Blessings from Brenda

Football Feelings

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 06 Oct 2017 12:34:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Oh, for the love of football. I've seen people weep over wins and losses. Heard of people losing thousands of dollars on risky bets. Folks will sit and scream at a 42-inch screen or suffer through blizzards to cheer their teams. What's the hold this sport wields over millions? Surely there's some sensible reason.

Columnist Andy Rooney once asked, “How could any normal, reasonably intelligent human being be sad or wildly happy over the outcome of a football game between two professional football teams?”

He concluded at the close of his 1986 syndicated article, “If I can be made happy by a victory by a team of strangers because they wear blue uniforms instead of red and represent New York instead of Washington, why should I bother to work for real success?

“I have a heart, the poet Robert Browning would have said, 'too soon made glad.'”

Is there nothing more lasting or personally pertinent from which we can enjoy such delight? Are there not more significant tragedies other than the loss of a game that should grieve us so deeply?

Sure there are! Still, the game itself is symbolic of such things in life and often helps us to stay emotionally alert so we are practiced up for feeling.

On the field it looks like uninhibited joy over simply crossing a little white chalk line. Such a feat will make a man dance like a fool. Ever celebrated the birth of a child? The victory dance looks similar for some daddies.

On the sidelines it looks like great sorrow when grown men bow their heads and drop tears as well as helmets as the clock ticks down to one more year without a title. Ever stood in an airport telling the love of your life goodbye and dreading the last call to board? Both the loss and the loneliness feel like a kick in the gut.

You see, football is about feeling. It's feeling hopeful when the season starts. Feeling confident in players you've never met, but trust more than your own Grandma Betsy. It's feeling shame and pride. The coaches, the team, the fans, the critics – they're all a community where football fanatics feel they fit.

“Upon further review,” it just makes sense to get excited, depressed, thrilled, defeated, grateful, broken, elated and deflated. As humans and football fans, we are made to feel. Besides, football is a good excuse for a man to cry and woman to rail and get away with it! Better in front of the big screen than on the freeway.

Working Faithfully for Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 08 Jul 2016 22:17:00 +0000

Brenda Black

On Monday, many were free from work to celebrate America's birthday. But on Tuesday the price for such freedom meant rising early after going to bed late to toil once again and get the bills paid. There is always a price to pay.

For patriots who formed this nation, and those who have followed, the price for freedom mounted up to more than just sleepiness and drudgery. It cost life and limb.

“I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!” With passion, Patrick Henry implored the citizens of Virginia to join the American Revolution. But his fighting words were premised by far stronger convictions that he was not left without help. This patriot and founding father of our nation believed in unseen forces and supreme influence. “Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us,” 2 Chronicles 32:8.

Henry would later say: “It cannot be emphasized too clearly and too often that this nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religion, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

There is unquestionable evidence that the founding fathers governed from a biblical perspective. They founded America on faith and set their hearts on freedom. The framers of our U.S. Constitution believed in The Founding Father who created heaven and earth and “governs in the affairs of men,” as Benjamin Franklin stated, based on Daniel 4:17.

Maybe that's why I still tear up when I hear or sing “God Bless America.” He has, He is, and He will again bless this nation...IF we welcome His divine influence and fight on the right side for the right causes.

The God who existed before the foundation of the world is the One who pierced the hearts of those men and emboldened them to declare freedom to follow Him. This same God is no less present or active today. He is the Founding Father in every way. Independence Day, then, is more than just patriotic picnicking and a day free from work. It is a reminder that what the Son sets free, is free indeed!

The Founding Father charges us to come unto Him when we are weak and heavy laden. He promised rest long before Miss Liberty extended the invitation to "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

Some people explored here, some people were fortunate to be born here and some risked life and limb to just touch the shores of America. Why? Because in America we have the unique freedom to fully access God and experience both liberty in the land and liberty of the soul. It took the lives of brave, young patriots. It took the dedication of forward thinking visionaries who ratified our Constitution. It took desperate times and enormous sacrifices from men, women and children in every generation to sustain such liberating status.

This Independence Day, and every day that follows, remember the price that was paid. Remember the founding fathers who intelligently launched a free nation based on biblical truths. Remember The Founding Father that gave His Son on the cross. Remember, like Patrick Henry did, that liberty is worth the fight. God help us to not lose our Independence. Without such freedom, we are tired, poor, wretched and homeless once again.

Now Where Did I Put That

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 24 Jun 2016 22:02:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

My final task for the day was simple. Carry a few items to the truck for the kids, offer kisses and hugs and bid them adieu. The wrap up to a pleasant evening picnic to celebrate June birthdays and Father's Day ended sweetly and serenely. I was weary by day's end, but warmed in heart from the love of family.

That was Saturday. The next morning began as usual readying ourselves for worship and ministry. By late Sunday afternoon, the mission shifted. My husband and I were on the hunt for a gift bag that contained all of the well wishes we received approximately 18 hours earlier. Neither of us could determine the last place the small blue bag had been seen. I was certain Alan moved it from yard to house. After he exhausted all the probable places he could have set the sack, I began a more unorthodox approach.

He transferred the kitchen trash bag to the garage canister, I though to myself. Perhaps he carried out our cache with the trash. To the blue barrel I went, expecting to harvest our happy birthday cards and goodies sitting on top of the glad bag and then be able to poke a little fun at the trash man. Not there.

In clean-up mode, my hubby had also reclaimed unused ice from the cooler, bagged it and placed it in the freezer. I giggled to myself in anticipation of finding the gift bag among the roasts, ground beef and ice cream. Not there.

He helped our elder son tote a saddle to the basement just after dark. That must have been where he misplaced the little blue bag. Down the steps I scurried, certain to solve the mystery. Not there.

I looked in every room, perused the front porch, and finally gave up the search. “Easy come, easy go,” crossed my mind. But I'm not one to let things go that easily.

If my husband didn't lose the bag, then the kids must be the culprits. I phoned to query just what all ended up being hauled to Nevada, Missouri, by the newly marrieds. Of course, they had a great time evading my questions by asking their own: Where did you last see it? That classic momma question posed to every young whipper snapper who ever misplaced a shoe or sock or toy, came back to bite me. After ample good-humored razzing, my son and daughter-in-law informed me that I had absent-mindedly toted to our son's truck the very gifts we'd only just received, placing the little blue bag with its precious contents right on top of their heap. They were wagering with one another how long it would take us to realize the blunder. Feel the love!

All I could do was laugh with them at myself and warn them, one day you'll hit the 50's and life is never the same. If it is, you won't remember it. Happy Birthday to me and good bye memory.

©2016 The Word's Out-Brenda Black

Where Clouds are Far Behind

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 10 Jun 2016 21:59:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Somewhere over the rainbow, on June 10, 1922, Frances Ethel Gumm entered this world. By the ripe old age of two, the baby girl delivered her first stage performance and a star was born. Sadly, no fairy tale, award-winning movies or melodic stories sung by the dark haired lass would keep reality at bay. Gumm, better known as Judy Garland, died at 47, having performed for 45 of her fleeting years.

