"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.

"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!

"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.

"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!  

"The Drama Queen" ~Jeremiah 29:11-14

     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. 
     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.
      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 really 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 always has a purpose!
     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…
      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.  
     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.  He's got this!  Sometimes we lose sight of that in the middle of the storm we are fighting through.
      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. 
     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.  
     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!

"I Remember..." ~Mark 11: 23-24

     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.
     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.  
     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. 
     I remember sitting in my church pew alone.  Nothing is more alone than that. 
     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.
     Days the mountains looked too big. I didn’t want to climb anymore.  I wanted to give up.
     I remember.
     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.
     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.  
     I know.  I remember.
     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.  
     I was blind but now I see.  And He was with me.  Every minute in the valley.
     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.
     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.
     “My God- He can move the mountains...”  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.
     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.
      And always, unfailingly, He does.  He is there.  Right where we need Him the most.  
     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.   
     I am having a Praise Day today.  Just because I remember.

"In the Trenches..." ~Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12

     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.  
     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.
     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.
     It made me remember something that my husband pointed out to me long ago.  We love people for their weaknesses.  Not their strengths.
     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.
     Then our relationship changed drastically.  We went to a third world country together.
     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.
     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.
     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.
     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.  
     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.
     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. 
     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. 
     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.
      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.
     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.  
     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.
     Everyone has a story.  Everyone is lovable.  And you may, like me, make a forever friend.