Because it is written, “Be holy, for I am holy.”

These words in I Peter 1:16 have always been intimidating to me, but they keep coming to mind as the Preacher talks about the role of holiness. As he speaks, the scent of red geraniums perched in front of his pulpit waft under my nose and reminds me that it’s Mother’s Day and I try to tie them together …

holiness …

motherhood …

My tongue wants to try it out, right there in the middle of the sermon …

Be ye a holy mommy.

This holiness … this being separate … it boggles the mind and thinking back, I recall how pathetically far from holiness my former years of changing dirty diapers, wiping goobered noses, staving off temper tantrums and enduring sleepless nights were. And now, as I live year after year of taxiing to and fro and combating  teenage laziness and apathy and dirty bedrooms, it seems like the orders from above can be too tall. So in my heart, I tell the Lord  …

I’ve been mothering for over 20 years, and still … I can’t do it. I can’t be holy and be Mom – simultaneously.

He agrees and calls to mind another verse that says without Him, I can do … nothing and I draw the obvious conclusion that “nothing” includes this holiness in motherhood.

In Exodus 3:1-5, we see Moses shepherding his flock and isn’t this what motherhood is? Attempting to herd clueless little creatures to the mount of God?

It’s in the midst of this herding that God reveals Himself to Moses (and mommies), and what does Moses do when God shows up in the form of a burning bush?

He becomes intimidated, too.

You read it there, in between the lines. For it says that Moses was minding his own business, swatting wooly bums this way and that way, when the Angel of the Lord appeared out of nowhere, in the form of an unburned, burning bush. Moses immediately looks, because who wouldn’t? And after he looks, he announces his decision to turn and look again. So while one assumes that his immediate reaction to the unconsumed bush was fear and intimidation, one also sees that his ultimate response was to approach the holiness of God. 

As he begins approaching, God begins to speak and I see this in motherhood … how I approach Him in the burning bush ~my Bible~ and through this approaching, He reassures me that He knows me by name (Moses! Moses!), and instructs me in specific ways (Do not draw near this place.).  And as if that isn’t enough, He begins revealing more and more of Himself (I am the God of your father-the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.).

I know it’s tough. It’s tough because while we want to be a Moses in mommyhood, and while we want all of this reassuring, instructing, and revealing, we also have a bit of a fear that Moses’ utterance … his “Here I am” will be expected of us.

Moses offered his “Here I am” before God offered any detailed, specific instructions as to what Moses’ next right step would be. And this is when the heart can become so fearful, because we don’t know what God will tell us to do next and it’s never a good feeling to agree to something before we know what the something is.

It requires trust. And faith.

Trust in an all-knowing God who loves us and faith that He will never ask us to do something He will not enable us to do.

I don’t mean to look so mesmerized and sleepy, but I stare at the geraniums while the Preacher goes on. And I’m more contented now, because whenever I think about trust and not being able to do something He has called me to, my heart and mind drift over to the book of Philippians, where it tells me right there in the twelfth verse of the second chapter that I am responsible for working out my own salvation with fear and trembling. And yes, this means I have to work and strive and climb the holiness ladder. But read on, friend, to the next verse …

for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure.

And in 4:13 …

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. All, meaning everything He has called me to do.

So we turn and look … by approaching our burning bush, by opening the Word and soaking it all in.

And we work … by changing the poo and soothing the owie and making the bed and washing the clothes and scrubbing the dishes and picking up endless, broken Cheerios.

And as we work …  we utter the humble “Here I am.”

And as we humbly utter … we trust.

And as we trust and obey … He also works. He works in us, constantly building our faith, making us more like Him. And whether the transformation happens through motherhood, fatherhood, singleness, childlessness, or employment … the point is that if we are His … it will happen.

