The Write Word

Ugly Questions

2012-02-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

Unspeakable ugly questions

ring in my heart today.

Why does my young friend, mother of 3,

face cancer?

Is it contained?

Has it spread?

Why does my sister-in-law suffer so from the cancer that engulfed her body in her late 30’s? The after effects of the thing that tried to kill her,

still reduces her to agonizing limitations,

a daily, painful tearing inside her body.

Why does my precious friend, faithful, loving wife, have to face the future alone?

What of her two young sons?

Will their faith in all that is good, stable,

be reduced to rubble?

Why does Delisa Cox,

beloved wife and mother,

godly woman, leader,

lie stricken with tumors that cause such agony

and imminent death?

The unfairness of it all strikes me

like javilin through the belly.

Acid in my stomach,

boils up from my belly and up into my throat,

a burning bile.

Unwillingly,

I drink from lifes bitter cup.

The thoughts and feelings,

like bitter coffee grounds

against my tounge and teeth,

begin spilling out to my Father.

"Why?"

"Why not let the cancer strike some evil,

murderous person?"

"Why not let disease take root

and core the life from

someone who is killing themselves

willfully with poisons?"

"Why not let the abandoning husband

be to an unfaithful, unloving wife?"

I know I am safe here.

I know he understands

when I don't understand.

I know he is not afraid of my questions.

I know, that He knows,

that my ways and understanding are

so far below His.

In loving compassion,

He pours the water of his word

over my burning soul,

washing the tears,

rinsing the bitter grounds

from my mouth.

From His letter to me, the sweet flow of living water rains down,

“This is why we don’t lose heart,

even though our outside self is wasting away,

our inside self is being renewed every day.

This light, momentary hardship

is getting us ready

for eternal, permanent rewards.

We don’t focus on the right now,

the right here,

because these are transient things.

It is the invisible things that are really permanent. “

(Cor 4:16-18)

What bitter cup do you drink from today?

Physical pain?

Heartbreaking betrayal?

Results of your own sin/selfish decision?

Here, sit a moment,

let me hand you a pitcher of

life giving water,

from your Father.

Take up the water of the word,

and let the rinsing begin

again.

"Now you are clean by the

word I have spoken to you…."

John 15:3

Life can throw stuff at you

that could make you lose heart.

If this life is all you have.

But if this life is merely preparation,

instruction for the next,

real life,

then these hardships are momentary.

Just on the other side of this life,

of this skin,

with these hardships,

lies the real one.

A body incorruptible.

No disease.

Hearts inpenatrable by sin.

No betrayal.

Life without end.

No goodbyes.

And so we find the answer to the question

"If God is good, why does He allow suffering?"

is this...

because God is so good

He made a place where there is none.

This world is not my home

I'm merely passing through...

The Grocery Store Gospel

2012-01-30T18:09:00.000-08:00

There is a reoccurring theme to my travels, in fact, should my life ever be put to a soundtrack, it would be to Ray Stevens song “This ain’t exactly what I had in mind”. Yes indeed, my constant traveling companions, the decidedly unholy trinity Chaos, Mayhem and Calamity, seem to follow me everywhere I go. They are particularly fond of airports, and we have had encounters that are hardly believable, even to me. I have started documenting them with photographic evidence, so wild are our interactions.

The last one, to be recounted in further detail at a later time, when the emotional wounds have healed, involved a missing ID, insurance card, money, credit cards and debit card. These missing essentials were discovered to be missing at the ticket counter, which was five hours drive from their nesting spot and one thousand miles from home. Did you know that you can go from calm and sane to crazy woman trembling like a leaf in a hurricane in .001 seconds? Trembling is putting it pretty mildly, suffice to say there was a whooooole lot of shaking going on and believe me it wasn’t pretty.

Fast forward, past the chaos that ensued, and find me, finally, home. Fast forward to today, where the natives, otherwise known as the Coltharp tribe, are getting restless, wanting milk and eggs and fruit, but alas, these perishables were long gone. My 13-year-old marches down the stairs with her treasure trove, $75 of saved up birthday and Christmas money. Thrusting it into my hand, along with an invoice stating, “Grocery Budget owes me $75” she sends me off with a kiss and a wave. Great. Now not only am I a clueless mother who is resorting to raiding her kid’s savings in order to feed them, but now I am a potential convict, knowingly breaking the law by driving without an ID and insurance card. Sigh. I can read the headlines now “Pastors wife arrested”, not exactly the publicity we’re looking for in our city.

I get to the store and do my best to keep inside the $75 limit. Rachel math is abysmal at best, and under presser, it’s worse. So when I get up to the counter I’m as anxious as Camilla Parker-Bowles at a We-Love-Di convention, already assuming that I’m going to be weighted in the balance, and found wanting. Sure enough the total rings up, $76.12. Flashing through my mind are all the things I want to say, the excuses I want to share with the people behind me who are impatient for their turn. The cashier is looking at me and mouthing the words again, louder this time, “SEVENTY-SIX DOLLARS AND TWELVE CENTS”. I want to say, “I do have enough money to get what we need, just not with me.” I want to explain that it is due to circumstances beyond my control, but I realize that they do not care. It makes no difference to them the why, they don’t even care about my embarrassment. All they care about is that I am in their way, holding up the line.

I scan the cart swiftly, trying to decide what to put back, whom to disappoint. The applesauce? No, Reagan wanted that. The strawberries? No, Grant wanted those. The broccoli? No, Lincoln asked for that. Ok, the bell peppers then. There goes the ump for my tacos, and the spaghetti sauce, sigh, but something has to go. I grab out the bag of bell peppers and say “I need to put this back please”. With an irritated flick of the wrist the cashier whips the bag from my hand, scans it and announces in a less than courteous voice, “Seventy-two sixty”. I hand her the money, the borrowed money, and scuttle off to bag my groceries.

As I stand at the bagging counter, my face burning with shame, it dawns on me, the truth of this moment. Always before I have use my debit card, drawing on the deposits my husband puts into the account for me; always sure that there is going to be enough. Sure, we budget it out, but there is always a small cushion for when I have to go over. He always covers it for me. I realize I have not been as appreciative as I should have been, that I have taken for granted his thoughtful provisions. And the big truth shines through the moment, clearing away the fogginess of my human thinking. In my own strength/wisdom, I am always going to come up short.

Even when I borrow from others, I am still not going to be able to cover every need my family has. Only when I depend on my provider, my soul provider, only when I use His name, draw on His resources am I going to be able to get/do/be all they need. I am humbled, here on this now holy ground of the grocery store.

It is a lesson I will not soon forget. And to think that it took my companions, my oft bemoaned companions Chaos, Mayhem and Calamity to get me here.

Where do you find yourself today? What chaos has wrecked your plans? What unexpected thing has robbed you of your ease? Has your body lost strength, mobility, or health? Have your relationships let you down? Have you found yourself no longer able to provide for the financial, physical, emotional or mental need of someone you love? Are you embarrassed by what others may be thinking of your situation?

Then come, sit with me here, on the floor of the grocery store. Let’s close our eyes and soak in these truths.

#1 Only when we depend on something
bigger than ourselves

are we going to be able
to fill the needs around us.

#2 Life is going to have disappointments.

Maybe we have had to leave something behind,

because we simply cannot pay for it, and someone is going

to be disappointed because of it.

Or maybe we had to put back something we wanted,

so someone else could have what they wanted,

and we find ourselves feeling resentful.

#3 Don't focus on what you can't/don't get.

Count the bags still in the cart.

Choose gratitude for what we have and let it go.

Don’t let Chaos, Mayhem and Calamity get the last laugh.

Get out your gratitude grocery list, and let the

Grocery Store Gospel fill the cart

of your heart.

Eat Whatever You Want (On The Run) Diet

2012-01-10T11:30:00.000-08:00

I have been struggling through the maze of weight loss options out on the market in a vain attempt to find one that is right for me. Alas the "Eat what you want in enormous amounts and loose 10 lbs daily" diet has eluded my pursuit. With all the choices… Atkins diet, Weight Watchers, Low Fat, Butter Busters etc. that clamor for my attention and devotion, I still find myself without a weight loss plan so I have devised my own. I intend to share it with you trusted few. As we all drop lbs you can spread my plan and I too shall become a pop lb-loss icon with Dr. Atkins and Jenny Craig!

My 7 day plan is simple and has only a few ingredients you would need to procure. Since the plan only uses 2 days of effort you can dine the other 5 on fried chicken, chocolate cake, chicken Alfredo and cookies! Since no one has time to exercise I have planned some right into the diet. You won't even have to plan for exercise time. It’ll just come to you!

Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday -eat as much of what ever you like! Enjoy!

Wednesday and Sunday - eat your fill of prunes and drink a gallon of the prune juice. No other foods or liquids are allowed.
This is where your exercise will come in. Run honey!

Supplies
5 days worth of your favorite foods
2 one lb boxes of prunes
2 one-gallon jars of prune juice
One box of depends

Right..... you wouldn't think of doing this physically, so why do we do it spiritually? Purging ourselves on Sundays and midweek Bible study does not undo 5 days worth of unhealthy, self gratifying living. Every day counts. Every choice counts.

If we fill our bodies with unhealthy foods, we will reap the rewards that come with it. Diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, worn out organs/joints/cells, these are the results of poor diet, and the neglect of eating the foods God made to grow. Our relationships, finances, character and world view are also shaped by the mental choices we make. Be not deceived, God's harvest law is not a joke, what ever seeds we sow, of that same plant we will eat. Every day counts. Every choice counts.

You can't be healthy on a 2 day a week diet; you can't reap the full benefits of having a Christ like life on part time service.

Broken Things And Hissy Fits

2011-12-13T14:05:00.000-08:00

My first nativity set was given to me by my Sweetie (Honey Pies mom) back in 1995. I'm a sappy sentimental type, so you can imagine how I felt when I loaded my arms up with too much last night, and something fell out and broke. I was upset when I heard the sound, but not as upset as when I saw what it was. There on the floor, lies the broken shards of baby Jesus. Not a sheep, or camel, or shephard. Nope, I broke the most important piece of the whole set.

Few and far between are the occasions when full-blown Hissy Fit pitching is called for, and hum-boy-howdy, this was one of them. Living here in the Midwest, were the reserved family we are part of has NO experience with Hissy Fit pitching, my children have only experienced two. Needless to say feet came running from all over the house when this one commenced. “NO NO NO, agggggrrrrrhhhaaaaa” this is accompanied by frantic river dance footwork, followed by more howling and other-worldly groanings.

Eyes wide, hearts racing, they piled into the room to see the disaster. To their wondering eyes, nothing is wrong. No blood. No threat. No danger. Just Mama, arms loaded, doing this crazy person dance. They can only see me. They can’t see little baby Jesus, in pieces, on the floor.

Sad to say, this is not the first time I have done this. Not the first time that he’s been pushed out because I was in a hurry, or overloaded, by my own choices. Not the first time I’ve been thrown into full-blown panic mode because He was missing from my priorities, my choices. No, this isn’t the first time Jesus has been left on the floor while I clutched to my heart other things. Truth is, most of the pain I've had in my life, I caused myself.

How often does this happen in life? We don’t keep Jesus where he should be, close enough that he doesn’t get pushed out by other things. How often do we see someone in the throes of crises, and we can’t figure out why they are acting the way they are. We can’t see the broken relationship on the floor of their heart. We can’t see they are reaping pain because they didn’t keep their priorities straight. All we can see is the frantic flailing. The panic. The pain. Because that is exactly what happens to us. Every time. Every time we pile our lives too full, and Jesus gets pushed out. Every time we don’t put him where he belongs. First. First in my heart. First in my schedule. First in my finances. First in my relationships.

Today, as I attempt to fix this. To put the pieces back together, I am reminded of several things.

*If something is precious, don’t overload yourself with less precious things.

*I need to salvage lost, broken relationships. No, they may never be the same. Dings, chips, cracks are going to tell the story of the drop. But fix what you can. I must forgive, and ask for forgiveness. A repaired relationship is better than a broken one.

*He came, whole, to be broken. For me. So I could be mended too.

So off I go. To glue. To pray. To mend. Maybe you have some gluing and praying of your own to attend to. May the broken Christ, wounded for your transgressions, help to make you whole. Blessed repair season to you and yours.

Unexpected Places

2011-12-08T11:06:00.001-08:00

The entire month of December I am surrounded with the sights, sounds and smells of American mid winter festivities. The radio is filled with the sounds of holiday music, everything ranging from selfish gimme songs like Santa Baby to selfless songs like I Want Your Presence For Christmas. All around I see the beautiful lights, decorations, nutcrackers, gingerbread people, snowmen, and Santa and his entourage. Even the grocery market offers up samples of the delicious special occasion foods that are brought out for celebration feasts, tempting traditions that bring back memories of feasts and fun.

Sometimes, it can be overwhelming, this month of December. There are annual dinners, banquets, parties, and programs to attend, gobbling up many of the 31 little squares on the calendar. Advertisements arrive daily with the sole purpose of tempting me away from contentment, convincing me that I am lacking. That my life would be fuller, richer, better, if I had better stuff, newer stuff, more stuff. They lure my children with the bait of shiny new things, leaving the impression that THIS toy/game/gadget cannot be lived without. In the blink of an eye, what we have looses its shine, its value. In a season that should be about gratitude, it is easily to slip into ungratefulness.

Don't get me wrong, I love the season. I love nutcrackers, we have a shelf full of them. My daughter loves the story of the Nutcracker and it is an annual tradition to experience it with her and to add a new nutcracker to her collection. I love lights and pine scented boughs and the sparkly, twinkly bursts of light that envelop our home with a soft glow. I love the sounds of White Christmas drifting through the air. Making gingerbread houses is one of our favorite traditions. But... I could have enjoyed December snow, nutcrackers, lights, wreaths, bows and gifts even if there had been no manger. I could have enjoyed winter parties, special foods, winter/gift/love-you music had there been no shepherds and angels. I could have enjoyed so many of the things that we enjoy about this season, had there been no Bethlehem; but I could never have experienced Christmas, real Christmas, had there been no Christ.

I'm glad that Honey Pie and I started our marriage Christmas traditions off by deciding our biggest gift would always be for Christ. Not for each other, or for children who would come down the road, but for him. So that the gift he gave when he first came, and then again when he came to us individually, could be passed on to others who have not yet heard. But even so, I'm finding the balance between my American midwinter festivities and Christmas often get blurred. I find that sometimes one crowds out the other. That Christmas is often more about us, than about him. Far too often the holidays have no holy days.

I don't want to confuse my children, by leaving the impression that Heavens Gift is on equal terms with our gifts. I give to you because I love you, but my gift will one day rust, fall apart or quit working. My gifts you will outgrow. But Heavens Gift, it is a one size fits all, never failing, keep on working till you drop kind of gift.

That first Christmas found Mary in agony, far away from her family and friends. She was surrounded by dirt and animal smells. It was not picture post card perfect. It was dirty, it was dank. The conception was miraculous, the delivery was bloody and brutal. Life sometimes is. But the absence of physical comforts, and emotional highs, are not a sign that the gift is not with us.

Heavens Gift, is with us even when we are not surrounded by friends, family, fun. It is with us even when we are without warmth or comfort. It is not dependent on new stuff, festivities, money. The real Christmas gift can find you when you are alone, in pain, misunderstood. It's he kind that comes to us, like it did to Mary, in unexpected places.

The Last Seat On The Plane

2011-11-16T09:28:00.001-08:00

Some people believe in the tooth fairy. An enamel loving entity who has a thing for baby teeth; who snatches up the teeth and leaves coins for them. Why the thought of a winged creature who can get past the locked doors, security system and the guard dog to creep up on you while you are sleeping and snatch your body parts doesn’t scare little kids is beyond me. Stands to reason there might be a crazy cousin, like the Toe Fairy, or the Finger Fairy. Who’s to stop THEM from from coming in the dead of night and leaving a quarter for your big toe? If these winged ninjas can get past a steel door, deadbolt and Furious Fido, mere tendon, joint & skin isn’t going to him. Points to ponder.

According to Occam’s Razor, the least complicated theory is usually the correct one; and since my travels are fraught with mayhem, disaster and chaos I can only surmise that there may be a Interesting Travel Experience Fairy. Not of the winged, wee creature type, but more of a “you reap what you sow” deal. Seeing that in my tender youth I was prone to pranks, practical jokes and just plain meanness, I am reaping a harvest, and harvest time always seems to come when I am traveling.