One writer remembered the iconic starlet this way, “Between the struggles of the Great Depression and the mayhem of World War II, Garland invited us to experience a transformed world in The Wizard of Oz where we could 'wake up where clouds are far behind.'”

While Garland sang of such a place, another woman went there. Amelia Earhart went where no woman had gone before when she flew solo across the Atlantic Ocean in 1928, and reached an altitude of 18,415 feet in 1931.

Vicariously, women soared with her, applauding her gumption and envying her freedom. She invited onlookers to experience a transformed world through her courage and moxy. But her last adventure, an attempt to circumnavigate the globe in the Lockheed Electra, ended in 1936, when she disappeared over the South Pacific. A nation grieved the petite daredevil who only made it to 40.

Two talented women with two troubling destinies that sound sadly similar. The great divide in their end results is that one self destructed while the other pushed the limits. They each took risks, but one lived in fantasy while the other made dreams come true.

Many become stars for their fine performances. Few become heroes for setting lofty goals and working to achieve them. When you seek inspiration, it's fine to look far behind the clouds for prospects, but use some caution. Some are in it only for themselves. They'll sing the songs and play the parts, while behind their masks lurk dark secrets and troubling storms in lives headed for disaster rather than the end of a rainbow. True inspiration can be found in the ones who bare their souls and live with integrity and purpose.

Earhart once said, “By the time I had got two or three hundred feet off the ground, I knew I had to fly.”

Make sure you can spot the difference between those shooting for stardom and those aiming for the stars. Be certain you navigate toward great possibilities not just yellow-bricked fantasies. Most importantly, fly in such a way so that others will want to soar after you.

**Tell me -- who inspires you to do the impossible?

©2016 The Word's Out-Brenda Black

Help for the Hurting

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 27 May 2016 21:57:00 +0000

by Brenda Black

In tragedy and grief, we come together as a community to both share and bear the weight of walking through it rightly. We do our level best to say kind things and to demonstrate loving actions. All the while, we wrestle with insufficiency and second guess our good intentions. Is there ever truly a right response? Is silence the best choice? Yes...and no to both questions. There is no perfect plan in the midst of grief. There are just humans trying to offer comfort and peace any way they know how. And therein lies the greatest challenge: we don't know what to say or do to make it better.

Accepting that reality may well provide opportunity for the greatest acts of sympathy. For when we don't have the eloquence nor vocabulary, all we can offer is love, respect and understanding.

A community expresses love often in the face of tragedy, by eagerly extending generosity. From prayers to proceeds, sometimes all folks can do is just do something.

Respect and understanding are a little harder to handle. According to grief.com, a few of the best ways to demonstrate true concern begin with admitting you simply may not know what to say. “I wish I had the right words, just know I care.” “I don't know how you feel, but I am here to help anyway I can.” Saying nothing or just offering a hug speaks volumes. Above all, the best way we can offer support is to call on the only One who truly understands and go to God in prayer.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” Psalm 34:18. The peace He brings is unparalleled and so incredibly powerful at times like this. His touch is tender. His comfort is complete. His love is what is needed most – for the grieving and the consoling. For His love is perfect and in our weakness, He proves Himself strong, and closer than ever.

Merciful and faithful Lord, because of Your great love, we are not consumed, for Your compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. God, You are our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Help us to not fear, though the earth seems to give way and a mountainous weight presses down on our aching hearts. Though waters of grief roar and in our shaken state, we feel like the ground beneath our feet quakes, we will be still and know that You are God. You, Lord Almighty, are with us. You are our fortress. (Lam. 3:22-23; Ps. 41:1-2, 10-11)

©201 The Word's Out-Brenda Black

May Day! May Day! Tears on the Way!

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 13 May 2016 21:53:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

No matter how many years pass, no matter how far removed from the direct ties to a graduate, I still cry at commencements. I scan the audience, spotting moms who are doing their level best to just keep it all together for the moment. Instantly, I'm in their skin and I'm the mess. My heart races, tears trickle and I find myself digging through my purse for a tissue to blot damp cheeks marked by empathy.

Why, oh why, does Mother's Day have to come in the same month, and often on the same day as graduation ceremonies? The one-two punch to a maternal gut is nearly more than a momma can take standing up! I liken it to post traumatic stress, with flashbacks from birthing pains to toddler tumbles each time you attend “the last” of something. Last game, last day, last performance, last award banquet, last...last...last. All such finality causes the brain to churn up memories of all the firsts.

Numbly you go through the motions surrounded by other shell-shocked parents, pretending to be celebrating rather than grieving. The first lost tooth, the first step, the first word and that big ol' bus swallowing your five year old up on the first day of school jolts one into the awful reality that 13 years have come and gone in a flash.

And there they stand, young men and young women, taller and stronger than their folks. Still, in a mother's eyes these are infants just yesterday rocked and swaddled. Doggone it, I'm crying again just thinking about it!

From one who's been there and survived, my heart goes out to each of you dying a little inside. Trust me when I tell you, there are more great days ahead. There will be phone calls home late in the night when mom's voice is the only one those big kids want to hear. Through the grogginess and worries, your heart will be filled. You'll be squeezed hard and lifted off the floor with bear hugs and big sighs, accompanied by all that college laundry when they come home for a visit. Your world will widen with them. New people, new places, new topics of conversation are just around the bend.

And then one day you sense the greatest change; without warning you've become dear friends. Oh, you will always be their mama, but this shift is something magical. As they transform into independent adults, you are escorted past another milestone. There you'll be ushered to a front row seat to enjoy the fruit of your labor. Smiles will come again, but there is one caveat. You'll still cry.

It's just part of the mother phenomenon.

©2016 The Word's Out-Brenda Black

The Wonder of It All

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 05 Feb 2016 15:03:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

My heart skipped a beat when first my toes touched the powdery soft sand that gradually sloped toward the Pacific. A ferry ride and a two-mile hike in cowboy boots landed me the closest I've ever been to salt water and sea weed. I couldn't peel those boots and socks fast enough!

Boots in the sand

Toes in the sea

The air was fresh, the sky and water blending together in hues of blue. Then it happened. A wave rushed in faster than we had imagined and billowed up our rolled up pant legs, leaving my husband and me wet, shocked and giddy! I'm not a beach girl. Don't really have any desire to set sail across the deep blue seas. I've seen pictures of the creatures they continue to discover under all that water, and frankly it gives me the heebie jeebies! After my first encounter this past week with real sand and ocean water on my feet, I've come to understand the appeal. But as for me, I plan to keep on the shore.

