to God when he was a baby. And it’s a good thing I did, because it took God’s daily help to raise him. Every day, some days every hour, he was a challenge. I loved him greatly and disciplined him greatly. And prayed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He was always the leader of the pack, whether on the football team or church youth group…he was the instigator and the inspiration. He was strong in his ideas and beliefs. Which is another way to say he was stubborn. I loved him with all my heart, even on the days when he broke it. A child like that is a challenge and a joy. The joy just takes patience sometimes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As a young man he drifted away from God’s plan. He had the wrong friends. He did the wrong things. He was in a serious long-term relationship that wasn’t right for him. I watched the path of destruction he walked on. I talked until he wouldn’t listen. Cried until I was dry. Gave up and tried to quit many times. But moms don’t get to quit. We love too hard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My daughter was born two years after him…and as happens so often, she was his opposite in almost every way. Blond hair and green eyes, tiny and sweet. She was a joy from the start. Sitting quietly for hours, watching her whirlwind of a brother entertain her. She didn’t talk until she was three because he talked for her. She was eager to please. A follower, loyal and true. She hated conflict of any kind. She was our laughter and joy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Our divorce messed her up…she was thirteen. A hard age to face the things we faced. She got caught in the crossfire, swept up in the whirlwind. Deposited in the debris that was the life we had left when the dust settled. She didn‘t complain. I thought she was okay, but she wasn’t. She just didn’t tell me. And I didn’t understand. But I prayed. More than ever before.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> What followed were several years of the biggest heartbreak of my life, as I watched my baby girl struggle. She also left God’s will…in a much quieter and less rebellious way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> So now I had two in crisis. In very different ways, one publicly, one privately. Both just as heartbreaking. I felt helpless and overwhelmed. Out of my element and over my head. Some days I couldn’t breathe. I was in a battle. Spiritual warfare. <i> If you don’t believe it’s real, you</i> <i>haven’t been where I’ve been</i>. I prayed and I cried. I screamed and I begged. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">...Alone with my God. Many times He seemed far too silent. But I prayed some more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Hours passed, one by one, then days, months and years. There were not any simple solutions, not any quick fixes. Daily, continuous, soul-wrenching prayer. That’s what saved us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It’s been many years as I write these words. We are in the middle of Wedding Season at our house. But, as you can imagine, it feels more like Thanksgiving.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Both of my children have chosen mates well. My daughter-in-law grew up far away from us, being molded and shaped into an angel for my son. They are a good fit. And she handles his stubbornness like a pro. She told me this week that he has been starting to share his testimony with the youth group in their church. I could only smile. Bet those kids are in shock!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And as for my precious little girl, I prayed so often that God would send the “Perfect Guy.” Someone to cherish and love her unconditionally, someone to show her what a healthy relationship could be. I could only laugh when she introduced him and his name was actually Guy. My God took my prayers literally. As he so often does. I couldn’t have chosen anyone more “perfect” for her, even if it was up to me. Glad it was up to God instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> So I am in a thankful phase…just sitting back and watching answered prayers walk up church aisles to marry. Seeing God's big picture unfold. The "mess" become a "message." Seeing my babies restored and stronger than ever. Believing in miracles. Believing in prayer. Believing in God’s promises.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Love Never Ever Fails. Neither does He. I’m Thankful.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-27975434542633340962014-01-01T15:56:00.006-08:002014-01-01T15:56:52.113-08:00"The Tin Cup" ~by Shannon (Sosebee) McChristian<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Thinking today about an old tin cup. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When my kids were small, I often tried to “create” good memories for them. I thought somehow by making a huge deal of the happy moments, I could balance out or erase the bad ones. Of course it didn’t work that way. Now they are adults, and when we discuss their childhoods, I don’t remember half of the events they can describe in vivid painful detail. And they seem to remember more negative things than positive. Epic fail on my part. My efforts to pick and choose only happy memories for them failed miserably!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When I think back to my own childhood memories, I realize the difference in the generations was that my parents didn’t have some of the luxuries I did as a mother. They were too busy trying to keep us all fed and clothed to worry too much about what memories we would have. The “creating” of memories was left up to the will of God, which is as it should me. Most of the time, we can’t successfully force happy memories. Sometimes they just happen. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And so that brings me back to the tin cup.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We lived on a farm. It didn’t look like the farms I see in glossy magazines today. But it was a farm none the less. We had cows and horses, dogs and more dogs, barn cats and occasional goats. Eggs to gather and babies to birth. Prairies, ponds and pastures. Old hay barns to play in, and a mountain in the background to climb and explore. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets. It was a farm all right. And a wonderful place to grow up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> One of the advantages of a farm like we had was self-sufficiency. My parents worked hard to raise animals that provided meat for our table and vegetables that made up our side dishes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We had a small garden plot near the house that was handy to send us kids running out to just before supper, maybe to grab a couple of last minute squash to fry, or a tomato to slice up fresh. Nothing has ever tasted better to me till this day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But the real garden was about a half mile away. The big garden. Part way up the mountain. We called it a “truck patch.” Maybe because you could easily drive away with a truck-full of fresh grown produce on any fall day. We would ride our ponies bareback to the patch, or maybe catch a ride on dad’s open tailgate, bumping through mud puddles and squealing with delight when our hot bare legs got sprayed with muddy water, bare feet dangling and brushing the ground. Those dangling legs are how we measured our growth, mine were always longer than my baby brothers. Wondering now at what point he outgrew me…been a while since we’ve ridden on a tailgate side by side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m sure that large truck patch was a lot of work each year for my parents. That’s not the part I remember. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember all of our relatives coming to work side by side on weekends. I remember racing down the perfectly straight dirt rows. I remember running wildly with my cousins and the neighborhood kids, climbing in the trees nearby. Climbing the nearby mountain. I remember on long summer days when our parents were busy, how my brother and I would “sneak away” alone to the truck patch and work together to lift a big watermelon high above our heads. Then turn it lose and watch it bust into edible pieces. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There is nothing better on a hot summer afternoon, than to sit barefooted in the dirt and eat a watermelon without any silverware. I dare you to try it. (But don’t tell my dad we did that. We told him it was wild animals. And I’m just sure he believed us. In spite of the tiny human footprints in the dirt.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I have gotten off track. I wanted to talk about the tin cup.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Up behind the truck patch, on the side of the heavily wooded mountain, ran a little stream of water. We called it a creek. The water was icy cold and crystal clear. The rocks scattered throughout had been washed smooth and stayed cool year around. It was a quiet place. Shaded and peaceful. Perfect for a mid-day break from working in the heat of the huge garden. That creek was one of the happiest places of my life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a small tin cup that hung from an old piece of hay-baling wire, high in a tree limb above. I remember my Grandpa holding me up so I could “get it myself.” I remember that cool water trickling down my hot dusty throat. I remember noon-day breaks sitting near the creek to eat our sandwiches. All the people I loved most in the world spread out resting and visiting in the shade around me, with the sounds of the creek running close by.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’ve lived in nice houses since then, with air conditioning and cool showers. I’ve had fancy smoothies and cold milk shakes on hot summer days. I’ve taken naps in luxurious hotels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I’ve never rested better than on those hot summer afternoons by the creek. I’ve never tasted a better drink than from that old tin cup, with my Grandpa’s calloused hand holding it steady. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And I don’t think I ever will.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-67353296095587068482013-12-23T20:16:00.001-08:002013-12-23T21:01:46.410-08:00"The Mirror...a Christmas Memory" <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Two of my (grown-up) babies got engaged at the same time this last Christmas season. I caught myself thinking several times that this might be my best Christmas ever. It brought back a long forgotten memory of what really was perhaps my favorite Christmas gift ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was about twelve or thirteen, and it had been a lean year financially for our little family on the Vesta Prairie. It was cold and we were broke, but that isn't the part I've been remembering... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Christmas was coming, and I had my mind on the expensive designer jeans my “town friends” were wearing. I was experimenting with make-up and spending hours locked in the bathroom curling my hair, surrounded by clouds of hair spray. The teenage years were hitting fast and furiously. My emotions were spiraling out of control. I spent the majority of my time with the phone receiver cradled to my ear and the cord stretched to my bedroom. Gossiping with my friends about cute boys, piles of “Teen” magazines scattered across my bed. I wanted to be a rich glamour girl. I wanted to live in New York City. I had a ways to go. In every sense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My dad and his brothers had been out hunting in the woods on our mountain every night, coming home late and exhausted. They skinned the animals they killed and sold the skins. “Hide” money funded my parents Christmas shopping. I lived in a state of constantly conflicting emotions, stuck between praying for those poor animals to get away, and hoping for money to buy those designer jeans.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Dad spent more and more time working out in the barn at night, often going back out in the cold weather after supper and staying until long after my brother and I went to bed. I assumed he was skinning animals. I avoided that barn as much as possible. I can smell it in my mind, even today.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> After much anticipation, the long-awaited Christmas morning finally dawned…my brother and I opened the gifts stacked under the tree one by one. I can’t remember what they were that year…maybe make-up or a cassette tape for me, maybe a football for Cody. No wrapped expensive designer jeans- and I tried not to show my disappointment… but then Dad slipped outside when we were almost finished, hurrying out to the barn and coming back with something wrapped in black trash bags. He handed it to me excitedly…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He had secretly spent those hours late at night out in that barn with all those stinky skinned animals- in the one place he knew I wouldn’t snoop- building me a large oval make-up mirror surrounded by lights. He fashioned the frame, positioned the mirror and attached it, ran the electrical cords and carefully screwed in the large bulbs…all with money we could hardly do without. It was beautiful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I can close my eyes even today and easily remember the excitement on his face when I squealed with joy as he carried it in from the cold outside. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mom spent Christmas Day hanging my mirror above a fancy new vanity table, with its short and padded stool. Oh, the many happy hours I spent primping in front of all the bright lights, pretending I was headed to model for a fancy magazine, applying and reapplying my make-up, modeling every outfit I owned. Getting ready for the day I would move away to the big city.