Like the time I was delayed by ANOTHER special search, carted off to the little room and all, only to get to my plane at the last second and be seated in the ONLY seat left. I was exhausted from a 3 day trip and wanted to pick a seat between two old ladies so that when I fell asleep, and started snoring and drooling, they wouldn’t even notice, seeing how as they would be most likely drooling and snoring right along with me.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was placed in the aisle seat, right beside a pretty young thing who had a near lethal case of the chat-you-ups. She spent the first hour conversing with a fella on the other side of her; their conversation included his wife and small children. Then on to the story of her troubled childhood, having been abandoned by her mother and father. For the last hour of the flight I squirmed and I chaffed while she bragged on and on about her beauty pageant history, mentioned her extensive experiences as a dancer and party girl.

After knocking back a few drinks she leans over on him and the conversation turns deeply personal. She begins to share of the emotional distress she has suffered recently. She has been abandoned by her boyfriend, who stayed around long enough to father her infant, then moved on to greener pastures. At first the married fella seemed uncomfortable, his answers vague and stiff, but as time progresses, he is more relaxed. Her physical beauty is almost overpowering, her emotional vulnerability palatable. Like a moth to a flame, he is being drawn in.

She then extended the oh-so-gracious offer to show him the sights of the city while he was in town for business. Wouldn't it would be a shame to be in this great city and not see some of the sights? He agrees, yes it would. Dinner, we could have dinner, you have to eat after all those long meetings, and she knows where the best places are. When she popped out with something along the lines of You could come take me out for dinner after I get off work tonight, I know how lonely it is when you are traveling so far away from your family. It’s just dinner. If it goes further than that, well, what happens on a business trip stays on a business trip, no harm no foul. She was talking in a voice loud enough that it caught the attention of the three men across the aisle. They were slyly elbowing one another and raising their eyebrows. They completely missed the hurt in her voice when she told of her own father who ran out on her as a child. They see her as a good time. A fantasy moment come true. They do not see her as someone’s daughter, someone’s mother, to them she is not a person, she is an opportunity.

So…. finally like Popeye “I’d taksed all I can takesed and I couln’t taksed no more”. I’d been waiting on someone to step in, and since no one did, I figured maybe that was WHY I’d experienced the delay that made me late and forced me into the only seat left on the plane. This one. Ooooooohhhhhh righty then. Have gun, will travel.

I leaned over her and eyeballed the young man and said in my very sweetest Motherly voice, “Young man, let an old married woman give you some advice, RUN from temptation. You have a wife and two little children at home to whom you are the world. They are relying on you to be a man of integrity, a man who will put them and their needs first. Live up to their expectations”.

Turning to the buxom beauty I said, in my kindest, gentlest voice, “Young lady, I can tell you have experienced a lot of hurt in your life. I can tell that you have put trust in fellas who have let you down. I am truly sorry for that. I would like to give you the advice I hope my daughter would receive if she were in your shoes. Set your standard higher. Do not accept any less from a fella than one who will treat you with dignity and respect. If you can get a married man to fall for you, he is not worth having. Save yourself some hurt dear girl, set your standard high. For yourself. For that little child at home.” Tears filled her eyes; she took my hand and nodded her head.

All conversation in front, beside and behind us had silenced. The entire plane was deadly quiet for the next 15 minutes as the plane circled and we prepared to land. When it was time to deplane I looked right into the eyeballs of the men who were sitting across from me with my best “You should have been a MAN and rescued him” look. They looked at me, then down at the floor. I know, that THEY know, they should have. I look at the young married man, and got a huge grin and two thumbs up. I get a little nod from the girl. I walk off knowing it was no coincidence that I got the last seat on the plane, and I wonder when the Interesting Travel Experience Fairy will strike again.

The Big Hoo-Ha.

2011-10-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

There are conferences, there are CONFERENCES, and then there is The Big Hoo-Ha. It is held once a year and Honey Pie gets to go. Every year. I have been able to go twice in 10 years and yippie-ki-yaa this year was one of them.

The Big HooHa is as close to hallowed ground as you can imagine. Here little ol me is able to walk the same halls, beside, behind and in AWE of, great men and women. Giants of the faith. Missionaries. Church planters. Elders who have, literally, given all.

I am not ashamed to say that I get star-struck to see Hero’s sitting in the same section as I am, or eating in the same restaurant, or standing around talking in the hotel lobby. People, who my mom read the autobiographies aloud to me, people who my Dad memorized the names & continents where they were working, so we could pray for them. Great singers/songwriters who’s voices accompanied many a prayer meeting. Great people. Servants. Heroes.

The arena where the BHH is held is the kind where pro basketball teams play. It’s big, and there are lots of people. There is a space of about 30 ft between the elevated platform and the first row of chairs. This space is designated as an altar area, for prayer at the conclusion of the service. The first two nights I so wanted to get to the front altar area to pray, but the aisles quickly filled up and unless you were the size of a small boned elementary school pupil, there was no room to kneel in the bleacher section.

So when the preacher has moved me to my very soul on night 3, I know that I’m most likely not going to be able to make it down when the invitation is given. I am so moved by the message, I know I NEED to respond, but chances are slim to none that I’m actually going to get through the throng when he is done.

Then I am struck with a brilliant idea. I’ll go down now, to the side of the altar area, near the front for the few remaining moments of the sermon. Then when the invitation is given I can move to the front to pray.

I climb up an over everyone in my row. I clamber, as quietly as one can in high heels on metal stairs, down to the front, deposit my purse on the front row and step into the side altar area.

Hands raised, I’m ignoring the million-bazillion people around me, in the way you can only do in a HUGE crowd, and I’m talking to God. Until… “Laaaaady you hata mooo.” Eyes closed, I take a step to the left.

It’s still just me and God. Until… “Mammm, you rrrr inaway”, another step to the left. Ten more shoulder taps and gentle pushes to the left before finally I figure it out. I have inadvertently positioned myself between the deaf choir and their interpreter. I open my eyes. And look right into the eyes of…. the preacher.

Oh yes indeedie. I am NOT along the side.

I am SMACK in the middle.

Of.

The.

Altar.

Area.

At The Big HOO-HA.

Seriously. I am so close; I can count the nose hairs on the big wigs (Becky Miller ~ you know who you are) on the platform. Oh great. What now.

Maybe this is a good time to sing "I'm going to dance for you like no body's watching". Maybe not. Maybe I'll never sing that song again.

This is no time to keep calm and carry on. This is time to panic and freak out. Because I can tell that he is NOT finished. Not even close. And as soon as he says, “You may be seated” everyone around me is going back to their seats, because they HAVE one. Everyone but me, the Brilliant Idea girl.

In that nano second, I have a choice to make. I eyeball the platform, noticing the skirted bottom. If I dive and scoot I just might make it before the “Please be seated”. But then, how would I get back out? What if there are electrical thingies under there that could crispy critter me? Scratch that plan.

I eyeball the bleacher seats. It’s a loooong walk back over to the side. Maybe not such a long way in any other circumstance, but here, I would be as conspicuous as streaker on the runway at a Burka fashion show. What to do?

So, I back up, waaaay up, until I feel my legs hit a chair. In my peripheral vision I see that the ENTIRE front section has been designated for the deaf choir who ministered earlier. I have just been called to the deaf ministry. I sit down, praying no one asks me to move. I figure I’ve moved quite enough tonight, thank you very much.

I sat there a mix of contradictory emotions. I am embarrassed. Figuring that plenty of folks are laughing at my lopsided, sidestepping, in-the-way progress to where I sit.

I’m scared. Afraid that other people will think I’m lying, sitting here on the reserved seats, that I’m pretending to be deaf so I can score a front row seat.

I’m mad. Angry that I didn’t NOTICE the whole deal before I stepped right smack into the middle of it.

Then, I hear the preacher, the one and only Rev. Terry Black, and my focus is drawn away from my circumstance, back to the Big Picture. I realize that I’m here, half by choice, half by other people’s choice, but I’m here… so why not just BE here.

So I do. I listen. I forget where I am and how I got here. I weep unashamedly as my heart receives the message God sent him to share. And I don’t even have to wait for the invitation. I am able to step forward, kneel, bow my head and my heart, and spend a season of prayer surrounded by the throngs of other people called to a personal altar.

Where have you found yourself, unexpectedly? Have you stepped forward in faith, only to find yourself hanging out in the middle, further than you expected to be?

Maybe you feel embarrassed by the position someone else has pushed you into, or fearful that your intentions will be misinterpreted.

Maybe you’re angry with yourself for not being more careful.

Regardless of how you got here, God has something to teach you. A personal alter for you to experience. An altar is a place where something dies. Why not crawl up on it? Why not offer your plans, your intentions, your emotions, burn them up as a sacrifice and listen to what God has to say to you. Here.