Pacific Ocean Blue

Our visit was delightful, but Missouri and solid earth beckoned. So with the imagery of foamy waves and sea gulls lingering on my mind, we boarded a plane and took flight, homeward bound. Between the coast and the Heartland, stretches a whole lot of territory! From 37,000 feet up, the immensity of our country and its incredible diversity is incomprehensible. Each mountain range and desert, every winding river, barren rock and snow-covered peak heralds individuality and the thumbprint of a divine Creator.

From 7 miles up

Finger Paint Compliments of God

Just a little puddle 37,000 feet away

Las Vegas strip

From ground level, they look the same. From a bird's eye view, not a single boulder or sparkling lake is shaped alike. The colors are remarkably varied with stripes of orange, green, red, blue, brown and yellow painting carved out bluffs. Others will “oohh” and “aahh” over the Las Vegas strip with all its man made lights and glitz. As for me, that massive city seemed insignificant in the middle of God's great wilderness. From seven miles above both city and rugged landscapes, I have to grant the wow factor to the Rockies, the Painted Desert, the Sierras and the Grand Canyon!

Grandeur as far as the eye can see

For many, a stroll on the beach or a plane ride for a thousand miles is common place. But even if you're an expert on sea shells and have been up in the air a hundred times, there should remain a sense of wonder. That is how I choose to live on this great and gorgeous planet! Whether by land or by sea, she is lovely and masterfully designed. This I have seen and I remain amazed and moved by its grandeur.

photos by Brenda Black

Start Somewhere

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 01 Jan 2016 18:31:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

A new year begins. It must start somewhere. According to history, January 1, fits the bill. When Roman dictator Julius Caesar decided that the traditional Roman calendar needed reform, he enlisted the aid of Sosigenes, an Alexandrian astronomer. He advised Caesar to follow the solar year, like the Egyptians. The year was calculated to be 365 and 1/4 days, and Caesar added 67 days to 45 B.C., making 46 B.C. begin on January 1. There you have it – a start, a beginning that begins each year.

Like the flipping of the calendar page from 2015 to 2016, every journey, each ending and all plans have a genesis. The fact is that nothing happens unless it is initially put into motion. On January 1, the timing is right, the opportunity present annually at this traditional moment to set a course of action. It's time again to S-T-A-R-T.

S – Set a goal. The go-to resolutions typically involve weight or bad habits humans long to banish from their lives. The idea is simple: eliminate the accumulation of a lifetime of poor choices in 12 months or less. By week six, we're not sure why we even tried. This year, I challenge you to think deeper. Plan longer. Look higher and cast a vision different from all those ventured in the past. Dream big! Don't just toss up flippantly the hope that something will change. Set a goal to see something through. Go for it!

T – Take a chance. Do something unexpected, unrehearsed or unfamiliar in 2016 that will stretch you out of your comfort zone. Shake it up a bit and try something new that isn't all about you. Reach out and help someone in need. Forgive someone unworthy of your grace. Extend an offer that can never be repaid. Take a chance on someone who needs a second chance and you might just find you are the one being set free.

A – Answer a call. Now go bigger still. See your small gestures grow into a mission that changes not just one or two lives, but a community. With every act of mercy or aid, see the greater possibilities of how to expand your territory and answer many needs.

R – Raise the bar. Keep it up and set an example. Model being a good neighbor, provide an example of generosity and challenge yourself to always be kind. You are what the world needs most, more now than ever. Set the pace so that others will follow.

T – Take stock. When you look back over this year, count the cost as gain, not loss. See your efforts as investments into lives. With every goal you set, each risk you encounter, the call you answer and the role you play, you are sure to look at the world differently by 2017. And the one most altered will be the man or woman in the mirror that you see come next New Year's Day.

Start somewhere. Start now. Make this year the beginning of something worthwhile.

Take Time for Time's Sake

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Sat, 12 Sep 2015 14:30:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

In one brief span of an hour, I learned that a steady diet of daytime television is the equivalent to dining on nothing but cotton candy covered in skunk. What a wasteland! My viewing was not by choice, but by entrapment, in the waiting room of a dealership's service department. And just when I had my fill, a daytime t.v. junkie entered the room.

He found the remote control and cranked up the nonsense, cruising through lame tips for better marriages, political bantering over the least important issues, crackpot doctors doling out advice based on anything but science. Then he began his commentary, spewing opinions, obviously fueled by previous days spent lingering tubeside.

Complemented by the smell of stale and burnt popcorn, my stomach began to churn. Try as I might to concentrate on the work on my laptop, I longed for fresh air and something intelligent to ponder. No wonder our world is in such a mess, if this is the garbage filling idle minds day after day. How we, as Americans, do find mindless and futile ways to pilfer the time away.

Time. It is fleeting and fragile. In the past month, I learned of eight individuals I knew personally who passed from this life. Their time suddenly halted. That makes me stop and think just how am I spending this precious commodity in limited quantity that never regenerates.

There are countless ways to invest it, clever ways to enjoy it, powerful ways to utilize it and creative ways to embellish it. But you only get one chance at every minute. Unfortunately, there never seems to be enough of those.

I'm learning as the years fly by that time flies exponentially faster. Each day seems to come and go with lightening rapidity, leaving me shaking my head and wondering how I didn't accomplish more with the time I had. Instead of regretting the tick-tocking that keeps me panicked, I'm trying to become more cognizant of just where all the moments get passed. I won't waste your time listing the petty things that rob my days. Instead, I'd like to challenge you to take a few seconds and evaluate your own limited treasure chest of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and years.

See where it is spurned and spent. Notice when it crawls or flees. Take a moment and make a plan to guard the days ordained for you on this planet. It might just be the best time you've ever spent.

Coming Home from One Side to the Other

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Sat, 05 Sep 2015 21:34:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Show me vivid green pastures dotted with black cattle. Show me white pines and giant oaks stately guarding Ozark hills. Show me rivers glistening and rambling. Show me flooded rice fields dancing on flat bottom land. From west to east, the scenery changes in the Show Me state, offering diversity that is broad and beautiful, one side to the other.

I took the ten-hour round trip tour a couple of weekends ago from Clinton to Sikeston, and home again. The hubs and I criss-crossed 12 counties, marveling at their differences. Though Mark Twain hailed from the opposite corner of the state, his namesake forest across the south central region offered scenic tranquility for part of the journey. The deep, dark, seemingly endless rows of trees surely would have inspired the story teller with as many back wood mysteries as the Mighty Mo river provided a backdrop for the folklore he made famous. And that's the beauty of this great state. Her cultural differences, various industry and natural characteristics run wide and deep, worthy of notice.

I often ponder on such road trips about the outcome of life had I lived just a few hours one way or another from where I call home. How much would the opportunities have changed; how would my world look differently? Would I still have gone to college or met the man I married? We spot pretty homesteads along the route and ask one another from time to time, "How would you like to live there?" We dream for a bit and venture the scenario, then always come up with the same answer.

