Yellow and Blue

It’s an early morning drive, and I am all alone today.  Glad for the quiet, I turn off the radio and absorb the drone of my SUV’s mile-weary engine. Red-rimmed rooftops to my right tell me the sun is coming up, but I’m in no hurry. I love the dawn, when hawks claim the highest branches and cows make breakfast of stubble, their silhouettes black weather vanes against an acid-wash sky.  In a setting this tranquil, it’s hard to believe that bad things happen, and I don’t want to see clearly just yet.

When the sun comes up, I’ll remember a precious little boy who is undergoing chemo and waiting for a bone marrow transplant.  When the cows lift their heads to watch their calves play, I’ll think of a coworker whose husband lost his job without warning.  When shadows stretch across the road and quickly shrink again, I’ll think about a friend whose poor choice has forever changed his family’s life and the lives of others who trusted him.  

Stronger than my morning coffee, discouragement sends a sharp pang through my heart.  Lately, it seems that the enemy’s presence spells defeat for God’s people as surely as yellow and blue make green.  However, as the sky brightens, I realize all is not as dark as it seems.  In the midst of hardship, I see that God has been working in subtle, but profound ways, redirecting the focus of those whose hearts have been distracted and bringing glory to Himself through the actions of those who have remained faithful. 

Through the little boy’s illness, parents who actively proclaim the Gospel have had the chance to prove that their faith is real.  The job loss has prompted discussion about “God things” and prayer in a secular workplace, and, though the results of our friend’s poor choice haven’t been all positive, husbands and wives everywhere are clinging more tightly to their marriages and families.

Topping the last hill of my commute, I make a right turn toward the east and am met by a breath-taking sunrise.  Just at the horizon, orange and yellow flash together like facets of the same gem, kicking off the blue of night like last night’s blanket.  It’s the stark juxtaposition of gold and blue that catches my attention.  No green.  I thought yellow and blue made green.  Now, I’m sure that there is some ridiculously simple scientific reason that yellow and blue don’t make green in the sky, but God used the image to remind me once again that He is in charge. 

As Creator, God gets to paint the sky any color He wants.  As Sovereign Lord, He is able to work all things together for our good and His glory, no matter the circumstances.  Even when things don’t go the way we think they should, even when it seems that the enemy will overtake and defeat us, we can rest in God's infinite wisdom and power and love.  He is more faithful than the sunrise, which means yellow and blue don’t always make green.             

 

If I Had a DeLorean

I am not a Star Trek fan, but an episode caught my eye last night as I was flipping channels.  Lieutenant Worf had accidentally slipped through some hole in the time-space continuum and needed to get back to his reality where his son was waiting for him.  Now, I grew up in the eighties.  I have seen Back to the Future countless times, so I totally get the fact that the time-space continuum is not to be messed with.  Whether we like it or not, the choices that we make today do affect the future, ours and everyone else’s.  If we aren’t careful, we could accidentally jeopardize the well-being of our loved ones, present and future.  We could even give the enemy a leg up without meaning to. 

On that topic, my thoughts turn for the hundredth time to a student who told me last week they would be moving to a private Christian school very soon.  Although the announcement made me very sad, I get it.  At least, I think I do.  I have many friends whose children are either home-schooled or attend private Christian school.   As I understand it, in each case some or most of the following factors played a big role in those parents’ decision to seek alternative schooling for their children:  safety, quality of education, social influence, curriculum, family time, children with special needs, and flexibility.   If those friends are reading, I apologize if I missed any of the reasons you have stated. 

While I don’t agree with every criticism that I have heard about public schools, I admit that many are valid to varying degrees, depending on the specific school system being discussed.  However, as a public school teacher whose children both attend public school, I am tempted to answer such criticisms with an extensive list of the benefits of public education.  I am also tempted to raise questions of my own concerning alternative schooling, but I don’t and won’t because I want to avoid the whole “Which is best, home-schooling, Christian school, or public school?” debate. 

The only reason I am bringing up education now is to ask a simple question.  What would public school be like today if no Christian family had ever pulled out of it?  What if, instead of withdrawing, those early parents had resolved to influence the world through education, taking leadership positions within the public school system as teachers, administrators, volunteers, committee members, and board members? Would those who currently feel compelled to home-school or send their children to private Christian school even feel the need to do so? 

I don’t think so, not if the Christian kids that I have had in class are any indication.  For the most part, they are brave young men and women of integrity, imperfect, as we all are, but correctable and eager to be a part of what God is doing in the lives of the non-Christian kids around them.  You know, I wonder sometimes what it would be like if the many home-schooled and private Christian school kids in our area were to suddenly enroll in the surrounding public schools.  The thought gives me chills, and I imagine the relief that my Christian students would feel would not be unlike that of weary soldiers when new troops arrive.  Of course I can’t speak to that reality for sure.  I’ve not lived it. 

But, I wish I could.