Thank you, Lord, for the work that you do in our hearts and lives. Help us to do our part, our work, in the process of becoming holy as you are holy. Help us not to act in fear, but to trust You to work with and in and through us. And thank you for the red geraniums, which now grace my dining room table and serve as a reminder that you are here, loving me, and helping me in this journey called holy motherhood. ~Amen

Don’t worry. This will not be a detailed post about the … ahem … “ins and outs” of the stomach flu. Here at the BQ, we keep it polite. But I’ve had most of the week to think, which has been nice in some ways, not so nice in others. Rather than explain it all before I explain it all, I’ll just lay it out for you:

Funny Musings:

…….

…

Hmmm …..

Let’s seeeeee .….

….

I thought I had something …

I’m sorry. I guess I don’t see the humor in my body emptying itself of every ounce of fluid it possesses in record time. However, on day four, it was very warm outside, and my days of being one with the toilet were mostly gone, so I slipped on some comfy shorts and a tank top and decided to bask in the healing power of sunshine. Before I went out, I told my very sweet, almostsixteenyearoldsonwhoisattractingwaytoomanygirls that I was discouraged because of my chicken legs.

His response?

Shaking shoulders.

“It’s not funny,” I say. “I was starting to get a little flesh on my bones before all of these …. explosions … that I’ve … you know … had. And now look at them.”

More shaking.

I give him the you’re going to be grounded if you don’t stop it look, but he carries on.

“What, Mom? You’ve never noticed you have chicken legs? They’re always like that!”

Please do not try and contact my man-boy and tell him how funny he is. He is grounded.

Serious Musings:

I could go on and on here, but I will just say that I’m thankful that even though my level of health is below most of my peers (uhm, ok … all of my peers), I’m thankful for what I’ve got. Being one with the john has brought back some pretty yucky memories, and really … if I never potty hug again in my whole life, I will be fine with that.

My father-in-law says that puking is what you do right before you die. I’m here to tell you he’s wrong. But wished he was right.

I always wondered what would happen if I got the stomach flu on top of my every day stomach and intestinal issues. It’s hard to explain, but it’s akin to throwing gasoline on flames. It turns your little camp fire sickness into a blazing forest fire sickness … and that makes Smokey the bear veeeeewy angwy. Trust me on this. He told me his own self … in my dreams immediately following IV fluids and … whatever the heck else they put in there.

In other news, I am going to go on a picnic tomorrow. Rumor has it that it will be 80 degrees and mostly sunny and that sounds a tad bit more delightful than perching myself on this living room couch with nothing to stare at but the television. So, I’m headed to the prairie, people. Where the buffaloes roam and make pies for my kindling so I can roast hot dogs.

Sorry. I am having trouble being serious when I feel so cynical. I will try to do better …

Spiritual Musings:

In all seriousness … will the little carpet crawler at church who wiped their little stomach flu germs all over me please raise your pudgy hand!!?? 

Whoops. I’ll try again.

Deeeeeep breath ….

Okay. In all seriousness …

I admit to wondering what on earth is going on spiritually this week. After giving my testimony for the first time ever at a Woman’s Conference on Saturday, God lays me flat (flat, I tell you!) with illness. I know I’ve been hitting it hard lately with my writing and it’s been incredibly stressful to share struggles that I have hidden in the deep, deep crevices of my heart for over twenty years. So I finally come out and be brave and announce to the world how Jesus has healed me, and He says …

ZAP!! You’re a toilet hugger.

Not that I think I was doing God a favor, or that He needs me or anything. But I did think I was on the right track and growing and hopefully helping others in the process …

So why the time out session?

Am I being punished? Redirected?

Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer yet. I know it’s given me more time to pray. All of my kids are going through things that require much prayer, and maybe I needed to focus on that for a while rather than my writing.

Writing a book isn’t all there is to life …

I haven’t been able to read or write much, but sometimes I think it’s more beneficial to just be quiet and listen. Talk to the Lord.

Reacquaint.

So that’s what I’ve done. And while I’m fairly fitful and ready to hit the ground running again, God has seen fit to make it a very slow process. Each night, I’ve gone to bed and said to myself, “Self, I bet tomorrow’s the day of healing.”