"No, I think I'll stay where I am."

There's no place like home. Though I must admit, I am tempted to transplant a few of those gorgeous tall evergreens and borrow a cool, clear stream for personal landscaping. A sprawling ranch with board fences and pristine paddocks, absent of ragweed, looks inviting. I'd like the deep, rich soil for our pastures and garden and some of those mountainous slopes for winter sledding. But, home is home and it always feels good to come back where the roots run deep and the surroundings are familiar.

Sometimes it takes a jaunt just a few hours away to rekindle an appreciation for the place where God planted us. It's nice to see the diversity; fun to enjoy some new scenery. But in the end, when the forest faded away and the sunset came into view, west and ahead, it felt right; it felt good. With some unseen, emotional magnetic force, home keeps pulling us back to the life and the folks we love and the history we've created.

From one side to the other, our state is spectacular and it's people memorable. Still, from one side to the other, home is preferable, and I'm glad each time I get there.

BTS and an Empty Nest

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Thu, 13 Aug 2015 16:57:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Once upon a time, I was shopping for backpacks, pencils and ruled paper in early August. The approaching autumn and school activities merited new clothes and shoes that fit our young sons. It hit me like a ton of bricks how long ago that now seems, as I watched hoards of families stock piling school supplies on “No Sales Tax” weekend. I nearly bought a box of crayons and a coloring book for myself, just for the sake of nostalgia. Besides I've heard it's great therapy for alleviating stress.

Funny how, on this side of time and distance, one only remembers the wonderment of back-to-school preps. We deny there were hassles and headaches. We conveniently forget how big of a dent the new clothes, paste and gym shoes put into our pocketbook. All we recall is smiling, cherub faces gleaming over Disney lunch boxes.

Perhaps this pollyannish mindset is the transfer of our own childhood memories upon our offspring. Truth be told, I still have my pink Tinker Bell lunch box. To me it still smells like tuna fish sandwiches – the good kind with sweet, homemade pickle relish and just the right amount of Miracle Whip -- lovingly cut by my mamma into perfect triangles that little hands could easily grip.

Wouldn't it be nice to turn that polyurethane insulated lunch bag into a time machine so that every time your baby opened it, the clock stood still and they stayed little. Then, once in a while, we could borrow it's magic, flip up the lid and step inside and go back to our own time of innocence.

So much for dreaming. We can't stop time and we can't go back. With the honor of motherhood comes happy memories as well as heartache. It would be nice if babies came with a guarantee of staying tiny. No colic, no tears, no toddler crashes, no loneliness on the playground and no teenage tragedies. It would be comforting to not have to worry over tough tests or deceitful friends or twenty-something break-ups. We'd like to think our child's life a bed of roses and innocence. But in the end, such a child would be spoiled and weak and have no history or meaningful memories. For all of life's experiences shape them into men and women we'll respect and upon which we may even depend. The whole of it is what makes watching them grow up worth the pain of letting it happen.

The instinct to provide and protect never ends. A desire to catch them before they fall or kiss all hurt away is protocol in the parent guidebook. That's what moms and dads do. We buy the supplies, we shuttle them to the practices. We check their progress and we carry their burdens like they were heaped in a backpack and strapped to our own shoulders. We watch them grow, without our permission, and cling to the memories of when they were little.

Then, one day, we look up to them. We step under the arm of a towering son, instead of holding him in our lap. We laugh like adult friends instead of warring like a mother at odds with her teenage daughter. We watch them launch. We celebrate their marriage. We welcome grandbabies and start the process all over!

Back to school takes me back in time. Back to when my children were babies. Yep, I think I'm going to go get that coloring book and use it as a bit of therapy to occupy and ease my mind, here in my empty nest.

Can't Fix This

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 07 Aug 2015 14:00:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Confession: I'm a fixer. Couple that with my strong will to not wait for someone to come to the rescue, and it warps into a MacGyver complex. You see, I am fairly convinced that nearly anything can be repaired by using assorted items from the junk drawer. Take a look. There's gum for adhesive, a paperclip that doubles as a skrewdriver or key ring. Most recently, I stopped a leaking toilet handle with a handy bread wrapper twist tie. A good supply of duct tape, super glue, baling twine and ingenuity has been known to save thousands of dollars and extend the life of countless gadgets, from household appliances to farm implements. Tada! Consider it fixed.

The frugal stubbornness that has found me digging through old rusty buckets for just the right little doodad can be a blessing. It not only saves money, but instills independence. It rekindles creativity. Thinking outside the box in an effort to make do or rectify a problem comes with satisfaction. So much so, that when I come to a situation without remedy from my make-shift arsenal of stuff at-the-ready, I fail miserably accepting the fact that I can't fix this.

The let down over breakdowns is only intensified when the broken thing is not a thing, but a human being – one I love. That drives me the craziest; I'm still confessing. When I can't patch them with gorilla glue, and there isn't a bandage big enough to cover the disease, it grieves me. When I can't tie up their heartache with left over streamers from a helium balloon, I feel deflated. And that's right where the good Lord would have me to be – totally dependent on His touch and mercy.

The fact that I can't fix it keeps me on my knees. Down there, I don't pilfer through junk to discover a makeshift solution to life's problems. Down there, I can't take credit for my clever concoctions. Down there, it's humbling and has me waiting for someone to come to the rescue. On my knees makes me dependent on the One who can fix it!

Confession: I am tempted to give God a helping hand by making creative suggestions about just how He should whip something up and rectify the problem. Realistically, I know that my remedies come from the junk drawer, while His are perfect.

So, here I remain, able to tinker and strategize quick fixes for minute problems, but incapable of fixing the big issues for my loved ones. And right here is where I need to be – praying. For, when it is all said and done, the prayer of a righteous one fixes much.

Living Ageless

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Tue, 23 Jun 2015 15:56:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Age is relative. Through the eyes of a child, I'm ancient. The perception of a stranger is based on good guesses. In my mind, I'm 20 years younger than the days I've lived on this planet. I can't be this old! I have things I want to do and places I want to go! So, I choose not to define my goals or my energy or my personality by the number of my years. Instead, I plan to just L-I-V-E, live.

Since I'm past the half way mark to 100, I have enough history behind me to afford me some great memories and pretty good lessons upon which to build my theory. Ones that help me know what real love looks like. It's parents still together and committed. It's friends I've known and cherished since childhood. It's a wonderful husband of 30 years and two amazing sons who honor and adore me, even when I don't deserve their love. It's brothers and sisters in Christ from across the globe and a God who gave it all. Yes, to L-I-V-E, is to L-O-V-E. And the longer I live, the longer I have the opportunity.