In fact, I wish I had a DeLorean like Doc Brown’s so I could go back in time and talk to the first Christian families that ever pulled out of public schools.  I would try to change their minds so that I could return to what I believe would be a better, stronger United States of America, where Christian kids made up a large percentage of the student population and no one had taken prayer out of schools or Bible verses out of textbooks. 

On the other hand, if I did have a DeLorean, I’d be tempted to peek into the future, and I don’t think I want to see the world my grandchildren will live in if Christian families continue to withdraw from public school, the place where most of the next generation are actively forming their opinions, developing their convictions, and becoming who they will someday be.  One thing is for sure, DeLorean or not, time is passing, and, sooner than we think, we will arrive together in the future we have created. 

Keeping that in mind, may we be ever so careful and prayerful in making decisions for our families that have the potential to affect others.  Let’s not give the enemy a leg up without meaning to. 

The Bride

I don’t love weddings the way some women do, but I enjoyed myself immensely at a wedding last Friday night.  It was a simple, yet elegant affair, an intimate gathering of people who truly enjoy one another’s company.  We hugged.  We talked.  We laughed.  We ate wedding cake and caught up with old friends.  At the end of the night, we were in no hurry to leave.  Even after the bride and groom dashed for their car through a shower of tiny bubbles, we lingered, reluctant to say goodbye.  

On the way home, the kids asleep in the back seat, I thought about the ceremony and remembered happily the bride and groom at the altar.  Holding hands tightly and making can-you-believe-this-is-real faces at one another, they had taken their vows and become man and wife before God and everybody.  I was encouraged by the genuine affection and enthusiasm I had seen in the bride’s smile.  Because we care so much about the groom, I pray that her smile never fades.

I know that it happens.  Sometimes women forget to stay in love with their husbands, letting familiarity and routine cloud the wonder of intimacy with another human being.  To fill the resulting void, they turn to things that are not bad in and of themselves, hobbies, fellowship with friends, career, food, and entertainment.  The dose makes the poison, though, and too much of what could be a good thing can actually rob a person of God’s best for them, in this case, fostering selfish autonomy and damaging the marriage relationship until it’s difficult to tell by watching and listening whether a woman is married or not.

Sometimes I fear that this very thing is happening to the Church.  More and more, it’s difficult to tell who does and who doesn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus.  Word by phrase, individuals within the body are adopting the language of the world and laughing at what God calls detestable.  Bite by drink, they are consuming things they could do without and abusing the freedom that is theirs in Christ.  Having lost the wonder of their salvation, they’ve developed itching ears and flattering tongues, exchanging accountability and growth for empty religion and shallow fellowship.

Though there are many who still seek His face in earnest, setting themselves apart for Him and showing others the way, on the whole, the chosen and beautiful bride of Christ seems to be loosening her grip and pulling away from Him.  I know that it happens.  I’ve read the Old Testament.  But, even so, it breaks my heart because I love the groom. 

A Kid Again

Last week was one of grown-up frustration, unexpected bills to be paid, challenging relationships to navigate, and difficult decisions to be made, the kind of week that leaves me feeling shaky and unsure of myself.  So, at the end of it, my eyes burning from lack of sleep, my heart tight with unshed tears, I did what I always do when life gets to be too much.  I tucked my head up under my husband’s chin and tried to get lost in his strong, head-of-household embrace.  As always, his steady heartbeat brought mine into rhythm, and his softly spoken words of encouragement cooled my nerves like a balm. 

Still, in that moment, I wished I were a kid again.  When I was a little girl in my parents’ home, I didn’t worry about money.  I didn’t lose sleep over relationships gone messy, and I didn’t spend too much time worrying about the consequences of the decisions I made.  Why?  Because, ultimately, my parents took care of those things.  They were not of the “sink or swim” school of parenting. They made sure that I always had food to eat and clothes to wear.  They were there for me when friendships went sour, and they helped me make big decisions. My daddy used to say, “Angela, I will make all of your decisions for you until you start making the right ones,” and, true to his word, he did. 

When I was a child, I was at peace.  Why not now? Well, over the years, I have developed a destructive habit.  I worry.  Instead of trusting God—the same God, incidentally, who set me up with the amazing parents and wonderful husband that I have—to take care of things, I hang on to my troubles, mulling them over and over again in my head as if doing so will make them go away, but it doesn’t.  All it does is rob my loved ones of my time and energy and make me ill in the process. 

So, what to do? 

My daddy once taught me this verse.  “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7.  When I was a teenager, fending off the enemy’s first real attempt to cripple my faith, I claimed this verse and waited for God to restore my joy.  He did.  When I was a college student, making important decisions that would determine the course and quality of my future, I claimed this verse and waited for God to show me the path to take.  He did.  When Todd and I were newlyweds, I claimed this verse and waited for God to literally fill the refrigerator, which he did, time and time again.  God has never given me any reason to doubt Him, yet, somewhere along the way, I stopped casting and started worrying. 

