It’s not Thanksgiving…and yet I am so thankful.
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.
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.
And the miracle of it all is, we did... I am so thankful.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. If you don’t believe it’s real, you haven’t been where I’ve been. I prayed and I cried. I screamed and I begged.
...Alone with my God. Many times He seemed far too silent. But I prayed some more.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Love Never Ever Fails. Neither does He. I’m Thankful.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
"The Tin Cup" ~by Shannon (Sosebee) McChristian
Thinking today about an old tin cup.
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!
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.
And so that brings me back to the tin cup.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’m sure that large truck patch was a lot of work each year for my parents. That’s not the part I remember.
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.
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.)
But I have gotten off track. I wanted to talk about the tin cup.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And I don’t think I ever will.
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!
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.
And so that brings me back to the tin cup.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’m sure that large truck patch was a lot of work each year for my parents. That’s not the part I remember.
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.
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.)
But I have gotten off track. I wanted to talk about the tin cup.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And I don’t think I ever will.
Monday, December 23, 2013
"The Mirror...a Christmas Memory"
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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...
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
"The Gathering Place"
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I, for one, was not surprised at all.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
But always, always…my sweet memories remain.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I, for one, was not surprised at all.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
But always, always…my sweet memories remain.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
"The Holy Hush" ~Zephaniah 3:14-17
“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’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.
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.
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.
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.
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 can still see them clearly. They are etched on my soul. And they still hinder me, cripple me, every day. Consequences remain.
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 “got-it-all-together-and-know-where-I-put-it-people.” 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.
And then the next verse speaks straight to me. The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. 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?
He will exult over me with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over me with shouts of joy. 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?
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 can still see them clearly. They are etched on my soul. And they still hinder me, cripple me, every day. Consequences remain.
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 “got-it-all-together-and-know-where-I-put-it-people.” 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.
And then the next verse speaks straight to me. The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. 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?
He will exult over me with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over me with shouts of joy. 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?
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.
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!
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, November 8, 2013
"Angel Sightings..." ~Matthew 26: 47-56
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.
Most days I find relief in this reliable repetition. I am thankful for the predictable parts.
Most days I am okay with the sameness of my days. The lack of drama.
But once in a great while, without warning, a day comes along that demands a little more.
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).
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.
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 SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND 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. Seventy-two thousand! Probably more!
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.
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.
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.
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.
I think they are singing today. Praising today. Every day. I think there are at least SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND 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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
Praising my Lord. With me standing right in the middle, singing with the loudest voice of all!
Most days I find relief in this reliable repetition. I am thankful for the predictable parts.
Most days I am okay with the sameness of my days. The lack of drama.
But once in a great while, without warning, a day comes along that demands a little more.
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).
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.
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 SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND 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. Seventy-two thousand! Probably more!
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.
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.
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.
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.
I think they are singing today. Praising today. Every day. I think there are at least SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND 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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
Praising my Lord. With me standing right in the middle, singing with the loudest voice of all!
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