Fifty plus means I've had time to accumulate a host of interests. Faith, writing, horses, cattle, music, gardening, ministry, cooking, canning, arts and crafts, photography, poetry, fishing, and the list goes on and on. With each passing year, I find something new to explore. I continue to learn. I get to impart my expertise to others who are as interested in my interests. The by-product of time well spent is a well-rounded life full of beauty and opportunity which are only possible because the clock keeps ticking. To L-I-V-E is to walk out your days like an investigative reporter, learning and exploring and finding where you want to invest your time, mind and energy.

V – it's to L-I-V-E victoriously, vivaciously, vibrantly! In every season, there's a time to live out loud. As a child, it's all the “firsts” you attempt and conquer. As a teen, it's the fears and peer pressure you overcome to stay true to yourself. In college, it's discovering and defining your destiny. In marriage, it's investing in the heart and soul of another. As a parent, learning to sacrifice and compromise, while leading and loving completely. Grandparents get to live childhood all over again and remember it through the eyes of innocence. And in every season, laughter and love and time well spent are V-I-T-A-L-L-Y important!

In the E-N-D, though aging is inevitable, age is eternally irrelevant. So, just L-I-V-E like this is the best day of your L-I-F-E.

Created to Connect

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Wed, 27 May 2015 16:40:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

There was a time of back porch singing. Aunts, uncles, cousins and kinfolk of every generation gathered regularly. Relatives grew up in the same neighborhood or trickled throughout a county. Family and childhood friends remained near, available to lend a hand when needed. The modern era looks considerably different. It is one of isolation and intentional independence. Families scatter across the globe and cousins are those people you meet every ten years at a dreaded reunion of strangers.

Sure, there are means of immediate contact no matter the geographical distance. Still, a warm hug or firm handshake is hard to acquire through cyberspace. A reassuring look or knowing advice often comes after the fact, diminishing it's timely significance. Spontaneous laughter or a trail of conversation that meanders through family jokes and legacies is hard to recreate apart from direct contact and in-the-moment opportunities.

Humans were created to connect. Science confirms the necessity of community and some have determined that survival of the fittest is not all it's cracked up to be if it means you are left alone in your particular species. Cooperation, not just competition and selfishness, is critical to survival. And that means knowing your neighbors as well as the relatives.

It took a thesis, and a group of neuroscientists, anthropologists and psychologists years of study to discover the importance of community. Oddly enough, God invented our need for others as one of His fundamental aspects of creation --present since the foundation of time. He designed us to desire fellowship, then God established the bonds of marriage and instituted the network of family according to that masterful design. Christ modeled fellowship and friendship, while the Holy Spirit was imparted for constant companionship. We were never intended to be alone.

Community is critical to families and neighbors. It's also imperative in days of convenient techno isolation. Interaction is a fleeting social skill being lost by a generation that would rather bond with a blog, tweet, post or pin, than play catch with the neighbor kid or learn from a grandparent. Can we just make eye contact, PLEASE, once again, and stop talking to each other through a selfie, quick-witted fingers or the top of our downward tilted heads!

Loneliness is the consequence for indifference toward humanity, family ties, or the people next door, whom you've never met. Loneliness is the by-product from technologically connected, but emotionally disconnected people. One day we'll wake up and find we know no one who truly knows us, unless we connect in real time, real ways, with real emotions and human touch. When you need someone in a moment of tragedy or triumph, who are you going to call? With whom will you share your sorrow and grief? How can you celebrate exciting news if you don't have people – crucial, important, loving people in your life? Trust me, a facebook follower or fellow blogger won't be enough. You're going to long for someone to be close and genuine. One day, when you finally have the time to sit on the porch, I hope you aren't still looking at your phone.

We are a community, we are family, we are people, and we need each other desperately.

The Word's Out - Brenda Black 2015©

Hey Mom, Take a Whiff of This

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Tue, 12 May 2015 18:17:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

I took a tour of the Briarwood Native Prairie last weekend and was mesmerized by the incredible intricacies and beautiful diversity of more than 200 species of plants. Prairie biologist Elizabeth Hamilton-Steele offered insight on a dozen of the most prominent samples of flora. She provided history on each variety and counseled prairie tourists on whether the plants were edible or poisonous. I appreciated the colorful scenery and fascinating science, but the take-away had to be the handy eat / don't eat advice. You never know -- it could mean the difference between life and death, should I ever take up residence on a rolling grassy patch of paradise.

On the tails of such details about leaves, seeds, roots and blooms, I had to wonder how such edible knowledge first was discovered. You can't trust the grazing habits of animals or insects entirely. What their stomachs can handle might mean our demise. For example, Steele explained that the milk weed plant's sap is toxic to us, but the sole diet of the delicate Monarch butterfly. Their cast iron digestive tract serves them well, for birds have learned if they chomp down on an orange and black winged bite, they'll suffer the consequences. They choose to pass up the bitter butterfly and pursue something a little sweeter and safer.

Neither can you count on the assumption that if one part of the plant is safe, that all parts are beneficial. That's even true with common vegetables we consume. Several edible plants have poisonous parts or parts that can turn poisonous in the wrong conditions, including potatoes, rhubarb, spinach and peaches. And the ONLY thing you better eat off of a tomato plant, is the tomato! Wilderness-survival.net provides a 13-step plan to determine the edibility of wild plants – Yes, I said 13 steps! So my nagging question remains: Who was the guinea pig to take the first brave bite that would save generations to follow all of the risk?

One friend ventured that was the job of the women in a tribe. Go figure! So some innocent female is stoking the fires at base camp when her husband's hunting party returns with venison and some strange leafy side salad that he thinks just might round out supper. He has neither nibbled nor sniffed. That's her duty. If she lives, he dines lavishly. If she dies, he'll be all the wiser.

Tell me if I'm wrong, ladies, but aren't we still playing this role centuries later. “Hey, Mom, smell this! Is it still okay to eat it?” “Honey, will the green film on top kill me?” “Here, you taste it and see if it's sour.” Take it a step further. Who has conquered cold and flu season, wiping noses, cleaning bathrooms and rocking little loved ones who insist on coughing in your face and spitting up on you? A Mom's immune system has to be one of the toughest in the world.

Ironically, my prairie tour fell on Mother's Day weekend. Once again, I was reminded just how much our mothers, grandmothers and even those dozens of generations prior, have been watching over us and sacrificing for us. I do believe we have courageous and resilient ancestral female genetics to thank for more than we can fathom. Here's my Native Prairie salad bar salute to all those past and those now persevering! Happy Belated Mother's Day!

Now What?

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Wed, 29 Apr 2015 14:01:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

You know you've either arrived or you are an old has-been when you start getting invitations to share your wisdom. I'm still pondering which category I fall under, as I plan for two school events where I'll answer questions about career choices and next steps for the next generation.

