But As For Me...

The Insignificant Black Box

2011-10-21T11:02:00.000-04:00

Jameson came into my bedroom with a very direct question. “Mom, did you do anything with that black box on my dresser?”

You must know that Jameson is a clutter miser. He throws nothing away on his own, down to the tags and stickers he removes from new clothes. This particular box had originally been the case for a yo-yo that I didn’t even believe he still had. The box had been around for years, similar in size and look to a jewelry box used to package an inexpensive necklace. On a recent day, a day I’d deemed for dusting, I de-cluttered and tossed it in the trash.

“Mom- I had put my money I was saving in there- $280.00.”

Suddenly that unwanted, discarded box became extremely valuable. Not for what it was on the outside, but for what it contained on the inside.

We cannot escape that each one of us is made in the likeness of God, with something of His own breath inside, something of His designing hand having been at work during our being knitted together. Upon arrival on this earth, we are all each dealt differing hands of cards. Some of us play well, some of us, not so well. Diverse environments and family situations certainly lead us in the direction in which we choose to go, or in which we choose not to go. But inside…there is still that one time hand-mark of God. Granted, some squash any resemblance completely, but some walk around desperate for some nurture that they somehow missed.

It’s too often cliché that we never know what a fellow stranger is going through, or has gone through, as our lives cross in the day to day. Troubled eyes look for a kindness, even in the midst of their less than best. The Christian life can be a difficult journey for those who have been on the bottom end of circumstances…those forced to face their futures without a loving parent or nurturing home. The hurt can go so mindlessly deep. For a soul captive to the secular plight of to each his own, unforgiveness is not recognized as the brick wall that it is. Bitterness is not the challenging root of a hard heart. For those being cleansed by the gospel and knowledge of Christ, the stains they never saw become, even if gradual, obvious. There can be a jagged canyon between what the flesh had grown accustomed to for coping, and for what the saved have now been called to for eternity.

“Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” Hebrews 13:1-3

As firm as the ground on its best day, Jesus does not leave us alone. For those calling on the name of the Lord who must travel the cleansing desert any amount of time, God’s Spirit is there, knocking on the heart, reminding us of the way, the Truth and the life, and we come, stall, cry, then hopefully poise ourselves to come some more. How much better the circumstances taste when those who bump into us offer us a smile or some kind expression of, “I value you.” Near to the ones we may think we have no use for, God just may be positioned, waiting for any opportunity to offer peace to that wavering soul.

I scoured the outdoor trash bin and found the precious contents of that useless box and with great joy and relief returned the treasure to its owner, who in turn delighted in its receipt.

Is there any better object lesson for loving those in the process of being reunited to God?

Writing "Overflowing Fount Of Joy"

2011-10-07T23:03:00.001-04:00

Wow…it’s been months since I posted to this blog. Summer got busy with kids and pool plans, but truly I became preoccupied with something my husband, Jamie, suggested I do months ago, which was songwriting. Now, I’ve dabbled with this over the years, which usually involved me putting down lyrical inspirations as they came, but leaving it at that, neglecting the crafting that should follow the inspirations. I did go so far one long-ago year as to win an honorable mention in a John Lennon Songwriting contest. Then children came and the quiet, get-away time needed to continue such projects was just not there.

Maybe because I’m getting older, and maybe because music has meant so much to me, growing ever more so than less, I wanted to leave something of myself that my children could read later on, a small capturing of the eternal springs of faith to the Eternal Being of God.

Easier said than done.

In perfect timing, a friend posted a link to an excerpt from the booklet, “Hope…the Best of Things,” by Joni Eareckson Tada. Joni confides that she would like to bring her wheelchair to heaven, present it Jesus, almost to say thank you, for the weaker she had been while in that chair, the harder she leaned on her Savior. Then she states:

“And at that point Christ will open up our eyes to the great fountain of joy in his heart for us beyond all that we ever experienced on earth. And when we’re able to stop laughing and crying, the Lord Jesus will really wipe away our tears. I find it so poignant that finally at the point when I do have the use of my arms to wipe away my own tears, I won’t have to, because God will.”

Her sentiments brought welling tears to my own eyes. When I first knew of Joni, I was a child. I’d read her autobiography we’d ordered from television evangelist Robert Schuller, amazed at how she’d learned to paint with a brush held between her teeth. In her book she described the details of her tragic diving accident around age 18, and how she would face the rest of her life in a wheelchair. I was ten when I first heard her story, and many years have gone by since, and with each passing year, she has still been in that wheelchair, unable to do simple things like wipe away her own tears. Yet, she describes Jesus as possessing a great fountain of joy towards us, and she states this though she has not been able to walk, embrace another person or brush her own teeth for 44 years.

The lesson I learned from this excerpt prompted an overflow from my own sometimes weak heart, a confrontation with my weak thoughts that keep me spiritually wheelchair-bound, directing them to see only God, in eternal praise. As the woman in the gospels who knew she just needed a touch of the hem of Jesus to have His all, when we feel we might know just one touch of love from the Father, we have His all, for eternity.

Overflowing Fount of Joy

Overflowing Fount of Joy

Pinnacle of man’s delight

One drop of love, one drop of blood

Reckon me to dearest life

Overflowing Righteous One

When all around condemn me

Your boundless love, Your timeless blood

Beckon me to come to Thee

Oh Fountain so wide Oh Fountain so deep

Oh Fountain of Joy flow down over me…

Overflowing Faithful God

In Whom there is no lie nor guile

Whose perfect love, Whose perfect blood

Stand holy, pure and undefiled

Oh Fountain so wide Oh Fountain so deep

Oh Fountain of Joy flow down over me

Overflowing Fount of Praise

Awake my soul and sing of Him!

Of gracious love, of gracious blood

Oh can my heart take rest in them

Oh gracious love, Oh gracious blood

Oh my heart take rest in them…

I dedicate this post to Joni and her inspirational life. How she tenderly must know that the lies, guile and trickery that describe our enemy, in no way ever describes our God. How I look forward to one day seeing Joni participate fully in all that God has in store for us in heaven!

(Song video below)

The Video...

2011-10-07T22:38:00.002-04:00

If you'd like to watch the video, first scroll down to the music player near the bottom of this page and click pause.

Changing the Default Settings

2011-04-15T14:21:00.001-04:00

I can be such a creature of habit. If I don’t keep my mind on where I’m intending to drive, I will turn down the street that leads to my eldest son’s school every time, and wonder how in the world I got there. While just an inconvenience requiring a drive around the block, my creaturely habits can easily creep into my responses as circumstances arise and develop, and before I think, I act and react, perhaps leading to more long term problems. More often than I’d like to admit, I lose sight of where God is leading and fall into habits by default as I go.

I’m not alone I’m certain. I think the phenomenal prophet Elijah had a bit of an un-thought out response at one point in his life. Elijah’s very name meant “The Lord is my God,” which was a bold statement in his generation. His fellow Israelites had fallen into, by choice, the worship of the Canaanite god Baal. Baal was the supposed god of the forces of nature such as thunder, lightening, rain and dew. The conflict between “the one whose Lord is God” and Israel’s king Ahab, a worshiper of Baal who led Israel accordingly, brings God to declare through Elijah that there will be years of drought so severe that not even dew will fall. (1 Kings 17:1) Elijah then goes out into the wilderness for a time while the effects of drought develop, and resides by a brook where God sends ravens to bring him bits of food. The Lord next directs Elijah to a non-Israelite widow to ask her to supply bread for him. Though she is poor and possesses only enough staples for one more meal of bread, Elijah tells her that she will not run out of oil and flour until the rains return to the land, and this promise is fulfilled. While Elijah is still with her, the widow’s son becomes ill and dies; however moved by great faith, Elijah prays for and receives the revival of the boy. The woman becomes a believer in Elijah’s God.

After over three years of drought and famine, the Lord moves Elijah to go to King Ahab and announce the end of the drought, not because of Israel’s change of heart, but for a showdown of sorts. Elijah requests of Ahab for all the people of Israel to gather to witness a contest between God and Baal, a challenge calling for two sacrifices to be set out on wood. The priests of Baal would then be invited to pray for their sacrifice to be consumed by fire. Likewise, Elijah would pray to his God for the same. Baal’s priests pray from morning to noon without success, then from noon to evening again without success. For even more dramatic effect, at his turn, Elijah directs that the altar he placed his sacrifice upon be drenched three times with four jars of water. After Elijah asks his God to make Himself known, fire falls from the sky and the sacrifice, as well as the altar stones, are consumed. “When all the people saw this, they fell prostrate and cried, ‘The Lord- he is God!’” (1 Kings 18:39) The curse was lifted and the rains fell.

Wow. You know the feeling you have after a job well-done, a significant accomplishment, or a major milestone reached? Elijah’s resume read: The Lord warned of drought through him; he was sustained through miraculous help; his prayer resulted in a raising from the dead; he hosted a contest between his God and a pagan deity, and Elijah’s God won. This last one soon resulted in Elijah needing to flee for his own life, but not in the peace that God was in control or even in the faith that he would surely see a better day- but in giving up: “…while he himself went a day’s journey into the desert. He came to a broom tree, (a very beautiful plant with a pole-like trunk and profusely flowering limbs) sat down under it and prayed that he might die. ‘I have had enough, Lord…take my life…’” (1 Kings 19:4)

If we’ve not decided how we will react during situations beforehand, we will undoubtedly react in default. Just as we have to get in our computer and change our default settings when we change printers, we have to get in there and change our reaction plan. A habit is a dominant or regular disposition or tendency; prevailing character or quality. Bad habits are things we default to when we have no other plan. We all have habits in how we react when we’re angry, upset, disappointed, confronted, tempted, offended… needing comfort. I’m trying to think through my reactions, to decide on a better way than to just fall into the same old response. Where would be the best direction to take this turn of events? How can I best keep focus? How can I best handle my emotions when they are getting the best of me and I feel like retaliating, looking for distractions or just giving up?

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles...” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)

There is nothing wrong with retreating under a broom tree for a while. While there, though, I’m trying to reset my response to be, “God, comfort me.”

Love Application Test

2011-03-03T12:24:00.000-05:00

Scorn and love do not usually work together side by side. Love evokes tender affection while scorn openly mocks in contempt. Working your way in public service gives opportunity for both. It’s all good when you like the ones you’re serving and they like you, but serving difficult people in difficult situations is trying to the soul, a test in a public court of sorts, with an imaginary gavel ready to rule pass or fail.

One such time I was the last link in a series of unfortunate events. Unfortunately for me, the person I was trying to serve seemed to revel in conflict, the scrutiny, and the icy words. I managed to keep polite and humble, as I trust those virtues in the end prove best, but the situation wasn’t improving and I wanted to have a good cry. When things eventually settled down a bit, I had some time to fancy God did not love me very much, because if He did, I wouldn’t have had to be in that place. How could He let me stumble into that situation, unprotected? I was completely and thoroughly distressed.

I’m sure I had a point with myself, but I learned something there in those moments that I could not have learned any other way. The person who had been so rude indeed was a person, like me, that Jesus loved. I knew but a taste of the scorn and ridicule that Jesus gave Himself to in suffering, the undeserved shame He withstood because He desired to communicate the love of God and to make way for reconciliation. I came incomparably short of being spit at and crowned with thorns. Jesus was the Upper Room waiter who bent in love to wash the disciples’ feet, yet had one unhappy customer at the table. (John 13) I was newly struck that God proved His love through Jesus not by merely signing a contract or making an appearance at a ceremony, “but God (demonstrated) his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8) He came for me, and endured public shame and scorn to have me, and to have you.

I felt love. Like the love that warmed the heart of the Grinch when he realized Christmas was more than things. I felt a bit more of my heart opening to see the sufferings of Christ, as well as the joy set before Him after enduring the cross. (Hebrews 12:2) I beheld a portion more of that great manner of love the Father has given unto us, that we should be called the sons of God. (1 John 3:1)

This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. (1 John 4:10)

I will see conflict in a new light. There is still joy set before Christ each time a wayward soul experiences God’s love demonstrated. So, while meeting and overtaking an unlovable person in debate takes a great amount of skill and command, loving the unlovable takes, well, love.

And I have discovered there is an app for that.

The Perfect Christmas

2010-12-24T11:25:00.000-05:00

A friend found out she would undergo major surgery mid-December, a surgery that involved a difficult recovery process, including a hospital stay through Christmas. I thought of the disappointment that surely fell upon her, as she would miss the usual Christmas meals and gift-opening with family and friends. She had been in pain since Thanksgiving.

While most things that befall us during December are not the end of the world, Christmas comes each year with unspoken expectations of peace, joy, happy surprises and a chance of snow. Maybe this year will be the perfect Christmas. Is any year a perfect Christmas? There are always financial constraints, time limitations, overly-excited and tired children, colds, coughs, running out of wrapping paper and tape on Christmas Eve, burning the cookies and forgetting the egg nog…and yes for some, devastating and unforgettable loss.

With our modern Christmases having the potential for a stress extravaganza, why do we continue to have this hope at Christmas? Because we should!

Since having children of my own, the story of Mary giving birth to Jesus in a stable place has been more to ponder than a sweet picture on a Christmas card. The angel had come to visit her some months beforehand, assuring her in person she had the favor of God. (Luke 1:30) Matthew explains that “all this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: ‘The virgin shall be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call His name Immanuel” - which means, ‘God with us.’” However, how did Mary manage to cope as she endured labor pains traveling to Bethlehem? How was she when the baby was coming and there was no clean place, a bed, a nurse? The smells, the sounds and the uncertainty must have gone contrary to her expectations. Maybe what got her through was she remembered, really remembered, that God and His favor were with her, a theme reiterated by the angels to the shepherds: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests.” (Luke 2:14)

When people have been walking in darkness, without hope of eternity, sick with sin, the gift of salvation is a gift worthy of running through the streets of towns and knocking on doors announcing the Good News. Our worst fear of dying a permanent death is replaced with hope of everlasting life. How can this indescribable gift be described? (2 Corinthians 9:15 NIV) Our sins will not be counted against us when we open this gift. Life has more meaning as we live as God with us, not as God as our personal assistant, but God with us who will hear our petitions and prayers and send His comfort, change our hearts and welcome us.