Well, I think it’s about time I started acting like the child of God that I am once again.  After all, God is not a “sink or swim” kind of Father.  He never intended for me to handle things on my own.  Through His Word, He guides me.  In my obedience, He protects me.  Through His Son, He forgives me.  Through it all, He loves me.  Knowing this to be true, I think tonight, though health concerns nag and uncertainty continues to mock, I’ll tuck my head up under the Father’s chin where it belongs and get lost in His vast King of Kings embrace.  Casting my anxiety on Him, I will choose to rest.  In His strength, I will let the reality of His unconditional love bring my troubled heart into rhythm and the Truth of His Word change my worry to calm.     

 

Forever Changed

I wish my kids could meet my Pepa, but he passed away before they were born.  Hunter came close to meeting him, though.  Within touching distance, actually.  The week before Pepa passed, I went to see him, ultrasound video in tow.  I was only two months away from delivering his first great-grandchild, and I wanted him to get to share in the excitement.  Weary from his struggle with cancer, Pepa wasn’t moving around or speaking much at that point, but spent his days quietly on a long, blue sofa, so I settled in on the floor as close to him as I possibly could, my back to the sofa, so that we could watch the ultrasound video together. 

I tried, at first, to interpret for Pepa what we were seeing on the video, but realized pretty quickly that I didn’t really know myself.   Laughing at my own ineptitude, I turned to share a smile with Pepa and locked eyes with his.  Large in his sweet, tired face, his dark eyes were tearful and sad.  My own eyes brimmed in response.  Smiling, he reached out and smoothed my hair back from my face. That was when I first realized that Pepa might not be with us when my baby boy was born.  Gently, I took his hand and placed it on my belly right where Hunter had been kicking just moments before and prayed silently that it would happen again.  It did. For a full minute or so, Hunter twisted and kicked and stretched as if trying to meet his great-grandfather, but it wasn’t to be, not in this life anyway.      

Pepa is with Jesus now, and I’ve done my best to bring him to life in the minds of both of my children, telling them stories about the gentle and generous man of steel and velvet that I knew as a child, one of the strongest branches in their family tree.  Mema and my mother have certainly helped.  Recently, my mother showed us a display that she’s created in a large, black hutch in my parents’ living room.  A miniature museum of sorts, it is full of black-and-white images of my grandparents and great-grandparents.  In the center, a small cedar box holds family mementoes and keepsakes. 

Though I knew the faces in the photos, at least by name, I was stumped at first by some of the trinkets in the chest, a piece of lace and some oddly shaped pieces of tin.  Anxious to share some family history, my mother explained that the lace was from Mema’s wedding dress and that the pieces of tin were trench art valentines that Pepa had etched for Mema while stationed in New Guinea during World War II.  I was touched by what I saw and read.  The etchings were lovingly and painstakingly done, one depicting a lonesome soldier outside his tent under the stars.  “Missing you,” the caption read, the note beginning with “My Darling Wife.” After giving us time to examine the valentines, my mother drew our attention to the photo of a very young Mema standing by a vase of roses.  With pride, my mother explained that Pepa had arranged from New Guinea to have the roses sent to Mema on their first wedding anniversary. Pepa was a true romantic, and I smiled at the reminder.

As my mother talked, I grew wistful, imagining scenes that never did and never will play out in real life, Hunter and Hope running from the car into Pepa’s waiting arms at Christmas, Pepa telling my thirteen-year-old daughter over and over again that she is “just beautiful,” and Pepa teaching my son how to dream big dreams and chase them, all things that I was blessed to experience myself.  My eyes began to sting.  At the end of our visit, my children left my parents’ house encouraged and inspired by what they had heard.  Feeling good about life and family in general, they tucked their newly acquired knowledge away and went about the rest of their day as usual, but the ache in my heart remained.  It’s one thing to hear about a person and another entirely to know them.  Though Hunter and Hope probably feel as if they know Pepa pretty well by now, they still have never met him. 

These days, it seems that people are quoting scripture and talking about prayer like never before, and that is wonderful.  Scripture and prayer are things we desperately need, but I can’t help wondering just how many people are walking around feeling as if they know God pretty well when they’ve never actually met Him.  Christians and non-Christians alike draw encouragement and inspiration from reading the Bible, but reading—even believing—the Bible and knowing God personally are two completely different things.  God has given His Word to the world so that those who don’t know Him can find Him, but salvation and subsequent intimacy with God are only available to those who put their faith in Jesus Christ to forgive them of sin and rescue them from eternal separation from God. 

Understand, God is not our cheerleader; He is the one and only Hope for this lost and dying world.  To meet Him is to be moved beyond encouragement and inspiration.  To know Him is to be forever changed.    

Not Quite

Growing up, I was a Mema’s girl, and why not?  She always made me feel as if I were the most important person in the world, buying all of my favorite foods when I came to visit, drawing bubble baths for me, and waiting patiently for me to get my quarter’s worth out of the mechanical horse at the grocery store.  What’s more, she is the only person ever to announce my entrance into a room with, “And now, the one, the only, Angela Dee!”  Understandably, I got homesick for my Mema quite often when I was little.  I still do.