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It’s been about thirty years since that Christmas morning so long ago. I’ve received a lot of presents and given a lot of presents myself, many of which cost much more than that mirror did. But I’m not sure I ever received a gift that had more effort and thought put into it, or brought me more fun and happiness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I still lived in the country. I was still poor. I would never model for a magazine or even own those fancy designer jeans…but each and every time I sat in front of those bright lights, in my private little dressing room… lost in my pretend world…I was glamorous and rich. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I never made it to New York City. At least not to live. Never fulfilled many of those teenage dreams. As I got older, other dreams replaced them. Better dreams. Of family and faith, and small town life. It took me a lifetime to understand that I wasn’t poor- even in my childhood, but rich in ways that I wouldn‘t understand for many years…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-73297628716024401832013-12-17T19:44:00.000-08:002013-12-19T04:55:06.261-08:00"The Gathering Place"<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’ve been home alone this week, trapped by snow and ice, and without electricity, like so many others here in the Charleston area. I’ve had some unexpected quiet time, broken only by the sharp crack of limbs breaking and falling in our back yard. Made me start thinking about how much I love trees. And one in particular.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In previous generations, kids in small towns such as ours gathered in sand lots to play pick up baseball games, unencumbered by the watchful eyes of referees or coaches. Playing long into summer evenings and running home to supper when the sun began to set. And maybe, once they were driving age, those same kids gathered at the local drive-in, where they compared cars and clothes and ate ice cream under warm summer skies. These days my teenager and his friends gather at the local high school gym in the evenings to shoots some baskets, and probably discuss the same issues as so many before them. The gym is their “gathering place.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Young kids and old men have a tendency to gather and visit. I think the rest of us, hurrying from place to place and activity to activity, could learn some lessons from them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> To get back on track, my brother called recently to tell me he was cleaning up around our old home place and planned to cut down the big tree in the side yard. He knew he should call. He knew I would want to know. He knew I would be sad. And he was right. That tree was the “gathering place” of our childhood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We were country kids, raised almost seven miles from town. We rode an old bus to school and back every single day, an hour each way, through winding dirt roads. With dust blowing in through the lowered windows, sweating in the summer and freezing in the winter, it felt like seven hundred miles instead of seven. I don’t remember my parents worrying too much about our comfort in those days. I think they worried more about our character. Riding that school bus taught me many things. Some good and some bad. I suffered a little. But I think now my parents had the right idea. Suffering just a little bit as a child taught me many good and enduring character traits. Makes me worry a little for the generation we are raising now. Afraid they are entirely too comfortable. Don’t think they are spending much time climbing leafy trees or riding hot buses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Anyway, the point is, we didn’t have a ball field or a gym to enjoy. We didn’t have a drive-in anywhere in Vesta, USA. What we had was a tree in the yard. And a lot of boredom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It wasn’t just an ordinary tree. It was perfect as far as trees go. The trunk was several feet around, solid and sturdy. It split about four feet off the ground into several thick low limbs that were perfect to get a first foothold, then continued up for forty or fifty feet, horizontal limbs branching off in all directions. I think God planted that tree as a special gift to Cody and me when he plotted out the blueprint of the world. Our world was small, and some days never expanded any farther than those cool, leafy branches.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When we were really young, dad poured us a sand pile. Oh, the excitement! There was no frame except for the thick tangled roots of the tree standing proudly above, and no expensive pesticides to keep away the tiny bugs, which we caught and kept for pets. We buried broken toys we found at the city dump, and old pennies we shined up, then dug them back up, over and over again. We built elaborate miniature houses from rocks, and used sticks to form long, curving roads and deep lakes, which we filled with muddy water. We fashioned various schools and churches (although at Cody’s insistence, the schools stayed closed year around). We tried unsuccessfully to grow plants in our sand pile, transplanting grass cut by the lawn mower and watering it faithfully.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> After many years that load of sand was swallowed by the damp earth underneath, and there remained only a trace of what had been. Our sand pile was gone forever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> At some point in those early years, my brother decided he would grow up to be a professional bull rider. I don’t remember anyone ever telling him it was unlikely. In fact, my dad hung an old rusty barrel from the low branches of the tree and he commenced to practicing! I spent countless long hot hours pulling on the four ropes that suspended it, making his “bull” turn to the left and right, bucking and twisting the barrel until he landed in the left over sand pile, standing quickly to throw his hat in the air and wave to the imaginary crowd that cheered wildly. Those who were surprised that he actually grew up to earn a good living in the Professional Rodeo world were not with me under that tree all those hot summer days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I, for one, was not surprised at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> On the other side of the tree, we had an old tire swing that was never still. We were not the only ones who made good use of it, as we often tied unsuspecting farm animals in against their wills, naked broken baby dolls, and even an occasional adventurous adult! The rope had to be replaced periodically due to use and abuse, as we would sometimes load it down with three or four neighborhood kids at one time and swing high, stretching the tire to the ground, where it would hang and rub in the smooth dirt below until dad climbed the tree to loop the rope over the branch a few more wraps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Many summer days found us eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking kool-aid under the tree while pretending we were far away from home on a fancy picnic. We attempted to ignore that fact that mom was delivering discreetly from her kitchen fifty feet away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As we got older, we had family birthdays and country church picnics under the sprawling branches, resting afterward, spread out in the shade, slices of garden fresh watermelon resting in our laps, sticky juice dripping from our chins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Years later, I grew up and got married, gave birth to my first child, and took him straight home from the hospital to live in our old home place. I had the satisfaction of seeing him play under the old tree, just as we had a generation before. It was starting to droop a little, not producing as many leaves. But it still had the strength to host one more group of children playing happily beneath it’s sheltering branches, puppies and mud puddles close by. I’m so grateful for that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My kids are grown and married now, and many years have passed. I’ll have my own grandchild next summer. But I think often of my time as a child, playing under that tree. It was a simpler time. A time when “busy” lived somewhere seven miles away in town, and our vivid imaginations ruled our simple country world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When my brother called recently to say it was time to cut it down, I knew in my heart he was right. It had been leaning slightly, with rotten branches slowly splitting, for several years. It was becoming a danger in it’s old age. It was time to let it go. And so we did. But it felt like we had lost an old friend. Some might not understand. Some might point out that it was “just” a tree. But they would be wrong. It was the “gathering place” of a happy childhood. And gifts like that aren’t easily replaced. Good memories seem harder to make these days. Long carefree summer afternoons are fewer and far between.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am thankful for the gift God gave us all those years ago. The seed he planted and nurtured. I am thankful for those sturdy familiar limbs where we whispered secrets and dreams. I am thankful for parents who didn’t structure our time and energy, but turned us loose to explore and imagine. I am thankful that I learned the seasons of life not from a book in the school library, but from vivid changing colors of an old oak tree that allowed me to nap often in its leafy branches, under a calm and clear blue sky. I am thankful that I got my first glimpse of what heaven may be while lying in the limbs of that old tree, watching clouds drift lazily by, far above my little world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am thankful, most of all, for the gathering place of my youth. Thankful for the lessons it taught me and the adventures it gave. My tree is gone now, like it never existed at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But always, always…my sweet memories remain.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-24580183887237817182013-12-04T18:07:00.001-08:002013-12-04T18:07:43.126-08:00"The Holy Hush" ~Zephaniah 3:14-17<i>“Shout for joy, O daughter of Zion! The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. He has cleared away your enemies. You will fear disaster no more. He will exult over you with joy, He will be quiet in his love, He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.” ~Zephaniah 3: 14-17</i><br />
<br />
I’ve never heard these verses before. Never studied them that I remember, but I heard them in a sermon recently and they shook me to my core. When they were being read, the tears just streamed down my face, and even now, weeks later, they threaten again as I type these words.<br />
I struggle with my sins. Even now. Years after being saved. Years after God’s mercy washed over me. There is rarely an alter call when I don’t confess them again, and again, and again. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to convince God just how bad I really am. Like He doesn’t already know. He does. He’s heard all the details. Many times over. And over. And over.<br />
It's always been hard for me to wrap my mind and soul around mercy and forgiveness. The truth is I crave judgment instead of mercy. I feel ashamed. I often sit in a church crowd and hope they won’t discover how bad I really am. An imposter. Not worthy. Not clean.<br />
I am serving a prison sentence inside for things I’ve done. A prison sentence that no one sentenced me to. It is self-imposed. But just as stifling. My invisible bars sometimes keep me from speaking up, singing loudly, teaching, serving, reaching out. Which of course, is a form of failure resulting from failure, sin resulting from sin. It’s a cycle. And a prison. My bars are solid. My jumpsuit striped black and white. Sin and mercy side by side. <br />
It’s been pointed out to me on occasion that my feeling this way is a slap in the face to the power of Jesus’ blood to cleanse. Do I not believe his grace is sufficient? Do I not trust His mercy? My sins were wiped away. He can’t see them anymore. I believe that. I really do. But <i>I </i>can still see them clearly. They are etched on my soul. And they still hinder me, cripple me, every day. Consequences remain.<br />
You can understand why these verses hit me so hard. It’s been years since I shouted for joy. Or even spoke it loudly. I don’t shout. I don’t speak up. Satan has his hand firmly over my mouth. My failures have smothered my "joy shouts". I’ve always felt like God knows this. We have an understanding. The shouting part is for other people. The people with enduring marriages, perfect children, bills paid and savings accounts firmly in place. The “<i>got-it-all-together-and-know-where-I-put-it-people</i>.” You know some of them, don’t you? The holy hush crowd. Sometimes it’s hard to shout for joy in the midst of them. When I can clearly see the road behind me. A long dirty road that is littered with heartaches and potholes. Broken dreams. Soul shattering sins. My sins. When I look back on that, all my shouting gets swallowed and choked on. <br />
And then the next verse speaks straight to me. <i> The Lord has taken away His judgments against you</i>. Maybe the most powerful words He could say to me. He has taken them away. They are gone. Not waiting for me somewhere. Gone. Gone. Gone. So the big question now is, who could I be without my sins smothering my shouts? Without my prison bars? Without the ball and chain of regret that weighs me down. Can I really let go and let Him cover the mess I made? Can I?<br />