I think it’s this hope that has been with mankind throughout the ages that reappears each Christmastime, with hope of peace and love in every heart. It’s the hope that was fulfilled in the manger long ago, God with us.

As we go through this season, if disappointments come and if the unexpected strikes, remember the perfection of Christmas is this: God is with you.

P.S. My friend’s surgery had an unexpected twist for the better, and she was home December 22.

Signs

2010-10-28T14:39:00.001-04:00

In early September, school had begun for the year, yet we were still in a heat wave. Though entirely too hot to be outdoors one afternoon, Ryan, 6, ran to me with abandoned enthusiasm and grinned, “It’s going to be Fall! It’s going to be Fall!”

He handed me a yellowed leaf he’d just found on the ground and offered, “See, when the leaves change colors and they fall, it’s going to be Fall!”

I stopped myself from suggesting the leaf fell because it died due to the extreme heat and lack of rain. Even though the air didn’t feel Autumnal in the least, Ryan correctly interpreted his find. He had seen a sign, and he believed its indication. Fall was coming.

Then the Pharisees and Sadducees came, and testing Him, asked that (Jesus) would show them a sign from heaven. (Jesus) answered and said to them, “When it is evening you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘It will be foul weather today, for the sky is red and threatening.’ Hypocrites! You know how to discern the face of the sky, but you cannot discern the signs of the times. Matthew 16:1-3 NKJ

I catch myself asking God for signs regarding this and that, regarding His care for me. I should imitate Ryan’s example and with the same passion hold Ryan up in the air exclaiming, “God loves me! God loves me!” being unceasingly grateful for him and all the daily miracles around me. The religious leaders were testing Jesus for miracles and wonders to be performed in a way they wanted miracles and wonders. I searched for the Greek definition of “signs” and “times,” and if I may substitute, a portion of the above passage could read:

“You know how to discern the face of the sky, but you cannot discern the miracles and wonders of this short while.”

Faith is feeling more to me like a rock being chiseled into a sculpture: The deeper the cuts and the grooves, the deeper the faith. Shallow faith would provide a slippery slope for untethered emotions, while faith for the long haul finds its resting place in the crevices formed from trust, a place from which one cannot easily be shaken. God’s Word tells me that “no eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him.” 1 Corinthians 2:9

I may not experience the exact miracles I’d like to see in “in this short while,” but I can remember to discern the signs I’m given. I will look for the good things from God, expecting His eventual goodness rather than eventual calamity. The signs I am privileged to see along the way will point me to Him and to His eternal plan, and when I see a yellowed leaf on the ground, though I still be in the longest heat wave of the century, I will know that Fall is coming.

Talkin' About a Carwash...And Easter

2010-04-01T14:35:00.002-04:00

As children we hear a lot of do’s and don’ts. As parents, we find ourselves declaring a lot of do’s and don’ts. My oldest child is a jewel of a kid, but still we endure the endless cycle of verbal directives with the admirable goal of shaping a responsible adult. The course frequently exhausts a mom and a dad.

I had a glimpse of success yesterday as Jameson took over washing the car. Now, if you had, before now, asked me how Jamie, my husband, washes a car, I would’ve answered simply like how anyone would wash a car, and I wouldn’t have given it much thought. However, as Jameson took the long-handled brush from my hand, and as he began to step and stroke in the manner and nuances of his dad, the imprint was unmistakable. I recognized in Jameson just how his father does wash a car. Jameson had been born of his father, and had watched his father, and the father began to be demonstrated in the son.

Yes, I’m a little weepy-eyed here, but what a befitting illustration to have in mind at Easter.

The do’s and don’ts that were given to God’s people by God Himself, included in the Ten Commandments and in the Law, in essence pronounced us all guilty. No one could live in perfection, and no one could attain the ultimate standard of God. The same God knew we were of a helpless estate, and sent His Son to not only fulfill the law, as Jesus knew no sin, but to bear the penalty of the law, which was death. While Jesus walked the earth, He, as Son, was the representation of God in flesh. Jesus said, “Anyone who has seen Me has seen the Father,” and “The words I say to you are not just My own. Rather, it is the Father, living in Me, Who is doing the work.” (John 14:9-10)

If you had seen Jesus, you had not only seen God, but had also seen God at work.

Those who see the helplessness of their own estate sometimes turn to God for forgiveness and pray for help to do better. The eternal decision however is much more than that. To know God the Father is to meet Jesus Christ the Son, and to come to Jesus Christ the Son is to choose to be born again, which involves receiving a new nature, the nature of Christ, which in turn is the nature of God. This new nature can grow overnight, but more than likely the nature develops, much like a child growing up, watching and listening to that to which he is exposed. Anyone who looks at a child of God should be able to see a glimpse of the nature of Christ, and thus of God, in the one born again. We are already remarkably made in God’s image, as Genesis 1:26 tells us, but by being born again we receive not only the priceless salvation of our soul, but also the budding of His character…His mannerisms…His steps…His imprint.

This Easter weekend we remember again just “how great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God” through the death and resurrection of His Son Jesus Christ. (1 John 3:1) It is of great joy to be born again. Watch and grow in Him, so that in you too would be recognized the very ways of God.

Sour Wine And Me

2010-03-23T09:44:00.000-04:00

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in Your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Psalm 19:14

Some years ago I was reading the account of the Lord Jesus’ crucifixion and death, when a particular verse stood out to me: “The soldiers also came up and mocked Him. They offered Him wine vinegar and said, ‘If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.’” (Luke 23:36-37)

Unexpectedly, I awakened to the thought that those mocking soldiers could have easily been me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been the one to drive the nails, but too many times I had in my heart challenged, “If You were God…. Why can’t You…,” words that seem so sour, like vinegar. I’ve read that the wine vinegar of that period was a sour wine blend that soldiers and common laborers would drink. Their water was particularly distasteful. However mixing sour wine (wine that soured due to faulty storage) with water and herbs proved at least a way to enhance the water’s taste, and perhaps increase its sanitation. While it may have been the only choice at times, I’m pretty sure the drink would not have appealed to me.

That moment made an impression in me for all this time, a reminder of how I would rather my offerings to God in any turmoil to remain sweet, trusting and faithful. The soldiers did not see Jesus come down from the cross in the way their taunts challenged the King of Kings to do so if He were indeed God. With certainty Jesus had already proven to many He was indeed the Messiah, to those who truly looked, while His crucial triumph was yet to come- being raised from the dead. Yet in those dark hours, the soldiers chose not to see. They taunted, mocked and jeered, and their best offer was sour wine.

I don’t believe for a minute God wants us to hide our feelings from Him. I trust He welcomes our petitions and our cares. We just must check whether out attitude is one of belief or unbelief.

To the Lord Jesus Who has proven Himself in scripture and to me, not just once but many times, may I offer up sweet and pleasing attitudes in my heart as I await Your next arrival.

Listen To A Story 'Bout A Man Named Fred

2010-02-20T11:04:00.005-05:00

Sometimes it’s easier for us to have our right arm cut off than to change our ways. A few hours in the life of Fred Johnson perfectly illustrates that unfortunate conclusion. According to an article by Lisa Tarrants in the February 2010 issue of Our State magazine, Fred stole “half a box of cakes” from a North Carolina country store. Fred was caught and was being held in the Camden County jail where he and three other inmates schemed to break out when the sheriff, the only one with the keys, had gone home for the night. Whatever plan they devised failed, for the jail caught fire during the implementation and Fred and his cohorts were suddenly in fear for their lives. The sheriff returned in time to rescue the inmates, but the jail burned to the ground. Fred and the other prisoners were carried next door to the courthouse to be held until morning. However before the sun was up, Fred managed to get his hands on the shotgun of the sleeping Constable B.H. Cartwright and fired through the constable’s hat, missing his head by a few hairs. If not proved reliable on his night watch, the guard made up for it in quickness and accuracy. The constable shot Fred in the arm, delivering an injury resulting in the amputation of Fred’s arm.

Fred’s story began with stealing a few cakes. As stated by the magazine writer, “Now, his troubles would include trying to escape, burning down the jail and shooting at a lawman. And the whole debacle cost him his arm.”

Fred’s story took place one hundred years ago in March, yet human nature continues to entangle us in the same sort of chain of unfortunate events. While I don’t know if Fred was unjustly charged in the first place, or if he felt he had no hope for a fair trial, most certainly his fate would’ve been better if he’d said he was sorry, changed his direction in life, found accountability and proved himself changed in heart to those who knew him best. At the very least he would have had his arm.

According to God, "This is the one I esteem: he who is humble and contrite in spirit, and trembles at my word.” Isaiah 66:2 (Read that again…)

While in the modern dictionary, the word contrite means “showing sincere remorse; filled with a sense of guilt and a desire for atonement; penitent,” the biblical Hebrew word for contrite, most interestingly, means “smitten, maimed, or dejected: contrite, lame.”

If only Fred had been “maimed” in heart toward God before being maimed in figure, his story would’ve been recorded differently. Fred may have gone through many decent motions on the outside before the sin in his heart came out in his story. We at times act out what appears to be sacrifices of a holy and/or good life, but God knows when we “have chosen our own ways, and (our) souls delight in (our) abominations.” Isaiah 66:3

What to do? The Lord knows the secrets of our heart. (Psalm 44:21) God knows what we nurture in our unseen self, the lingering sin that will eventually come to light; we cannot hide it. We think Adam and Eve absurd for hiding from God after their transgression, but we do it all the time. We attempt to cover up, sometimes going from sin to sin to avoid repenting of the original wrongdoing- burning down the jail, shooting at the guard: hurting others in a process we didn’t originally intend to hurt. God is there to lift us up, forgive us, make a new path for us, lead us to accountability and restoration, bless us, demonstrate His glory through us and use us to unfailingly encourage others to seek the same. Those with a limp in heart toward God walk stronger in life.

Ask the God who knows your heart to show you His examination and how to deal with it. Your story can be great one hundred years from now.

Can A World Of Compassion Undo The World Of Greed That Birthed The Nation Of Haiti?

2010-02-01T20:03:00.004-05:00

Merely an introduction to the history of Haiti at best, a topic worthy of much deeper study, the following should leave us with yet another call for the human race to rise up as responsible and to act and behave as if there really is a God.

I’ve heard and read bits and pieces of Haiti’s history over the years, having known missionaries who worked in the third world country and friends who assisted in the region on short term mission trips. Some recent comments regarding Haitian slaves making pacts with the underworld sent me searching for books and online discourse on the subject. While the theory of such a pact lives in legend, the more shocking story is the tragedy of how Haiti came to exist.

Haiti was once an unbelievably lush land. As tribute to its mountains, the name “Haiti” comes from an old Arawak “Indian” word meaning “land of mountains.” The now largely desolate, Haitian landscape at one time supported glorious forests of mahogany, rosewood and cedar, trees all prized in furniture making. Located on the western third of the island Hispaniola, Haiti shares its Caribbean locale with the Domincan Republic, also a third world country, but far less stripped of natural resources.

The first known people to settle Haiti were the Ciboney of South America in 7000 B.C. In 300 B.C., the Arawak, later known as Taino, also from South America, invaded and settled the land, and these were the people the first exploring Europeans met on the island, naming them “Indians.” On December 25, 1492, Christopher Columbus’s ship, the Santa Maria, ran aground on Haiti’s northern coast, necessitating abandonment. Stepping ashore, Columbus set up a settlement he christened La Navidad, meaning “birthday of Christ,” in honor of Christmas Day. Of course Columbus thought he was somewhere near India, but instead was surely glad to have found new lands, for his explorations were funded by the Spanish government seeking new ways to generate wealth. Columbus noted the natives wore ornaments of gold, thus he instructed the men left behind at La Navidad, as they could not all fit on the two remaining ships sailing back to Spain, the Nina and the Pinta, to trade for as much gold as they were able. Columbus wrote the natives were “loveable, tractable, peaceable and praiseworthy,” and they could easily be converted to Christianity. He also noted killing them all would be an easy task. When Columbus returned a year later, La Navidad had been burned and its settlers killed.

In time plans evolved to conquer the entire island; due to its rich soil and “its profitable things without number,” the land would be the perfect place to grow sugar cane, coffee and indigo. The French and English also wanted in on the new opportunities for wealth. The Spaniards, French and English fought it out until France gained control of the Haiti portion, and Spain the portion now known as the Dominican Republic. Where there had been 500,000 to upwards of one million Taino natives when Columbus arrived, there were at that point only 500.

During the 1700’s, French colonists poured in to what they then called Saint-Domingue to build the prosperous sugar, coffee and indigo plantations in great numbers for the profit of France. They would need free labor for these export industries so they bought slaves and brought them in from Africa by the thousands. These slaves were forced to speak the language of their masters; not understanding all the intricacies of the French language, they spoke the best they could, in time forming the language they use today, Creole. With the work of the slaves and the richness of the land, the sugar, coffee and indigo production boomed. Haiti quickly became the richest colony in the New World. A popular phrase of the day was “rich as a Dominguan.”

The slave labor was so harsh death became routine- so routine the entire slave population was estimated to have been replaced every 20 years. With ever increasing production, for instance at its height exporting 120 million pounds of sugar in a year, the number of slaves rose to 500,000. In comparison, the whites numbered thirty-some thousand, an uneasy ratio for the slave owners, who decreed death as the punishment for any small infraction in fear of an uprising. However, news of America’s revolution and France’s revolution reached the slaves, which surely planted seeds of hope in their hearts that they too could be free of their oppressive masters and the French government.