And every morning I say, “You’re so dumb. Stop being such an optimist and let God decide when He’s going to heal you.”

It’s day five. I am at a point of complete acceptance. I will be one hundred percent when He says so.

Until then … I will pray and enjoy the sun and the Son and when He tells me to take up my bed and walk pen and write, I will.

What’s that?

No. No, this blog post does not qualify as writing. This is just me, thinking out loud. With my fingers. Writing is work. Studying, praying, think, think, thinking, and editing and re-editing. And as you can tell, not a whole lot of thought, praying, or editing has gone into this post.

Ta ta for now, sweet readers. May you stay healthy, whole, and may you never become one with the john.

photo credit: designachampion.com

If you will, please pull up a chair and sit with me a spell, because I’m in the mood to have a candid, cut to the chase, get down to the nitty gritty kind of chat.

*Brenda hands the gracious reader a cool glass of sweet tea with pink umbrella straw …

and a chocolate chip cookie …

and a pillow …

and a sun hat.

You comfy?

Awesome.

Here’s the deal. I’ve been thinking a lot about choices this week. Not the silly ones we are bombarded with every day (If I buy this shampoo, will it really provide sleek, gorgeous curls?). I’m thinking of the more serious, day in, day out choices we may not even realize we are making …

Will I serve God or myself?

Will I strive for His glory or my glory?

Will I believe God’s promises, or take matters into my own hands?

Will I trust in God’s strength, or will I trust in my own strength … my college degree … my sleek, gorgeous curls?

I wonder what Moses was thinking when he made a fairly split decision in Exodus 2:11 and 12 …

Now it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out to his brethren and looked at their burdens. And he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his brethren.

So he looked this way and that way, and when he saw no one, he killed the Egyptian and hid him in the sand.

One choice to glance to the left …

One choice to glance to the right …

One choice to believe he is wiser than Almighty God …

One choice to draw the sword …

And wham!

Cold blooded murder.

His decisions continue with …

A choice to hide the evidence …

A choice to freak out because he was caught …

A choice to run for his own life (the only wise decision thus far).

What a mess that came from two split seconds of impulsiveness. Of thinking, but not really … thinking. Of looking from side to side, rather than looking up.

And what does God do in response?

He puts Moses in “time out.” And while that might not seem like an adequate way for God to deal with him, I have a feeling that “time out” was the worst thing you could do to a guy who was sincere, but too hot headed and on the prowl for glory meant for God and only God.

At the time of the not-so-God-honoring murder, Moses was 40. I am about a month away from 40. He was not so very good at decision making. I am not so very good at decision making. This blog post alone has given me a severe case of ping-pong brain with it’s constant choice of should I or should I not say that? And .. will these words glorify me or glorify God?

Trips to the grocery store are even worse. A classic case of my emotions and desires ping-ponging back and forth with my reason and this is partly why the husband accompanies – to see that I progress through all 27 aisles in less than a full afternoon without disappointing Dave Ramsey God.

And spiritually? Yes, you guessed it. More ping-pong. Back and forth, battling with the flesh.

Maybe you aren’t anywhere near 40, but you are still faced with decisions driving you ping-pong mad. If so, I encourage you to think until it hurts. To cool your hot head and look up. To stop and ask yourself what would be the most God-honoring choice (warning: this could take some extracurricular, Biblical study). Because whether we’re choosing brands of shampoo or deciding whether someone deserves to live or not, the main thing … the chief end is to …. what?

Glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

It’s as simple as that. It’s as hard as that.

Thanks for listening to my ping-pong voice. Normal story telling voice will resume in exactly one week from today.

Now. How ’bout a refill on that tea?