<i> He will exult over me with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over me with shouts of joy.</i> The idea of My Father in Heaven shouting over me brings me to my knees in humility. I am so undeserving. So dirty. Such a failure. How can He shout over me?<br />
So many times I get in my comfortable Bible study rut. I read my old favorite verses, my Psalms, my much studied parables and underlined passages. I find such comfort in the familiarity of them. I find reassurance in the sameness of scripture. It’s always there for me. A trusted friend. And then something like these verses hits me right between the eyes and slays me. A fresh and new word. A message from God written straight to my heart. A wake-up call that knocks the wind out of me. Just when I start to feel comfortable. Hidden and safe. He knows me so well.<br />
So today I will try to shout. Even if it’s just to Him alone. I will shout. I will sing to Him. I will praise Him for His mercy. His cleansing, soothing, snow white love and forgiveness. I will rest in it. And I will try to accept my pardon from sin. My release from prison. His mercy shines a bright spotlight into the deepest black pit of my sinful soul. And I will rejoice, just for a while, with shouts of joy. Just as He does!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-28106821280152961162013-11-19T05:23:00.002-08:002013-11-19T05:23:21.887-08:00"Broken Pieces..." ~2 Corinthians 12: 9-10 There's a beautiful church in the little town where I grew up, built with ancient stones and colorful stained glass windows. The first time I visited it as a child, I stood amazed. I couldn’t concentrate on the message, the songs, the people. Just the windows.<br />
They were amazing. The sunlight poured through the color, changing the scenes minute by minute. They told the story of Christ. Scene by scene, image by image. They showed His suffering, His glory as clear as day. Without using a word. Amazing.<br />
I was an innocent little girl then. But those windows stayed with me as I grew. As a teenager, I sang a favorite “special” over and over in our little country church. It was called “Broken Pieces.” The words are embedded in my mind, even today. The song was about God being able to put things back together, when life has fallen apart. At the time, it was just a song I memorized. But it seemed to speak to my heart somehow. I realize now that God was preparing me, even then. Giving me tools.<br />
Fast forward many years, my well-ordered, perfectly-planned life had fallen apart. I was filled with pain, ugliness and sin. Broken. Shattered in a million tiny pieces that ripped my heart and soul apart with every deep breath I took. I couldn’t go to work, couldn’t see friends or family, found it impossible to walk into church and face people.<br />
But I could pray, and I did. Constantly, without ceasing, asking for Him to restore me, rebuild me from scratch, make me feel whole again. Take the ugliness away.<br />
And amazingly, over the days, months and years, He began to put my pieces back together. One tiny slice at a time. It seemed an impossible, time-consuming task. It seemed hopeless. Pointless sometimes even, at least to me.<br />
Some pieces were jagged and rough. Some smooth and liquid. Some ware dark and stormy, others clear and pale. But patiently He worked, day by day, reattaching the shreds, fitting the tiny pieces gently together and pouring His grace in the cracks.<br />
And a funny thing happened. The more scripture I studied, the more I prayed, the more I suffered, then the more He revealed Himself and His truths to me. I lived in His world. I depended on Him completely, trusted Him deeply, relied on His strength, wisdom, and forgiveness to get me through each hour, each long day. And all that time He was rebuilding me into His plan. In His grace, He still is. All these years later.<br />
As I say often, my favorite Bible character is Peter, without a doubt. Peter, Jesus’ loudest cheerleader. The one who pledged to witness and protect. Big plans, big promises, loud praises for all to hear. But God knew Peter was shallow. Nothing to back up the claims. No spiritual depth or knowledge. And when the chips were down, Peter folded, fell apart. The hardest thing for Peter, I think, must have been the next morning. Waking up to the truth and the consequences. Waking up knowing the world as He planned it was shattered and broken. Wondering where to go from there. Feeling like an embarrassing failure. But Peter is a story of redemption. Of God slowly and lovingly rebuilding him from the ground up. And in the end, God used him mightily, in spite of his own weaknesses. He put Peter’s pieces back together again, just like in the nursery rhyme. Just like me. Me and ‘ole Peter have a lot in common. <br />
These days, I can’t look at a stained glass window without tears springing to my eyes. For they represent what I strive to be. Many jagged, hopeless, shattered pieces that have been restored to make up colorful, changing pictures of Christ. That’s me. Stronger than before, better in spite of the breaks. My edges have been smoothed, my gaps filled in. Yes, I am a work in progress. I have to be maintained, patched up here and there. But I am so much stronger and better that the big shallow piece of clear glass that I once was.<br />
And I hope as people look at me, at my jagged pieces, my different colors and textures, as they delve more deeply into my picture, all they will see are the images that are reflected of His life, His work, His grace and forgiveness. His amazing, patient, loving Restoration. <br />
…That is, just like Peter, the finished picture I want to reflect.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-80133499434481006602013-11-08T04:35:00.000-08:002013-11-08T04:35:27.560-08:00"Angel Sightings..." ~Matthew 26: 47-56<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Most days I move through life uninspired and un-amazed. It is my belief that most of us do. With my husband working out of town and my children grown, there are many weekdays that I am robotic like in my daily life. Wake and have Bible study, hot shower and hotter coffee, long drive to work, eight hours of work, drive home, cook, wash dishes and laundry. Read a little bit (or sometimes a lot). Sleep, wake, rinse and repeat. It’s called the “daily grind” for a reason.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Most days I find relief in this reliable repetition. I am thankful for the predictable parts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most days I am okay with the sameness of my days. The lack of drama. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But once in a great while, without warning, a day comes along that demands a little more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Once in a great while, I wake and feel rebellious. I drink an second cup of coffee, read a few extra pages, stop at the grocery store on the way to work. In my own tiny ways, I break the daily cycle. (Even in my great rebellions, I’m not too adventurous! Ha).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Yesterday was such a day. I deviated from the norm by reading a few extra chapters in my Bible study, and ran across something that changed my perspective for the entire day. Love when that happens. It’s like a sweet, heavenly cupcake sent straight to me from God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was reading in Matthew about Jesus defending himself. He was saying He could call down twelve legions of angels to help Him if He wanted. I looked it up. That’s around<i> SEVENTY-</i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TWO THOUSAND</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> angels…I imagine them with swords, muscles and sweet voices. The beautiful blond haired female angels of my childhood get all mixed up with the long-haired muscled men with flaming swords found in my adult Bible studies…my mind just takes off trying to picture them. The image in my head is vivid. <i>Seventy-two thousand!</i> Probably more!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> All day yesterday, when my mind should have been on the piles of work on my desk, concentrating on my job duties, it was in the clouds imagining angels in heaven instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I think we get bogged down in the ordinary here on earth. We stare at ballgames and nightly news, bills and dirty dishes. We stress over wrinkles and weight loss. It’s so easy to make these our priorities because they are right in front of us. Facing us. Taunting us. Taking our time and money. Draining our energy. Demanding attention. These are the things that seem important. Things that have to be dealt with. Real and tangible. They are “earthly’ things.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> That’s why a day like yesterday was such a gift. Because right in the middle of my earthly duties and predictable daily schedule, God gave me some very dramatic heavenly thoughts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> All day I imagined those angels. I don’t think they are dealing with dirty dishes this evening. I don’t think they dread the bills in the mail or worry about gaining weight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I think they are singing today. Praising today. Every day. I think there are at least <i>SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND</i> of them up there having a big celebration right this minute. Clean, beautiful, happy. Free of stress and schedules. Close your eyes and think of that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> All my life I’ve heard of storing up heavenly treasures…concentrating on heavenly things…yesterday was a day when that made sense. I got excited. I felt ready. I would have gone on to join them gladly if God had called my name. Instead he just gave me a glimpse of what is to come. A little slice of heaven in my mind. A cupcake to start my day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I get too caught up in this earth. I forget that I am just living in the first chapter of the book. Maybe even just the introduction. These are the opening credits. I’m not even into the body of the book yet. The body of Christ. There is so much fun up there waiting on me!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am so excited to get there and see what it’s all about. I am so excited to stand in the middle of seventy-two thousand angels singing and praising. I can only imagine. I can only imagine. I can only imagine. They are waiting on me and I can’t wait to meet them!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> For today, I will carry on with my “rinse and repeat” cycle. I have already broken up the routine by taking time for extra reading and writing this morning. I will go to work and sit quietly at my desk for the next eight hours. I will look very earthly on the outside, with my wrinkles and weight gain. But if only you could look into my heart and soul, you would see what I am imagining, anticipating. Worshipping, praising, beautiful angels. Thousands of them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Praising my Lord. <i>With me standing right in the middle, singing with the loudest voice of all!</i> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-44345014928667856662013-10-30T04:38:00.002-07:002013-10-30T04:49:47.765-07:00"The Drama Queen" ~Jeremiah 29:11-14<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> For a long period of time there was drama in my life…I don’t mean little drama. I mean big drama. Divorce, unpaid bills, kids rebelling, house fire, church strife, homelessness…not only big drama, but bad drama. The gossip and pain was humiliating. I hated it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I would say the number one goal I’ve set over the last fifteen to twenty years is to achieve peace and stability, for myself yes, but mainly for my three babies. Peace and quiet for some people is a very elusive thing. I am one of them. Sometimes it seemed to be one calamity on top of another. At times, it seemed that I would just stand up from one wave when another knocked me down. It’s a gut-wrenching way to live. It’s exhausting to struggle through each and every day, hour by hour. But it taught me a couple of good lessons through the years. Lessons I am grateful for, in spite of how I learned them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The first is, there is nothing like a painful disaster to put you flat on your face grasping at God’s promises. Desperation equals dependence which equals God. When we are torn in half by struggle and hurt, without fail, we turn back to Him. Over and over. Again and again. It’s when I am closest to Him. He knows it and I know it. I am stubborn by nature. Sometimes it was the only way He could <i>really</i> get my attention. I used to joke that I had prayed for God to let just enough trouble into my life to keep me on my knees, but I quickly gave that particular prayer up when I got blisters from kneeling! Seriously, if I can maintain that kind of closeness to Him when I am living easy days, then I will feel like I have achieved something. He knows me too well. He has to keep me dependent. So I have learned to thank Him, even for the trouble. The trouble He allows <i>always </i>has a purpose!