One Sunday morning when I was about seven years old, my Mema, who lived almost two hours away at that time, appeared unexpectedly in the hallway outside of my Sunday school class.  My heart did a happy little flip.  Without hesitation, I dropped my Sunday school artwork and Precious Moments Bible and ran toward her, arms outstretched.

“MEMA!” I cried.

She hesitated for just a moment before squatting down to my level, though, and even as I embraced her, I knew something wasn’t right.  Though she had blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and wore plenty of gold jewelry, this Mema hadn’t smiled or called my name.  This Mema was too small in my arms, too bony.  I froze.  This Mema wasn’t hugging me back.  Heart pounding, I pulled back just enough to look into deep, violet eyes that were not quite my Mema’s.

It’s fascinating to scroll through Facebook and Twitter feeds these days.  People are very open about their personal lives, and I am encouraged to see how many people are really trying to make a difference in the world, praying for the sick, giving of their time and money, and reading and quoting their Bibles openly.  These are all good things in and of themselves, but I really wish that I could scroll through hearts as well.

I would love to know for sure that these people I know and care about are doing good things because they belong to Jesus and are living to please Him.  I hope with all of my heart that He is the source of their apparent passion because, eternally speaking, good works and good intentions count for nothing outside of a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  What a nightmare it would be to run into eternity with confidence only to find that what you had embraced here on earth, though worthwhile and good, was not quite Jesus after all and, therefore, not quite salvation. 

My Heart Bouquet

When my daughter Hope was in the second grade, she started bringing me wildflowers from the school playground.  Every afternoon, smiling proudly, she would run to the car, a tiny, purple wildflower pinched delicately between her thumb and forefinger. 

“For you, Mommy!” she always announced as she climbed into the backseat.  As soon as we got home, we always put the tiny blossoms in a cup of water.  However, as wildflowers tend to do, thy almost always died by morning, putting a damper on Hope’s spirits. 

After a few weeks of this routine, I told Hope that she didn’t have to pick the flowers to give them to me.  I told her that she could find one she liked at recess and then point it out to me when I picked her up.  I promised to collect them into a bouquet in my heart that wouldn’t ever die.  Reluctantly, she agreed.

That summer was our first to spend on grounds at Falls Creek youth camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma.  I’ll never forget the look on Hope’s face as we wound our way around the mountain on the high road into camp.  “Look, Mommy!” she said, pointing to the wildflowers that covered the otherwise rocky landscape.  I smiled.  The cacti were in bloom, the dandelions were plentiful, and tall, dry stalks shot out from between the rocks, topped by purple flowers that looked that suspended firework explosions. 

“Those are pretty, Mommy,” Hope almost squealed. "I’ll get you some of those.”   

I reminded her that she didn’t have to pick them to give them to me.  When she discovered that the cactus blooms came with sharp needles and that the stems of the purple flowers oozed sticky, milky goo, she was glad not to pick them and embraced the idea of a heart bouquet with new enthusiasm. 

That was a fun summer.  Looking for flowers to add to my heart bouquet became a sort of quest for the two of us.  Every time we found a new kind of flower, Hope would point triumphantly.  “That one’s yours,” she would announce with a smile.  By the end of the summer, my heart bouquet was huge, full of cactus blooms, dandelions, crepe myrtle blossoms, baby’s breath, and other flowers that we didn’t know the names for. 

The funny thing about my heart bouquet is this.  After all of these years, I can still see it clearly in my mind.  What’s more, I can also see the sweet, soft face of my beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter as the exuberant, carefree, tender-hearted second grader she once was.  I can hear the excitement in her voice as she points out wildflowers and feel the heat of her summer-flush cheeks against mine as I hug my thanks before we continue our walk.  The memory makes my heart squeeze and my eyes sting.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to live that summer—or just one day in it—with my little girl again. 

I was thinking about my heart bouquet as Todd and I drove around Falls Creek today.  Everywhere we looked, kids were getting along, having fun, and proclaiming their faith easily.  “Jesus loves you!” we were told at least a dozen times as we passed group after group of happy, T-shirt wearing teenagers.  We visited the Icee Hut, Boulder Springs, and other land marks before passing the cabin that I used to stay in as a teenager.  In that moment, it wasn’t hard to imagine myself thirteen again, discovering for the first time that God had an amazing plan for my life that required my full surrender; sixteen, struggling to make “level paths” for my feet; or eighteen, resolved to let God lead my heart where He would, whatever the cost. 

It’s no wonder that so many adults have such precious memories of church camp, some so vivid that they squeeze their hearts and cause their eyes to sting.  Just as kids still do, those adults once went to church camp open to the prospect of meeting with God, eager to experience something brand new, and willing to receive Truth with the power to change their lives forever.  Without pretense or thought to consequence, they gave themselves over to His grace and mercy and experienced in that moment true intimacy with the Creator of the Universe.   That doesn’t happen every day, you know.  But it should. 

I can’t help wondering what would happen if we approached every day the way we used to approach a week at church camp when we were kids, open, eager, and willing to experience God without pretense or thought to consequence.  What if we made a habit of looking for His activity in our lives and then lived our lives in worshipful response?  Personally, I think that we would find ourselves with a heart bouquet of significant moments with God so big, beautiful, and fragrant that we would never again be tempted to let it die. 