Oh, to be young and full of potentiality. It sounds exciting...and terrifying! I remember those “simpler” days when destiny was shaped more by fantasies of dreams becoming reality than true preparation for the real world. Junior high and high school years were a time for exploration and someone else footing the bill and assuming the responsibilities. Humans at that age think time lasts forever, until suddenly it's graduation day. The questions fly at these young adults like pointed darts whizzing past their heads: “Where are you going to school?” “What are you going to major in?” What do you want to do with your life?” “Any idea where you want to live?”

Their answers are hits and misses on the target of life, mostly just thrust toward a point two to four years down the road, with hopes they hit a bullseye. I mean, who actually, truly, honestly knows exactly what they want out of life at 17 or 18 years of age? Not many of us. Oh sure, we all have likes and interests and skill sets that cause us to migrate toward career choices. There are some who've known since they were eight what they want to do to make a living. For the most part, the rest of the human race just hopes something hits them in the face that they love and for which they can be paid.

So, May rolls around, and countless fresh-faced teens, who are headed to their twenties, embark on their journeys to success. They hear the commencement speeches and march to “Pomp and Circumstance.” They count the cards laden with cash and shop for dorm room furnishings. Then they ponder, like this 50-something, just what do I want to be and what do I want to accomplish?

May I offer a little advice...pray about it! From the classes you take to the roommate you select, ask for godly wisdom. In big decisions and small, seek counsel from the One who knows you best. God created you and has a purpose for your life. The plan is in place; your task is to pursue it. From one who's always sensed a particular calling to communicate, I've learned that if you listen with your heart as well as your head, you'll find your way and you'll discover your destiny.

Go forth, young grads, filled less with fear and more with promise. For the Lord goes before you and will whisper in your ear profound wisdom, IF you listen. “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it,' Isaiah 30:21.”

Caught Up in a Marvelous Moment

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 03 Apr 2015 17:00:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Getting caught up in the moment makes a memory stick in your mind. Sounds, sights, and songs each have a mysterious quality that burrows its way into the recesses of the brain and the very soul of a man. There is power in the spoken word. There is meaning in an image. There is emotion in a song. When Jesus entered Jerusalem, surely the throngs of people who lined the streets, waving palm branches and tossing their cloaks on the dusty path before Him were overwhelmed by all they saw and felt. They were caught up in a marvelous moment that happened long ago, yet impacts us to this very day.

His celebrated arrival seemed like a military victory. It was instead a prelude to death. In just a few days, the Lord Jesus Christ taught his followers of the need for His holy sacrifice. He imparted His mission. He compelled them to action. He loved them completely, in spite of their abandoning Him.

He died for them.

He taught. He cried. He served. He suffered. He died.

All of a sudden, that triumphant parade felt like a mockery. Hopes crushed. Dreams dashed. Hearts broken and grieving. Lives altered significantly, having spent time with this King, yet so helpless to stop His suffering. Soldiers brutally crucified this loving leader! His enthusiastic followers cowered and shuttered in disbelief as Jesus died before their tear-blurred eyes.

The loud “Hosannas” that rang just a few days earlier, were silenced by sobs and wailing. The kind King, the gentle Lamb, the Friend of sinners and the Wise Teacher dead.

How could any event erase the heart-wrenching embedded memories of heinous sounds and visions? Only one moment makes such a difference – the Resurrection!

HE LIVES!

Easter Sunday undoes the disappointment of Palm Sunday's short-lived victory. Easter Sunday redeems the traitorous act committed on Thursday. Easter Sunday obliterates the finality of Good Friday! From the time Jesus mounted a donkey and waved to the masses, to the miraculous moment He dropped grave clothes and adorned Himself in glorious immortality, we recount history this week. We have the position in time to see the whole story and know how it ends. All the sights and sounds, from jubilant choruses to haunting dirges to astonished praises, we see on this side of the cross and the empty tomb. When we read again about the moments that changed the world, it's easy to commiserate with the downcast and be awe-stricken with those surprised by the outcome. We have the privilege of reliving that moment when death was replaced by eternal promise, every day of our lives.

As you celebrate Easter in 2015, never forget how it all began. Remember the journey and think on the sacrifice, but most importantly believe in the end of the story. A Risen Savior reigns more than 2000 years later! Because He lives, our souls and our senses are touched again.

©Brenda Black The Word's Out

Valentine to God for a Job Well Done

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 30 Jan 2015 16:28:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Feeling blessed and a little bushed after a load of work in January. But the fruit of my labor and the hand of the Lord is looking lovely for February. My Valentine to God and thanks from me will be nine feature articles, cover stories, editorials and news stories that will appear in four different publications! Better than chocolate is seeing the graphics and script I prepared come to life in a national t.v. commercial, airing in the month of love. Having two separate regional advertising campaigns designed and distributed to a four state region makes my heart skip a beat. Booking speaking engagements months in advance is such a treat. Selling hundreds of ads in one week and editing and designing a profound and inspirational book are all icing on the cake. A gigantic newsletter and multiple email blasts signed, sealed and delivered as promised, brought a hug to more than one of us. The cakes I made and got to eat too, included promotions for five organizations and churches for their upcoming events. Brochures, post cards, banners, logos, speeches, commercials, interviews and articles; editing, layout, photography and websites -- January was demanding, but February is looking pretty sweet, and I have the Lord to thank!

I love my Lord and long to honor Him in all that I do --

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving," Colossians 3:23-24.

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Mon, 08 Dec 2014 16:03:00 +0000

Looking for gift inspiration? How 'bout a book by Brenda.

Order by Dec. 10 to guarantee shipment in time for Christmas.

Book Order Form

Tenacity Wins the Race

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 14 Nov 2014 19:58:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

I tearfully watched as one after another of thousands of runners willed their wearied legs toward the finish line. Some ran for the first time a race that far and hard. Their grimaced lips and tear-filled eyes revealed the pain of the process and relief for its culmination. Some tested their endurance for the hundredth race, cruising past in steady strides, with experience breathing in and out as evenly. From the first timers to the Olympic qualifiers, each one reached their destiny powered by tenacity.

Half wincing, half intrigued, I witnessed a man pull nails out of a board with his mouth, in pursuit of a Guinness World Record. His tenacity demanded steely concentration, as well as tough teeth! In a room filled with photographers, judges and reporters, he never lost focus, but annihilated the nails and beat the clock as if he ate hammers for breakfast.

A young, female doctor who owns a brand new clinic is home on maternity leave, planning how she'll juggle a newborn and 8,000 small and large animal patients. She tells me she'll take her race one leg at a time and handle the tough test of dual commitment and a divided heart. She's filled with tenacious optimism and determined to balance family and career.

They all remind me yet again of the amazing potential of the human spirit and body when one puts his or her mind to something and compels the heart to follow. While their examples are inspiring, it is also humbling to think of how little I often expect from myself. A bit of pain or inconvenience and I might be prone to take the shorter, easier route. At the end of that decision, I have to wonder, did the short cut leave me more fulfilled or empty. Will I know that I left it all on the field and played this game of life to win, pushing the limits of my own human possibilities, if I never do the hard stuff or try something out of my comfort zone?