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The second thing is when some relatively peaceful days do come along, I don’t even know how to live them. I am constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting , waiting, waiting, for the next blow to hit. I’ve found out that being happy, settled, and drama free is not a natural state for me. I don’t know how to handle it. I’m not sure how to thrive. I am suspicious of the easy life! I’ve noticed this in a lot of people…they seem to almost anticipate the pain of the next tragedy. They look for the attention and care from others that trouble brings. It becomes a cycle of emotions, almost like drug use or alcoholism. The focus is on dealing with the drama. They have the prayer chains on speed dial! And I know there are some friends and family members who began to cast me as the one that lightening always seemed to strike. They became accustomed to my struggling and couldn’t imagine me in any other state. After a while, normal doesn’t seem natural anymore. Which brings me to the third and most important lesson…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> That drama filled life I lived for so long is a sin. Bottom line. No way around it. Those attention seeking, needy, pain-filled days are not what I was created for. The sobbing, middle of the night break downs. The deep heartache and stress. That kind of daily existence is NOT God’s will. Not for me. Not for anyone else. Period. End of story. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> God tells me that. Flat out. I have plans for you. Plans to PROSPER you. Actually, I like my translation, which says it this way in Jeremiah: I have plans for your welfare and not for calamity, to give you a future and a hope. You will call upon Me and come and pray to Me and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. Then He goes on to talk about restoring me (which is a whole other page I could write about!) and bringing me back from exile (which is a familiar place I've visited often!). Now read that again. AMAZING! God wants me to prosper. To be restored. He wants me to thrive. I used to think that meant to be happy. But I've come to believe it means to be at peace instead. Peace from drama, pain and turmoil. He wants me to be quiet in my soul. To pray, seek Him and trust Him. He will handle the rest. He’s a big God. A really big God. <i>He's got this!</i> Sometimes we lose sight of that in the middle of the storm we are fighting through.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He wants contentment for me. Instead of focusing on the trouble of the day, He wants me to focus on Him. Things will work out. Trouble passes. Time heals that gut-wrenching pain. I've seen it happen over and over in my life. Problems that seem impossible, insurmountable, overwhelming, eventually just become another chapter in my (rather long and interesting) testimony. Perhaps God can use my story to help someone else through theirs. Perhaps He can use yours. And maybe it’s just one more step on our journey toward a land of milk and honey. A land of prospering and peacefulness. That’s His plan for me. And for you. He said so! He promised. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I read once that real peace is not absence from trouble and heartache. Peace is calmness in your heart and soul in the midst of trouble and heartache. It is knowing that my God is a God of restoration and deliverance from exile. A God that has created that peaceful land of milk and honey in preparation- just to give us something to look forward to. Just for the people like me. People with drama filled earthly lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m going to love it when I get there! Hope he's got me a big warm milk-filled bathtub full of peace and quiet just waiting!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-19450142405638125282013-10-22T04:37:00.001-07:002013-10-22T04:37:16.587-07:00"I Remember..." ~Mark 11: 23-24<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Today is a Praise Day. I have those randomly. Un-expectantly. In every other way, today was ordinary. I put in eight hours at work, dealt with all the usual frustrations of a busy weekday. It seemed like a repeat of many others. But it wasn’t. It was special. Let me explain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was looking for some old pictures of my kids this morning. Digging through snapshots of memories. And they weren’t all good. Isn’t is funny how a photo can take you back in time. Make you again feel a forgotten moment. That’s where the snapshots took me this morning. Back to a time when every day was a mountain to climb. Mountains of bills. Mountains of broken dreams. Mountains of heartbreak. Thinking back to my days as a single mom. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember plainly what it felt like to be alone. Really alone. Alone in every way. Alone with a house to clean, alone with a yard to mow, alone with kids to bathe, supper to cook. Alone with laundry for three busy kids. Alone with all the adult responsibilities, both large and small. Waking alone and falling asleep alone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember sitting in my church pew alone. Nothing is more alone than that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There were days that I didn’t want to climb out of bed in the mornings. Days I didn’t want to work two jobs. Times I didn’t think I could keep putting one foot in front of the other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Days the mountains looked too big. I didn’t want to climb anymore. I wanted to give up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My pastor said last Sunday that ministry is done in the valley. He is so right. The valley is where we are broken. The valley is where the mountains look the highest. The valley is lonely. I never needed Jesus and His people more than those days I spent in my deepest valley.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The valley is dark and scary. It’s Satan’s playground. His favorite illusion is to convince us that the sun is forever hidden and the peaks are far too high. He uses earthly heartbreaks. He uses money problems and family issues. He uses divorce and death. He uses empty church pews and late night tears. He has so many weapons in his arsenal. The grief feels overwhelming. The loneliness feels like a wet blanket thrown over our faces. It makes us struggle for each breath. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I know. I remember.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Years have passed since I climbed out of my valley. And I didn’t do it alone. God climbed beside me. It took time for me to realize that. Time for me to understand how close He was the whole time. I couldn’t see him in the darkness. I could only call out to Him and stumble forward. Crying until I was blinded. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was blind but now I see. And He was with me. Every minute in the valley.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Time has a funny way of smoothing things over, fading the worst of the memories. Blurring the edges of the most painful times. Hurt eases a little and tiny steps are taken. Tiny accomplishments celebrated. Hours turn into days and days turn into weeks, then months and finally years pass. We make it somehow. We breath in and out. We put one foot in front of the other. And all the time we are climbing higher and don’t even realize it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally one day I stood in the sunshine. I was still a single mom. I still had bills and laundry. I still went to bed alone at night. But God and I had climbed my mountain, together. Other mountains of mine He has simply moved out of the way. Many times. One tiny shovelful at a time. While I stumbled around lost, praying and crying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i> “My God- He can move the mountains...”</i> That line is in a praise song we sing. I love it. It brings tears every single time. It’s so true. He formed the mountains. But He formed the valleys too. To teach us faith. And praise. He has reasons for forming both places.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Every one of us faces mountains. Scary, dark, steep and smothering. The valley seems too deep. The burden seems too much. Our issues seem too big. We stumble and cry, searching for His arms to hold us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And always, unfailingly, He does. He is there. Right where we need Him the most. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Today is a Praise Day for me. Full of memories of the valley that He and I climbed out of together. Full of recognition that He will always either climb beside me or move my mountains. I am so thankful that I have never really had to face my deepest pain alone. I am so thankful that Satan’s weapons are not stronger than my Saviors love. The mountains aren’t too high. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am having a Praise Day today. Just because I remember.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-3355076872375121812013-10-17T05:19:00.001-07:002013-10-17T05:19:10.349-07:00"In the Trenches..." ~Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Uploaded some of my son’s wedding pictures onto Facebook the other day. I only picked the best ones. Didn’t want the extra pounds or wrinkles to show. Eliminated the ones that showed stressful or hurried expressions. Set aside any that didn’t meet my high standards. I worked hard to customize the images that I showed the world. It looks like a perfect day. A perfect wedding. A perfect family. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I do that often. Pick and choose what people see about me. Don’t want the cracks in the armor to show. Don’t want anyone to doubt that I’ve got it all together. Even when I don’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Recently I spoke to a struggling young single mother who has been reading some of my online blogs. She told me she had known me for years and had no idea about some of the hardships I had been through. She identified with the pain in some of my writing. She felt encouraged to keep on keeping on after reading about some of my experiences. To keep fighting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It made me remember something that my husband pointed out to me long ago. We love people for their weaknesses. Not their strengths.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I have a beautiful friend in my church. She lives in a nice home, has a fancy car, a toned body and a beautiful face. Strong marriage and pretty kids. I have known her for many years. We had been casual friends. I had admired her from afar. In my mind she was one of those have-it-all-together-women.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Then our relationship changed drastically. We went to a third world country together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We shared a small room with a bunk bed and a cold shower. Shared one outlet for electricity when it worked. We gave up on makeup and hair-styling by the second day. Mud and sweat mixed with the tears on our faces as we fed hungry children.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We lay in bed at night and shared our life stories. We stood in front of strangers far away from our little town in Arkansas and gave our testimonies. We talked quietly about where we came from, how we got there, and where we wanted to go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I received so many blessings from my time in Nicaragua. But one of them is that I gained a sister in Christ. When all the chips were down, and the barriers gone, we saw each others souls.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Coming home was a hard adjustment. Trying to fit back into “normal” was impossible. We were changed forever, and our daily lives became a reflection of that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I occasionally see pictures of my friend with her beautiful kids on face book. Her make-up is back in place and she is beautiful as always. She looks the same as before we went. But she looks different to me now. And I’m sure I look different to her too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I know her story. I know her hurts and celebrations. I know her dreams and wishes. I know that her life is not the perfection that the Facebook pictures show. And she knows the same about me. We formed a bond in the trenches. Our lives are tangled together now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It’s so easy these days to only have surface relationships. To only show our best side. To pick and choose the best images. In a day when everyone has total access to each other through all kinds of communication devices, somehow we have managed very well to hide our inner selves. I think it is a dangerous thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It’s hard to love someone who looks perfect on the outside. Houses, cars, marriages, smart and beautiful children. The Christmas cards paint a pretty image. All smiles and sunshine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We have to learn to share our pain. Ask for prayer in our struggles. We have to learn to tell our stories. Maybe that’s the purpose of us living them. One story can inspire hope in another. God designed the Body of Christ as a support system. He didn’t create one single perfect Christian. And it’s the flaws that make us loveable. Not the pretty pictures.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Our natural response to pain should always be compassion. That’s how we’re created. And maybe the reason for our story is to encourage someone else. So tell yours. Pass on the faith. Lift up the fallen. It’s what the church is for. It’s the design behind the fellowship. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Today, when you see someone whose life seems perfect, dig a little deeper. Ask a few more questions, look beyond the plastic smile. There may be a treasure chest of faith there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Everyone has a story. Everyone is lovable. And you may, like me, make a forever friend.