A united front against the white slave owners would not be easily formed. A new people group in Haiti had been created, called mulattoes. These were the children of the occasional slave owner and slave. Far less in number than the African slaves, around 24,000, mulattoes were light skinned and were granted freedom by their slave-owner fathers. Mulattoes had full access to education, even sent to France to study. While they in the end did not have the same rights that whites did, mulattoes were resented by the slaves.

Revolution did occur, taking over ten long, ravaging years, from 1791 until 1804. The “Great Sugar Island,” as nicknamed, was no more. After a short time of freedom, French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, who was thought to have stood for freedom and equality in his own country, initiated another invasion, hoping to resume Haiti’s sugar production for France using slave labor. The former slaves, under the admirable leadership of Toussaint L’Ouverture, held them off far longer than expected, yet Toussaint suffered capture and imprisonment in France where he died. At that point, however, France had run out of its best soldiers and all funds for war, so the plan was abandoned, along with part two of Napoleon’s plan, which was to go on to New Orleans and lay permanent claim to the then Louisiana Territory. Because of Napoleon’s heavy money losses in Haiti and other debts, he gladly sold the territory to the U.S., under Thomas Jefferson, in what is known as the best land deal ever made, doubling the size of America for less than three cents an acre.

For Haiti, its plantations were burned and destroyed, its fields laid waste, and its bountiful economy ruined. Trees were used in gross amounts for fuel and for making small farm plots, acts which quickly eroded the rich topsoil away. At the time, early to mid-1800’s, there was no aid from wealthier countries, such as the U.S., which chose not to recognize Haiti’s new-nation status because they themselves were still operating using the system of slavery. So the blacks and mulattoes were left with a devastated land and a devastated people, mostly illiterate and in poverty, without good and trustworthy direction and leadership. The two groups have fought violently with consequential loss of life to this day. Brutality has begotten brutality in the land of Haiti; greed has begotten greed in those fighting for political leadership and its broken citizens have been left to suffer.

The Haitian slaves did bring African voudon, or voodoo, with them from their homeland. Interestingly, voodoo believes in one Creator God, the “Grand Met.” However voodoo is a system consisting of other spirits that need to be appeased for the welfare of the believer, as God Himself can be too busy. Voodoo also operates with fear. Beginning in the 1950’s, Haitian black dictator, Francois Duvalier, capitalized on his country’s voodoo beliefs to control his subjects. Duvalier dressed in all black, as was believed the voodoo spirit of death dressed. Duvalier named his barbarous police force the Tonton Macoutes, the name of a man in Haitian mythology who comes at Christmas to carry naughty children away.

Since the earthquake on January 12, 2010, we have been greatly moved by news from this small country the size of Maryland. Governments the world over have sent aid and help to offer mercy to the Haitian people, a people long in need of mercy. God is not too busy for Haiti. At very long last, the world shouldn’t be either.

Photo of Haitian Countryside By Robin D. Williams
Sources: Haiti, by Trudy J. Hammer; Haiti, by Suzanne Anthony; Open the Door to Liberty: A Biography of Toussaint L’Overture, by Anne Rockwell. Additional sources: www.alicious.com/2010/haitian-revolution-devil-pact/, www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Napoleon_I_of_France and www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisiana_Purchase

God Loves You And Has A Wonderful Plan For Your Life...Explained

2010-01-09T14:34:00.003-05:00

I know you’ve heard the phrase. I’ve heard the phrase. I’ve said the phrase. Yes, God loves me and you, but come again about that wonderful plan? Will I recognize it? Can I miss it? Will God forget to put together one for me?

Perhaps the idea is taken from a scripture I’ve referenced in another blog entry: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

You may feel like you’ve been waiting for that wonderful plan of God’s to come as one awaits a job offer or a prince charming or a model wife. Maybe those things are exactly your idea of a wonderful plan. Each morning brings the hope that today could be the day. Or maybe you’ve given up on its arrival altogether. You’ve stood in the wonderful-plan line for years while others skipped ahead and received their wonderful plans while you watched in angst.

It’s been said many times before if God never did another thing for us other than give us the gift of eternal life, we should have all we need. While this is indeed true, in faith we believe God has a plan for each of us to live out here on earth. Each of us can name people who seem to go from bigger to better, greater to grander, as God paves the way to their hopes and dreams. Each of us can name people who seem to get the backhand of God through tragedy, illness, or loss. If this person is you, you could be living as if you’re on the sidelines of the God-life… watching, waiting, feeling cheated- your discouragement settling into bitterness.

God wouldn’t be a just God if He played favorites. “For God so loved the world,” and that includes you, “that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” He does have a brilliant plan for your life, but it may not be what you might expect. I wish to tell you what that plan is. No matter who you are, where you live or what you do, if you have accepted the salvation of Christ, I know what God’s wonderful plan is for you.

He wants to conform you into the image of His son.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. For those God foreknew He also predestined (predetermined) to be conformed to the likeness of His Son, that He (Jesus) might be the firstborn among many brothers (you and me). Romans 8:28-29

God loves you so much He wants you to be just like the Son. He wants to work the character that Jesus displayed here on earth in you. The same will. The same patience. The same passion. The same faithfulness. The same love. The same choices. The same holiness. Opportunities may come along that you would deem wonderful that God has blessed for you to do, yet they are but little tastes of icing with the cake. Ultimately all that comes your way in this life is a tool to work Jesus’ character in you. The good things, the bad things, the in-between-things and the hard to understand things all point you toward God’s goal for you. You can stay with the plan, or you can choose to jump ship. Should you choose to jump ship, perhaps your soul will be greatly relieved for a time. However, you will miss out on the inner-workings of God- all the handcrafted details that cause a man or woman to look and act as if they have truly been with God, even a dwelling for the Holy Spirit of God. The entire project is a wonderful God-conceived plan visibly worked out in you. While God can transform in the twinkling of an eye, His working ways are also described as a potter’s craft, shaping and forming as clay turns on the wheel, or how a refiner can purify silver, by the old process of heating to bring out impurities. Working, shaping, spinning, forming, firing, purging… into the character of Christ we go.

God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.

How A Random Taste For Pecan Pie Ended In A Christmas Visit To The County Jail

2009-12-24T16:27:00.003-05:00

Two days before Thanksgiving I knew I must have pecan pie. Since I need gluten free pastries, I dug through the freezer to see if I had a frozen Whole Foods specialty crust in there anywhere. (I tend to buy one and save it for emergencies such as this.) Now I needed pecans. Jamie suggested I buy some from Bobbie, a friend who sells them as a fundraiser each year. I called over to the store where she sells them. She’s wasn’t in, so I got her cell number, called and left an urgent message that I am looking for pecans. Turned out she was out of town and missed calling me back. I run out to Food Lion and grab a bag and make the best pie I’ve had since the last time I made a pecan pie. I thought it was the end of the story.

The day after Thanksgiving, I had a Facebook message from Bobbie, expressing how sorry she was she wasn’t able to call me back, and she’d be glad to leave some pecans at my sister-in-law’s uptown store, and I could pay her the $8 when I got the chance. Well…I didn’t really need another bag of pecans- that would be almost 20 bucks for nuts in one weekend, but she was so kind and sweet to go out of her way…pecans are tasty in and out of a pie…Okay- I’d love another bag.

I picked the bag of nuts up a couple of days later, and decided to immediately run down to her store and pay her. She’s always a ray of sunshine to see, and today was no different. However she began to tell me that she, along with another lady, had been visiting women at the jail every week, and she had been burdened for their spiritual needs. My heart was taken with the compassion and love Bobbie had for these ladies, women easily forgotten in the every day Christian life. Before I knew it, I was asking her if she thought I could come and play some Christmas carols for them. She would ask for permission right away.

The next day I had the pleasure of telling Jamie where I would be going the following Thursday night. He had some apprehensions and some looks but he didn’t say I couldn’t go. As the date got closer, I had some fears myself not having been in a situation quite like that before. I practiced the music and thought, and thought and practiced the music, finally giving up, thinking practicing the music and thinking would not be helping me much, in the way I needed help. I decided to pray, so pray I did for at least a good hour in my praying and thinking chair. Peace came.

After being ushered through security, there we were with nine inmates. They offered hugs and smiles. You don’t feel the light of day or the dark of night where they are held. There was a strange sense of humility as so much of what they had done in their life had been laid out for many to see and know. When it was my turn to sing the carols and play, a beautiful voice soon rose in the air, one that was not mine. I commented how lovely it sounded, and we all agreed this young girl should stand and sing with me. The air was as sweet as it ever gets as those ladies tried to keep up with the words they remembered from all their Christmases past, but this one young girl with the beautiful voice kept up perfectly. So perfectly in fact, when I sang El Shaddai to them, a song I chose because of its beauty in describing how “to the outcast on her knees, You were the God who really sees,” she didn’t miss a word or note to this song she’d never heard, even the Hebrew words. The women came and adored Him. They adored Him holding hands in a circle. There was an outpouring of prayer. There were tears, and before the last song was done, without any kind of altar call, one of the girls asked for salvation, and the official leader with us led her to Christ in her nearby cell. God can do such unexpected things in the most unexpected places at the most unexpected times.

I know in situations like these, commitments made can be easily forgotten. I pray for her to find some guidance and a church to lean on when she is released. The need for ministries to meet the needs of these ladies was certainly impressed in my heart. Yes, there are hardened criminals out there with no regard or respect for others, but there are some like these who missed out on growing up in the good ways in life, and maybe it’s not to late to give them a little help now. I’m trusting I will have another opportunity to visit these ladies in the coming year, and I pray God does miracles for them and in them, that He will give them hope and a will to stay on the straight and narrow.

That pecan pie truly was the best I ever had…in more ways than one.

My Road Of Good Intentions

2009-11-03T08:51:00.002-05:00

Being misunderstood drives me almost insane. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t function for days, at least not well, until either I’ve apologized enough or an adequate amount of time has passed to take the edge off of my frayed nerves. I am troubled because I can’t recall consciously scheming in any subtle plot against anyone to communicate anything other than I value their relationship.

Too many times for me, I find myself having skipped through a situation that suddenly backfires and my actions are mistaken for all kinds of stuff, or I irrationally fear my actions are being mistaken for all kinds of stuff.

“You were trying to call me? I accidentally left my cell on vibrate!”

“You left a phone message hours ago? I know I’ve been home all afternoon, but I just looked at the machine!”

“I truly thought you left before me to go to lunch. I didn’t leave you on purpose!”

If I suppose someone has been hurt by my actions, my pain comes from the misunderstanding of my intentions. I want those I know to know without doubt that my intentions toward them are good and honorable. Now, whether I am distracted, oblivious or a victim of an odd succession of events appearing to prove my actions dishonorable can be up for debate. I desire for my intentions to be known as trustworthy.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

Too many times I do not believe what God speaks about His intentions. When life brings about events that seem to be tripping over themselves to fret me, I decide God has forgotten me or is aloof, and I begin picking at and fraying the edges of my faith. When I last paced the floor having missed two important calls because my phone was on vibrate, appearing irresponsible, and as I brooded over how I did not intend to be careless nor unreliable, the question probed my heart: “Now what do you think of God’s intentions toward you?”

I too quickly doubt God’s intentions toward me as I fear others doubt mine. I weigh His intentions at difficult crossroads and decide they are lacking. Never mind that in the past He has rescued me and filled my heart with hope, peace and undeniable belief in His goodness; a bump in the road can send me reeling inside demanding, “Where are You? Where were You?”

Either I believe in His character or I don’t. And while my actions will fail, God’s ways are divinely higher than mine. (Isaiah 55:9) I may not immediately understand how the events in my world will fit into His plan, but I can know that God intends for them to fit.

For now, please know that my intentions toward you are good.

More importantly, I will give the same consideration to God.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

Until That Final Day

2009-10-23T10:23:00.005-04:00

Evidently Michael Ward was the last person his friends and acquaintances thought would get saved.

Mike, as a young man, with handsome looks well-noted by swooning girls who kept their eyes on him, searched for deeper meaning in life. He had been in the crowd at Woodstock. He had checked out the Maharishi personally. He devoutly studied to become a teacher of Transcendental Meditation, seeking “pure awareness” and the “ultimate reality of life.”* Disciplining himself in a meditative lifestyle, Mike didn’t talk much, but along his way, met a couple of born-again Christians, Jim and Jeanne. Mike had been laying carpet, his trade for life, in a house where Jim was busy hanging wallpaper. Surprisingly, Jim’s “aura” fascinated Mike, and Mike, being so taken by what he saw in Jim, asked Jim what he had.

Well, it was Jesus.

The usually quiet Mike at some point noticed Jeanne and quizzed her too on what she had that was so transforming about her.

Well, it was Jesus.

Mike thought upon it, and after almost two weeks of prayer and deliberations with God, cried out to the Lord for salvation in Christ. And as another friend, Walter, so well put it, like an imprint on a negative was God in the life of Mike. Word got around in Danville then in the 70’s that if Mike Ward had gotten saved, it was truly revival.

For 30 years Mike has been at the back of our church, not to hide, but perhaps so we could all better hear the prayers, encouragements and scriptures he sent heavenward on Sundays. Often in times of prayer during the week he would write a scripture or exhortation on a small piece of paper to bring with him to read in church. Many have commented his favorite scripture must have been words Jesus spoke, “And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.” (John 12:32) Mike faithfully lifted up the Lord with his spoken words. He passionately offered over and over “Glory to God,” “Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice,” (Philippians 4:4) and “Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” (John 1:29) causing the most downhearted spirit to look up for their hope, due to the faith displayed in the voice of this man.

Two years ago, Mike received a diagnosis of cancer, and as much as the doctors tried, the reports consistently got worse. We prayed for Mike to be healed. Mike’s body did not get better, but his spirit shined. He walked himself into church broken, in pain, swollen, weak, trembling with chills…to praise God. He continually testified he felt better when he left than when he entered the building. The last Sunday his dear wife, Janice, was driving him to church, she described it was as if a “switch had been flipped,” and Mike began suffering dramatically. Mike was admitted to the hospital by day’s end, and on Monday everyone was asked to pray God would have mercy on Mike and take him home.