My husband doesn't make me happy.

2011-07-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

I recently asked a young lady in the throes of new looooooove to describe to me what she loved about her Prince Charming. I was saddened that her only response was "He makes me happy". Sad because she thought "happy" was enough. Enough to gloss over some serious character issues. Enough to ignore warnings from friends and family. When weighing out all the issues, happy was winning over responsibility and integrity. She thought that lonely was the worst thing imaginable. She thought that happy was enough. But I know better.

Back when I was younger and foolisher, as opposed to now being older and sometimes still foolish, I was under the false impression that being part of a marriage meant never being lonely again. I thought that when you (finally) got married there were no more frustrations in your relationship with The Man. That the, ahem, closeness, would smooth out most of your emotional/relational rough spots. I thought that being married to Brent was going to fill all the empty places in my heart. That being loved by him was going to be enough.... to be happy. Boy was I wrong.

I was wrong because a husband was never intended to make me happy. Being married was not supposed to mean that I would never be lonely again. Never hurt again. Never be frustrated again. Marriage was intended so that I could serve Brent when HE is frustrated, lonely, hurt. So that I could share in HIS joys. So that I can be the hands and feet and voice of Jesus Christ to this man I have pledged my life to. And it's his job/obligation/duty/right to do the same for me. In serving each other, we serve Christ.

Let me tell you right now, there have been plenty of times when one of us was doing most of the serving. MUCHO opportunities arise in marriage where one partner can't, or won't, do their fair share. It is during those times that "for better, for worse, sickness or health, richer or poorer" comes in. Those are not just pretty poetic phrases. Honey pie, better may or may not come, but WORSE is around the corner. Health is not going to last forever, and sickness is not the least bit lovely. Poorer we recognize as being a potential difficulty, but richer can be too. Marriage is designed not to make me more happy, but to make me more holy.

Being married means that I have someone to share parts of my life with. Parts, yes, parts. Some things I can only truly share with God. The things for which there are no words. The times that my soul longs for more than any earthly person could ever fulfill. The hurts that no human touch, word or empathy can heal. He was never intended to. When I finally learned this, muuuuuch later than I wish I had, I freed Brent from unrealistic expectations. And in freeing him, I freed myself.

So while I share my happiest moments with Brent, while our relationship is the most satisfying and rewarding and enjoyable one I have, he does not MAKE me happy. Happy is a fleeting emotion. Quickly here. Quickly gone. No, Brent does not make me happy. But he shares my happy. And my pain. And he blesses me with the treasures of the ages, fidelity, patience, forgiveness, respect. Put "happy" on one side and those on the other.... there is just no comparison. And by the way.... I don't make him happy either.

Dangling Feet and Bumping Knees

2011-07-09T16:07:00.000-07:00

Letting go is something I find very hard to do. While I'm not in the hoarder category, I do tend to hang on to things waaaay to long. I have figured out that it is an emotional attachment to the memory/person/event associated with the thing and not an attachment to the thing it's self that makes it hard for me to let it go. And while understanding this helps, it does not keep me from hanging on too long to some things.

Like this desk.

This desk entered our household 10 years ago. My firstborn was 5 and was starting Kindergarden as a homeschooler. I knew I wanted an heirloom desk and hunted for one, but could not find what I had in mind. Until I found a build it yourself kit. Happy dancing all around, I stained some wood appliques to match and glued them on. Honey Pie put the desk together and, deep sigh, instant heirloom desk. I still remember how it dwarfed him, his legs dangling off the bench. My little man.

He sat at this desk his entire elementary and middle school years. Starting in first grade he enrolled at Aurora Christian School, where we have been SUPREMELY happy, all the way up to 8th grade he has done homework here. The sight of him sitting at this desk has been a 10 year thing. And it has come to an end. He is 14 now. 175 lbs. Inching toward 6 ft. And he has outgrown the desk.

While I let go of his crib, little red wagon and first trike pretty easily, I have to say that this desk has been very difficult to let go. Here he learned to write. Here he learned to read. Here he learned to cipher. Here he hid food and snacks and comic books for when I was out of sight. Good times. Beautiful memories. I should have let it go last year, when his knees started bumping the top and he moved over to the table. But I didn't. I couldn't. It was more than a piece of furniture. It was a mute witness to the passing of time. His. Mine. It was something his father and I put together with our hands, watched him hunched over with our eyes, that image painted onto the canvas of our hearts. It was more than just a desk.

For 12 months it sat in the dining room. We have to move it around when we eat there. I had to dust it, mop around it, declutter it. It is in the way, out of its place. It's presence no longer useful. I made weak promises of listing it on Craiglsist. But didn't. I toyed with the idea of parting with it. But couldn't. How can you sell a piece of your history? How can you discard a part of your past? I just couldn't. Until today.

Until a young family stopped over, bright with the promise of a young son and daughter, fresh on their own adventures into education. A family who loves the written word. Loves the Bible. Loves their children. And it just seemed... right. So I offered the desk. And they graciously accepted it. So off it went, a little piece of our life, ready for another eager student to love. To house thick pencils and workbooks and a copy of the Holy Scriptures. And Spider Man. And probably, to hide snacks in. To give silent witness to the transitions their children will make from dangling feet, to bumping knees.

What are you hanging onto? What have you not been able to let go of? Letting go, turning loose, is a painful thing. But a freeing thing. We can't stay young. We can't keep life from changing those we love. We can't make things stay the way we want.

So take a moment, close your eyes and let it go. Stop trying to keep things as they were. Move on. Embrace what is. Here. Now. Letting go leaves room for new wonders, new joys. Life is not a lake. Life is a river. Let it go... let it flow.

Too much of a good thing

2011-06-30T15:27:00.000-07:00

Growing up in a household of limited means, my memories of shopping involve buying clothes/shoes at garage sales & Goodwill that we could "grow into" or that could be altered to fit. Goodwill shopping was a treasure trove of blessings waiting to happen. Driving to Paris to the Goodwill was a TREAT! My mom was able to make second hand clothing cool loooooong before everyone else got around to it.

Oh happy day, my favorite day of the YEAR was when Nelle Terry would have her annual Garage Sale. Her daughter, my friend Susan, was a size up from me. I was the happy companion of Miss Susan on her shopping trips to the Big City, Dallas, for school/camp/General Conference clothing. I would happily follow Miss Susan from store to store, admiring her clothing choices and pointing out outfits I found particularly appealing. 12 months or so later.... on Garage Sale day... those babies were MINE! I remember some of them still. The burgundy cotton with lace sleeve ruffles, the grey chiffon drop waisted with a bow.... blessings.

I'm thankful, grateful, for the blessings that have come my way. Things that I NEEDED but could not afford to purchase at retail that were brought to me at a price I could afford. These indeed were blessings. However, I realize now that I have taken the idea of "good things" too far. I believed Mae West when she said "Too much of a good thing can be wonderful. She was wrong. Too much of anything is.... too much.

I've crammed my closets, shelves and garage with things and instead of saving me, it is costing me. It is costing me time, having to dig through to find what I'm looking for. It is costing me peace, the cluttered spaces silently scream to me to be sorted and put to rights. It is costing me precious Mama-Moments, time I could be sharing with my children but have to spend dealing with the things. My blessings have become my curse.

I have to do better, I have to answer the voice inside that says "You may need it someday" with a firm, "God will supply it if I need it". I have to realize that when I rely on MYSELF to supply my future "maybe" needs I am not trusting HIM to do it. I have to realize that it is selfish and greedy to keep grabbing/snatching/storing up things. I have to let go of the way things used to be, and live in the present. With less. With trust. Because too much of a good thing... can be a curse.

What are you calling a blessing that is cluttering up your life? Is is your schedule? Do you cram so much into your calendar that you are missing out on your family life? Are you losing influence with your spouse, children, grandchildren because you are so busy with the blessings of overtime opportunities, hobbies, personal interests, selfish actions? Do you hide behind the lie of "I'm doing it for ...." when really you are doing it out of fear of the future. Or the past.

Are you so caught up in the blessing of you family, your friends, or your ministry that you have little time for personal devotion? Are you too busy to read your Bible. To pray? Peer deeply into the closet of your heart, check the shelves of your calendar, inventory your to-do list. Not every opportunity or good deal is a blessing. Make sure you have not crowded out the eternal with the imminent. Don't let your blessings become your curse.