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-78996512621927651632013-10-07T17:33:00.002-07:002013-10-07T17:33:33.357-07:00"The Anchor Holds..." ~Matthew 8: 23-27<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Are you fighting through a storm? Do you feel like a little boat being tossed around by huge waves, crashing rain? Do you feel helpless, hopeless, afraid? Like you have lost all control? Have you really "given up" and feel you‘re about to drown? I know those feelings well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There were so many people in scripture who shared those frustrations. Some oblivious ones were Jonah, Noah, the disciples in the storm. Other, less oblivious characters, were people Jesus encountered along his travels who were struggling with sin, with disease, with failure. Broken, hurting people. Not the great speakers, city leaders, kings. Jesus was drawn to the people in the storm…to rain and pain. To fear. To failure. To hopelessness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’ve fought the rain and wind in a boat without a steering wheel, drifting without any control of where I would land, just like Noah. I’ve run from God, tried to hide, and found myself swallowed up in dark nasty places, just like Jonah. Sadly, I’ve run from God more than once. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But the story that really speaks to me is the one about the disciples in the storm. I’ve been in that little boat struggling to stay afloat as wave after wave crashed down on me. I’ve felt that fear as I struggled to catch my breath before the next disaster hit me. I’ve tumbled around, trying to get my feet under me, just to be knocked down again and again. Day after day, month after month. I’ve been there. I’ve wondered if Jesus was still with me. If He saw what was happening. If He even cared. I’ve felt alone. Abandoned. Exhausted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The sad thing for the disciples is they had Jesus right there with them. Not ten feet away. Such an untapped source of strength and peace and stability. They had traveled with Him, watched him heal people, forgive people, perform miracles right in front of their eyes. They looked into His eyes every day. Saw His power. And yet, in the middle of the night, in the raging storm, they got scared. And so do I.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I think they got a little angry. A little resentful of Jesus. Sleeping soundly as they fought the waves. I think they felt a little abandoned out in the that dark scary place. And I think they thought for a while that they could handle things on their own. And waiting so long to call on Him for help almost got them drowned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I have watched Jesus perform miracles. Over and over in my life. I have walked with Him, looked into His eyes. Watched Him heal people, forgive people. And yet, just like these men who fought the storm, I have gotten scared in the dark waves. I have tried to fight on my own. Rely on myself. And have almost drowned because of it. Sadly, not just once, but over and over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> At times I have turned to Jesus as a last resort, just like Jonah. After I’ve been swallowed. After I have run and tried to hide. After I have caused more damage than was there to start with. I have waited until the storm had me beat down, the waves had taken all the life out of me, and finally I turned to Jesus in despair. And there He was, waiting for me, just like the disciples, ten feet away. Peaceful. Strong. My life preserver.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My favorite thing about the storm story is His calm. He got up and rebuked the waves, and the sea. I love the peace after the storm. I love the thought of Him speaking quietly to the waves, the chaos, the drama, the powerful forces of nature. I love the way the weather instantly obeyed Him. That’s my favorite part. His quiet and steady power.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He’s waiting in my storm. He’s my peace. He can speak to my chaos and drama. He can make it stop with just a calm word. Why do I wait so long to go to Him about it? Why do I go as a last resort, when I am exhausted and almost drowned? I’ve seen His miracles, His power, so many times. And yet, sometimes I still choose to fight the storm on my own. To struggle in the tall waves. To gasp for breath when I could breathe easily. I don’t understand why. But He does. And He lifts me gently from the deep water and places me back on solid ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Because always, in the end, he’s my Lifeguard. My Anchor. Always. Oh, thank you, God, for rescuing me, over and over, from the storms.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-11485850550898188492013-09-22T05:03:00.001-07:002013-09-22T05:05:29.739-07:00"Living on rice and beans..." ~Acts 1: 6-8 <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My baby boy has a stomach virus today. He is almost sixteen and is a head taller than me. But he is still, and always will be, my baby. We were up most of the night together, me feeling helpless while he lay in the bathroom floor in misery. Now and then he would call out to me, wanting a drink of water or a cool wet towel. Now he is resting, so of course I am writing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m at my desk now, but I’ve kept the house quiet, listening in case he calls out to me. Waiting and ready for whatever he needs. Several times, he has roused up from sleep and called to me. Each time, I drop what I am doing and say<i> “Here I am. What do you need?”</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It wasn’t long before God began to talk to me and use the situation as a parable for me. I have a lot of those “<i>Parenting Parables</i>.” God knows my dense and stubborn self all too well. He knows how to talk to me. And often, he uses situations with my children, knowing they are so close to my heart and soul. Knowing my love for the them may be the closest I ever get here on earth to understanding His love for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am leaving on my first foreign Mission Trip in two weeks. Traveling to a third world country to help fill the most basic need we human beings have: food. Both for physical hunger and spiritual hunger. Rice and beans to nourish the body. Scripture to nourish the soul. It will be a life changing experience for me. Out of my middle class American comfort zone. Everything there will be different. Different language, different culture, different temperature, different way to dress and act. Different style of worship. Only one thing will be familiar. The most important thing of all. My God will be the same. Whether I am at my kitchen table in hills of Arkansas or in the poorest part of Nicaragua. He will pave my way. Guide and protect me. He will be my tour guide, my body guard, my inspiration and my interpreter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am getting more excited each day. There is a part of my soul that has been preparing for this trip, and possibly others to come, for many years without even knowing it. There is a part of my heart that feels this is really the beginning of something very important. I am praying hard, packing carefully and counting the days till I board the plane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I almost said no to this opportunity. It was last minute. Someone had to drop out due to health. I got the call to go. My first reaction was to let Satan answer my phone and say “wrong number.” Not me. I had no vacation time at work. No money. No training. Not enough time to prepare. I don’t know people who do these things. My church sends money. I read books about people who go. I study scripture about the disciples who went. I enjoy the slideshows about modern missionaries. I tape their names on my fridge. I give extra during the Mission drives at Christmas and Easter. I do my part. No thank you. I’ll stay here at home where it is warm and safe and familiar. I’m a sinner. Not a Missionary. God will understand. Only He didn’t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My second reaction to the call was to grab my Bible and search. I looked for any place where God would confirm my “<i>no</i>.” I looked for where He says it’s okay to stay home and pray. I looked for where He says He understands that I don’t like rice and beans. I looked for the verses where He says he wants me to be comfortable, to stay in my own house, in my community, in my familiar home church and watch the Missionary slideshows on Sunday nights.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I looked and looked and looked. I couldn’t find those verses. I was sure they were there, because I’ve been living by them for years. But I couldn’t find one single verse where God says “<i>stay</i>.” Instead I found “<i>go, go, go</i>.” He even chose those as his very last earthly words. <i> Go!</i> <i>Go! Go! </i>To the remotest parts of the earth. To wherever we are called, to whatever chance we are offered. To the places that are hot and cold. Dirty and hungry. Hungry for physical food. And more importantly, for spiritual food. The kind that lasts forever. I have it. They need it. So I am going to go and give. I am going to share. I am going to say yes to the chance. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am scared. Not of something physically happening to harm me. Not of death or disease. I am scared I will fail to do enough, to say the right things, to make the most of this opportunity. I am scared I will mess up and let God down. But I will go and I will trust. Because He told me to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And because, just like when my son calls out to me…I should be willing, waiting and ready to answer God the same way. <i>“Here I am. What do you need?”</i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-64906021361046959412013-09-17T05:11:00.002-07:002013-09-17T05:11:21.899-07:00"My Brother the Sheep Trainer...not!" ~John 10: 7-16, 21:15-17 <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> For many years, my brother has been my small claim to fame. Often when I am trying to describe who I am, where I am from and what I do, the only connection I can make with a stranger is to mention my brothers name. In our part of the world, lots of people know him. Of all things, he is a Professional Rodeo Clown. He travels all over the United States, stays in all kinds of places, meets thousands of interesting people, and has lots of adventures. I stay home, punch a time clock and raise kids. And yet, neither of us is one bit envious of the other. (Well, maybe just a little bit...now and then...)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We were raised on a farm in the country. Had horses, cows, chickens, dogs, cats and anything else that happened to wander onto our land. Once we even had pet squirrels who lived in the living room. Lots of “animal adventures” in our childhood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> These days, as an entertainer, he is constantly working on new “acts” involving training live animals to perform. He has had a goat or two that I didn’t see eye to eye with, or I guess you could say horns to eye. He trains them to do all kinds of tricks, and I have to admit to being impressed at times at what he can teach them to do. But I’ve never seen him teach a sheep. And I probably never will. After some insightful study, I can tell you why.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My Sunday School lesson recently was on one of my favorite passages of scripture. My Bible translators titled it “<i>The Love Motivation</i>.” John 21:15-17. They didn’t ask me, but I would have titled them “<i>Peter’s Second Chance</i>.” Love these verses. Love Peter’s story. But I find it interesting that Jesus refers to us as “lambs” and “sheep” several different times. It got me thinking and reading about sheep. What I found wasn’t very encouraging. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Sheep are not very smart. They are stubborn and slow. They tend to follow blindly and without thought when led. They think about food a lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Sheep can’t easily be trained. Even after learning the same dangerous lessons over and over, they will continue to wander away from the flock and put themselves in harms way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And sheep have no way to defend themselves. No fangs, no claws. They can’t even run fast enough to get away when pursued by an enemy. And they have many of those.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> They must be fed regularly, sheared often and protected constantly. Most importantly of all, sheep can’t even clean themselves. It has to be done for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Are you getting the idea here? <i>Following along</i>? At any point I could stop typing the word “sheep” and start inserting the word “me or I.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I like to think I am fairly smart. But God might argue that I have often made poor decisions. I might say that I’m not stubborn. I think He would laugh out loud at that one. Anyone who has ever seen me run would say I would have a hard time outrunning a lion or wolf. So I think my chances of outrunning any enemies are pretty much non-existent. Not sure how well I could defend myself in a good fight, although some might swear they have seen my fangs and claws.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I often reflect on all the times I’ve followed blindly and without thought. Away from my church family, away from God’s word, away from my flock. Away from sure protection and provision. Forging my own path through the woods. On my own. In harms way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I have some vivid memories of times God allowed me to be sheared by other hands than His. Times when I have shed some layers, lost some parts of me that I thought I couldn’t live without. Ended up healthier.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Are you starting to get the picture?