My friend Robin and I went to visit him the next morning. I particularly wanted to talk to Mike one more time, to hear him praise his God with the words I would so miss in the sanctuary. When we arrived, nurses were trying to give him medication, and this effort had turned agonizing for Mike. We had to leave the room, we came back in; the TV had to go off, and everybody needed to be still and quiet. Mike could barely speak and could only manage one ice chip at a time for thirst; it was obvious his life would be leaving soon. I wasn’t sure he actually realized who we were. As we sat in the quiet, Mike turned his head and asked, “Did you bring your guitar?”

My guitar happened to be in the back of the car, so I made the trek to get it, as well as some songs that happened to be in the front pocket of my binder, songs that God must have orchestrated I put there over the last couple of weeks so the perfect ones would be there waiting. Robin and I, Janice and Mike’s dad, John, sang Amazing Grace, By His Wounds, Nothing But The Blood (Mike’s favorite), Chris Tomlin’s King Of Glory and I Will Rise for half an hour. Mike’s feeble hands were lifted, singing words here and there, agreeing with the words, with that ever so sweet “Glory to God” declared between verses and pauses, the very words I’d come to hear. Cancer was in his bones but Jesus was in his eyes.

Mike smiled at the end, and said he was in a different place than he was before we’d started. I will always be in a different place than before we started.

I’ve been told those were the last lucid moments Mike knew, and he was ushered into the presence of God two mornings later. At Mike’s funeral, Mike’s son-in-law, Victor, dressed in fine military clothes, addressed the mourners by saying we had all recognized him as a soldier by his dress. Using that illustration, Victor declared we all had recognized Mike as one who walked with God by the way he dressed himself with Christ.

“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.”

Glory to God.

*Quoted from The Science of Being and Art of Living, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

Much gratitude to Jeanne Lavinder for recounting to me her memories of Mike during high school and beyond.

Clean Up, Clean Up, Everybody Everywhere....

2009-10-01T17:50:00.003-04:00

This entry departs from my usual attempts at thoughtfulness, but maybe you will enjoy a laugh or two.

I’ve never opened a can of worms, but I have opened a container of 3-week-old deteriorating broccoli and cauliflower florets. Early one already hot July morning I had gotten some drinks out of the second refrigerator we keep in an outdoor closet (by the way, refrigerators do not like to be in outdoor closets) when the 2-qt container I had stashed in there weeks before, filled with raw vegetables, thinking at the time I would steam them the next day, caught my eye. That “next day” had come and long since gone, so I grabbed the plastic container and headed back indoors to the kitchen.

“I wonder if they’re still good?” I am now embarrassed to have thought.

I popped off the lid and before a second hand could measure any time at all, the stink contaminated the entire lower level of the house. Slapping the lid back on I ran out the house with it, deciding I couldn’t throw it in the indoor garbage can. Rendering the contaminant harmless on the porch, I came back in to hear son Jameson coming down the steps. I waited to see if he would notice.

“Mom! What is that SMELL?”

He is not allowed to eat in his room, but he, without words, prepared his cereal expediently and went straight back up to the only remaining breathable air and closed his door. I didn’t protest.

I pillaged through my candle collection- lime, yes….apple pie, I don’t know….ah, a candle guaranteed to remove burned food odors, yes! (In hindsight, I think the food actually needs to be burned first for optimum performance.)

Husband Jamie was at that point returning from an appointment, and I felt hopeful the candles would do their job and he wouldn’t notice- nor ask why I was burning three different scented candles at 9 AM on such a steamy morning.

“Angela, WHAT is that smell?”

His eyes were a bit watery. He should’ve been able to take it- he’s been spritzed with pepper spray in law enforcement training. I always feel like Lucy Ricardo in these situations, situations I don’t much like, because I prefer to at least seem capable, capable of handling the household food, capable of knowing three-week-old refrigerated cut vegetables would be, well, rotten.

Jamie was merely making a quick stop on his way to other things, so he didn’t hang around long, but helped out enough to leave the door propped open as he left. The rest of us had a fun day scheduled with friends and other kids so we needed to leave too. The vegetables in the container could wait outside until I got back. I yanked little Ryan out of the bed, his clothes and breakfast packed, and rushed him out to the car before he knew what smell could’ve hit him.

We had such a pleasant day I forgot all about my little, stinky mess until I carried our load from the day from the car to the house, and there it sat, still on the porch, steaming in the blazing sun, in a spot that had previously been shaded. The house still smelled like something interesting had gone on at some point, but improved. I relit the candles again to be on the safe side, and went back out to finally throw those vegetables, container and all, in the trash. But no…I can’t just throw a recyclable plastic container in the trash…can I? Can’t I? No, I can’t. I would feel too bad knowing I had condemned it to forever plague the environment, wherever in the world it might go. I braced myself for the removal of the lid yet again, and…with steam now rising out of the container from the basting heat …dumped the contents in the outdoor trash can and smashed the rubber lid on. Wait. The trashcan had been emptied and didn’t have a liner bag in it. Jamie really wouldn’t kill me, but Jamie would kill me if he opened the trash can to take out the trash to find loose, foul food in the bottom.

I was forced to re-evaluate the situation.

I know- I would go get a new trash bag, dump the vile contents in the bag, tie up the bag, hose out the trash can, then the little plastic recyclable container, put a new liner bag in the trash can, dump in the trash bag of vegetables, put the lid on the trash can, place the clean container in the recyclables, and then and only then would I be free to start dinner. All went according to plan, except by the time I was done, I kid you not- the whole driveway area stank a stink rivaling any pig parlor on the planet. Thinking neighbors would soon be walking around puzzled and whispering amongst themselves, I cringed. Can’t I be done with this? Thinking hard, really hard, I remembered Jamie had bought some Febreze® for a rug he was using for a job, leaving the deodorizer in the garage. The scene could’ve made a fantastic commercial with me running around the yard spraying Febreze® at random, or either the sight could’ve proved grounds for commitment to an establishment dealing with mental issues. But hey, it worked!

What did I learn?

At the end of the day, I learned that at times in life you will encounter a mess, whether intentional or unintentional, and the only thing to do is to clean it up, and clean it up well.

The end.

Someone Is Jealous For You

2009-09-01T13:51:00.005-04:00

Jealousy ranks as one of the strongest passions we experience. Jealousy can strike suddenly, with ravenous, hot claws piercing our very being. If unrestrained, we easily resemble mad dogs inside as we are consumed with our unfulfilled desire. I’ve heard friends comment twice this summer how much they’ve been shocked by their own shameful behavior when the green-eyed savage strikes. I smiled, as I too related, and felt thankful that at those particular moments in time I happened to be free from jealousy’s rage.

Made in God’s image as we are, we experience His emotions, though in varying degrees far less than perfect. We often pray that our sanctified passions will increase in order to more closely align with His passions. We talk about the love of God, the wrath of God, the peace of God, the understanding of God, the holiness of God…but the jealousy of God? While pure human jealousy is a product of the sin of envy, the idea of feeling anger at being slighted or overlooked has its roots in a holy passion. As familiar as I am with the feelings of jealousy, I had not considered much the holy jealousy that we evidently provoke in God.

“For the Lord your God is a consuming fire, a jealous God…do not worship any other god, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.” (Deuteronomy 4:24, Exodus 34:14)

God knows that He is the greatest love for us, yet we search for other loves and longings. We created ones futilely chase something other than our Creator. Deuteronomy 32:21 says, “They have provoked Me to jealousy by what is not God; they have moved Me to anger by their foolish idols.”

There is a God, and He is jealous over you.

For those who have never had anyone jealous over them or because of them, can there be any greater delight? For those who have had someone jealous over them or because of them, can there be any greater delight? Deuteronomy 32:9 tells us that “the Lord’s portion is His people.” Think of a tract of land being divided up between heirs, and one gets one portion, and another gets one portion, and so on. The Lord desires and waits to claim us as His portion. We are all He desires as an inheritance from this world. Although God needs nothing from us, for whatever holy reason, He seeks us as His inheritance, as that to which He is entitled.

“Is this the way you repay the LORD, O foolish and unwise people? Is He not your Father, your Creator, who made you and formed you?” (Deuteronomy 32:6)

I wonder if the more we are captured by God’s jealousy the less we experience our own pitiful jealousy. The more we are content that He Himself owns us, the less we have eyes for things that are at the most temporal, and the more we look to the eternal treasure awaiting the apple of our Father's eye. In the midst of searching scripture on the jealousy of God, a friend, Jason, handed me a CD so I could listen to his current favorite song. Written by John Mark McMillan, the song was inspired by the death and tragic loss of one of the songwriter’s best friends, and he even tearfully sings of his friend at the end of the recording. The song attempts to capture the raw emotion of being physically introduced to God for the first time. Inserting the disc into the player, the words began…

“He is jealous for me…”

Maybe it’s a theme, a gloriously, beautiful theme, a theme well-deserving to be shouted out to all of God’s beloved…to you.

“How He Loves,” written by John Mark McMillan, ©2005 Integrity’s Hosanna! Music.

Forgive Me?

2009-07-25T12:19:00.004-04:00

My apologies…this has been a year of learning lessons from a tree.

A leafy stump by the side of the highway seized my attention in how it humbly remained there for all to see with newborn branches reaching skyward. The size of the trunk testified the tree had once been a hearty-sized maple. What happened to the tree? Was it not wanted? Was it in someone’s way? Was it growing too close to the road and powers-that-be cut it down to size? Was it diseased and needed to start over? Did a storm bring down the tree, forcing the branches and most of its body to be removed? Whatever the reason, an act of God, a decision of man, or vicious malady, the tree is now a stump. Yet, the tree forgave. Out of its wounds, growth continues toward the goal of the tree which is, well, to become a tree.

Forgiveness is such an important part of a Christian life. We so many times settle more satisfied to nurse our wounds than to let them heal and disappear. Not that the offenses made against us do not hurt, require restoration, an apology from an offending party, or the counsel from a trusted source, but what if those steps aren’t readily available, or when they are available, not enough?

Matthew 18:22-23: Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy- seven times.”

I am almost convinced we may use up those seventy-seven times for each single offense, as we struggle to truly forget.

The definition for forgive in the scripture above is to let go, to send away; the word has its root in another word that denotes separation, departure, cessation.

Without realizing our intentions we compartmentalize our hurts and injustices as rooms in a house- locking the door as a storage chamber. We may manage pretty well, opening the door occasionally to make ourselves feel better when we feel guilty, or for pulling out the stuff as a trump card in the hope God will feel guilty for what happened to us and favor us in some way. The real trouble comes though when an oblivious person comes along and unlocks the door by accident. We are surely caught by surprise and off guard by the things that come tumbling out of that room. “Wow…I didn’t know I’d packed all that stuff in there.”

I guess I could go up to that tree and ask who did such a thing to it, cutting it without its express permission, but the tree seems to not know. The tree stays focused on using every bit of its energy to support new growth.

We can’t always control what happens to us. Jesus Himself was in the crux of agony as He stood between God appointing Him as the Lamb of God to die for the sins of the world, and Satan plotting to eradicate His ministry on the earth.

Jesus said of the men participating in His crucifixion, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Luke 23:24

The tree stump by the side of the road may never reach the height it would have before its pruning, but as any experienced gardener knows, pruning makes for a much stronger tree…and in the hands of an all-knowing God, a much stronger me.

My thanks to Cindy, who came to my aid recently during such a crisis! :)

Driving My Heart Towards Home

2009-07-17T22:06:00.005-04:00

“For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to Him…” 2 Chronicles 16:9

(Note: This post most effectively should be paired with the song, "My Heart, Your Home." Scroll down to the music player, find and select that piece to better understand the written material.)

Last evening I was completely enveloped in the peace of the knowledge of God as I was driving home from a Vacation Bible School. It was the time of day I have on many occasions felt closest to God, as the atmosphere paints itself as some heavenly realm. Around 8:30, with a stretch of highway in front of me, I could see for a couple of miles the muted colors in the sky as it prepared for sunset, the hazy summer air settling in just before dark. I remembered how this exact time of day was possibly the time God once chose to meet with Adam and Eve in the garden, in the cool of the day, looking for them. (Genesis 3:8) While lost in the thought of God at least once visiting the earth in the evening, the song I have playing for you now was playing in the CD player: “Come and make my heart your home…Come and be everything I am and all I know…Search me through and through…’Til my heart becomes a home for you…A home for You…Let everything I do open up a door for You to come through…So that my heart will be….A place where you want to be…”

A beautiful song, sung to the Lord, especially beautiful in the voice of Christie Nockels.

However this particular time, I heard God saying those lines to me, to the world, appealing to all of us who abide for now on the earth. Please consider reading those words again, from God’s point of view…to you.

“Come and make My heart your home…Come and be everything I am and all I know…Search Me through and through…’Til my heart becomes a home for you…A home for you…Let everything I do open up a door for you to come through,..So that My heart will be a place where you want to be…”

“For the Lord searches every heart and understands every motive behind the thoughts. If you seek Him, He will be found by you…If you call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.” (1 Chronicles 28:9; Proverbs 2:3-5.) God is perfectly willing to share Himself with us. We have to purpose to do the seeking similarly as an archaeologist devotes his life to searching for treasure he continually longs to find.

Jesus spoke of the kingdom of heaven being like “treasure hidden in a field…like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it,” Matthew 13:44-45.

“Seek the Lord while He may be found; call on Him while He is near,” Isaiah 57:6.

Unlike the archaeologist who may come home empty handed, God Himself promises in Jeremiah 29:13, “You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.”

The next time evening begins to descend and cover the earth, try taking a drive out on an open highway, and say, “Hello, God.”

And find home.