Ministry Close To Home

2011-06-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

It blazed through the fog of time, bringing into focus the dusty pile in the corner of my mind. Like a laser beam from Heaven, it cut through the scar tissue of pain, opening to my understanding the cause of the dull ache I've been feeling. You know that feeling, that something isn't right. Something vague, floating just beneath the surface of your consciousness. Something I did not have time to address.

But while away on a business trip, away from the noise and chaos that comes with a 6 person household, my mind had time to actually address the things that were floating around in my heart. And sizzle, singe, sear, the laser of conviction cut through and the sin was exposed. I was flabbergasted. Truly. It was something I was completely unaware of. And yet, somewhere down deep, on some level, I WAS aware of it. And it had been festering there all along. Causing pain. Pain in turn causing sensitivity where there should have been none.

It was a thing from about 8 years ago. An opportunity I did not take. A good thing I did not do. The Lord had placed in my path someone who needed some extra attention. Some extra love. I was the mother of 3 small children, wife of a full time pastor/full time grad student/part time youth ministry worker. Life was full. Life was busy. And looking back now, I realize that I completely missed it. The opportunity to be the hands and feet of Jesus, overlooked because I was tooooo busy to see it. I missed the still small voice because my ears were filled with the clamor and commotion of my life. Because I did not MAKE time to be still, to clear my heart/head in the presence of quiet time with the Father.

Forgive me Lord. Forgive me for recognizing ministry in what Missionaries do overseas, but not recognizing the mission field in my neighborhood. For recognizing ministry in what Orphanages do, but not seeing the need in the lonely child who lived next door. For recognizing the ministry to the elderly in a nursing home, but not seeing the lonely lady who lived down the block. For recognizing the ministry of feeding the hungry in Africa, but ignoring the hunger in the ill fed hearts of my children's playmates. For not seeing the opportunity to be more than a check-writer, a dollar giver, a financier of helping hands ministry. For not BEING a helping hand. For not doing good, because I was too busy being busy.

I have moved from that neighborhood. I am no longer able to do the good I could/should have there. But I still live IN a neighborhood. I still have the ability to be a smiling face, an offer of a weeding hand, a giver of baked bread, a giver of a vase of flowers, an offer to help. I can, still, be the hands and feet of Christ. If I'm not too busy. If I "know to do good" and choose to "do it not", then I sin. Still.

So I choose not to. Not to be too busy weeding my garden, too busy doing fun things, to busy keeping up with the blogs I love to read, too busy doing Church work that I don't do Gods work. Ouch. Too busy being the Bride of Christ, that I forget about being the servant of Christ.

How about you? Still singing "Jesus use me, surely there's a work that I can do"? Well, He wants to. Right were you are. So fire up the oven, get out the garden gloves, fill up the stew pot, put on the coffee, grab the pruning sheers, find a way, MAKE a way. To be the hands and feet of Jesus.

Always a Bride never a Mother

2011-05-09T09:57:00.000-07:00

When God instituted the relationship between man and woman it was that of husband and wife. At first. But the natural progression, after the fall, was that they would reproduce. It was not enough for Adam and Eve to be husband and wife, but to be parents.

God set into nature the inner motivation for women to reproduce. We see it in Gen 30:1 where Rachel is so desperate to have children that she pleads with Jacob to give her children or she will die from her despair of being barren. She is saying that without reproducing, she feels there is no point to go on living. That... is the heart of a mother. We still see this chemical reaction to the passage of time, commonly referred to as "her clock is ticking", where an internal tap begins and natures ancient rhythm begins to beat in the heart of women. As sure as the beat of her physical heart is the beat of her emotional one, thump-thump thump-thump, prepare to conceive life. Thump-thump thump-thump get ready to birth it. Thump-thump thump-thump get ready to raise it. It is the rhythm of love, it is the rhythm of life.

God revealed himself as Groom and redeemed humanity, the church, as his Bride. Being the bride is a glorious thing. To be rescued from the old life, cleaned up, polished, our old tattered rags replaced with the glorious robe of redemption, ahhhh being bride is wonderful.

We are bride because He loved us first, wooed us and we willingly gave our hearts to him. We are mother, only, if we are willing participants in the conception, gestation, labor and raising of offspring. Being the bride is beautiful. Becoming a mother is brutal, bloody, backbreaking work.

To be bride forever, would go against the law of nature, Gods design. For it decrees that when both parties are healthy, sooner or later, conception will follow consummation. But far too often the church is content to just be bride, when God is calling her to be mother.

How long will we traipse around in our finery, celebrating the wedding anniversary year after year, while the nursery collects cobwebs? How long will we be radiant brides, but not reproduce? Being beautiful, but not bountiful. Looking lovely but not giving life. How long until Zion travails?

Who among us is ready to conceive a burden, carry it through the gestation period, endure the pangs of labor, deliver new life, then nurture it to sustainability? Willing to go sleepless nights because of the growing burden inside that robs you of your comfortable rest? Willing to lay aside frivolous pursuits to prepare for the growing family? Willing to sacrifice self, finances, time, effort and energy to pour into new lives? Who among us feels the thump-thump of Gods heartbeat for souls, feels the desire to hear a soul take it's first breath of heavenly air, cry out in the Heavenly language?

How long will you be content, to just be a bride?

Unmet Expectations

2011-04-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a job where your expectations were unclear? It is so frustrating to get to the end of a project only to be told you didn't meet an expectation that was not expressed. Many times our greatest emotional distress in life comes when unexpressed expectations go unmet.

Let me be your friend here and save you some grief in life. Men don’t speak hint. They don’t read minds. They don’t just ‘get’ what you want/expect. So save them some frustration and save yourself some disappointment and TELL them, in detail, exactly what you want/expect. I know, I know, having to ask for it sort of defeats the purpose of gift giving/receiving but after you stop getting shotguns and weed eaters for your birthday and the massages and gift cards start rolling in, you’ll thank me. So will he!

I wonder if God ever feels that way, frustrated with unmet expectations from the people who say they love Him? Thankfully, we don’t have to wonder or guess what He expects. He lays it out soooooo clearly. Miciah 6:8  He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.  And what does the LORD require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humblywith your God. (NIV)

HOW do we do this?

Today let’s look at part one, we’ll take on the rest of the verse in the next post.

First we act justly. We do the acts of Justice. We stand up for the oppressed, we give voice to the voiceless, we defend the weak, we protect the helpless and we heal the wounded. We are not called to just feel sorry for them, to pity them or to weep over them, we are called to ACT in the name of justice. This pleases God. This we are required to do.

Somewhere in the darkness of the night, the little one was finally able to cry. She knows that if her tormenter hears her crying, the pain will begin again. So, silently, the tears well up from her wounded heart and rush up through her blackened eyes and down over her bruised cheeks. She doesn’t make a sound, because even a sob will push against the blue finger marks left on her ribs. But she prays in her mind, with words that slice through the heavens with the speed of lightening. “Please, God, send someone to help me”. And her Heavenly Father, sends out a request of his own, to you, “Please, go help her”. Will you?

Practical Steps

“I can’t take in a child” you say, and you are right. But you are wrong. You CAN. You see a bake sale could help bandage a soul. A garage sale could help cloth a naked heart, a fund raiser could help raise a crushed spirit. A monthly gift can help feed, bathe, lovingly house a thrown away child. You may not have room in your HOUSE, but do you have room in your HEART?

If we have money to eat out, or for perfume, or pedicures, or accessories or toys, we have money to save a child. And God is asking us to.

Tupelo Children’s Mansion takes in abandoned, neglected and abused children. They care for their wounded bodies, broken spirits, bruised minds and battered souls. They need partners, people who will hear the cry of the Heavenly Father, and the cry of the hurting child, and answer with compassion. One time gifts, monthly support, help on their buildings/grounds, each would help so much.

What would GOD have you do to bring JUSTICE?

Answer the cry, rescue a child, click here.

Dancing with Death

2011-03-01T17:01:00.000-08:00

Someone I love is dancing with death. She is aglow with the momentary pleasure she is experiencing. Her eyes dance with merriment, her skin is flushed with the rosy blush of excitement. She wants to share her newfound dance partner with me, to give me the details of her joy. All she can see is beauty in her partner, but I can see through the lovely well tailored, fashionable suit it wears, to the life sucking grave the fabric covers. She sees the pearl buttons, I see the bleached bones beneath.

She is angry that I will not tap my feet to the music, smile to her whirling. I am crushed that she will not listen to reason. She has traded an endless well of wisdom, for a bubbling glass of wine. She is trading the song of the redeemed for an orchestra of mans wisdom, the heavenly harp for mans philosophy. And in listening long enough to them, she can no longer tell the difference. She has chosen to unstrap her slippers of peace, in trade for a glass slipper, razor sharp.