His Point of View

Our across-the-street neighbor is a curious old man with the enthusiasm of a child and the body of the Abominable Snowman.  I know this only because he rarely wears a shirt.  No matter the season, he rarely deviates from his bill-cap, back-brace, and cut-off shorts uniform. Most days, he sits in a frayed blue lawn-chair in his drive-way and waves to each and every car that drives by Hitler style.  Cluttered garage on display and blue-grass blaring, my neighbor putters constantly.  As my next-door neighbor puts it, “It seems he’s always busy, but rarely accomplishes anything.”

Personally, I’ve watched him whittle, simonize, plant, prune, and polish lots of things, and, over the past four years, I’ve probably watched him take in and put back out close to four dozen plants and trees.  And still, though I’ve never actually seen anything take shape or grow as a result of his focused attention, I’d say the old man is onto something.  He sees things I don’t, and I mean that quite literally.

Recently, I ventured into Abominable’s lair to let him know we’d be out of town for a few days.  I figured there was no one better to keep an eye on things, as he spends most of his time gazing in the direction of our house anyway.  Our burly friend was pleased to help and told me so with a lippy smile.  Anxious to get back home, I turned to leave, but my feet stood still.  Met with the most beautiful panoramic view of the Tulsa sky that I’ve seen to date, I suddenly forgot what it was I needed to hurry back and do. Fluffy, cumulonimbus clouds slid across the turquoise sky like frothy bubble bath, their bottoms heavy with rain that would fall soon enough somewhere else.     

“Wow,” I muttered.

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled.  Leaning back in his lawn chair, he sighed, his hands, one holding an oozing bottle of furniture polish and the other a rag, resting against bare thighs.  Watching the clouds with me, he continued, “Just don’t want to be inside when I can be out here, you know?”  Suddenly I understood. In my neighbor’s eyes, life isn’t about the task, but the view.

We who truly seek to follow Christ must look like crazy people to the rest of the world, talking to an invisible God, giving up what seems to be ours for the eternal good of others, treating people right only to be mistreated.  To those with their eyes set on the tangible and temporary, we must look like busy people who rarely accomplish anything.  If only they understood what we understand, that this life is but a breath in the grand scheme of things, that a rich inheritance awaits those who surrender their hearts to Jesus, that true joy is found only in sacrifice, then they would understand why live the way that we do, our eyes constantly on the Father, our hearts set on things above.  They would want for themselves what we have because life finally makes sense when you see it from the Father’s point of view.           

Can't Have Your Tadpole and Jesus, Too

Camp is the best place in the world to people watch.  Last week, my daughter and I went on a long hike around Falls Creek youth camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma.  We spend most of each summer at Falls Creek and have experienced it from all sides, so we welcome any opportunity to see camp in a fresh way through the eyes of others.  We walked everywhere, the bookstore, the West End coffee shop, the Prayer Garden, and finally, Boulder Springs.

By the time we reached Boulder Springs, it was literally crawling with elementary aged girls.  Sugar-buzzed from concession stand treats and goofy from lack of sleep, they picked their way across the rocks, holding spindly little arms out for balance.  Some made it all the way to the fresh spring quickly without slipping into stagnant water and cheered for themselves on the other side, wide-eyed and giddy with adrenaline.  Others chose to take their time, leaning on each other for support and pointing out minnows and water bugs to one another along the way.   Exhausted from swimming in the lake, others simply stood dazed on the bank and waited for their friends, letting the afternoon sun dry and stiffen the swimsuits they still wore.  Thoroughly entertained, Hope and I settled onto one of the rocks and soaked our feet in the clearest pool at the base of the fresh spring waterfall.

“Don’t do that!  You’ll swallow him!” a squeaky little voice called from above. 

“I will not!  I know how to be careful,” a voice answered defensively. 

At the source of the spring, two little girls squatted, their hair hanging in ringlets around their faces.  Squeaky was blonde and frail-looking, her friend, a sturdier brunette with purple snow-cone stains on her soft cheeks.  The brunette was peering intently into a Styrofoam cup, which she held just out of Squeaky’s reach.

“But, it’s dirty waterrrrrr!” Squeaky pleaded, reaching for the cup.

“It is not,” Snow Cone answered with confidence.  “It’s from the spring.  They said you can drink from the spring.  It’s clean.  Besides, the tadpole water is way down at the bottom.”

“You’ll get sick,” Squeaky whined.

Snow Cone ignored her friend’s warning, tipping the cup up cautiously to take a drink, her eyes wide with concentration.  A split second later, she lowered it quickly.   Apparently, the tadpole had gotten closer than she had anticipated.  Undaunted, she gave the cup a swirl and tipped it up again. Squeaky covered her face and whimpered.  

After a few close calls, Snow Cone gave up.  “I don’t want him to die yet,” she announced.  I wondered when she did want the tadpole to die.  Squeaky looked relieved, and the two made their way back across the rocks with their squirmy little captive.