And perhaps some sunscreen …

It’s Easter morning, and the four people who make up the Coats family have sufficiently donned themselves in their fancy, pastel duds. With hair slicked and Bibles in arm, we pile into the car, and as usual … I am cold. And as usual … everyone else is toasty warm. So I snuggle into the sunlight streaming through the window, and the Heavenly heat reminds me of the nineteenth Psalm …

The heavens declare the glory of God … 

The glory has risen each and every morning of my entire life and I can hear you now, saying … thank you, Captain Obvious. But my point is that when I see my twiddling thumbs in the sunlight, I realize boredom with the every day rising of the sun has crept into the heart.

Minutes later, we gather with fellow believers, and in unison, boast of another risen Son. In songs and hymns and spiritual songs, we lift His name on high, mesmerized by the truth that because our Redeemer lives – we live. That just as He rose and ascended into Heaven – so shall we rise and ascend into Heaven at the calling of our name.

We are not bored with this Son. We are enraptured, because it’s all so awesome and because it’s all so … Him and this grand Easter finale makes the heart want to explode with thankfulness to Jesus who conquered His death and your death and my death.

I don’t want the joy to end, and as the service comes to a close, I wish for the words To Be Continued to scroll across the power point screen.

But though the words never come, the truth is … the joyful celebration doesn’t have to end. 

Oh, I know Easter is the one day we’ve set aside to be single focused on Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection and I know it would run our talented musicians and singers into the mud if we expected a weekly hoopla. But I’m not speaking of an all-out production – not literally. I’m speaking of an every day celebration of the heart.

In an egg shell … what is Easter?

If you replied Easter is the Gospel, pat your back and have a Peep. You’re right. Easter is the Gospel. And everyone who attends my church knows that they are “required” to preach the Gospel to yourself every day. Preferably before the rising of the sun – somewhere in between wiping the sleep from the eyes and tip-toeing across the carpet.

But how do we preach the Easter Gospel to ourselves every day?

There’s a little creed we very often recite during the Sunday morning service. It’s called the Apostles’ Creed, and it goes like so:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Maker of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
born of the virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, dead, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day He arose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,
and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
the holy catholic church;
the communion of saints;
the forgiveness of sins;
the resurrection of the body;
and the life everlasting.

Amen.

Of course, a mere recitation of the Gospel will never prevent the celebration from ceasing. But believing a recitation of the Gospel will. And you’ll notice the Apostles’ Creed is packed full of Easter Gospel facts … preceded by two little words:

I believe.

So may you continually believe the Easter Gospel and may I continually believe the Easter Gospel – and may we continually keep this party rollin’.

And all God’s people said?

photo credit: livingprimitively.com

If it is a son, you shall kill him …

I want to understand what it’s like to hear those words. So I mentally slip into the moccasins of the midwives in Exodus 1, Shiphrah and Puah, as they stand before the king and receive a commandment to kill every son born to every mother they assist in the birthing process.

I see the king there, surrounded by his men, earth shaking at the boom of his voice …

If it is a son … you shall kill him …

The king spits in anger as he blares the command, and with blades drawn to two innocent throats, his top of the line soldiers reinforce his wicked command: kill or be killed.

At this point in the daydream, I’m not only wearing their moccasins … I’m shakin’ in their moccasins. And my jaw is gaping at the gall of the king. But that’s about as far as my imagination takes me, because you know what?

I don’t live in Egypt. I don’t even live under a king. Nor have I ever helped anyone through the birth of their child. And the words you shall kill them just don’t resonate and I slide the moccasins off, because I can try to empathize with the midwives, but chances are …. a king will never command me to kill anyone.

I’m an American. I live in a country where nobody forces anybody to kill anybody. But this shining example of fearing God more than the king begs the question: what does this great faith look like in my own cushy, tyranny free life?

I Peter 2: 17 says to honor all people, love the brotherhood, fear God, and honor the king. We honor all people, and Peter makes sure we know “people” includes the king. But we fear God. We have faith ~complete trust~ in Him and only Him. And what is the result of complete trust?

Radical obedience.