I suppose it hurts so much, because I remember my own dances with death, self, sin.

How the music called to my feet, how the feel of pleasures arms wrapped around me felt good, RIGHT even.

How we danced, stepping lightly, stepping lively, whirling around, oblivious that the glass slippers had shattered. On we danced, the broken glass shredding my soul, leaving bloody footprints behind on the halls of my memory. Producing a limp I carry still.

I cannot be party to her party. I can only wait, bandages in hand, hoping that she makes it out alive.

So she dances, while I weep.

Uh-Ohs and No-Nos ~ There is a Difference

2011-02-16T22:39:00.000-08:00

Baby G is a great blessing to his three older siblings and to us. He is a bundle of energy that actually rocks the house with his laughter and mischievous ways. He is sweet and loving. He is also about to turn two.

You KNOW what I mean.

We have for the past year been using gentle correction methods with him. Like when he drops his food off the highchair onto the floor. But lately, the uh-ohs have mutated into something altogether different. The dropping became a game, not an accident. It then morphed into throwing. The accidents were treated as such. The disobedience has consequences. Not because I am a dictator, but because tiny seeds planted early grow into hulking habits later.

While not yet fluent in English, he has mastered manipulation and deception. Every time he intentionally breaks a rule, he tries to pass it off as an accident. After flinging a noodle or piece of oatmeal through the air to watch it smack with a thud against the cabinet then plunk down on the floor, he looks up at me with those huge baby doll eyes and says sweetly “Uh-oh, mom-mom.” But we BOTH know what it was: deliberate. And consequences follow.

Isn’t that just the way we humans like to play it?

No one “sins” anymore, everyone just “makes mistakes.” A mistake is when you accidentally fall into a hole you did not see, that you were not warned about. But when you read the warning sign, ignore it, and THEN fall into the hole, that is no accident. That is choice. Sin has a payday, and that payday is death.

It is our duty as mothers to help our children learn the difference between mistakes, which are part of being human, and willful disobedience, which is a choice. Sin, in its seed form, does not always look evil, but planted in the heart and allowed to grow it produces the fruit of death. Don’t let little things go, in their hearts. Or in yours.

It is easier to pluck out a seedling than to uproot an oak.

The Best Gift

2010-12-16T11:08:00.000-08:00

I’ve been on the hunt for IT. You know what IT is, THE gift. The one that absolutely thrills and delights the recipient. The one that brings tears to their eyes, lights up their face or makes them jump right up and do the happy dance. Not just any old gift…I want to give THE gift. To everyone on my list.

Looking back on my own gifts, from others, I can easily name the IT’s. The black bean-bag baby when I was 4, my first attempt at mothering. The Easy Bake Oven when I was 7, my first attempts at cake making. The cassette player/recorder when I was 10, my first attempts to make my own music. The camera when I was 13, my wee steps into capturing life on film. The 1950 era bicycle when I was 15, springing me into a love for vintage styled things. The birthday cake in the shape of a Nancy Drew book when I was 12, celebrating my love for books. The letter my mom wrote me when I turned 18, affirming me, telling me she treasured me, opening my eyes to the power of written affirmation. All cherished IT’s.

Looking back I see that those IT’s were special because they touched off something in me. They were seeds that grew into something I love still. Being a mother, making beautiful cakes, writing music, capturing images, old things, reading and writing. Important things in my life. Started by a gift.

But when I search deeper, to the BEST gift, the biggest IT's origins rest in my grandmother. From this simple woman grew the vine that entwines my heart still. From that vine blooms a flower that brings beauty to my life, a fragrance that wafts over me still and fruit that nourishes my soul. My grandmother gave IT first to my mother, who passed IT down to me. The gift…. of a Godly example.

She had a difficult husband. Which is like saying that Niagara falls is a drip of water. She lived in poverty. I still remember the outhouse, the baths in a metal tub. She worked in the cotton fields from the time she was 4. She experienced heartbreak, losing her beloved twin to sinful choices, until just a few years before he died. She suffered the agony of seeing some of her children choose to walk away from God. And suffered right along with them when those choices brought them pain. But she choose to keep a clean soul, a good attitude and a song in her heart.

She loved God, His house, His people, His ways. She was simple in her standard of living, but rich beyond compare in Heavenly treasures. She decorated with Heaven in mind. On the wall beside her bed was the Missions Poster with all the missionaries. She put it there so she could read aloud their names and pray for them as she went to bed. I wonder how many miracles grew from the seeds she planted overseas, with those daily prayers?

She believed that what God trusts you with, is enough. She made do with second hand clothing and hand made gifts long before it was in vogue to do so. She didn't just WISH she could give to worthy causes, but to FOUND a way to give, by making fried pies at her kitchen table to sell for missions. She traveled the world through the gateway of books, and honored God's book first by reading it through every year. She believed that beauty isn't something you can buy in a jar. It is something you have to cultivate in your spirit. Daily prayer kept her beautiful in her words and deeds.

She planted a seed with her every deed. And those seeds, are still IT. THE gift. The one I treasure most. The one I saw first in her, then in her daughter, my mother. The one I want to pass on.

IT doesn't come cheap either. It means dedicating daily time in Gods word. It means making Godly choices. Ones that are hard. Ones that are going to cost . Cost money, cost time, cost convenience. It is an expensive gift no doubt. And it is the only gift that will outlast us. After our lips are silenced in death IT will speak on. After our hands are stilled by time, IT will reach out and bless others. The best gift ever... a Godly example.

I want to live IT, I want to give IT.

Home for Thanksgiving

2010-11-29T08:39:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like truth

to open your eyes

to the joy stealing lie

of if.

We could be thankful

IF....

If only...

If not for...

But it's a lie.

The truth is, what we have

enough.

No if’s ands or buts about it.

Enough for thanks giving.

Enough for thanks living.

It started when I heard

“Rachel, we need to pray, right now” .

Brent said it with THAT voice.

You know the one.

It can barely be heard,

so tight are the vocal cords drawn,

as if by keeping down the sound

they can keep down the message.

One look at his wet eyes and a haggard face

and I knew.

I didn’t know who,

but I knew what.

He had just got the news that earlier that day,

Thanksgiving morning,

our friends Chris & Vickie Hammonds

lost their daughter Kristen & her husband Josh Miller,

a young bride and groom of 5 months,

in a highway accident as they traveled from PA to IL.

Truth #1

Replaceable cars are wrapped in steel,

rebuildable homes in brick.

But life is wrapped tissue thin skin.

We are all bound in bands of blood and bone.

So easily broken.

So easily spilled.

So easily gone.

Truth #2

We often think we are building memories

for our children to remember us.

When sometimes,

we are building memories

for us

to remember

them.

Truth #3

We should be most thankful for the things

that are not

things.

As we prayed for the family

I wondered if anyone asked

“Where are you going for Thanksgiving”

if Kristen smiled and said

“I’m going home”

I can almost hear Heaven whisper

“Yes ...

you are”

Traditions. Old & New

2010-11-18T11:22:00.000-08:00

Next week marks a huge turn in my life.

I will be the Thanksgiving cook,

for the first time.

I turned 40 this year,

so I guess it is time for me to start being a real grown up.

And if being in charge of Thanksgiving dinner

doesn’t make you a grown up,

nothing will.

18 years of traditional celebration with my family

are just not possible any more.

Time, distance and circumstance dictate

that we start celebrating Thanksgiving in a new way

One that, for now, includes just the 6 of us.

And while my heart longs for the Thanksgiving I knew in years past,

it is not to be.

Uninvited, unexpected, unwanted change comes to us all.

I have a choice,

mourn the loss of my traditional Thanksgiving tradition,

and lose the present,

or embrace the change

and be thankful anyway.

Sometimes I hear people dismiss tradition,

as if it is a bad thing.

I choose to look at tradition the way Jesus did,

and use it sew together the past, present and future.

Jesus used the power of tradition

when he commanded his disciples to observe communion.

"Do this in remembrance of me".

Through this act, this tradition,

his sacrifice is physically remembered.

He knew that act of putting the bread in the mouth,

the smell and flavor of the grapey liquid, the act of swallowing,

would remind his disciples of the eternal truth,

that his body was broken,

his blood given,

for them.

Tradition captures the moment

and builds a room inside the human heart

where it can be revisited,

the moments coming alive again,

time after time.