"My Heart Your Home," written by Christy and Nathan Nockels, (C)1997 Rocketown Music, LLC; Word Music, LLC; Sweater Weather Music.

God's Wheel And A Transforming Waitress

2009-07-07T16:08:00.002-04:00

God says to me with kind of a smile,
“Hey, how would you like to be God awhile
and steer the world!”
“Okay,” says I, “I’ll give it a try.
Where do I set?
How much do I get?
What time is lunch?
When can I quit?”
“Gimme back that wheel,” says God,
“I don’t think you’re quite ready yet.” –“God’s Wheel” by Shel Silverstein

I started working at Jamie's family’s beloved restaurant in May.

If I were not family at The Old Country Club Steak House, I don’t know if they would still be so accepting of me at the restaurant. At 43, learning new skills has been a little like learning to water ski at 91. Funny how jobs easily taken for granted can surprise us by the amount of skill the jobs’ tasks actually take in order to complete them well. No one really minds Blue Cheese Dressing in the Ranch container, do they? Does anyone really, really, really ever need to change their order from single to separate checks? No one dislikes unexpectedly paying for a friend’s meal on their credit card due to “computer” error, do they? Can we put signs on the tables that state: NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO CHANGE SEATS AFTER THE SERVER TAKES DRINK REQUESTS BY ORDER OF LAW?

I am in unveiled awe of the other waitresses. I probably was not quite ready for the title of Restaurant Server, but I’m trying very hard.

I have told my friend, Robin, of my near-tears experiences during my thus far short waitress run, and she has commented, “God is doing character building in you. I can already see it.” I thought how I indeed feel so much building going on inside of me that I’ll surely end up a movie screen-sized Transformer, roaring, “Party of twenty? All on separate checks? Bring ‘em on!”

Maybe that’s exactly what God has in mind- to transform me yet one more time in a way that will leave me with another dose of character. We can rarely figure out God’s purposes ahead of time. Sometimes we bring on tough circumstances and unpleasant consequences by errant and careless behavior. Then, sometimes, like Joseph, we are thrown into situations we wouldn’t have chosen for ourselves and through no fault of our own. If Joseph were steering God’s wheel, I doubt he would’ve steered himself over to the pit his brothers threw him in, or allowed them to destroy his only mentioned worldly possession, or have conceded to being sold to foreign deciders of his fate and future, a future involving slave life and an unfair prison term. God had the steering wheel, and he steered Joseph into a character that Joseph would’ve doubtfully found on his own wearing his richly ornamented robe, practicing dream interpretation on his jealous brothers while living comfortably at home with a doting father. Joseph unbelievably allowed God to work in him, all the while demonstrating incredible patience and faithfulness that in the end brought Joseph great favor and reward.

I am not in prison and very close to home, but at times I distinctly feel like I’m a world away from life as I’ve known it. I desire to complete the assignment.

In the meantime, if you patron the Old Country Club Steak House, I’ll be the occasional, unsure waitress/hostess/cashier bearing an invisible sign that reads, “Please Pardon The Construction” on the front….and “God At Work” on the back.

Goldilocks And The Three Hares

2009-06-15T17:10:00.008-04:00

I had the thought that you would like to hear this story I composed last summer for a puppet presentation. That was over two weeks ago. I would swiftly put you to sleep describing all that prevented me from blogging this video any sooner, mostly involving computer/video camera incompatabilty. (They are both from Japan- doesn't that count for something?) Since I was so wrong in assuming this process would be easy, I now fear being wrong about how much you will like hearing this story! Please share my joy in successfully adding my first video, however lacking it may be... The printed story version is below.

PS Jameson drew the illustrations.
PSS You may want to scroll down until you see the music player and pause the music if you watch the video to avoid sound overload.

Once upon a time, there was a fine little girl
with a sweet, darling smile and bright, golden curls.
Goldilocks, she’s named; you’ve heard of her surely!
She is the girl in that famous Bear story.
While the bears are away, she tries out their seats;
she tastes the Bears’ breakfasts, and then falls asleep.
As her story is read, and it’s read ‘round the world,
she’s off to the Bears’ house, with her bouncing, long curls.
One day, the book of Goldilocks is about to be read
by a small boy in Norway, as he’s ready for bed.
So off Goldy trots, fast through the woods,
to get to her story, as she usually would.
But as she went, there was an unexpected delay…
an unusual occurrence, this unusual day.
In the middle of the path to the home of the Bears,
out popped from a hole, a brown-spotted hare.

“Oh, excuse me!” exclaimed Goldilocks, so startled she yelled;
she’d never seen a rabbit on her way to this Tale.

“Oh, that’s quite all right; no harm done, Miss….”

“I’m Goldilocks, and so sorry, but there’s no time for this!
I’m in a story- as you may have heard-
don’t confuse me with Miss Muffet, who eats whey and curds.”

“Ah, sounds familiar, but you don’t look quite right-
are you sure you’re the girl in the story tonight?
She is very pretty, and well, you look rather ill...
for a girl in a fairytale- you don’t fit the bill!”

“I look ill?” Goldilocks shrieked, quite quickly and tart,
“Am I not pretty enough to play my part?”

“Well, I suppose I could somehow in some way be wrong,
but your hair’s not as gold, and your locks are too long!”

“Oh dear, well, still I must go on ahead;
they will expect me in my story when my story is read!
There would be no story without me, I contend;
the bears would come home, and that would be the end!”

“If you must go, then go; things may turn out all right.
Perhaps no one will notice you’re lacking tonight.”

Goldilocks continued to race through the trail
to hurry to get to the old Bear Folktale.
She passed by a pool on the path on her way,
and seeing her reflection in the water, exclaimed:
“That rabbit was seeing me just as I am!
I’m not quite as pretty, and my curls have let down!”

Then from behind a log at the edge of the water,
a creature came ‘round and saw Goldy was bothered.
The sad little girl looked up to see
Hare Number Two- white with black feet.

“What have we here?” the Hare of White said,
“You look quite upset- was it something you read?”

“I didn’t read anything!” the girl said straight out.
“I’m not right for a book- and it’s me it’s about!
I’m late, and I must get there or there’s no story to tell,
but I’m here seeing me, and I’m not feeling so swell.”

“You’re in a story! Oh my and I see…
that takes great talent and such ability!
Are you sure the story’s about YOU, and not me?
You look quite pitiful with those faded curls.
Are you sure you’re in the story, not a more talented girl?”

“Yes, it’s about me! I go to the house where the three bears dwell,
and I try out their stuff- I play the part well!
That is until now, or a few minutes ago,
when I was told I wasn’t pretty, and now my talent’s so-so!”

“Well, don’t take it so hard; it happens a lot.
You really can’t do, when you’ve just got what you’ve got.”

The hare hopped away, and the little girl stood-
her heart quite broken, and quite sad in the woods.
She took a step backwards when she heard a voice say,
“Go home now, little girl; go home now and stay!”
Under her foot was the cotton-like tail
of a skinny, grey rabbit, who gasped, short of a wail.

“You shouldn’t be here…” said Hare Number Three.
“There’s no story for you, no future to see!”

Well, Miss Goldilocks could take it no more,
and not hanging around for a hare number four,
she headed for home, as low as a fox,
when a comforting voice called, “There you are, Goldilocks!”

It was the Papa Bear, so tall and so grand,
standing there waiting to take Goldilock’s hand.
“Where have you been? Our story’s being read!
We have left home- you need to rest in our beds!”

“Well…I am not pretty, and I am not good!”

“Who told you that?”

“Three hares in this wood.”

“Nonsense,” said Papa Bear, “it matters not what they think!
Your story is yours!” Papa said with a wink.

“But my curls are quite limp, not as gold as should be,
and I hear that I’m lacking in ability.”

“Please, my dear child, you hear the wrong voice!
I say you are grand, and now it’s your choice-
to listen to me, as I’m speaking in love,
or the voice of three rabbits we’ve never heard of.”

The little girl thought, and she thought a bit more.
Her part was her part in that book from folklore!
She thought she’d go on…how Papa Bear cared!
She decided to keep her job with the Bears.
So ahead she went with the beloved old story,
of Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear and Goldy.
Yes, the story still lives of her and those Bears,
and quickly forgotten were the unkindly, three hares.

-Angela Harris/2008

Imagine A Taste

2009-05-22T21:46:00.001-04:00

I have Celiac Disease. Celiac Disease is a crazy, immune system malfunction causing the body to react in a self-destructing manner when a protein called gluten, found in wheat, barley and rye, is detected in the digestive system. Because of this unfortunate glitch, I can never again eat normal foods containing wheat- bread, baked goods, pasta, pizza, fried foods and many processed and prepackaged foods. Needless to say, I do a lot of cooking. Over the last seven years I’ve found many suitable substitute pastas and breads and such, as I literally was forced to learn how to cook and grocery shop all over again. Every now and then, however, I will get a powerful craving, usually for foods for which I do not yet have an adequate substitute. A gluten-free doughnut, or a recipe that would bring one into being, does not as of yet exist. When cravings first showed themselves following my diagnosis, my defense would be to grab something, anything, to eat to immediately distract my food yearnings. I wouldn’t be hungry really- a taste for an old favorite would just hit from out of the blue. For years I carried peanut M&M’s® with me at all times, a quick fix for any haunting hunger. At some point along the way though, I stopped filling those food desires immediately with something else. Instead of reaching for a substitute food, I began to take the time to recall the taste of the food I craved. I remembered its smell, the texture in my mouth, and the flavor it produced. I tasted, whatever I wanted, in my imagination, in my recollection. Oddly, after savoring such a moment, more times than not, I would be satisfied.

Food cravings and deprivations aside, so many recent weeks and months have been filled with circumstances, news and events that incline me to demand a more perfect world in which to live. Bills have piled up, income has recessed; unrest in the world has worsened; we’ve had a child go through a crisis, several friends are wrestling with cancer, two friends have had scares involving their babies- and just this week I learned of the tragic and untimely death of a dear friend of some of my church friends.

I am now trying to apply my method of tasting that which I cannot yet have to the kingdom of heaven. Instead of grumbling and looking for the first distraction from trouble, I will stop and remember the day described in Revelation 21, the day a loud voice from the throne will say, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away…” I remember this day, savor this day, imagine this day until the distress subsides, until I can walk on- until I can temporarily be satisfied yet once more before that final day.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” Psalm 34:8

Good Eats With...Chicken Feet?

2009-05-15T16:58:00.001-04:00

Need a funny story? Here you go!

Consuela, my Romanian-born and raised sister-in-law, and I were shopping for groceries at the same time. I, being done with my list, found Consuela to bid her adieu and head for the check-out. On top of the piled items in her buggy, I saw she had laid a large-sized pack of pristine, neatly arranged and wrapped chicken feet. My stare had to have been obvious, and before I could say anything, dear Consuela’s face lit up, exclaiming to me how excited she was to have happened upon such an exquisite treat here in the States, how she would so look forward to making a wonderful soup out of these chicken feet, and how her mom, who lived with her, would be more than thrilled to have a taste of her home country that she so missed. I, shocked and befuddled as to what to say that would be gracious and positive, came up with, “Wow…that’s nice…”

For real, I wanted to say, “What are you going to do with these gnarly chicken feet? You do know you can buy a whole chicken for almost the same price…How can you really want to eat these things?” Then came a rush of self-analysis: “What a horrible person I am…How can I be so picky about what I eat here in this country…I am an ungrateful and faultfinding food snob.” Both Consuela and her mom, Maria, have told me appalling stories of enduring abusive communism in the 1980’s, where rations of one pound of meat per person per month were the norm. I should be ashamed, though I would honestly rather eat the Styrofoam packaging. I gave her a hug and left, with thoughts of those chicken feet intermittently interrupting my thoughts the rest of the afternoon, along with shots of guilt as to how I could be so far above eating a chicken foot.

“How was the soup?” I asked the next time I saw her. She twisted her head in the manner she usually does when she has a long, interesting answer. Consuela had gone home with her prized purchase of poultry appendages, and promptly showed them to her mother, expecting her to delightfully start right away on a simmering pot of perfect soup. Yet, in an unexpected twist, Maria too was shocked and befuddled at Consuela’s choice of purchase. “What is this? Did you buy these for the dog?” You never ate chicken feet like these in my house in Romania, maybe at someone else’s house! You could’ve gotten a whole chicken- thighs- legs…What am I supposed to do with this?” On and on Maria scolded until Consuela herself was shocked and befuddled at her mistaken recollection of her own childhood and encounters with chicken feet. Better a bird in a nearby bush than 10,000 chicken feet in the hand.

Needless to say, maybe I’ll be sticking with Consuela’s mom’s offerings at the next covered dish! :)

(Thank you, Consuela, for graciously allowing me retell this tale...)

What Can Push Your Buttons?

2009-05-09T10:34:00.003-04:00

This was the question I asked of some 6-12-year-olds during one of their weekly Kids Church lessons. They loved my investigation, and immediately, and almost too affectionately, relayed stories of how they pushed the buttons of their parents, brothers and sisters.

I know the push all too well, which spurred the idea for the lesson to begin with. I live through many days with the sense a remote control is being aimed at me, waiting for my reaction to what has been pushed. My lesson purposed to introduce the kids to the novel idea of pushing the good buttons.

We turn people off, we turn people on. We push a button that gets “The Look;” we can push a button to get a smile. We push buttons that result in punishments, or we can push a button bringing extra privileges and rewards. We can push a button that cause people to look down on us, or one that elevates us to being an example in speech, life, love, faith and purity. (1Timothy 4:12) Obviously, this lesson was not on unconditional love, which should be a given throughout any turmoil, but a lesson to inspire them to unconditionally think of bringing out the best in those around them. We made a simple bookmark to remind them of the buttons they push- a wooden craft stick with a large button hot glued to one end.