And radical obedience means that when the king says to commit what God has forbidden … we choose God. And it means when our flesh says to commit what God has forbidden … we choose God.  And on the flip side, when the flesh says to refrain from committing what God has commanded … we choose God. 

You may be asking what exactly you are to be choosing over God … and if you don’t know basic answers to that question, please consider removing the dusty Bible from the closet, and opening it’s cover to read, study and know the plethora of commands on what and whom you should obey. But don’t merely be rich in knowledge … be rich in application.

App-li-ca-tion ….

This may require us to break out the thinking cap and …. think. If we feared God above all others -  mom, dad, wife, husband, child, boss, co-worker, neighbor, governor, president – how would we respond to each?

Would the speedometer read 85 when the sign reads 75?

Would the eyes peruse pornographic photos or be faithful to our (present or future) beloved?

Would the hands be idle or busy in the workshop?

Would the crafts get done while the children remain under-nurtured?

Would the answer to the husband reflect softness or provoke wrath?

I am not a fly on your wall – I don’t know your deepest struggles. But I have a hunch that if you walk away from this blog post with thinking cap securely fastened to a noggin bowed in prayer, He who does know your every struggle will show you the next right step to becoming a God-fearing Shiphrah.

Or Puah.

Whichever delicate, graceful name you prefer.

And guess what?

He’s not just going to show you that step. He’s going to help you take that step. And we all know that a lot of baby steps add up to miles and miles of God-fearing progress.

So what say you? Shall we give the midwife moccasins another run?

After removing movies, books, magazines and CD’s, I fetch the polish and dust rag to clean the dining room bookshelf. And I see more than I expect hiding there – bunny after bunny made of dust. They’re not cute and my well of mercy is dry, so I smother the little critters and gather their little behinds and usher them off to their eventual new home … at the dump.

I’m sorry, little bunnies. But company is coming, and the six week dusting fast must end.

One by one, I place books back on the now shiny shelf, but then a title catches the eye and I flip open the cover and the plot sucks me in and before I know what from what, I’m a whole chapter in. I look up from the good story and the remaining dust bunnies stare, laugh, mock …

we knew you couldn’t resist!

I’m sorry, company. For loving the good story more than I loved your dust free visit.

The good story …

I don’t know for certain what qualifies as “good” in a tale … but I know the struggle I’ve had with God over this. The fight over why the life’s plot hasn’t been (in my finite view) good enough. Oh, I know I’ve penned some of it my very own self. I’ve made the rash decisions, the emotional and immature and sinful choices. And in the process, I twisted the plot, turned it this way and that … then had enough gall to ask Him to magically erase the oopsies – to clean the slate.

As if life was chalk and chalkboard, rather than planting and picking …

This story of mine – it has, at times, been written with the hand of others who were never invited to put pen to paper. But they wrote on, one painful paragraph after another. And the anger at those authors ~ at the Author ~ drives me to beg Him for yet another VOID. For the cancelling of every hurt-filled line and the ability to start over – to change history.

But history ~mine and yours and His~ is written in stone. And though we see our history of heartaches as obstacles to greater faith, they are the very means He uses to build it up strong … to bring us to a greater love for and knowledge of His story.

The prophet Jeremiah says it plainly in his 29th chapter, when he writes the elders taken captive (read: painful plot). And he quotes the Lord, assuring that His plans for them are full of peace and hope. On and on the prophet quotes …

Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you,

And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.

All the praying and crying out we do? It amounts to listening. And all that heart wrenching, day after day seeking? It amounts to finding. Us praying, Him listening. Us seeking, Him revealing Himself. And when I’m honest, I know that had it not been for pain, I never would have prayed or sought. Not with the whole heart and maybe not even with half the heart and I don’t like it any better than you or the elders … the fact that our discomfort leads to wholehearted seeking …

but I do like the finding.

And I’ve lived long enough to assure you that this is not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad game of hide and seek. If you seek, you will find. He’s waiting for your knock, knock, knock and when He answers …

He won’t change your history …

He’ll change your heart.