So I am choosing my traditions carefully.

Incorporating sight, sound, smell, taste and tactile elements into the memories.

Hoping that when I am long gone, the observance of them

will bring to mind these precious times.

Stitching the past

to the present

to the future.

Sight

Replica harvest fruits & vegetables to remind us that

food is not something we can make on our own.

It does NOT come from Aldi.

Or Sams Club.

Or the Super Center.

It comes from the field.

It comes from God.

Sound

I made a CD filled with songs about gratitude, blessings.

List available upon request.

Smell & Taste

Something old (recipes), something new (cake pan)

I purchased this cake pan at Walmart ($16 in store, $29.99 online) to make three mini cakes.

Lemon Poppyseed (Mama’s recipe)

Pumpkin Cranberry (Aunt Deanie’s recipe)

and Pecan Pie Cake (a nod to Mamaw’s pecan pie).

The kids can help mix and glaze them.

Tactile

Thankful Jar

Repurposed glass jar, filled with thankful notes written by each

member of the family, except Baby G of course.

After dinner we will take turns reading aloud from the slips.

I am going to place the Thankful Jar on the counter in the kitchen,

over the next year it will get filled up

for next years Thanksgiving reading.

These small, simple easy to reproduce traditions I am starting this year.

Thankful music, visual reminders, Thankful Jar, mini family recipe cakes.

Maybe next year we can add to it.

Each year building slowly into a strong, safe,

comforting season, to celebrate blessings.

I just can’t WAIT to see James, Lincoln and Reagan’s faces

when I instruct two of them to hold the legs of the turkey

while the other one gets to cram cornbread

up its escape hatch!

What unexpected, uninvited, unwanted thing

has life brought to you?

You have the choice,

live in the past reflections, losing what is NOW

or embrace the change,

make the best of it.

Find reasons to be thankful.

Anyway.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

2010-10-26T11:29:00.000-07:00

On Illinois Ave, in the city of Aurora, stands a house that scares my children. It is not the house exactly, but the macabre figures that adorn the yard and house. In the middle of September the occupants of the house began to create an elaborate landscape dedicated to horror. Not one inch of the yard or house is spared. Rooftop, treetop and yard are filled with bleeding, decomposing and tortured figures. One is being sawn in half, another electrocuted, a bride corpse dangles and more. Much much more. It is as if death and hellishness are being celebrated. And indeed, they are.

We pass this house twice a day, to and from school. Its gruesome figures and celebration of pain/torture spark fear in the younger child, outrage in the older ones. I have tried to answer the questions from them regarding it, but it does little to alleviate their fear and feelings of angst. I am left with questions myself. Questions about the people who put up this display. Questions about their motives, their sensitivity or lack of. And I am left with this conclusion. They derive pleasure from things that should horrify. It makes me angry that they would care so little for the innocents who pass by.

Don’t get me wrong, I WANT my children to be afraid. Not of plastic figures depicting death. Not of made up creatures, vampires or werewolves. Such things are mere figments of overactive imaginations. But there are REAL things of which I want my children to have a healthy dose of fear. And those I point out to them regularly.

I want them to be afraid of debt. I hope that when they see a credit card or unnecessary debt, it will not look like harmless plastic. I hope they can see it as a chain that could enslave them.

I hope they are afraid of ending up lonely and sad, if they take their spouse and family for granted, or if they live a selfish or abusive life.

I hope they will view pornography and sexual promiscuity as a bony death grip reaching out to crush the joy out of Gods blessing for sexuality.

I hope they will be afraid of choosing a spouse by looks and charm alone, neglecting character and spiritual integrity.

I hope they will see past the lies of advertising and see the actual, horrifying results of alcohol consumption. I hope they see past the can, the bottle, the ‘fun’ time to the bodies of parents and children crumpled in cars wrecked by a drunk driver. I hope they are deathly afraid that that first drink could lead them to become like their great-grandfather who drank his paycheck up while his children had no shoes.

I want them to be afraid of the troubles and addictions that come from drug use.

Yes, I want them to be afraid. Not of gruesome looking Halloween figures that come out once a year, but of the REAL monsters, chains and messengers of hell that walk the streets everyday. For in healthy fear, there is power. Power over the trap laid out to snare their feet. Power to say “No”. Power to make wise choices.

So I drive past the ugly house twice a day, explaining to my children that pretend horror is ugly, but not as ugly as debt, addiction, alcoholism, sin. And I pray that they will listen and be afraid. Very very afraid.

When is enough, enough?

2010-10-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

Few of us will ever know what it means to have more money than we can spend. Few, precious few, will ever have the ability to have all their material or personal desires fulfilled. But if we look to those rare individuals who DO have those recourses, and we examine their lives carefully, we see that it is not the ability to scratch every itch that brings fulfillment or satisfaction.

When is enough enough? At what point is the human heart satisfied? Power, ask Hitler. Money, ask Madoff, Physical pleasure, ask Hefner. These three men are the benchmark for excess, their unrestraint known by all. When is enough enough? To the unsurrendered heart…never. It is never enough.

Even the obscenely rich and powerful can be sad, lonely, unfulfilled. The truly rich are those who couple the choice to be content with what we already have with a heart that gives cheerfully, unbegrudgingly.

Without contentment, a palace can be a prison. Without restraint, a pleasure can be bondage. Without sacrificial love, relationships can become confinement.

Contentment, restraint, love, these are the building blocks of life. Contentment and restraint are partners in the dance of death. They tread to death the enemies of peace. Greed, jealousy and addiction are crushed beneath their feet. Sacrificial love plays the tune that contentment and restraint waltz to.

I want to play that song. I want to dance that dance.

1 Timothy 6:6-11 The Message . A devout life does bring wealth, but it's the rich simplicity of being yourself before God. Since we entered the world penniless and will leave it penniless, if we have bread on the table and shoes on our feet, that's enough. 9-10But if it's only money these leaders are after, they'll self-destruct in no time. Lust for money brings trouble and nothing but trouble. Going down that path, some lose their footing in the faith completely and live to regret it bitterly ever after.

Birdy-Boys Song

2010-10-13T11:23:00.001-07:00

I first heard his song this past spring. It was not the sweet melodic sound most birds make. No, this one was different. It was a brash chiriping, arrogant and proudful. And why shouldn't it be? Just look at all he had. Perched on the highest peak of the roof, he was master of all he surveyed. When other birds would come near he hopped about loudly proclaiming "MINE", in birdy chirps, warning them off of HIS house. And to him, it is HIS house. His because he lives here, has staked claim on it, has built a nest with his own beak.

Never mind the facts of the matter. Facts like he is only here because I let him be here. Here because Honey Pie pays the mortgage bill, taxes, maintenance and the numerous costs that come with ownership. No, birdie-boy thinks he owns the place. One really strong wind, one serious hail storm and his carefully constructed nest is history. He has no idea of just how close he is, at any time, of being left with what he ACTUALLY owns, nothing.

How often have we been in the same place? Happily, proudly, hopping about through life. Feeling secure in the things we sing out as "MINE"? My house, my spouse, my family, my job, my health, my body, my mind, my, my, my, my.

Oh really?

Lose the ability to pay for it or keep it up and that house is gone. Spouses, children, family, ours? Not really. Spouses are ours only as long as they decide to stay with us, or as long as breath is given to them. Children, not really ours either. They are merely on loan from God for the short short time of our/their lifespan, then they will return to whom they really belong.

Our bodies, mind and health, time and age will claim them all. As the song writer says, "Father Time is undefeated, one day he's gonna get us all". Yet we sing right along with birdy-boy, "MINE MINE MINE", dancing along to the sound of our own song. Unaware that like birdy-boy, we own nothing.

The song "Mine" should be sung "Yours". Yours, Lord. Everything. The spouse, yours. The children, yours. The house, car, bank account, yours. My body, yours. My mind, yours. My past, yours. My future, yours.

Our bodies belong to the ground from where they came and most assuredly to where they will return. Our very breath is on loan from God. It would do us well to reconsider our position in life. Realizing that if we lose it all, we are merely left with what we had to begin with. Naked we came into this world, naked we shall all leave it.

The only thing we will take with us through the door of the grave is our choices. The good, the bad, the ugly. Choices to serve sin and self, or choices to yield to God's law. Like birdy-boy we will sing a song throughout eternity. A song of praise or a lament of regret...but sing we will. Eternity's song will be the refrain we sang here, in practice, the song, "Mine" or "Yours".