While I intended to put my finger on, so to speak, childhood behavior needing the touch of God, I found myself pressed of God while using my own button bookmark one morning following the lesson. God said, “I am here to press into…I am here to pray to...” I felt the sweet conviction to more often push the button of prayer, even during what appears to be unfruitful prayer. The great privilege of the Christian faith is to commune with the God we believe in, the God that we hope in and trust for our good. Cultivating ongoing communion takes more time and effort than pressing a button on a remote control. Mark 5:24 speaks of a large crowd who were following Jesus, “pressing around” Him. We can imitate this example today- pressing into Jesus as we follow Him.

“Pray continually,” (1 Thessalonians 5:17) just about says it all.

Why don’t we all give our prayer button a little push?

Stopping, Looking, Listening and Waiting: The Example Of FFH's Jeromy and Jennifer Deibler

2009-05-01T22:16:00.022-04:00

A few yards away from the entrance to the community school my oldest son attends lies a railroad crossing. In the days of train travel, the crossing would've been a busy depot as the station enabled and directed travelers and freight going here and there. However, in the present era, what remained of the depot building has long since been relocated, and the tracks only serve a train making deliveries to a fertilizer facility a mile further down the line. Crossing signals still stand guard on each side of this spot where the tracks cross the road, but I had never seen them flashing red until one morning we were a little late getting to school. The traffic in front of me continued on across as usual- yet my mind raced: Should I stop completely and wait? I wanted to hurry on through as the others in front of me, to save Jameson from being late, and to consider those behind me. If I totally stopped the traffic while I waited for my peace of mind, would they think me senseless and begin sounding their horns? The switch that signaled those red lights to flash were triggered by something- an electronic sensor or a human touch reacting to the knowledge that a train was coming. But on the other hand, was this alert merely a malfunction, meaning my wait would be indefinite? Jameson several times announced he thought he saw train smoke in the distance. I'm two cars away from deciding what I will do. Why is it so hard to stop everything and wait?

Great examples of those who stop, look, listen and wait are far too few and far between. We are all guilty of holding up pretense at some time or other, afraid to let anyone know we see warning sign in our lives and need to stop, perhaps even change direction, to deal with them and avoid the hurtful consequences. I have discovered a couple who have bravely stopped and waited. Please allow me to retell a part of their story.

I had known of the Contemporary Christian Music band FFH for almost ten years. Attempts to sing along with their sharp (as in clearly dfined, distinct) harmonies in songs such as "You Found Me," "One Of These Days" and "Fly Away" were challenging fun, and during a kids Bible school session I had actually taught their lively and lyrically delightful "Big Fish." I had not been to one of their concerts. However several weeks ago when their lead singer, co-founder and primary songwriter, Jeromy Deibler, was performing as a church near where I live, and since contemporary Christian artists come around to these parts even less often than the train mentioned above, I went.

When a concert is pared down to the singer, the songs, a guitar/piano and the singer's brother-in-law on some cool, low-key percussion, the talent and the message are rich. Jeromy delighted the small audience with many of FFH's #1 singles, and he shared how the business had been good to them, having experienced the favor and frequent radio play of the Christian station K-LOVE, resulting in a successful music career.

If American Idol has taught us anything, we have learned that talented singers are not all that uncommon. Dozens each year wow us when hitting a high note, showcasing their impressive ranges and vocal runs. Yet only so many singers/musicians earn the chance to perform on a national tour, and even less go on to win the enduring favor of music consumers and enjoy a prosperous career beyond a first or second release. Competition continues to be relentless in the music world, so surely FFH was one of the blessed few that found success. Yet, Jeromy and his wife/fellow bandmate Jennifer were feeling the strain of endless road travel on them as well as their young son. On the bio page of their personal website, their crisis is more detailed: Jeromy and Jennifer were "beginning to buckle under the strain of trying to raise a family on the road. They needed a break, and they knew that if it didn't happen soon the health of their marriage was at stake." There's no clearer warning sign than fearing for your marriage relationship. What to do? Keep going for the sake of appearances and for the well-being of a career? Instead of ignoring and plodding through the warning signs, the two stopped and redirected. On the couple's MySpace page, Jeromy describes how "in early 2006 the four of us in our band, FFH, decided to take some time off from touring. We had been on the road for almost 15 years and had grown tired of the physical and emotional pressures. Jennifer and I (especially Jennifer) felt it the worst because we uprooted our entire family and home lives to make touring work on a weekly basis. So after lots of counseling and debating we together decided it was time for a break. We chose to make the break indefinite because we wanted to pursue other things for a while, believing that if we set a date to return we would be hindered by knowing it was coming up."

They chose an indefinite time of waiting for renewal, and an indefinite time of waiting on God.

At the concert Jeromy recounted how he and his wife had embarked on a missions trip to Africa to encourage and train worship leaders. The experience resulted in an invitation to the couple for a long-term stay. So for almost six months, the dynamic singing duo lived at the southern tip of Africa, near Cape Town, serving in a church, living in a little white cottage without American conveniences, being a family and reconnecting. The house next door had internet access so emails would come from back home, but after a while, they realized Christian music was going on without them, a realization that would certainly keep me awake at night wondering what in the world had I given up. Yet that's it- what in the world had they given up? Fame, success, perhaps fans, perhaps finances, seeing their names on music charts and their faces in magazines? What had they gained? Jeromy indicated their stay in Africa was forever a blessing to them. "Our time in Africa was life-changing. For the first time in our marriage we were able to sleep in the same bed for six months and worship with the same friends every week. The people of South Africa welcomed us with warmth we'd never felt before. Plus, we had a lot of time to think and process life and what we'd been through. We lived in a little cottage with no heat, no air conditioning, no TV, phone or radio. So we read and spent a lot of time in the quiet. And we talked, finally, about things that mattered. We lived among both the rich and the poor while we were in Africa, and we lived on very little. Most people in Africa don't have the things that we have here, the things that we feel we need but really get in the way of our time with the Lord and others. What the Africans fill the space with is relationships! They seem to know the importance of togetherness and they live on it."

After finding some recovery from the pressures of touring, the couple had their second child, and currently live in Nashville and are on staff as worship leaders at their church. Feeling like it was time to reenter their music careers, the couple now receives invitations to come to churches to share their story, as well as their crowd-pleasing songs on a limited basis, without a band, and even if only Jeromy is available to come. So thus the concert I attended came to be that evening in my town. Gone were the lights and the glitz of an area show, but fully present was the light of the Holy Spirit, evident in the sharing and in the songs, something that was fully priceless.

Jennifer indicates on her blog that they are still in the waiting phase. "I have been waiting for a while now. We came home from Africa a year and a half ago thinking God would be waiting at the airport with a little sign that said, 'Deiblers' and that He was going to escort us to our 'next thing.' But He wasn't there and ever since then we've been praying, 'Oh Lord, what's next? Please show us!' And here we've sat."

Sitting and waiting. We need examples of sitting and waiting. If you get a chance to go to a Jeromy/Jennifer/FFH concert, you will enjoy the experience. If you are a fan of Christian music, please consider supporting their albums. Check out the Africa relief project, The Mocha Club, they now support after having lived among and met people who live in an economy that makes the currently weak American economy look like solid gold. Most importantly, consider imitating their example when you see red flags in your lives, marriages and families; stop, look, listen and wait and be brave enough to redirect if necessary.

So in the future, should you see me stopped and waiting either at a literal crossing or on the roadside of life, feel free to honk. Just remember I may be looking, listening and redirecting too, and I would welcome a smile and a wave.

Links: http://www.myspace.com/jeromyandjennifer http://jeromyandjennifer.com/ http://mochaclub.org/

The Patient

2009-04-22T19:51:00.004-04:00

The damage was extensive. In mere moments a dastardly virus had effectively shut down the life systems of the victim, a virus purposefully loosed by anonymous sinister minds I imagine holed up in a dark room somewhere cheering. I and the technician hover over the patient, still attached to wires, as had been the case for days now, searching for signs of activity in the brain, waiting for any sign of recovered memory. We speak in voices close to hushed, I suppose a response naturally ordered for serious situations. I suddenly feel urged to embrace my bosom friend, to stroke the outer shell of one not long ago filled with so much life- filled with so much of my life- yet such an emotional display oddly did not seem appropriate. I refrained.

"I'll call you," the technician promised. I took a last look, with the hope this latest viral victim would not end up a ward of this very facility if payment could not be timely made for the expensive recovery process.

"Thank you for all you've done," I offer, heading for the door, trusting the call would come soon.

Godspeed, my dear, dear computer...

Solvents, Paint and A Contemplation for Easter Part 2

2009-04-10T17:20:00.004-04:00

The sink was white, my hands were white, the paintbrush was entirely white, and there were gel-like white blobs in the sink drainer. What I assumed was an ordinary latex primer was some sort of super-blocking coating that required paint thinner to dissolve. Studying the sink full of goopy mess that water only made massively worse, I speculated which came first: oil-based paint or the solvent required to clean it up. Paint thinner works a sufficient wonder. Applied to the oil paint, the undesired coating melts away, releases from my hands, and wipes away from the sink. Clean.

Turpentine and mineral spirits, used for paint thinning, are both solvents. Turpentine is distilled resin from certain pine trees (answers.com) while mineral spirits are a petroleum product (wikipedia.com). The American Chemistry website explains in interesting detail how “solvents are chemical substances that dissolve, suspend or extract other materials, usually without chemically changing either the solvents or the other materials. Solvents make it possible to process, apply, clean or separate materials. Solvents work on the principle of like dissolves like. Therefore, for a solvent to work it needs to have similar chemical characteristics to the substance that it is trying to dissolve.”

Without the required cleaning agent, the mess is merely moved around or permanently stuck.

When we find ourselves stuck in sin, we can cover it up, pretend it’s not there or act like it’s supposed to be there, but the only sufficient cleaning agent to purify us and make us (desirably) white as snow is the blood of Jesus Christ. Our sin came first; yet God manufactured a way to take care of it. Knowing humankind was in need of a working solvent, God Himself became man, for all suitable solvents must have similar characteristics to that which it’s intended to clean. Jesus personified all the ugliness of sin during those excruciating moments on the cross so that we could become a new creation, without blemish and without spot. Jesus shed the perfect solvent for sin. The application of the blood of Jesus necessitates a change in behavior, but our newly unstained heart is still intact, still physically functioning as before, but with the goop of sin successfully removed, disposed of as far as the east is from the west, quarantined in the depths of the sea. Clean. The dissolution of sin through the blood of Christ works perfectly and completely every time: An all-sufficient wonder.

Until next time, have a blessed Easter week.

Miracle At 601 North Madison Blvd

2009-04-05T22:26:00.003-04:00

I didn’t remember seeing the Sesame Street valentine my best friend, Robin, had given Ryan as I carried out my mad dash cleaning spree in his room the night before. Company was coming, and the oodles of Sunday church coloring pages, the Happy Meal box, gift tags from Christmas, the scribbled “restaurant orders” and the library check-out receipts needed to go. I thought it a good time to teach Ryan we can’t keep every single thing forever. However a month’s time had not diminished this particular card’s value one bit.

“Where’s my Ernie valentine?” Ryan wailed from his bedroom. I really didn’t have a spare moment to look for the lost card, as I said, I had company coming and I’d already packed the recyclables in the car, with the plan to unload them at the Center, stop by the grocery store and return to prepare lunch for our guest. Ryan quickly began sobbing and his emotions soon thereafter took an unmanageable turn. I could write how I was a good mother and searched through all the hundreds of papers in the mixed paper bin, but I did not. We needed to leave, and I couldn’t let Ryan know I could’ve possibly had anything to do with throwing that valentine away. I went upstairs to get a jacket, explaining to Ryan how he would be okay in dealing with his loss. He would feel better in no time.

“I want my Ernie valentine!”

I sternly looked at Ryan, and using the God approach, questioned, “What do you think God thinks about you behaving this ugly?”

“I don’t care. I don’t like Him!”

Not only do we have a lost valentine, but also a possibly spiritually lost child. Stunned by his honesty, I held his quivering chin and affirmed, “Well, God loves you…very much. Don’t ever forget that.”

The shock of having blurted out such unveiled feelings must’ve subdued Ryan’s anger, for he got in the car, no longer bawling, but sniffling and contemplative. The ride to the Recycling Center was slightly tense. Nevertheless, as usual, Ryan helped unload the recyclables, and after delivering the plastics, aluminum cans, glass jars and the newspapers to the appropriate dumpsters, I lugged the final, very heavy mixed paper container to its proper destination. With a heave-ho, I hoisted my load up to the opening, and the papers began to tumble. Maybe it was the breath of God…maybe the flutter of an angel wing. Maybe it was one of those miracle winds such as the one that brought Frosty the Snowman back to life. However identified, a mysterious swirl of wind caught one small piece of paper as it began its descent from my tilted container, lifting it out into the open air, bringing it to rest on the pavement as a flake of snow.

Now before you think otherwise, I am not making this up.

Ryan ran for the piece of paper, as he usually does when the recyclables fall amiss. He secured the paper with one foot and bent to pick it up. With a face as bright as Christmas, he announced…

“There's my Ernie valentine!”

I had been the spectator of a miracle. We stood as if in another realm, the three of us, myself, Ryan and the mysteriously great knowledge of an invisible God, staring at an Ernie valentine. Buckling a smiling Ryan back into his car seat, I gave voice to the point so obviously made. “Ryan, whether you love God or not, He certainly loves you very much today.”

Ryan had been given this valentine twice: once from a friend, and a second time from God. As he clutched his little note of love, I prayed that valentine would be enough to carry him through his spiritual life, and solidify a relationship that would last into eternity. As I write now, that miracle at 601 North Madison Blvd was a year ago. Ryan and God have been on the best of terms ever since.

I suppose we will make room for that one valentine.