Lord, we are but like the bunnies … made of dust. We need You to help us trust what You’ve said in the sixty-sixth book – that all’s well because it ends well. Please grant to us the resolve to refrain from any sulking about our history, but let the pain we experience drive us to wholeheartedly seek You. Thank You for promised peace, joy, and hope … and for changing our hearts.

~Amen

Hello. My name is Silvy. And I’m a runaway.

And all the other little rebellious runaways said …

Welcome, Silvy.

I know, I know. You’re not supposed to name the stray kitty who finds his way to your doorstep. And yes … yes that is dog food and a bowl of water by his side and yes he did eat to his heart’s content and yes he did stick around for the evening to play with my son and nieces.

So I have a heart. Sue me.

Isn’t he handsome, though? And I think he’s rare. Not in looks, obviously. But in character. He actually likes people, people. And everyone knows cats don’t really like people – they tolerate people. But not Silvy. He’s friendly, and talkative, and he appreciates food and laps. Okay, he’s also a bit presumptuous by showing up on my doorstep, climbing on my lap like it’s been his for his entire life, and waltzing into my heart like a good and sappy country song.

I never ask for kitties or country songs. They just seem to pop up in my life.

Whatever.

Don’t worry. I didn’t let him stay overnight in the house. But if he comes back, I’ll feed him again. Because I’m not sorry. Not even a little bit. And he can come to my doorstep any day, any time.

The end.

This is a cross post from the church blog I write for. But perhaps it will ignite in you a passion for the Exodus?

Carry on …

September 17, 2012 ….. 

The expected arrival date of Grandbaby Coats has me waxing a bit nostalgic, thinking back to the time when my kids were little carpet crawlers, and their favorite story was Doctor Dan, The Bandage Man. We read that book in the car, at nap time, at bed time, snack time, at the doctor’s office … and if I didn’t have it with me, I simply quoted it. Because I’m telling you, I could recite the whole story under general anesthesia …

Dan is a busy fellow. He is always on the go. But one day, in a big backyard cowboy fight, he fell and scratched his finger on his make-believe gun …

Hmmm …

Either old age has hit, or too many years have gone by, because I get stuck after “make-believe gun.” I can remember a few lines from the middle, from the ending, but most of the mental pages are simply … blank.

Forgotten …

like other stories of old, in the front of the Bible … the ones we heard week in and week out, back when we were crawling shag carpets. And like Dr. Dan, The Bandage Man, the details are beginning to slip the mind and the true tales have been set aside and we’ve gone on to the New, to books … more relevant?

When did the New Testament became more applicable ~more interesting~ than the Old?

I don’t know the answer. But when the Preacher announces he’ll begin a two-year Exodus exposition starting this Sunday, I realize it’s been too long since I studied the book and I look around and your bug-eyed stare tells me it’s possibly been a while since you studied the book and then .. I picture Moses. Because if there’s only one thing I do remember, it’s that Exodus is largely about the life of the baby in the basket.

I open the Book and I see it there in the forty chapters of the second book of Moses – so much more than a baby in a basket, rescued by the daughter of the hardhearted, people-hoarding Pharaoh. There, scattered across the pages, I see …

the bush, raging with a flame of fire but never consumed …

a rod, morphing into a serpent and back to a rod in the obedient hand of Moses …

plague after nasty plague of lice and locusts, flies and frogs, hail and boils …

six hundred choice chariots and all the Israelite children, crossing the dry bed of the Red Sea, walls of water on their left and right hands (have you ever thought that God is a perfect gentleman, the way He dried the bed of that sea?) …

bitter waters made sweet …

bread from heaven …

water from the rock …

the writing of the Law (I wish God would tell me what to write like that) …

This is just the first half of the book, peeps. And this real-life drama – it makes Harry Potter seem about as thrilling as a Philadelphia phone book … nothing but a good sleep sedative.