Stepping out in faith and fortitude takes effort. Marathon runners don't wake up on race day and go 26.2 miles without building up the stamina, one step, one mile at a time. Guinness record breakers know the target before they ever make the attempt, and they practice, practice, practice. Moms count the cost and factor in the blessings to be the best they can be for their babies, in spite of the tears and trials. After weighing the odds and looking to the prize, the tenacious go to work to see their dreams become reality.

How about you? What's on your radar or your bucket list? Have you decided it's time for a little self-improvement? The only one who can make it happen is you.

Take the first step. Keep the focus. Find the balance. Be tenacious and finish the race.

A Life Lived Well

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Wed, 22 Oct 2014 21:04:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Funerals are not among my top favorite social gatherings. My ability to empathize deeply makes ministry to the grieving emotionally draining personally. Still, we count it an honor to be there for people when they need us most. Together, my pastor husband and I have counseled and comforted, preached and sung our way through a hundred sad gatherings and sorrowful good byes. How wonderful when those farewells can celebrate life more than bemoan death.

Recently, the mourners came in smiling, laughing and honoring a long and lovely life. Though little Ruthella fell shy of 5 foot, she cast a long shadow over her community and left a legacy. She lived life well for nearly 97 years. That's a lot of time. Time to be born and time to die. Time to plant and time to uproot. Time to tear down and time to build. Time to weep and time to laugh. Time to mourn and time to dance. Time to love and time to hate. Time for war and time for peace. Though she racked up decades of opportunities to do it all, she was content to just do what she did best, and bloom right where she was planted.

Her vast extended family remembered a woman who spent most of that time living, planting, building, laughing, dancing and loving on all of them. She chose kindness, forgiveness and gentleness, whether enduring hefty trials or just every day messes. According to those who knew her best, she never lost her temper, never raised her voice. She just took it all in stride with an easy-going demeanor. Perhaps her longevity was due to her passivity. She let a whole lot roll off her near-to-the-ground shoulders that could have weighed the little lady down. She resisted the temptation to retaliate. As a result, she wore grace as her garment instead of rage. Her pattern must be the healthy path to take. It obviously served her well.

It is a fact, that the opposite is true. A person filled with anger destroys himself and his reputation. Hot-tempered fools self-destruct from high blood pressure, heart attacks and ulcers. They poison relationships and create animosity and enemies.

Hate begets hate. Rage embitters and distances. But a quiet and gentle spirit produces peace and praise. Ruthella's example left a big, beautiful wake of grace.

Frankly, I'd like to live more in her tiny boots than walk in big, worldly shoes. I'm tired of the rage and rants in society. Everybody seems to have a bone to pick. At the drop of a hat, we come out with dukes up and fighting mad over any little thing. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). I'd just like to see more of it devoted to good things. Maybe if we lived more like Ruthella and less like rebels, always with a cause, we'd live life well and others would want it to be long.

Never Too Old to Remember a Melody

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Tue, 23 Sep 2014 21:55:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

More than usual turned out for the Sunday afternoon church service at the nursing home. Typically, our attendees are in the middle of sweet after-lunch slumber about the time we show up to sing a few songs and serve up the Word of the Lord. On this day, they came --in walkers and wheel chairs, with assistance and resistance -- to worship.

As I stood to lead the singing, it occurred to me the vast range of comprehension from one patient to another. At one table near the front sat three ladies I'd just met. One introduced herself no less than half a dozen times to my husband and myself, as if seeing us each time, for the first time --all in the span of about 10 minutes. To her left a misty-eyed darling rested her arms gracefully on the table. She did not know her name. She resorted to pat, memorized phrases to respond when she couldn't process our simple and kind questions. Next to her reclined a beautiful little woman, dressed in bright pink sweats and sporting a short-cropped, silver shock of hair that looked so soft, I wanted to stroke it. She said nothing, just stared straight ahead when I leaned in to welcome her.

We started off on an upbeat note with a song I thought they might recognize. Though we distribute hymnals, I've noticed very few of the residents open the books. Mostly, they just cradle them, sometimes fondling the pages with quivering fingers when I announce the selected number. But when the music starts, some in the room perk up. They mouth the words, and smiles cross their faces. Even the most non-responsive sometimes taps one socked foot or lifts a bent and frail hand heavenward. My heart melts. They know the words, they feel the rhythm, they experience for one blissful moment a touch of God here on earth.

My little friend met me one more time before we departed. Chances are pretty good she won't remember me the next time I see her, but she knew the melodies and the messages of those timeless songs. The precious lady in the middle may not have known her name, but she knew she was loved and that we cared. And I caught a glimmer in the eye of “pinky,” when I sang right to her. One time, she even grinned.

To my delight and off to my right, a sprite and alert resident, whom I had not met prior to the service, nearly bounced in her chair on some of the selections. She closed her eyes on others, slightly lifting her slender chin upward. Her face appeared soft and peaceful at times; joyful at others. I watched her recall from memory every word of every verse. When I left the service that day, I stopped to thank her for her sincere worship. We agreed and sealed it with a hug, that when all other memories fade, the words of a melody remain.

When I grow old and more forgetful, I pray that what's left of my mind will be filled with good music and meaningful lyrics. I'd like to think that someday, though I may not know your name or mine, I'll recognize an old song. And when I don't have much strength left in this faltering body, that some of the songs that have ministered to me all my life, will still be touching my soul when the lights are going out.

More than Music from MercyMe

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 03:20:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

Nearly 3,200 fans ticketed their way through chain link fences to concrete benches, and chairs they would rarely occupy, for a concert at the 2014 Missouri State Fair. They came to hear award winning gospel recording artist MercyMe belt out hit after hit. A top act from this genre has not graced the MSF grandstand stage since 1997. Back then it was Sandi Patty, famous for her incredible range and lilting voice. But on a balmy night more recent, five men dominated vocal acrobatics, with lead singer Bart Millard holding notes to incomprehensible lengths and never faltering from pure tones and perfect pitch. Their talent worthy of State Fair exhibition.

The band has been around since 1994, but in 2001, the world sat up and took notice when they released an original crossover single, “I Can Only Imagine.” That song helped secure a double platinum certification on their debut album Almost There. Millard's incredible talent in both his vocal and song-writing abilities – he wrote “I Can Only Imagine” on a legal pad in one sitting – continues to take the band's sound to the top of the charts. They've released six additional albums, plus a greatest hits, with four certified gold. They had 13 consecutive top 5 singles on the Billboard Christian Songs chart, with seven reaching No. 1 status. MercyMe has eight Dove Awards, numerous Grammy Award nominations and just released their latest album Welcome to the New.