A Garment Of Praise In The Ever Rising Tide Of Laundry

2009-03-27T20:20:00.008-04:00

I don’t like doing laundry. I should be more specific. I hate doing laundry…the separating, the washing, the drying, the folding, especially the ironing and even more especially the putting away. Over the years our laundry could be anywhere at any time in various stages of completion. Since moving to a house where the laundry closet is located near the dining table, I had made surprising strides in the disciplines of folding, ironing and putting the laundry away after hauling it out of the dryer. Then my sister-in-law gave me a handsome, hand woven laundry basket. Of course I was delightedly obliged to use it. So following my next round of laundry, I neatly stacked the fresh clothes in the basket. And there they would stay. The basket was rather full when I washed and dried the next load…and the next. I stacked, and then artfully stacked, creatively stacked, and then more skillfully stacked. I stacked until the basket was too heavy to carry. I stacked until I completely forgot what was in there. They were still stacked as I fussed for having lost items that were, all along, right there in the stack at the bottom.

I think I’ve not liked laundry detail during my motherly life because there’s been so much of it. However, of late a deeper despair may be at hand. The laundry process allows me to be intimately acquainted with what is going on with the clothing, and I do not want to be faced with its state of deterioration, especially in the clothes of one certain child. As I iron my 12-year-old’s knit shirts, I see tiny holes here and there in the fabric, as if he routinely pokes himself with the pointy end of a pair of scissors. Pant buttons rarely survive the first day of wearing. I don’t know if he plucks them to play some game with them, or if he falls into a button-harvesting machine. I discover grass stains, tomato sauce stains, and the forbidden Sharpie® ink stains, with the latter bringing my frustration to an exploding point. Shirts shrink. Sweaters unravel. Pants rip. All are out of my control. Then there are shoes. Washing shoes takes up entirely too much time, not to mention the noise shoes make in the dryer is completely unreasonable. I’m afraid to examine my son’s shoes too closely because I don’t want to discover the torn places and the fraying shoestrings and the sole wearing away until at least 6 months after the purchase date. One pair of intricately woven leather sandals only lasted a month. Jameson was out playing in a field where animals had been, and obviously had been a lot, before said child ran obliviously wild all over the place. Those shoes stayed tied up in a plastic bag for a week as I delayed dealing with them. After fetching an old toothbrush saved for such a time, the shoes were thrown in the trash two seconds after opening the bag.

Clothes and boys do not go well together. When they are together, the clothes lose in a quick matter of time.

While belaboring my current laundry-time woes, I remembered a recorded miracle that does not receive its due attention. We hear often of the loaves and the fishes, Jonah and the whale, Lazarus being raised from the dead, even the parting of the Red Sea. But also tucked away in the account of the Hebrews in the desert is truly a mother’s miracle, a laundry marvel. The Lord speaks to the Israelites through Moses and says, “During the forty years that I led you through the desert, your clothes did not wear out, nor did the sandals on your feet…I did this so that you might know that I am the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 29:5-6)

I wonder if they noticed their clothes and sandals had not worn out... in forty years. We don’t know how God carried out the miracle, but for a numerous band of people to be traveling long days in the desert dirt, sleeping in outdoor camps, working with animals, and again, working with animals, continually keeping clothing and shoes from deteriorating should rank up there with a raising from the dead. The Israelites complained a lot. And then complained some more. I can feel for them in one way. The situation they found themselves in was not of their doing. Many years before, Joseph had been sold into slavery by his brothers into Egypt. However, because of Joseph’s faithfulness through trials and blessings, as well as through God’s divine plan, Joseph became second in command of the land. When a famine later befell the people of Egypt and the surrounding area, Joseph’s birth family traveled to Egypt for help. They stayed at Joseph’s invitation, and for more than 200 years flourished in Egypt. A pharaoh eventually came to power that despised the Hebrew people, and thus enslaved them for the next 200 plus years. Their slavery was ruthless, and the Hebrews were desperate for freedom. God sent Moses as their deliverer, and the newly freed slaves surely thought all would be well soon. But God kind of wanted to take the Hebrews on a “date,” to take them out to the wilderness, without distractions, and spend a little time with them. God wanted the Hebrews to know Him, and to know Him as their one, true God, and be certain there was no other. The Hebrews didn’t deal with this too well. They couldn’t wait for the date to be over. Even though they had food to eat, their families, the miracle clothing and the miracle shoes, my goodness, they had God in a way we think we would like to have Him- in a cloud by day and a fire by night, they mostly saw what they did not have, and they murmured regarding their lot.

I am terrified of the wilderness, of the desert place. I wouldn’t choose to wander with few belongings, depending on God in an absolute unknown. Still in times of distress, in difficult circumstances of my doing or not of my doing, when I feel I am not where I ought to be, I must remember to say thanks for what I have that is good. Perhaps in those very things God will tell me He wants me to see He is real, such as He desired through the desert clothing and shoes that didn’t wear out. At the end of those uncertain times, God’s faithfulness may well far outshine any faithfulness on my part.

And certainly now, thinking through all of this, my pile of today’s clothes lies nearby, and looking at it, I graciously, and unmistakeably, hear that I am loved.

A Tale Of Two Walls

2009-03-21T09:25:00.008-04:00

In this tale, one wall refers to my “Facebook Wall.” The second wall alludes to an outdoor breezeway which connected the main building with the cafeteria of the junior high school I attended in 1978. The well-used brick breezeway was also an insurmountable brick wall, because from down below, from a graveled courtyard, that’s how it appeared to me.

Arriving for my first day of seventh grade, I realized I had missed a mass memo over the summer regarding wardrobe and accessories. I showed up in an extended version of the 6th grade look: just got out of bed hair, and with a cute, embroidered butterfly on my shirt. Seventh grade rather harshly introduced itself to me as indeed a brave, new, social world, and not for those faint of self esteem, which described me to a figurative T. I preferred to be dropped off in the mornings around the back of the school, thus avoiding the friendship circles that enlivened the front lawn. I felt too shy, and moreover too awkward, to try to fit in, and by being dropped off in the back, I was only a 50-yard dash from my first class. But in that 50-yard, seeking-to-be-unnoticed walk, I passed “The Wall,” the breezeway, the meeting place which had been claimed by mostly eighth graders as their domain in which to wait for the first bell. Many would hoist themselves up so as to not have to gain access though the buildings, a feat that I determined called for either Olympic-sized skill or luck for successful execution. With my head tucked, I would risk peeks at these eighth graders, so wanting to be like them, as any shy girl would, dreaming of one day fitting into her own amiable junior high community. They wore great clothes, preppy clothes. The girls, guys too, wore Lacoste knit shirts and sweaters, more commonly known, as its insignia, “alligator,” well-coordinated with assorted colors of chinos or corduroy Levis, and classic leather penny loafers. Girls accessorized with Etienne Aigner purses, or comparable look-alikes, and the piece de resistance: The Add-A-Bead Necklace. This was not just any bead, mind you, for those readers who were not around in that era, but a gleaming, 24-karat gold expensive bead. It would take many a Christmas list to assemble this enviable trousseau, especially since I had not known to put any of it on my already-taken-care-of school shopping list. Daunted, I kept looking, every morning, up there on the wall, and every day I would look specifically for one girl, who more that any other, stood out as a beacon of teenage girlhood, a beacon that lighted the entire campus. She was pretty. She was popular. She knew how to apply make-up. She had a sunny personality that seized attention. She was “That Girl,” Marcia Brady and Farrah Fawcett combined as one; the classic cheerleader, the girlfriend of all girlfriends; she was perfect. She was Angie C.

If Mattel had only seen Angie C., blonde-maned and vivacious as she was, Angie would’ve been a doll. A doll I would’ve bought because I was too timid to approach her in person for the whole duration of the year. Thinking back, I don’t know why I was so intimidated, because as iconic as she seemed to me, she was as equally and genuinely as nice. She gave the impression of never meeting a stranger, and she didn’t hesitate in saying hello, as I found out the next year, when my new eighth grade classes took me down the same halls as her ninth grade classes. She would faithfully say hello and smile to me, warming my heart each time.

As the school years passed, I didn’t cross paths with Angie much, and when she graduated, she went to college and moved out of town. I didn’t have much occasion to remember any of this until some thirty years later when my husband was home sick with a stomach virus. Thinking of quiet things to do, I turned to the computer, and to the long put off idea of checking out Facebook. I had a friend in California who’d urged me to get on, but I hadn’t been interested. Momentarily desiring a diversion, I entered the friendship networking world. I was hooked. Every few minutes I received friend requests, and upon confirmations, checked out walls and profiles, commented on statuses and sent messages. Friendships long lived in mere memories were suddenly renewed. Then, there it was…in my email inbox…a message from Facebook: “Angela C. added you as a friend; Angela C. wrote on your wall.”

Sometimes time indeed has a way of making the ongoing line of circumstances bend so that the ends meet.

Her messages at once carried me back to seventh grade, remembering that memorable girl up on that bygone school wall…and now I was commenting on her current “Wall” that she had made my day. Indeed she had.

In ending my shining memoir of her, Angie will forever hold a pinnacled place in my recollection of seventh grade. I am, without doubt, honored to include her in my list of friends, if only wall to wall…and all without a single alligator shirt or a pair of penny loafers.

She must’ve somehow known I still have my Add-A-Bead Necklace.

Postscript: At some point during my eighth grade year, I triumphantly hoisted myself up on that hallowed breezeway, and enjoyed my many friends, including, as we always refer to ourselves, my “best friend from junior high,” Loudell. All that I know about fashion and friendship I learned first from her.

Remembering "I Think That I Shall Never See...." And Taking The Time To Do So

2009-03-15T08:08:00.006-04:00

As homage to a poet, who, for all time, immortalized the loveliness of a tree, I write of Joyce Kilmer. Born in New Jersey in December 1886, Mr. Kilmer died bravely in combat during World War I in July 1918, certainly prematurely, at the age of 31. As fully a writer as gallant soldier, the poet once surveyed the scene outside his bedroom/office window and began, “I think that I shall never see… a poem lovely as a tree.” While modern literary critics, as well as critics in Mr. Kilmer’s day, have judged his poetry style “too simple, overly sentimental…far too traditional, even archaic,” according to his Wikipedia entry, I say, here’s to simple things. Here’s to a simple poem, now quoted in this advent of spring, remembered ninety-six years post-penning, in this blog entry:

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree. - Joyce Kilmer, 1913

Surely Mr. Kilmer would savor great joy and satisfaction knowing someone in the world, nearly a century later, would consider his prose of a tree, in this small, yet appreciative, moment in the future, alas a moment he would never see. I celebrate the dedication following Kilmer’s reflection to allow something to spring forth…permitting the time needed for appreciation to grow larger than at first sight…accommodating the space for artful words to be composed…instead of engaging in a quickly forgotten sort of pastime. Thus Joyce Kilmer lives on, even if quietly, in the literary world.

Trees are indeed a spectacle easily pushed aside in our view. Hardly any living thing is truly as grand as an expansive-canopied Oak tree, having the capability of enduring through several hundred seasons or so. We drive by a beautiful, old house in our weekly travels, and as impressive as the two- story, white-columned, brick structure is, rivaling the home in stateliness are the leafy Oak trees that adorn the front yard beginning in late spring and throughout summer. On one drive-by, I remembered the home had recently been bought by a young couple. I wondered out loud if the previous owners had planted those impressive trees. My husband quickly enlightened me, claiming the trees would have, in all probability, been planted in the latter 1800’s. Oh, of course. With that newfound, practical knowledge, I deduced the planters never saw the trees in their fullest glory. But they took the time and effort to plant anyway.

The time necessary for task completion in our culture has been forever changed with warp speed technology. I can remember when the first mass-affordable digital watches, set with state-of-the-art, fluorescent-red LCD’s, were the newest techno-savvy marvel. Now we carry not only the time, but calendars, phones, cameras, mail, texting keyboards, music, videos, news headlines and TV along with the World Wide Web in one pocket-sized device, if not yet in watch-sized form: A communication and information command central. I love this life. But I need to, in slow time, plant and grow something that will outlast me. Not something instantly gratifying…something that needs extensive time… something good…something memorable. A deed…a love…a faith…something like…a tree. Something I won’t see matured in the timing of a mouse click. Something maybe my children will see…or even their children’s children. For what will I be commended, if anything, by the following generations?

“The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is now.”
Chinese Proverb

I consider the short cut. “Fast-growing but short-lived trees tend to be poor choices…because they often develop disease or insect problems, (and) often have weak wood,” writes Karen Youso, columnist for the Minneapolis/St.Paul Star Tribune. I reconsider the short cut; frustrated, perhaps, because I like to see immediate results.

So, in an encore round of cheers, here’s to the longer route of time-taking, nature-gazing and sapling planting…to beautiful things remembered for generations to come…to a lovely, forever –made- timeless tree…and its poem, and to its poet, well done.

Six Degrees Of Separation...A Contemplation For Easter

2009-03-09T13:37:00.007-04:00

“Six Degrees of Separation” is a popular, modern cultural concept whereas anyone in the world may be connected to anyone else in the world through a chain of 6 people. I may choose someone on the earth to contact, and if I begin with a personal friend, and they continue with a personal friend, and so on three more times, I should then be linked with the chosen individual. This social networking premise is traced back to a 1929 short story entitled, Chains, by Hungarian author Frigyes Karinthy, who believed the world was socially shrinking even 80 years ago, according to Wikipedia. Other theorists have surmised the social chain would consist of as few as 5 links, and others have said more like 7. At any rate, this is a fascinating idea, and caused me to remember that we know a friend, who has a sister, whose husband has a cousin, who, as reported by our friend, performed as a lead singer for the ‘80’s band REO Speedwagon. Should this indeed be true, these connections have produced an intriguing chain of exactly five links.