No offense to Miss J.K. …

I skim the remaining twenty chapters of the Exodus, and I’m fairly convinced the next twenty four months will be an exposition … and an expedition, both. An exciting, wonder-filled, God-revealing trip through the wilderness and across that Red Sea and … okay, okay … plagues and manna and hard work erecting tabernacles, making bronze lavers, gold lampstands, and many other tasks on every day but the Sabbath. But …

it’s still better than the Philly phone book.

So gear up. Be bold and daring and go where no man has gone before read through those forty chapters. Refresh the memories of your carpet crawling, Sunday School years … before Sunday. Because there’s no reason this expedition can’t start right here … right now.

Chop, chop!

What are you waiting for? Grandbaby Coats?

It’s 8:00 a.m. and the Bible’s read, the prayer is prayed, the bed is made.

Time to write.

I turn the computer on, nimble up the fingers, double click the writing software icon and Flash! The stark white page pains the pupil and the cursor blinks. Then I blink. Then it blinks. Then I blink. And it kinda’ freaks me out, because I don’t have a single good thing to say, and it’s just … waiting. Flashing. Making me feel like an idiot. So I do what any reasonable, mature, aspiring author would do:

I fold towels and fill the salt shaker and organize the silverware drawer and muck out the paper pile on the table and ~gasp!~ it’s been a whoppin’ three hours since I played Words With Friends (these people are waiting on me, you know) and I really must check Facebook to see what the firstborn in Florida is up to and, and …

and maybe I love procrastination, okay? 

Because after stiff-arming the wordless, snow white box with the blinky thing for approximately 34 minutes, ideas finally begin to flood in and it’s impossible to keep the distance – and the blank page? It fills with a combobulation of twenty-six letters that somehow form this blog post.

This productive procrastination gets me thinking about the not-so-funny episode …

when the husband stepped over the threshold, weary from the work day, and it was so not well with the wife’s soul and (surprise!) she didn’t have a single good thing to say.  The tongue – it bucked against the bridle, desired to set a forest (any forest!) ablaze and the mind reeled and rebelled …

Peacemaking … shhmeacemaking …

Let’s rumble!

I had a good excuse, people.

I was in my third week of sickness and pain and I was fed up and I confess – the meditations of my heart were about as clean as a mud hut. Peace and harmony ditched me and I wanted deliverance from the wretched body of death and I wanteditnowthankyouverymuch.

The husband knows everything. I don’t have to voice the struggle before he pegs me. And this … spiritual gift of his – it stokes my wrath, and I’ve learned that this is my cue. My warning light that says it’s time to procrastinate – immediately. To not utter one felt word, to preach the fourteenth verse of the nineteenth Psalm, hard and now. To beg God to make the meditations of my heart, and the words of my mouth acceptable in His sight …

create in me a clean heart, O Lord …

It’s not easy. The effort, as the Preacher says, is extreme. But I am (always and forever) learning that if I bravely take that first step of holy procrastination, if I put off the flesh ~outright deny it~ and put on humility … He rescues.

Every time.

My faithful Refuge is just that – faithful. A very present Help in times of trouble and Strength that enables me to respond with words of welcome rather than words of wrath. To act, not react. To respond to love with love. To make peace, not war.

This holy putting off – it leads to holy peacemaking …

which leads to …

glorious blessing ~ being called the sons of God …

which leads to …

more peace …

which leads to …

joy …

and the cycle continues and it’s contagious, friends.

I dare you to try it – the holy peacemaking – with your spouse, your best friend, your enemy, your roommate, coworker, mother, father, sister, brother, in-law or out-law. Sure, they may know of your struggle like the husband did. But there’s no sin in the struggling …

only in the giving in and giving up.

So there. Go make peace.

I don’t just dare ya’ …

I double-dog dare ya’.

When the Preacher announces he’ll be preaching about preaching for several weeks straight, a gal can get kinda bamfoozled. No, bamfoozled is  too strong. Perhaps a little unsure of what to expect. Because ~hasn’t the Preacher noticed?~ many members of his audience are uuhhh, women. And women (at least in our circles) don’t preach.