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And now, the most important comparison. Just like a sheep, I’m not able to clean myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My soul gets muddy, my heart grows thick wool. My feet get heavy and planted in place. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The Saving Grace for sheep is that they are never left alone to deal with the helplessness. They don’t have to outrun the enemy, fight the battles, learn the tricks or find the way. They don’t have to shear themselves or give themselves a bath. Because sheep have someone standing by to take care of all the big stuff. Someone to keep the danger away and the food close. Someone to fight the wolves. Someone who won’t leave them. He’s called a Shepherd.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m so thankful I have a Shepherd too. To fight my enemies, clean off my dirt and feed me daily. I’m so thankful that He shears me when I need it and leads me to the lush green pastures. I've so thankful He has never left me. He has a perfect track record of caring for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My trust is strong in Him. And always, no matter what, He is the Shepherd of my Soul.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-53252286253167471312013-09-13T04:34:00.002-07:002013-09-13T04:34:34.234-07:00"In the Fire..." ~Matthew 6:25-34<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Thinking today about how God provides.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I learned this lesson as a young wife and mother. Times were hard. Money was scarce. We stopped at a lot of garage sales in those days. We clipped coupons. Patched tires. Lived paycheck to paycheck. Things weren’t always easy. In fact, they rarely were. I spent a lot of time on my knees, making sure God knew what bills were due and what our account balance was. Just in case He didn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Perhaps the greatest lesson I ever learned is that in fact, He did. He knew exactly. We made it. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. We rarely had plenty but we always had enough. God knew our young family’s needs and He filled them. It made all the difference. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I knew Jehovah Jireh, my Provider. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Later, as a single mom, it was a lesson I was determined to teach my three children. In good times and bad, our God knows our needs. He meets them day by day. So many times I couldn’t understand how we would make it till the next payday. But we did. Struggle made me stronger. I worked harder. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. I began to think I could make it on my own. I began to feel relief. And a little pride in my ability to provide all by myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And then the unthinkable happened. As we scratched and struggled through a long hot summer, tragedy struck. I got a call at work saying our house was on fire. By the time I got there it was engulfed. Hours later, we owned just the clothes on our backs. The contents weren’t insured. I couldn’t afford the extra insurance. I had three kids and less than $100 to my name. No where to go. No food. No clothes. I was at the bottom of the barrel. The end of the line. The lowest of the low. Nowhere to turn. No one to turn to. Except Johovah Jireh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My children looked to me with fearful and questioning eyes…and I looked to God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember sitting in the yard of my home, covered in black soot, feeling sick and empty. I will never forget the smell of our belongings burning. I thought about the pride that I had felt in the past few years in my ability to provide for my kids. The pride when they went to bed with full bellies and clean clothes. I thought about how hard I had struggled to pay the bills, to keep gas in the car, to mow my yard. I thought about the two jobs I was working. How so many nights I had cried myself to sleep, tired and scared, but knowing I was making it on my own. And how everything we owned, everything I had poured my blood, sweat and tears into for almost twenty years, was gone in a few hours time. I felt like God had knocked the wind out of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As I sat in that yard watching my last hope burn to the ground, I felt Him whispering in my ear that I had not done any of it. I had not held things together. I had not had things under control. He had and, in fact, He still did. The fire was a reminder of a lesson I will never again forget. It is all His. He is My Provider. Day by day. Month by month. Year by year.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In the following days and weeks, my children saw Him provide every morsel of food we ate, every piece of clean clothing we wore. God used his people to carry us through the wilderness. Out of the ashes came some of the biggest blessings of our lives. Some of the most important lessons of our lives. My children met Jehovah Jireh in the flames. Our Provider.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It was a long road back. Many years have passed since those days. But I have never forgotten that my possessions on earth are temporary. There are things I cried over losing. My children’s baby pictures, my Grandma’s quilts and wedding ring, so many memories. Things you take for granted until they are gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But the things I gained in the fire are greater. A belief in the goodness of people, a compassion for those in need, a broken heart for those who have no where left to turn. And mostly, a closer trust in my Provider. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I don’t worry so much anymore about my bills, or what clothes I wear, or the car I drive. I don’t worry about what I will eat or what house I will live in. I learned where my treasure is when I was sitting in that yard watching the flames. I know my God will Provide. I know Jehovah Jireh. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that changes everything.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-78088450319632096062013-09-09T18:34:00.003-07:002013-09-09T18:34:55.034-07:00"The Reason for it All" ~Acts 9:1-31 Why are we here? Have you thought about that lately? God, in all His glory, wanted us to exist. He created deep and vast oceans, cloudy blue skies, sandy deserts, multicolored birds, shining stars and endless galaxies, swaying palm trees and soaring mountains. Then He took a deep breath and breathed life into Adam. Ever wonder why? What if it was all because He simply wanted a friend?<br />
For many years I believed in God, respected Him, and tried my best to obey Him. I thought it was enough. I knew about Him. I went to church every Sunday. I knew the parables by heart. I tried to be a good Christian. I was saved. But I didn’t know Him. <br />
I heard a preacher a few weeks ago say that “Satan knew God well and he never doubted Him.” I had to think about that one for a while. Remember where Satan started out…worshipping God. Along with all his demons. Satan understood God’s power and glory. He knew scripture forward and backward. He knew the parables too. He understood God’s power and pull. He knew His characteristics and miracles. Satan knew all about God. Just like I did.<br />
Then I think of Saul. The Christian Serial Killer. Scary guy. Smart, cultured and highly educated. The thing about Saul is that he was a stubborn man. He had a strong will and the blood of God’s people on his soul. All those years, he thought he was doing right, while God knew he was so very wrong. Saul knew more about God than almost anyone of his time. About the laws. About the church. About God. Just like Satan. Just like me.<br />
Some people come quietly and peacefully to Jesus, conversion without resistance. They walk an aisle on Sunday morning and settle into a lifetime of worship. Some people, like Saul and me, don’t convert without heartache. People like Saul and me get Damascus-type conversions.<br />
Saul had to be knocked down and blinded before God got his attention. He was blind for three days, as helpless as a child. How hard and humbling that must have been for a man as powerful as he. How embarrassing to be led through the streets terrified and trembling. How humiliating to depend fully on the very people he had spent years persecuting and murdering. Saul wasn’t one to walk quietly down the aisle on Sunday morning. Wasn’t in his personality.<br />
But God knew Saul’s personality well. He created it, after all. But He also knew his potential. He knew the impact Saul could have for His kingdom. So He knocked him down, physically…then He built him up, spiritually. And Saul became Paul, and Paul became best friends with God.<br />
I have a story similar to Paul’s. I inherited some of that stubbornness from my murderous ancestor. Needed some of his humility. Needed to walk that Damascus Road. To depend on others and God.<br />
And though it took me many years to say it, I am so thankful that He struck me down and built me up. Thankful for the suffering that built the trust. Thankful that I didn’t waste a lifetime just knowing His stories. Knowing about Him. So thankful I can now call Him my Best Friend.<br />
I heard the results of a poll recently where 70% of Americans claim to be Christians. I don’t second guess it. Only God could do that. But I doubt that 70% are friends with Him. If they were, this earth would look a lot different than it does. If 70% of us really knew Him, really understood Him, really were friends with Him, we wouldn’t have to worry about elections, world hunger or prison overcrowding. Orphans and widows would be loved. Families would stay together. Friendship with God changes a person’s soul. And when your soul is changed, your actions follow.<br />
I think about Paul often. About all the good he did in Part 2 of his life. I think about how hard he worked for God. And I think about the friendship they shared. In the end, what could be better to say about someone than that were friends with and truly served God?<br />
My deepest prayer for my children is not physical health or immeasurable wealth. It’s not happy marriages or dependable employment. It’s not a growing church or a thriving ministry. <br />
My deepest prayer is that each of them will find friendship with God. A relationship of trust and love, study and devotion, consistency and worship. It changed Saul into Paul. It changed the fishermen into Disciples, it changed the Woman at the Well into a tool for Revival. It changed Abraham and Noah, and Enoch and Joseph. It changed Esther and Miriam and Mary Magdalene. <br />
And last of all, best of all, it's changing me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-16566750977359794332013-09-06T15:51:00.001-07:002013-09-06T15:51:56.274-07:00"The Perfect Coach" ~1 Corinthians 9:24-27<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My kids all played sports. My oldest was a high school quarterback, my middle child a 5’3” hustling basketball player and most recently I spend my days on golf courses with my youngest, who made it to State play-offs as a high school sophomore last year. Each of them played at least two sports, sometimes more, and I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed most of the hundreds, maybe thousands of games I have attended. I am a proud parent, often to their great embarrassment. I stand with a camera in one hand and a cell phone in the other, ready to upload pictures. I’ve never been good at understanding all the rules, following the plays or sometimes even keeping up with the scores. I often don’t care who wins or loses. I’ll never be called competitive. But I am a parent. So I am there, and happy to be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My kids have been MVP’s and state champions. They have been recognized in our small town and sometimes in bigger arenas. They have made many friends and had exciting opportunities because of sports. They have learned lots of lessons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And they will tell you I am always proud of teamwork, effort and most of all, “emotion control,” whether in them or in their coaches. A good coach is a rare and precious thing. It’s sometimes been hard for me to watch my kids disciplined on the field, court or course. Many times I’ve had to bit my tongue when they were being “coached” to be better. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> From an early age one of the things I told them often was if the coach is disciplining you, instructing you, correcting you, then he is watching your actions and cares about your performance. It’s when he doesn’t know your name that things get miserable and hopeless. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The very best coaches my children improved and thrived under all had two very important things in common. They knew the players and they knew the rule book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Often what I’ve seen is the tougher the practices and the more pressure that is applied by a good coach to an unsure player in pre-game situations, the more sure of himself that player is when game time comes. It’s a fine line, a balancing act. It’s a special relationship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And when the clock is ticking, when points count, time after time, the players the coach will put on the field, floor or course are the ones who can withstand the pressure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> You (along with all my friends and family) may be surprised to know that I too am an Athlete.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I may not look the part. I may not be in great physical shape. I may not wear a State ring. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I’m on the field. I’m in the game. I have a Coach who works with me one on one every day. I’ve had some tough “practices” of my own. I’ve been yelled at, disciplined and beaten down by the pressure. I’ve wanted to quit. Run and hide my tears in an empty locker room. I’ve been bruised, sore and exhausted. I’ve sometimes lost championship games in the heat of battle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But my Coach knows my name. My Coach knows just how much pressure I can stand. He’s my biggest fan, my harshest critic, the one who disciplines, corrects and teaches me when I need it most. He’s my Coach. He’s my Lord. And it’s a special relationship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He created me. He knows my strongest muscles and my weakest ones. He knows my heartbeat and my pulse. He knows my endurance and my strength. He knows when I’ve had enough or when I can take a little more. He knows when I need to stand in the spotlight, or when I need some time off to process my losses. He knows me. He’s my Coach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He knows the Rule Book too. In my case, he actually wrote it. Word for word. Chapter and verse. I have to trust Him on the legalities, the obscure points, the rarely quoted sections. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He can handle my critics in the bleachers. He can handle my teammates failures. He can handle my opponents, who don’t always play fair. He can handle the referees when they call the fouls in my life that no one else sees. He can handle my injured muscles and my injured pride. He’s my Coach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> So cheer for me when you can. Boo me when you have to. I can take it because I am an Athlete. I was built for this game. I was designed by my Coach. He knows the Rule Book. He knows the Player. He is the only one who can keep a record of my wins and losses. His job is to Coach. My job is to show up for practice every day in this game called Life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And listen to my Coach.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-37630432403701701712013-09-03T04:47:00.003-07:002013-09-03T04:47:25.877-07:00"An Apple a Day...or maybe just a tiny bite..." Genesis 3: 1-24<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Can you imagine life without any sin? Don’t you wonder about Eve, living in the Garden of Eden? What must it have been like…walking with God in the mornings, naked, open, without sin or shame? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I don’t think I have ever even experienced a morning without sin or shame. Don’t think I have ever started a day without feeling a little guilt and failure. I would love to have been in Eve’s shoes for just an hour, to see how it felt to be pure and unashamed in front of God. But she ruined that possibility with just one big bite! No doubt she was related to me. No self-control when it came to something that looked delicious!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Eve took the apple, ate it, shared it with her man…and has shouldered a heap of blame since. We don’t understand how she could be so stupid! God WALKED with her, for heavens sake! Offered her the whole world, a perfect world, a sinless world. How could she make such stupid choices? Why couldn’t she just feel satisfied with what He provided?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Eve had it all, but didn’t understand that. She always wanted a little more. Thought there was something out there in the world that she was missing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Eve was just like me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> How many times have I reached out and taken a bite of an apple that God had clearly instructed me to leave alone? How many times have I wanted just a little more than what I already had? Relationships, possessions…people, places, things that God told me to stay away from, but I just wanted one little bite. Wanted to see what I was missing…and wound up with a belly full of sickening sin. It’s so much harder to bite the fruit of self-control than the fruit of that sweet, juicy sin-apple. It tastes so good for just a second...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And then I follow the exact “sin steps” Eve did. First I hide from God. Slack off on my Bible study. Stay busy and distracted. Say quick, routine prayers. Don’t want to be alone with God. Don’t want to be still or quiet enough to face what I‘ve done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Next, the excuses start. It wasn’t my fault. I’m under so much stress. Too much on my plate. No one can be expected to live like this. I deserve a little relief, a little reward. I need a little “feel good” time. My life has been so hard lately! Can’t do this!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Then comes the blame. Everyone else is doing stuff like this…actually I’m a little less sinful than my neighbor. Lord, have you looked at her lately? And the world around me does it. I can’t be expected to hold up in the middle of such pressure and temptation! Everyone else gets by with stuff like this all the time! It’s so hard to be good all the time...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally, anger and resentment...I argue with God. State all the reasons I shouldn’t be punished. Try to bargain my consequences away. I wind up whining about my situation to Him. Praying tearfully for Him to “fix” the mess I’ve found myself in…and then the cycle starts over. Again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The sweetest part of the “apple story” is not the juicy bite Eve took. The sweetest part is when God covered her after with his own hands. I guess you could say he sewed the first fur coat. He showed her the road back to him. But life would never look the same for Eve. Or for any of us who live in this sinful world today.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It took me a long time to truly understand the difference between forgiveness and consequences. He will forgive me when I eat that apple, every time I ask. But the results of my sneaking that bite will still be there in my belly to live with. Eve may have introduced sin into my world. But I’ve done an awesome job of keeping it here!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m ashamed when I look back at all the times I’ve asked Him to forgive me. But then I think of my sin in comparison to His infinite grace and mercy. It’s bottomless. And so instead of shame, I feel amazement. I feel humbled. I feel loved. He knows me so well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Yes, I bite that apple, over and over. Even when I know the consequences. And yes, He forgives me, over and over. Even when He sees my weakness. Because ultimately, His forgiveness is so much bigger than my sin. <i>And these days my gratefulness is so much bigger</i> <i>than my shame</i>. It grows every morning that I walk with Him. That’s my Father. My <b>Faithful Forgiver</b>. And He and I both know, my only hope. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-31299419297907481422013-08-27T17:51:00.000-07:002013-08-27T17:56:25.677-07:00"My First Call" ~Psalm 91<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Facebook, Twitter, Texting, Instant Messaging, multiple email accounts, cell phones…how communication has changed in the last ten years! My husband will tell you I’m not any good at setting these things up or maintaining them, but I use them constantly. Most of the time I find them convenient and helpful, although sometimes God has to remind me not to let my usage time and focus on them take the place of more important things.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I use these tools daily at work and also to stay connected to old friends and distant</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">family, but I find the most important role they play in my life is that of “kid-tracker.” Because of my divorce and circumstances surrounding it, it became important years ago for my children to have a cell phone so that I could reach them directly when they were visiting their father. It was a handy and easy solution, which worked out very well. Maybe a little too well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I quickly became accustomed to details, details, details. I spoke to my kids sometimes several times a day, and heard about what was going on in their friends lives, what they were wearing that day, plans for the evening…etc, etc, etc. I heard it all. The good, the bad and the ugly! And that’s exactly what I wanted. It’s why, even today, when they are much older, we are still very close. I’m still involved in their daily lives and decisions. Although as they become adults, maybe my opinions are not counting quite as much anymore! They still like to talk to mom at least once or twice a day. I’ve “got their back.” And they know it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Sometimes those calls are to cry on my shoulder (or technically, very loudly in my ear!). Sometimes they are just for directions or discussion. Sometimes they need help. Sometimes just to celebrate good news or update me on plans and ideas. Sometimes to say good night or good morning if they are far away from me. And sometimes there really is no reason, except that we need to hear each others voices and know we are each just a call away from the other. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Oh, how I enjoy and look forward to those calls from my babies. They help me feel connected and centered in the middle of my sometimes chaotic and crazy world. They stop the activity and daily business for a moment to remind me what is really important. They reassure me that my offspring are doing okay. That they are healthy (mostly), wealthy (in love) and (sometimes) wise. They convince me that I am still important and needed. Many times the last few words I say as they walk out my door are “I love you. Call me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Light bulb moment for me was when I realized these were God’s very words to me. Almost exactly. Over and over in scripture He says “I love you, call on me.” Daily, hourly, often. He wants the good, the bad and the ugly. He wants to know He is important to me and needed by me. He wants to cry with me, celebrate my victories, large and small, to give me directions and discussion. He wants me to “update my status” with Him hourly. He wants me to call and say good night and good morning. He wants me to call him just to make sure we stay close and available. He really does. He’s my Father. He wants the very same things from His offspring as I want from mine. Details, details, details. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Even though I was saved as a child, for many years I thought of God as a large, imposing, distant presence in the sky. He was all-knowing and very important. I always had respect for Him and a sure knowledge that He was there and very much in control. But in my mind, I needed to hide all my ugliness from Him. Cover up my sins as best I could. Only show Him the good parts of myself (many times, that made my time in His presence pretty limited!). I am thankful for tragedies and heartache through the years that caused me to change my view of Him. What an untapped resource I would have missed. These days He’s my Counselor, my Defender, my Protector. He hears all my details. But mostly He’s simply my best friend. My first call.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When my kids disappoint me, when they make decisions that I don’t agree with, when they stumble and fall, it does not affect the deep love I feel in the core of my being for them. And what I've learned is that even hearing about and seeing the most ugly parts of my life does not cause God to turn away from me. His love is deep, constant and unconditional. It is part of the core of His being. He’s “got my back.” And my heart. And my soul. Nothing, ever, will change that. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not even all my details details details! These days I have Him on speed dial! I call on Him many times a day...And I am so very grateful that He answers when I call, without fail, every time His phone rings!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-75652685384606148252013-08-25T06:40:00.002-07:002013-08-25T06:40:48.974-07:00"My Normal Life" ~Luke 1: 26-38<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Woke up thinking about Mary. Imagine that. And it’s not even Christmas time. I have always been intrigued by her. Awed by her story. Not as the mother of Jesus. Just as her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A young teenage girl. Living quietly in a dusty village like thousands of other girls her same age. Maybe doing a little flirting with her boyfriend Joseph, giggling with her friends over lunch…maybe dreaming of having her own house someday to bake and clean and raise babies. I imagine her a little quieter than usual, a little more introspective. I imagine her normal.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mary was, as far as we know, a good girl. Obedient and innocent. Doing her homework, helping her parents, going to “church.” Not perfect. Not sinless. But trying very hard. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s what make me hurt for her. Sympathize with her confusion. Her normal got broken.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In my mind, she was sound asleep. Middle of the night darkness. Not sure why I picture it that way, but I do. The angel Gabriel “appeared to her.” The Bible says it so casually. I’m afraid that would have been the end of the whole story had I been the one awakened! I would probably have messed up the whole plan when I died on the spot of fright!