As you hold that thought, I add another link to my chain of contemplation by saying there is an incomparable, unparalleled, unrivaled One to whom we may be connected, an association that needs no social network chain of 6, 5 or even 4. As I sit here, and you sit there, we are a prayer away from the God of the universe, creator of all… the Maker of heaven and earth. In case you struggle to any degree with the existence of a divine being, I can share how I recognize He exists, for the “heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the works of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard…” (Psalm 19:1-3 NIV) Discussions may abound regarding the Big Bang, but I cannot fathom, agreeably in my small, scientific mind, the universe occurring due to accident, without a divine hand ordering the process. Explosions of any kind, even more notably those involving gases, never result in anyone, while examining the aftermath, discovering a new, living particle created by such happenstance. Are there results beyond destruction and bodily harm? Not even during my own unplanned, radioactive experiments, such as the one involving a small, flash fire due to an unnoticed twist-tie, have I ever opened the microwave door to exclaim, “Oh, my gosh! Would you look at that! A previously unknown life form!” Maybe I needed a microscope. I concede I am very much oversimplifying a complex theory in development for decades, but sometimes simplification helps.

Even more startling than universe-creating is the chain of events that led to the bridging of the vast separation between us and this God. Because of Jesus, the only link between us and God, there is no longer any separation between me and the Universe Maker. No hoops to go through, no people to know, no event to attend. Jesus once explained, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me. If you really knew Me, you would know My Father as well. From now on, you do know Him and have seen Him.” (John 14:6-7 NIV) The writer of Ephesians, Paul, urges readers to “remember that at that time you were separate from Christ…without hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near through the blood of Christ… For through him we both have access to the Father... ” (Ephesians 2:12-13, 18 NIV) The words in my Bible furthermore lead me to declare, “I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39 NIV)

What an unmatched connection, with no degree of separation, through a chain of love, for all to know. Sure we have questions and doubts in the midst of our circumstances and life events, and we very likely always will on this side of heaven, but we are free to ask the One who knows…open our hearts to Him…and talk about it…directly. A connection that began with a death on a cross, and ends with our belief and acceptance of that death as our sole salvation. We come to Jesus; we know God.

Networking at its finest.

The Perfect Stage

2009-03-02T20:03:00.000-05:00

In a movie review I found for a film I wanted to see, the reviewer confided the storyline was aimed for women aged 40 and over. Forty and over? How have I so easily come to belong in that demographic mindset, whatever that is? Honestly, I initially wanted to see the film for the scenery- it was filmed in my home state. (That may be the answer right there- I don’t know how many 20-somethings watch a film for the scenery.) The reviewer went on to describe the lives of the main characters, basically a tangled, evolving mess, and how they would suddenly meet and find refuge in one another.

Ah, refuge. The reasons I married were for love and refuge. Probably most of us do. We find the person who understands us, stands by us, waits for us a forever amount of time with only a smile as a comment, and we delight to smile back. A thousand hundred miles would not be too far to go, a castle would not be too great to build, no price would be too much to pay, no setback too hard to endure to be there for the one we love. We tirelessly, yet effortlessly, prefer and pursue the other, as our time is measured by each other’s comings and goings. We discover there is no joy like the joy of the unfamiliar becoming sweetly familiar. “As you wish,” cries our heart to our beloved’s, as we anticipate becoming one soul. Then we are joined together by God, as one, in marriage, and a funny thing happens. We are joined as one. Suddenly, we expect our other half to do exactly as our half wants to do. Our half does not want to go with our other half skydiving. The other half does not want our half to fritter a week’s salary on a window treatment for the bathroom. Life goes on; the adventure becomes mundane, jobs dictate time, children exhaust us, and we inevitably will make not-so-pretty messes known only to each other. Instead of the blissful future we used to see while gazing in complete contentment at our spouse, we now see our problem. Our partner’s once most dear face becomes the face of all that is wrong. Naturally, we are compelled to get away from our problems. We want refuge.

We are the directors as well as the actors in our life’s film, and our lives don’t have to so predictably end up like this by age 40-something. It’s never too late to be the cheerleader we once were for our spouse. It’s never too late to say I want to understand you. It’s never too late to understand. I can set the stage, rearrange the stage, whatever needs to be done in order to take the love story we began to a happy ending. Granted, some marriages endure hits far too complicated for this simple blog. However, in knowing that I have been so predictably set in a category of those looking for refuge in all the wrong places, I am set to purposefully remember the right one…the one whom God so lovingly joined me together with, on that day, when the stage really was perfect.

"Angela Needs..." And the Facebook Challenge

2009-02-25T17:00:00.001-05:00

Having blogged several emotional posts now, I thought something lighthearted would be in order for this week… more contemplative stuff next entry.

Facebook friends tag me for various lists that require me to respond with my answers from time to time. “The Random Things About Me” list kept me in heavy contemplation a good week. The random things coming to my mind were things I didn’t want to depress anyone with, especially if they were in the process of having a good day. My list was becoming the Deep, Dark and Introspective List. Obviously I couldn’t follow the instructions. “Random” shouldn’t have been that provoking. If you didn’t get a Random List reply from me, now you know why. Rejoice and be glad! However, a friend, Susan, tagged me for a list that intrigued me, yet did not plunge me into gloom. I decided to take the challenge. The instructions were to type, in the Google search box, my name, followed by the word “needs,” and record ten results. I had a few extra minutes, so I gave it a shot. “Angela needs” truly yielded uncanny results, and if you’d like to try, I hope yours (with your name, of course) are as funny as mine. If your name is Angela, my list is yours!

10 Results for “Angela Needs:”

“Angela needs diapers and stilettos...” This first entry hooked me on the game, evidently posted by another Angela who’d played into this Facebook friend request. Thankfully, I haven’t needed any diapers since last April, and sadly, I won’t ever want any stilettos- at 5’9” I’m tall enough.

“Angela needs psychological help…” Doesn’t everyone?

“Angela needs Facebook...” Last year I would’ve said, I need what? But 2009 is a year for new things. If not for Facebook, no one would be reading this blog.

“Angela needs to constantly feel the presence of God...” God knows! He’s heard my prayers!

“Angela needs your help…” This seems to be a common result when playing this game.

“Angela needs (yet again) your help…” Either the help is good or quite inadequate.

“Angela needs to get away from her kids…” This entry comes complete with a YouTube link. Honestly, I checked out the video. Watch it and get a laugh or two.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wva4ts3ykEo

“Angela needs help from the Wildcats with modeling...” How about yodeling too while we’re at it?

“Angela needs a goal…” Evidently, Google is monitoring me, knowing I’m taking what should be valuable time to write about this.

“ANGELA NEEDS OUR PRAYERS AND SUPPORT…” Please feel free to contribute here anytime you like…

Have fun googling your name and needs!

On Starting Kindergarten...In February...

2009-02-20T13:34:00.000-05:00

Today is special.

There is not another February 20th 2009 in history, nor will there be in the future.
Today is also the last February 20th I will have with Ryan freely at home.

Ryan’s babyhood has flown by so fast that if I think about it too hard I will end up a sobbing heap of inconsolation for the rest of the afternoon. Not that motherhood has been a perfect adventure; some days I hold on to parenting with my teeth, as my arms are busy flailing about in reaction to misbehaving, scheming or clueless children. There has been frustration on all of our parts at some time or other. At least once a day I imagine a change of pace of some sort, a place in the working world, an extra half-income, something to write on the occupation blanks I dread on forms. Having the label of stay-at-home mom can carry two assumptions that I am sensitive to: I am not living in luxury, nor am I lazy. (Okay, I do covet a few minutes of extra sleep in the mornings.)

Before I had my first child, I planned on returning to my job at the six week mark. Then Jameson came, and I didn’t want to miss the smile, the rollover, the crawl, the walking, the talking- the first accomplishments that professional childcare instructors tell their nannies not to report to their clients, hoping the child will show off their newfound skill over the weekend. My longing to stay home with my children didn’t lie so much in that I wanted to be there as much as I didn’t want someone else to be there.

Today I met with the principal where Ryan will be going to kindergarten. I wanted to discuss with her Ryan’s age and readiness for school, as his birthday falls just three weeks ahead of the deadline. In some ways I know he is ready. In some ways he is not. Maybe I scheduled this talk to see if I am ready. Maybe I need someone to hold my hand as we go through this process. The principal was all smiles and cheer, comforting me that Ryan would be loved there and cared for when he began his school career. I know I am dreading the day, as I recall Jameson’s first day of school- hot tears and loud sobs from a sentimental heart that cherishes the once-lived babyhood of children, a heart that really doesn’t care for change when change just swoops down without permission.

I will go now, wipe my tears off of me and my computer keyboard, and enjoy this last February 20th before Ryan is a kindergartener. He is being unusually quiet as I write this… motherhood can be perfect.

"I Am A Shepherd..." And Other Callings

2009-02-16T14:59:00.001-05:00

I must have overdone the praise I showered on my 4-year-old for his role in our church’s 2008 Christmas play. Not that he didn’t deserve it- he went down as one of the cutest shepherds to ever don a robe and headpiece. When the narrator read “and they were greatly afraid,” Ryan quipped, “I am afraid!” as he twirled his gold braided rope-belt around in a circle, grinning and making the role his own, as all good actors do. Certainly this performance topped last year’s: he made an appearance, but then ran to a nearby lap and parked. I began preparation for his latest Christmas performance in early November. “You are going to be a great shepherd!” I would foretell. I needed him to be. For one, we had relatives coming to see his rendition. Two, it was my play. He didn’t disappoint. He was lauded with praise well after New Year’s. Ryan must’ve taken this deeply to heart; perhaps he likened his shepherd success to the praise given to his 12-year-old brother for his musical accomplishments, as we think Jameson may be a professional drummer some day. One morning in February, Ryan was cooking in his Little Tyke’s kitchen, working on tossing vegetables with his miniature skillet. When he finally caught the plastic veggie cuts in the pan, after a very noisy, half-hour of focused practice, I congratulated him. “Ryan! You did it! You’re a chef!”

“No, I’m not. I am a shepherd.”

We easily take on roles in which others see us. We are shaped by our world, led by the failures and successes into the person we turn out to be. More often than we do, we should remember what our God in heaven has called us. The Jesus whom was foretold to be called “Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace,” (Isaiah 9:6) “has saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works, but according to His own purpose and grace which was given to us in Christ Jesus before time began…” (2 Timothy 1:9) 1 John 3:1 exclaims, “Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God!” For everyone who calls on the name of Jesus Christ, sanctified in Him, there is a calling of “saint.” (1 Corinthians 1:2) In the beautiful passage of John 15:15, Jesus states, “No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends…” Even those of us not formerly called God’s people may have our calling changed. “I will call them My people, who were not My people…they shall be called sons of the living God,” says the Lord in Romans 9:25-26. While many of us in this current economy have seen benefits shrink and disappear, we can “know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.” (Romans 8:28) We, the called, can affect the world around us. God promises, “If My people who are called by My name will humble themselves, and pray and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land. (2 Chronicles 7:14) God calls us, with a holy calling, children of God, saints, friends, His people, sons of the living God, called for good things, called by His name, called to humble ourselves, pray, seek His face, and turn from wicked ways. In return, the One called “Faithful and True” (Revelation 19:11) will forgive our sin, and heal our land.

What a calling!

In the meantime, let me know if you see a job opening for a cute shepherd.

The Game Of Life

2009-02-13T12:54:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I both loved and hated playing The Milton Bradley Game of Life. I loved the thrill of accomplishment. I hated counting on luck. Each time I played, I bought a car, took the exit for college, drove off to marry, had many children (there were monetary gifts required from my opponent for each birth) and landed a high paying job. I aimed to snag Share the Wealth cards, as well as the sly Exemption Card, which would protect me from others using Share the Wealth cards on me. I remember cheating along the way- taking unseen second spins (my opponent would be my younger sister) if the first one would take me too far off course from finishing well. To lose The Game of Life was too crushing, even at the age of 10, as it now has become in real life, at the age of 43.

I have stood on spiritual mountaintops, sensing God was near and believing my prayers and disciplines had been heard and honored. I am a church song leader, and I take great joy in being prepared and poised to praise, eager to pour over song choices and sing with our team until everyone comes along with us. I was surprised at my surprise when I somehow twirled my life spinner and landed on a space that read something like, “The economy is shot; no salary for an undetermined amount of time.” This was especially devastating since the space my dear husband and I previously occupied said, “Start your own business; surrender health insurance.” I went straight to a wasteland place of questioning decisions and thinking hopeless thoughts, praying seemingly in vain to spin whatever mystery number that would get us out of crisis and turned around again. I wanted to pack up the game and watch an episode of The Brady Bunch, which taught me any problem could be solved, with life back to normal, in thirty minutes- or less if you fast-forward through the commercials.

One morning, noticeably stomping around in case God had been busier than usual, somehow missing my distress, my 4-year-old and I were readying ourselves to go to Story Time at our local library. I was stomping around, not the 4-year-old. My unsettledness loomed so unbearable I was about to decide not to go. “Because,” I told myself, “There’s no story for me today that has any kind of a happy ending.” As God seems to like to do, He came unexpectedly. Not to answer my questions about the how and the why or the exactly-what-to-do-now, and certainly not to reward my heart’s overt waltz with despair, but rather, to lead me on. “I’ve given you a book,” I heard in my heart. “And it has a happy ending.” Just as suddenly as the Presence came and comforted my soul, it subsided, but left me changed enough to step a little lighter around the house. “In this world you will have trouble,” Jesus said. “But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) Indeed trouble may befall us, but there is a happy ending. “And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4 NKJV)

I’m banking on it.

Now Is Always The Time For Worship

2009-02-10T20:10:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago my husband and oldest son took turns losing their battles with a stomach virus. Knowing I'd had double exposure to these merciless germs, I spent two days waiting to get sick. I didn't venture out; I didn't eat for a whole day. I thought the less food in me the less miserable I would be when my turn came. But I was miserable in the waiting. I delayed enjoyment of food, visits, work... I was useless while waiting for something that never came. I am tempted to be that way in my worship of God... or rather in my waiting to worship God... until the relationship is healed... the finances are better... when I feel more forgiven. There is never a more better time than now.