Most people want to experience the Living Water that Jesus talks about in the Bible.  Thirsty, they know that He can fill and satisfy them.  The problem is, they want to keep their tadpoles, too, and it just doesn’t work like that. 

You can’t experience the profound peace and power of God in your life as long as you are holding on to pet sins.  While that seems to go without saying, I’m not talking about big, obvious sins like theft, murder, adultery, etc., things that are generally frowned upon by moral society.  I’m talking about the things that we tend to overlook and accept in ourselves and others, sins easily caught and kept in the Styrofoam cup of our hearts, so to speak.  While we find it easy to tolerate, even foster things like jealousy, pride, gossip, and sloth, the Lord calls them detestable.    

So, if you find yourself struggling to find or regain the kind of intimacy with God that others talk about or you once had, maybe it’s time to show the Father what’s in your heart and let him clean it out and fill it for you.  Don’t be shy.  Believe me, you won’t be the first one to bring Him something dirty.     

Bring It

Chico and I took a walk in a new neighborhood recently and came across something pretty remarkable.  Judging by the way he walked afterward, pulling at his leash, head held high, I think Chico was inspired.  I know I was. 

We’d been walking only a few minutes when we topped the first hill.  Suddenly, a dirty soccer ball appeared from the side lawn of a nearby house and skipped toward our curb.  

“Bring it, Maximus,” a man’s voice called. 

Instinctively, I scooped Chico up and stood my ground.  I just knew a Great Dane or some other huge dog would bound around the corner to fetch the big ball and make a snack of my Chihuahua on the way. 

That didn’t happen. 

Instead, a shaggy little ball of black and tan fur not much bigger than the magnolia blooms on a nearby tree came tearing out from behind the house, his tiny ears perked, his neck arched like he meant business.  I had to laugh.  This was Maximus? A Yorkie? 

Chico looked surprised, too, relaxing a bit in my arms and tilting his head.

Maximus ignored us, focused fully on his task.  In just a few short, but determined little leaps, he passed the soccer ball and wheeled around on it, lowering his head to absorb the impact.  Surprisingly, the ball stopped, knocking the pup back only a couple of inches.   I was mesmerized.  What would he do now?  There was no way he could get that thing in his mouth. 

“Maximus, bring it.” 

Determined, Maximus threw himself toward the soccer ball in response to his master’s voice.  In rapid succession, he used his forehead, nose, and front paws to get the ball moving, picking up speed as he went.  By the time he had moved the enormous fetch toy ten feet, he had a rhythm going.  Enjoying himself immensely, he shoved the ball ahead repeatedly, hopping along behind it, his tongue hanging out.  

I couldn’t believe it.  I looked at Chico.  His nose twitched.  He couldn’t believe it either.  

When Maximus disappeared behind the house with the ball, we followed and cleared the hedge just in time to watch Maximus “bring it” to the feet of his master, an older gentleman with a full head of wavy white hair and white mustache.  Chuckling his approval, he leaned down to pet the dog’s head.  Then, nodding a hello to Chico and me, he held a trickling garden hose just under Maximus’s nose.  Maximus took only a quick drink before looking back to his master, ready for another go at the soccer ball.

Playing fetch with a soccer ball was obviously something that the two had been doing together for a long time, and I wondered how the tradition had begun.  I’m sure that the man didn’t throw a soccer ball the first time out.  He probably started with one of those tiny tennis balls made for miniature dogs and gradually worked his way up. 

Although Maximus was probably skilled at the game of catch by the time the first soccer ball was ever thrown, I can’t help but wonder how he felt the first time his master threw it.  What was he thinking as he moved into position behind the giant moving ball and prepared for impact? He couldn’t have had a clear view of his master from that vantage point, and I wonder whether he hesitated when he realized it.  Whatever his thoughts, at some point, Maximus mustered up the nerve to take the first blow and charged forward, relying on fetching skills developed over time and trust in his master born from past experience.  Sooner or later, he must have successfully delivered the ball to his master’s feet and enjoyed praise and reward for his obedience as well as a deepening bond with his master.  Why else would he keep doing it?  

Strange as it seems, I can relate to Maximus in some ways.  Over time, my Heavenly Father has asked more and more of me, allowing things that I would never have chosen for myself to enter my life.  However, He has never asked more of me than He has already prepared me to handle, and He is never far away, even when the size or nature of the challenge at hand makes it seem as if He is. In those lonely moments, when the obstacle looms large and I am tempted to give in to fear or worse, the Master calls to me through His Word.  In my spirit, I feel it, and my heart quickens, giving me just what I need to push through and overcome.   

When I do choose to obey, my faith grows stronger.  God renews my strength and prepares me for whatever comes next.  While I can’t honestly say that I look forward to each new challenge with eagerness like Maximus does, I do trust the Master.  He is faithful.  He is good.  He sustains me and has promised to work everything together for my good and His glory.  Only because I know Him can I even think of saying to the future, “Bring it.”  