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I like to think about Gabriel. He’s my favorite angel. He always brought good news. I like that. And I think he was gentle with her that night. He called her “favored one” right off the bat. Mentioned her Lord. I think he tried to soothe her. Reassure her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My translation says Mary was perplexed by the news he gave her. That makes me laugh. I think it was the understatement of her lifetime! The news he gave didn’t make sense. The news he gave wasn’t possible. The news he gave was about to turn her innocent little life upside down. Those thoughts probably ran through her mind frantically. This news would destroy her dreams, embarrass her family, run off her friends and end her engagement. Make people gossip.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mary would never live a “normal” day again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> That’s what keeps me awake at night. The recent revelation of how much I love my normal. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mary’s story is not the only one where “normal” disappeared when Jesus stepped into the picture. There are dozens more. Zacharias and Elizabeth, Peter, James and John…they are just a few of his first documented encounters. There are dozens more that we can read about. People from all walks of life…fishermen and tax collectors, priests and commoners, prostitutes and farmers. All of them had “normal” lives. Struggling with the mundane. Celebrating births and deaths and marriages. Feasts and famines. Sunshine and rain. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> All of these people likely dealt with cranky kids, overdue bills, sickness and unfulfilling careers. The Bible doesn’t tell us those parts and I’m so glad. Got enough of that stuff already.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> What the Bible does tell us is that each of their stories really starts at the point when Jesus walks in. The stories that matter, the stories that have been preserved for centuries don’t talk about the common every day parts of their life. The part that matters always starts when Jesus walks in and normal ends. Makes me think about how normal things still are for me. Maybe too normal. I cling to it. And all the examples He gives me tell me God won’t tolerate that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The thing I admire about Mary is her response. Scared and alone, not understanding what was ahead except to know that all her plans and dreams were likely over before they began. Mary simply thinks about it for a few minutes (or “ponders” it as my Bible says) and then says some of the most glorious words ever spoken. Words that changed my life and yours forever. And hers. And millions of others. Words that should be our example of obedience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mary simply said “May it be done to me according to your word.” Amazing, glorious, trusting words. Words we should all memorize and use every single day when talking to God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Those may be the hardest words for me to say. The hardest to really mean. I like my plans and dreams. I like my normal. But God doesn’t seem too fond of leaving normal alone. Normal is not what He wanted for Mary. And I feel sure it’s not what He wants for me. He likes to step in and change the course of everything. Blow the socks off normal and replace it with adventure, with love that we can’t imagine, with changes we aren’t comfortable with. With something so much more glorious and eternal. What Mary got. And Peter, James and John. So many stories.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He wants to shatter our normal with His Will. Fill us up with the difference. We’ve got to learn to say the words and mean them, daily. “Not mine, but YOUR WILL BE DONE!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And then get ready for the ride!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-56771412972679695522013-08-22T04:45:00.003-07:002013-08-22T04:45:28.123-07:00"The Farmer's Daughter" ~Galatians 5:13-26<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I have a list of the Fruits of the Spirit taped right in front of my eyes on my computer monitor at work. The fruits have always spoken to my soul in a extra special way. Not sure when or why, but through the years they have become my unstated unspoken private goals. I literally read through them silently in my head several times a day. The problem is that my garden of “fruits” is often choked out by my “if only” weeds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> If only people were more lovable, I would love more. If only I could lose weight, I would be more joyful. If only I was rich and didn’t have to work, I would be more kind. If only I had more time to bake, I would perform more acts of goodness. If only I had gotten more sleep last night, I would be more patient. If only I didn’t have cranky customers all day, I would be more gentle. If only I wasn’t so thorny…if only. I so deeply and truly want to be sweet and juicy instead of sharp and poisonous. But too often I lose that battle and use hurtful words and tones. Too often I don’t come across as filling and tasty. Too often my fruits are still small and bitter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I think the reason these verses speak to me so personally is that I am, in my heart, still a farmers daughter. I understand the process. I have planted the fragile seed, digging deep in fertile soil to protect in from the storms, I have watered and weeded the area, plucking the weeds one at a time. I have nurtured that tiny sprout before it was strong, counting the leaves, delighting over the measured growth. I have tied stakes as the plant got too big for its britches. Reminding it that it needed support every inch of the way. It isn’t always fun. Sometimes it’s hot and sweaty in the garden. There are days the effort doesn’t seem worth the result. But just as I want to give up, there comes a glimmer of what that plant is capable of…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Finally one day, I walk out to my sturdy little plant- the tiny sprout I have poured so much time and effort into, it happens. The thick vines have grown strong and green. Healthy and ready for what’s coming next. And finally, finally… I see tiny, fragile, beautiful blooms.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And in my mind I know what follows. Each of those blooms represent hope. Hope that after all my hard work, my day by day nurturing and pruning, sweet wonderful fruits are on the way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Do you see the picture as I do? Do you imagine God planting me and protecting me, watering and pruning me, plucking my weeds, measuring my daily growth. I see it. I get it. I am a farmers daughter, but more importantly, I am the daughter of the Master Gardener.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He designed and planted the lush tropical forests, the beautiful vineyards and the endless Kansas prairies. He grows the coconuts on the beach and fertilizes the lush greenhouses that fill my local flower shop. He shaped grapes and bananas. Put the juice in every tomato. He put the seeds in the watermelons. And using it all, He somehow supplies the oxygen I need to live.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He is the Master Gardener. I think he can handle my fruits!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My garden is not as bountiful yet as I would like. God works in it faithfully every day. Sometimes the pruning hurts. Sometimes I feel I am drowning in the watering. Sometimes I feel muddy or choked by weeds. My soil doesn’t feel fertile. Sometimes I just want to lay down flat in the dirt to wither and die, and the season of sweet fruit seems very far away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But God planted me for a reason, He knows my every leaf and stem. He watches me daily, feeds me the vitamins and nutrients I need. Fights off my bugs and insects.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And just when I think I am standing tall and strong and proud, He looks ahead and sees the storms coming that could destroy me. The strong winds that could steal my chances for success, the rains that could drown me. And He comes along beside me and “stakes” me. Tying Himself to me securely. Holding me up even though I don’t even know I need it. Even though I think I can stand strong alone. He knows better than me. He planted me. He’s my Gardener.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am happy to say that there are days I have blooms. A lifetime of pruning and work by God has pointed me in the direction I need to be growing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The “if only’s” try to stunt my growth, wither my vines, steal my sunshine…but they don’t know who they are dealing with. God doesn’t allow the “if onlys” to stay in His garden. He weeds them out with skill and practice. I am in the Hands of a Master. Some day my fruits will be sweet and plentiful. He is measuring me and watering me every day! And I praise Him for it!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363932908602155520.post-72514183058455059562013-08-20T05:00:00.002-07:002013-08-20T05:00:37.996-07:00"My Seashell Collection" ~Romans 5:1-5<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was walking on the beach recently. For an Arkansas girl, that’s a big statement. I was forty when I finally got to watch a sunset on the beach. Beautiful. I was awed by every aspect of beach life. The warmth, the sand, but especially the sunsets and seashells. I imagined Jesus walking along the seashore. Walking on water. Cooking breakfast on the beach for the disciples after an all night fishing trip. Calming the storms and leveling the ships. I loved listening to the waves. Thinking about the power of God in the water, the creation of God in the depths of the sea. I made footprints in the sand just like the poem. I could feel Him there with me. It was calm, quiet and beautiful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I couldn’t wait to collect seashells. Just like in the movies. I wanted to bring them home and fill a glass display vase on my desk, so that when I was suffering through these long miserable southern winters, I could hold them and remember. If fact, that was one of my goals for the trip. That was my excitement. The shells.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But where I was, everything was white. White sand, white shells. The first day I walked a mile in the shallow water, heading into the sun, wading ankle deep with my head down, searching for elusive shells. Not much luck. I was disappointed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But an amazing thing happened when I turned around to head back. With my back to the sun, my body cast a long reflection to fall in front of me across the water. And there, shining in my dark shadows, were dozens of beautiful snow white seashells. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I knelt excitedly and scooped them up. All the shells I could ever want. They had been invisible in the sunshine, but when a shadow fell, they stood out boldly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And here came a “God Lesson” for me. Those shells were the lessons and blessings in my life. The things I learned in the shadows, the beauty I found in the valleys. How many times had I blindly walked along for days, face to the shining sun, trouble free and oblivious to the wonderful gifts God wanted to give me. But when the clouds rolled in, the sun dropped, the shadows fell. That’s when I grabbed my Bible, fell on my face and looked for some seashells from Him. The most beautiful seashells are found in my shadows. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Everyone prays for peace and happiness. To be trouble free. But that’s not my prayer anymore. I’ve realized over the years just how well God knows me. And now I pray for just enough heartache, deep enough valleys, dark enough shadows, to keep me facedown searching for His seashells. I don’t dig for His lessons and blessings when the sun is shining. What I know about myself, and God knows too, is that I see best in the shadows. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Some of my biggest, most beautiful “light bulb moments” have come in pitch black darkness. And how many mornings, literally and figuratively, have the most beautiful sunrises come after the longest, darkest nights I’ve suffered through. Depending on Him, learning from Him, surviving and eventually thriving, because of Him. And gathering His beautiful seashells of strength and promise. Holding them tight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I often hear people say “God won’t give you more that you can handle.” I always want to correct them. God has given me more than I could handle on several occasions, without a doubt. Too much heartache, too much pain. I buckled under it. I‘ve stumbled and fallen. Thank heaven I had Him to carry me. Because there has never been enough trouble hit me that He couldn’t handle, with or without me. Sometimes I just have to rest in His arms and give up, get out, and hide. Let Him take the fight and face my demons. Happens a lot in my life. And those are the times I learn, grow, rely on Him. Those are the times He stays closest to me. Those are the times I fill my vase with His seashells.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And those seashells stay on the “desk of my life.” Some displayed proudly, some hidden away in drawers. I take those hidden lessons and blessings out sometimes. I examine them, rub them, admire their beauty. And I remember the shadows I walked through to gather them. I remember the little white lights shining just for me. Lights that represent His power, His strength. His little seashells of hope in my darkest times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> From the deepest shadows have come my most beautiful seashells of all!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00708615890365790548noreply@blogger.com0