With all that talent and all those trophies, surely this music man must have a peachy life, spared from all difficulties. Think again. From under the spotlight, he exposed his soul, and proves once again that, to some degree, everyone is broken. Between upbeat, drum-driven songs and heartfelt, symphonic stories, the singer/songwriter with the brilliant smile and a voice like an angel shared personal testimony of hurt, abuse, grief and confusion on his life's journey.

Michael Ging, a 23 year old fan from Sedalia could relate, “My parents split when I was only three years old too,” he said. “Bart sharing about his life, the abuse from his father, and how God redeemed those hard days, brings home the point that God is real. He loves us and He is merciful.”

From the outside looking in, we quickly surmise that people on such platforms don't struggle. In a moment when it would be easier to keep up the image rather than be transparent, Millard tore down the curtain and talked about coming to terms with forgiveness, and how he looks forward to meeting his saved and transformed father one day in heaven. He confessed difficulty over losing a cousin killed on the job, and admitted rough spots in a marriage from unresolved issues. Bart got real and it made a difference to someone going through something similar. My guess is that there were about 3,199 others also touched by his words.

Sometimes encouragement comes through a song on the radio. I am more convinced than ever that God ministers through His gifted performers. The inspiration for those hit tunes may come from one act of kindness or one thoughtful word from one man or woman. For Millard, it came from a friend who told him over and over again, “You are holy, righteous and redeemed.”

Everybody is broken. We all need a Savior. We all need understanding and support and patience and healing. We may not all have a voice like Bart Millard, but we can get honest with one another and offer help and hope. The result will take us a little closer to the heaven we can only imagine.

Try it this week. Lift someone with a kind word of “I've been there, brother. I understand. And I know what happens when the 'Hurt and the Healer Collide.'” With “All That is Within Me,” I pray you are able to say “So Long Self” and let “The Word of God Speak” through you, because “All of Creation” calls us to “Move” for God's glory.

There is definitely more to MercyMe than just music. And there's more to you and me than what we let the world typically see.

(photos courtesy https://www.facebook.com/backroadprod)

An Open Letter to Missouri Farmers

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Mon, 14 Jul 2014 16:12:00 +0000

By Brenda Black

To all my friends on both sides of the farming fence: to the conventional and the all-natural; to the multi-generational and the first-time farmer, we are in this together. I love the passion for getting back to the basics as much as the commitment to banish world hunger. I applaud the ingenuity, the tenacity and integrity of all of Missouri's Ag community. It takes dedication and sacrifice to be capable and humane stewards of land and livestock. Every one of you has my utmost respect.

Right now, we are living in exciting times in agriculture, where the challenges compel innovators to find answers. Those resolutions come in a host of forms from high-rise, glassed-in, urban gardens to rotational grazing. Some employ timed breeding and new seed technologies. Ideas come from fifth generation farmers, university think tanks and long-established allied industries. Health enthusiasts, city folks and country caretakers alike contribute to the success of agriculture.

While we each constantly and tirelessly work to do our best, there is a growing shadow of intimidation that seeks to undermine each and every one of us. Animal rights and environmental extremists want to mandate your every move. We have an enemy that wishes to see Missouri families ruined. That enemy would love to whisper in your ear that the Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is big ag vs. small farmers; conventional vs. organic. But in reality, the battle is ALL of US vs. the bullying tactics that include intimidation, big bucks, and deceitful, sensational propaganda. Outside entities steamroll states on the fuel of millions of dollars and the wheels of outrageous lies. And they put good people right out of business and steal their rights using the ballot initiative process to impose their radical views!

If you eat; if you wear clothing; if you drive a car; if you take a vitamin or take insulin to stay alive; if you read a book or feed a pet; if you have a heart valve replacement or play football, your life is dependent on agriculture. How much greater the reason to guard that which is fundamental to our well-being.

The fact remains that small farms, and organic agriculturalists are not exempt from outside influence and are at just as much risk as the conventional farmers if we don't collectively work together to eliminate such underhanded strategies to sway regulations. The Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is not about insulating bad players. It is about protecting ALL of Missouri's farmers from anti-ag organizations.

My encouragement is that you do not let the lies and scare tactics of outside influencers undermine Missouri's number one economic contributor, nor one of the fastest growing hobbies -- agriculture. Neither should we allow their underhanded, over-funded, misguided bullying to take away any of our freedom to operate with best practices and with good conscience.

If we succumb to their rich scare tactics, every one of us loses. We lose the right to raise our families as we see fit. We lose the right to grow food the way science and experience prove is beneficial. We lose the right to try new things OR go back to old ways. We lose the right to plant hundreds of acres or dabble with dirt on a small plot in our back yard.

The outsiders who want to control the way you grow your food, feed your family and live your life, are bent on an old and deceptive strategy – divide and conquer. The Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is for everybody in this state that just wants the freedom to operate without undue and unfounded interference. It's about working together to protect our land, livestock and livelihood, as well as our families' healthy and happy futures.

If we don't stick together, we stand to lose the things we value most – our farms, our freedom and our rights as Missouri families. Think before you vote and say yes to Missouri Farming.

Bob - The Backyard Bodyguard

noreply@blogger.com (Brenda Black) — Thu, 03 Jul 2014 14:17:00 +0000

Meet my brave, new friend Bob -- Bob White. I met him this week as he parked and piddled his way through my backyard and called sweetly his country song right outside my window. He was so close, I could see his chest puff and his head tilt back with each delightful bellow of the quail's familiar tune "bob white...bob white."

Though I hear them daily in spring and summer, the shy little birds are typically out of view. I was thoroughly enjoying the serene and seldom seen picture of one of God's precious creatures, when all of a sudden he darted as though startled.

A few feet to the right, he stopped suddenly and began to cock his little black and white striped head and walk in a circle. I was certain he had spotted a wiggly morsel. In short order, my eyes spied what he had already seen -- a black snake considerably larger than any old earthworm. As he pondered the size of his prey, he continued his circulating intimidation. And I winced and shuttered and worried, just knowing I was about to see that beautiful little bird become the dinner instead of the diner. They eyed one another in an exchange of power and fear, with the quail's head ever tilting and the snake's coiled body arching higher from the grass with his every pass.

Then, the dangerous dance ended.

The snake hastily flattened and took his rapid leave, with Mr. Bob White in hot pursuit. First I cheered... then I jeered... for Bob was chasing the black snake right toward me! Of course there was wood and concrete and glass and insulation and well, you know, a house to protect me! Still, I didn't like the idea of that snake finding refuge somewhere near my domicile.

Enter, hero #2 -- Mr. Black just happened to walk into the room about the time I began shooting photos through my window. At my prompting, he went back outside and interrupted the snake's planned route.

Bob took flight, safe and sound, and I heard him continue to call, letting me know he's not far and has become my new watch dog. As long as I hear him singing, I'll feel secure. And when he grows silent, I know I'll be thinking he's cornered another varmint.