Now I Know Better

I used to think I could really sing, but now I know better.  Now, certain friends and family members of mine would argue with this statement, so let me clarify.  I sing well enough.  I sing well enough to harmonize with my husband and kids in the car, well enough to sing out during the acapella part of the worship set at church, and well enough to sing a phrase or two in front of my seventh grade students to illustrate a point.  I would add lullabies to this list, but I was once silenced by my two-year-old daughter as I sang her to sleep.  Her mouth full of pacifier, she didn’t make a sound, but instead covered my mouth mid-chorus with her chubby little hand.  Smiling politely from behind her paci, she closed her sleepy eyes, let her little arm fall against me, and drifted off to sleep.

Like I was saying, I used to think I could sing.  As a matter of fact, when I was just seven, I felt ready for the stage.  I had been singing my whole life, after all.  I had a microphone of my very own and everything.  Then, one Sunday evening, a woman in my mother’s church ensemble got sick and couldn’t make it to their performance.  Convinced that it was meant to be, I was glad that I had chosen to wear my special bell-bottomed overalls with the red rick-rack trim that evening.  All the way to church, I begged my mother to let me take the woman’s place. 

From the back seat of our station wagon, I made my case.  “Please, Mommy,” I pleaded through the gap where my front tooth had been only weeks before, “I can do it!  I don’t sound like a little girl anymore.  I sound just like you.  Listen.”  Smoothing my long braids to each side, I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and filled the car with my loudest and best vibrato.  I tried very hard to sing with emotion like the Gaithers did, adding a twang here and a breathy note there.  For effect, I ended my audition with an extra long note that took a couple of breaths to complete. 

When I finally ran out of air, I opened my eyes.  My little sister sat beside me on the bench seat wide-eyed and silent, her mouth hanging open, no doubt amazed by my talent.  Anxiously, I met my mother’s gaze in the rearview mirror.  She didn’t applaud, but I knew why.  She needed her hands to drive.

I don’t remember how she turned me down, but she did and managed not to hurt my feelings in the process.  I remember feeling genuinely sorry for the ladies that they would have to go on without me.  I never once thought that the problem might be me. 

I also used to think that I was spiritually mature.  For instance, I remember being a child who never took the Lord’s name in vain and thinking that those who did must love the devil.  I remember putting money in the plate and wondering why the person next to me didn’t.  I remember memorizing Bible verses with my family and taking every opportunity to quote them in front of people that I knew did not memorize Bible verses with their families.    

Of course, I was just a child when I did those things, but my childish behavior didn’t stop when I grew up.  In college, even after having made some terrible mistakes of my own, I was still quick to compare myself to others in areas that I felt I had mastered, praying, reading my Bible regularly, and loving people whom some had trouble loving.  Years later, as a minister’s wife, I was a little too quick to judge and correct at times, wearing my position like a policeman’s badge when I was feeling particularly spiritual. Looking back, I know that God worked through me during that time, but it hurts to think that He worked in spite of my faults, not as a result of my noteworthy obedience and faithfulness.  Honestly, on this side of that chapter in my life, I wish I had it to do over again.  I would be kinder, more patient, more forgiving, and more hospitable this time around.  Although I truly loved the people in the churches where we were blessed to serve, this time I would love them more sincerely and sacrificially.

Even now, I would like to say that I have learned my lesson and grown up a little bit, but just this morning, a fellow believer did something that caused me to shake my head and “tsk” to myself.  Before I knew it, my pride puffed up like an inflatable life jacket and almost choked me, and I am beginning to think that spiritual maturity is not something that can be reached this side of Heaven.  Maybe, as we struggle side by side to be what God created us to be, we should all just assume that we’ve a long way to go before we are ready to invite the applause of others and just focus on the task at hand.  Maybe then there would be unity and peace and progress in the Church.  Don’t you agree?  If not, that’s fine. Maybe you are not the problem. Maybe it’s just me.

Lotion on My Toothbrush

This has been a lotion on my toothbrush kind of day so far.  I am so distracted by the heavy dose of this world that I’ve been forced to swallow over the past week that I am having trouble focusing on the simplest of tasks.  Gossip, slander, anger, brawling, greed, lasciviousness, and malice, those are the wolves at my heels, and I am shaken and weary from the battle. 

A few weeks back, I saw a man on television.  His house had been hit by a tornado.  The outside had been ripped off and scattered over miles.  He and his wife had survived only because their bedroom was located beneath the heavy central beam of the house, and I can’t help feeling as if the only reason I survived this week is because I am covered by the strong and constant central beam of Jesus in my life. 

The Bible says not to be surprised by the suffering that we will face, and yet I find that I am.  I guess I didn’t expect the suffering to be quite so personal.  When people do and say things to me because I’m a Christian, referencing God and challenging me verbally, I feel strong.  I know my Jesus, and I know my Bible.  It’s almost exciting when I get the chance to stand up for my Defender.  However, when the attacks have nothing to do with my faith and are intensely personal, I don’t always know how to respond.  It is not exciting, and I do not feel strong. 