Yes?

Well, not in a don the suit, stand behind the pulpit, speak into “the Britney” kinda way … anyway. We don’t wear suit and tie, we wear blue jeans and scarf. We don’t stand behind pulpit, we stand behind kitchen sink. We don’t speak into “the Britney” … but we do covet the modern mic’s sound boosting qualities. Because maybe if things got louder, our seemingly insignificant audience who seemingly tune us out would seemingly better hear our seemingly meaningless sermons.

Ahem.

Anyway, I want to chat about how the Preacher’s handful of sermons pose a handful of opportunities (that I may or may not be smart enough to take). So grab a cuppa … whatever you’re hopelessly addicted to.

In his first sermon, the Preacher refers to the Old Testament prophet, Ezekiel. You know – the guy in Ezekiel 34, who was called to sermonize dry bones (eww). And honestly, I feel for said prophet. Because preaching to dry bones – this is akin to parenting.

Heaps of brittle, flesh barren, seemingly unresponsive skeletons …

15 year old man-boy who eats me out of house and home …

Same diff.

Seemingly …

But unlike the prophet, when the chance to preach to the (seemingly) unresponsive arises, my rebel flesh doesn’t simply obey the call, or utter the faith filled Lord, You know. It sticks the chin out and says, You know, Lord … this is nuts. Teenagers are impossible! So I’ll make You a deal, k? You reassemble the six foot two man-boy, paste a little flesh on my flesh and blood, and breathe a bit of life into the (seemingly) unresponsive lanky one … then I’ll preach. ‘Cause in my book, miracles precede obedience.

(What can I say? I’m due for a light flogging.)

And after the Preacher’s second sermon, the Discipleship Class meets to discuss this duty called … discipling. One on one preaching. And I voice my frustration about the spouse of my “disciple.” The one who isn’t interested in the things of God – not even a little bit. Classmates discuss how God pierces through unbelief, and the doubt creeps in to me of little faith. Because after all, God has never turned a heart of stone to a heart of flesh …

(If you have any brains at all, you will back up – seven paces this instant. Go. Save yourself from my impending lightning bolt.)

Then just before the Preacher’s third sermon, Mrs. Preacher invites me to megaphone my life testimony at the upcoming Women’s Conference in April. And I don’t jump at the chance to (verbally!) preach God’s saving grace.

I cower.

And I stare at Mrs. Preacher like little doe in headlights and say “I’m a writer. I don’t speak. I type. You know … click, click, click, fingers on keyboard.” But Mrs. Preacher (God bless her) says, “So go ahead. Click, click, click to your heart’s content and buck up (this is my interpretation) and read your testimony if that’s easier.”

(Yes … do buck up, little doe.)

By the end of the preaching series, muddy waters clear. And God grants my own stubborn flesh ability to see, hear, and know that when it comes to preaching …

I

am

my

biggest

obstacle.

Me – not the man boy. Me – not the unbelieving spouse. Me – not the fifty-two sets of eyes looking my way as I hyperventilate preach His grace.

This preaching, this duty to be His megaphone  – it’s not to be done in faith so small, in strength my own, in fear so absurd. Because the Word preached is His Word. And it does not …

will not …

cannot …

return empty.

Someone needs to go sit in the corner a revival in her heart. And once that revival starts in her own heart, perhaps it can start in the man-boy’s heart, in her disciple’s heart, in her town’s heart, in her country’s heart.

So please excuse me while I practice some RRRing. (If you’re the Newbie, RRR is Repenting of sin, Refocusing on Christ, and Replacing all lightning bolt worthy thoughts and actions with heavenly, saint-like thoughts and actions).

This is totally different than R&R, unfortunately.

On the flip side, this is totally more effective than R&R.

Tooootally. 

Oh, P.S. – All charitable food donations for the man-boy are (in a jump up and down, kiss your feet sorta way) accepted and appreciated.