Beauty from Ashes

2010-08-23T16:06:00.001-07:00

Had big 'ol plans for this past week. They included fininshing up the not-a-chance-you'll-get-it-all-at-one-place school supply list and enjoying the LAST week of sumeer vacation with my kiddos. We were going to frolic about in sprinklers, have a picnic at the park, visit the library. We were going to be busy, we were going to have fun. As it turned out, we did neither.

A nasty virus (they do seem to love us so) attacked my 7 year old and just about sucked the life right out of him. Three days sick at home, then 3 days sick in the hospital. We had planned to be at the park, but here we were, stuck in a hospital. Instead of swigging sweet lemon-aid, we were coaxing bitter tasting contrast fluid down an acid burnt throat. Our plans were toast. Up in smoke. We were left with a handful of ashes in place of our beautifully mapped out plan.

So what's a mother to do during the hours that the wee one sleeps? Make prayer flowers of course. Let me explain. I'm no stranger to 'down time'. I spend my fair share of my time in waiting rooms so I have a waiting room bag with hand-work in the closet near the door. On the way out the door to the hospital I grabbed my trusty ziplock bag that contained my next 'down time' project. It was comprised of a shirt, scissors, thread and needle. The shirt, a stained silk one, had been stained by a careless encounter with tomato sauce. It was no longer able to be used for it's intended purpose. It was still around because the 100% silk fabric was too beautiful to be thrown out.

I am a scatter brain kind of girl, jumping from one thing to another, a frantic buzz of brain activity most of the time. I find that doing 'busy' work with my hands helps me to focus my thoughts. The motion of my fingers help to bring my emotions up to the surface and be dealt with by my mind. It is physically therapeutic, also spiritually therapeutic. I find that my heavenly Father can take the threads of my feelings and use the tools of memorized scripture and prayer to turn them from a jumbled heap of tangled fibers, into something useful. Sometimes even beautiful.

So from my 3 days hospital stay, about 3 hours of my time were spent turning this shirt

into these flowers.

I'm not sure where they will go. Maybe on a hat, sweater or a jacket. Maybe on a pillow for my bed or chaise. But where ever they go, when I see them, I will remember.

I will remember that even though I make my plans, life may interrupt them. That I maybe do some of the important things now, because tomorrow is not promised. I will remember that God is faithful during the unexpected crises's of my life and that seemingly ruined things can be repurposed to use to make something beautiful. Even when I've ruined them with my carelessness. I will remember Isaiah 36:1, that God can give beauty, even from ashes.

Where are you today? Do you have a handful of ashes where your plans used to be? Has some ailment, or age, come along and stollen your health, or physical abilities? Are you stuck in a situation not of your making? Do you drink from a bitter cup?

Make some prayer flowers. Maybe not with fabric or thread. Maybe you should go ahead and take that vacation, send that apology, mend that fence. Maybe you should unroll a disappointment and salvage it. It might be a friendship, or a marriage, or your spiritual life. What ever it is, don't throw it out. Yes, it may be stained, but that does not mean it cannot be beautiful again, in a different way. Don't let the time, or the pain, or the situation be wasted. No, it may not ever be like it WAS, but it can still be beautiful. Pray over it, work at it. Make beauty from your mess, from your ashes.

Handing tools, holding ladders

2010-08-14T20:31:00.001-07:00

Today with a heavy hearts and a tear sodden souls we laid to rest a giant of a man. A man who had made wise, and often difficult, choices in life. A man who built a great legacy.

If marriage is a house of love, then he built a palace. With acts of service, deference of spirit and gentle words of affirmation he crafted a masterpiece, worthy of his Queen, his precious Laura. I doubt there has ever been a more or better loved woman than she.

If character is a building, then he built a skyscraper. With years of dedicated service, faithfulness and dependability he labored to build an edifice that had strength enough to house his family, his church family, his friends and the thousands, yes, thousands of children he loved through the years.

When he was young, he gave his gift of strength working in Gods service. Building, remodeling, maintaining and caring for Gods house and the automobiles that brought folks to it.

He was active in the hospitality ministry, an usher until his last service. When he was older he gave his gift of wisdom, training younger men to follow in his steps, guiding them through the ropes of bus ministry. As an elder he gave his last gift, that of example. He said “I am older now, and there is not much I can do. But I can hand tools and hold ladders. So I will.”

Oh that that spirit would grip me. And the hearts of my generation. To have the Darby Do-ism spirit. Happy to serve in support ministry. Happy to do what is needed, what we are best suited for in what ever stage of life we are in. Not determined to be in the spotlight, showcasing our best ability, but happy to hand tools or hold ladders.

Oh to have a Darby kind of heart. A servant’s heart. A heart like Christ.

Little Is Much (when it comes to dust)

2010-06-28T21:18:00.000-07:00

“We are going to do a little sanding on the drywall” my super-duper-kitchen-redoer said. It sounded innocent enough. I looked at the small patch to be sanded and didn’t give it another thought. But AFTER the sanding I have thought of little else. As it turns out, drywall compound, mud, sheet rock, or what ever the actual term for it is, SHOULD have been called Sin Dust. Yup, indeed. Sin Dust. Because just a wee little bit of it in the bucket, turns into a mountain when the sander gets hold of it.

In spite of the careful taping, tarping, covering and protecting, it has wormed it’s hateful self into every nook and cranny of the room. And beyond. Long after the sanding is done and finished, the visible stuff vacuumed off, a fine grit swirls through the air and lands right back on top of the just washed, wiped, mopped surface. Again. And again.

Isn’t that just like sin? It doesn’t look all that harmful, sitting there in its tempting little package. It doesn’t look like much. And even when you are slathering it up and slapping it on the wall of your heart/life it still doesn’t look like that big of a deal.

It’s confined, manageable, even hideable. But then the twin carpenters, life and time, come along and get to sanding. And the effects begin to spread. They start showing up on every surface of our life. It affects our relationship with our family. It shows up in our finances. It settles into the small cracks of our every word and action. It no longer is it a small, confined, manageable thing. It is out in the open, WAY out in the open. In short, it is everywhere.

I have two options, live with the grit. Or get rid of it. I can let it sit, ignored, or I can get the water out and get to scrubbing. And I have to keep scrubbing. Today, tomorrow, next week, for as LONG as it takes. It won’t be a fast job, ridding my kitchen, or my life. of the grit.

I can scrub out bitterness by practicing forgiveness (Mat 18:35). Wash away envy by practicing thankfulness(Col 2:6,7). Mop up ungratefulness by wiping out complaining (Phil 2:14). It will be messy and it’s going to take awhile. But I know what to do. I can get out the Water of the Word (Eph 5:26), and get to scrubbing.

So excuse me for awhile, I have some work to do.

Liquid Words

2010-05-28T19:13:00.001-07:00

I am usually a happy person. I am easily pleased; it’s hard to get my goat. I have everything a person needs to be happy. And more. I am filled with the Holy Spirit.

Considering that things are mostly peaceful in my life right now, imagine my confusion when I almost fell off an emotional cliff last week. My baby fell and chipped off a piece of his front tooth, and I was overwhelmed with anguish. I knew it will be a daily reminder to me that I was unable to keep him from the fall. A mark of my failure as a mother.

After the initial meltdown, mine not his, I tried to find the greater truth in the situation. For crying out loud, which I did, long and loud, it is just a tooth. It will be replaced. It’s not terminal. So why the over reaction? As I prayed over it and let the Holy Spirit breathe through me this week, I realize that I am grieving many things, the tooth just chipped off the cover they’d been hiding under.

I am grieving the loss of my parent’s marriage. I am grieving the loss of a father to bi-polar condition. I am grieving the childhood loss of innocence at the hand of a trusted family friend. I am grieving that someone I love has been deceived and wronged. I am grieving physical losses. I am grieving the loss of some of my dreams that are never going to be realized, sacrificed on the alter of better things. Not because I am a whiney baby. Because I am human. Because I am trapped in a prison of blood, bone and chemicals.

And in pouring out my heart, to the Father, I am being washed. The unspeakable anguish is translated perfectly in my tears. Tears, the messengers of pain, loss, love, sorrow, grief, joy, anguish, repentance & forgiveness. They well up in the heart, wash up through the soul, spill out over the eyelids, and cascade down the cheeks. Liquid words. Gifts of my Heavenly Father, who knew I would need them.

They wash away the grime, for a little while. Leaving me cleansed. Leaving me sparkling again, these healing, cleansing rivers of tears. Never miss an opportunity to wash your soul with tears.