Instead, I feel as if my bricks and shingles have been strewn about, my heart exposed.  In those moments, I know I have a choice.  I can respond to the world the way the world has responded to my presence, leveling people to their vulnerable core with my sharp tongue, the part of my flesh that I struggle to suppress the most, or I can cling to the central beam of Jesus, whispering prayers to the One who always hears me and forcing myself to weather the storm in a way that honors Him.

Here is what I have learned this week.  The world is not impressed by anything that we Christians would choose to bring to show and tell if given the chance.  They don’t care that we don’t cuss, get drunk, or see rated R movies, and they don’t care whether or not we attend church regularly.  They are unimpressed by our tithing, and don’t care how we choose to educate our children.  I’m starting to think that much of what we work so hard to achieve as Christians does little to actually further the kingdom of God.  It’s all good and keeps our armor clean, so to speak.  God commands us to be holy, after all, but it is not the battle that the Bible talks about our having to fight.  

I think the world is tired of listening to us talk about things that are only important to us.  They want to see whether the Jesus that we confess is actually willing and able to sustain us in the ugliness and unpredictability of real life, the kind of mess that they have to deal with every day.  So, they do not shield us.  Honestly, I think they watch, instead.  In a sense, the battle of every day is where the real show and tell of our faith takes place.  When we are able, in God’s strength, to bless those who curse us, forgive those who hurt us, and pray for our enemies, we display a power beyond our own, one that humans do not possess in and of themselves.  We give the Holy Spirit the opportunity to reveal to on-lookers the God-shaped void in their own hearts, and in so doing, bring glory to the Father.

The Bible tells me to consider it pure joy when I face trials of many kinds.  Well, I guess if those trials bring me closer to my Jesus, the One who loves me most, and bring glory to the Father, then I’ll just rely on God for the strength and grace to keep on fighting, but I’m going to have to start keeping the lotion somewhere else. 

Shoe Joy

I love to watch little kids play.  A couple of days ago, while at the mall, I got a weird foot cramp and used it as an excuse to sit on one of the benches inside the children’s play area.  Laying my bags down at my feet, I settled near the entrance to the playground and was shortly joined by a big-eyed little boy with crazy black hair.  He was adorable in the way that baby orangutans are adorable.  

He didn’t seem to notice me, but kept his dark eyes fixed on the entrance, a shoe box in his lap.  He leaned forward in anticipation and worked his little lips side to side as he watched the feet of the children who entered.  Soon, a pale little boy with wavy, red hair and impossibly green eyes skipped into the playground. 

Immediately, the big-eyed boy pounced.  Invading the little ginger’s personal space, he stared into the startled face and pointed at his shoes.  A little too loudly, he asked, “Hey, are those new shoes?”

The little boy smiled and stuck out his foot, proudly displaying faux leather sandals that couldn’t have been out of the box for more than twenty minutes.  “Yes!” he replied, happy that someone had noticed.  “My mommy got them for me!”

Little Mowgli licked his lips.  “They’re cool!” he approved, nodding.  “My mommy got me some shoes today, too.  They’re Skechers!  Wanna see ‘em?”  Eagerly and with fumbling fingers, he opened the shoebox and held up new blue and black Skechers.  His smile faded when he saw that his new friend had already skipped away.

Shrugging, Mowgli determined not to let one person’s response steal his shoe joy.  Instead, he settled on his bottom and crammed his socked feet into his new shoes.  Backwards.  Toes pointing in opposite directions like wooden signs at a fork in the road, he ran to join the other children, stopping every ten feet or so to stare down at his feet and wiggle his toes, undoubtedly trying to figure out why they felt different than they did in the store.  

Eventually, the boy’s mother noticed his error and helped him unscramble his feet.  For the rest of the half hour that I spent in the children’s play area, little Mowgli reveled in his new shoes, showing every child that slowed down for half a second his “awesome Skechers.”  Some kids nodded.  Some kids looked at him like he was crazy (I think it was the hair) and moved on.  Some squatted to admire. 

By the time I left, every shiny, painted foam element in the playground had a new name.  The leopard had become the Skecher Leopard, the daisies, Skecher Flowers, and the boat, The Skecher Boat.  Many of the children got caught up in the excitement and followed their Skecher-clad friend around Pied Piper style in a giggling, chanting single-file line.  It seemed that almost everyone had caught Skecher fever.  A few sat on their foam elements and scowled, but you can’t please everyone, right?    

You know, I remember the last time that I got that excited about the shiny, new life that God has given me through Jesus.  It’s not that hard.  Actually, it was only last week, not that anyone around me could tell.  I didn’t exactly know how to express what I was feeling and thinking, so I said nothing.  I don’t think I’m the only one.

I think the trouble is that we, as Christians, try so hard not to offend others with our faith that we end up robbing them and ourselves of a lot of happiness and joy.  We waste time looking for the non-existent perfect opening before talking about Jesus at all, and even then, we mull over the words we should say until we psyche ourselves out and stay quiet instead, convinced that we need more evangelistic training before starting a conversation with such potentially eternal impact.  

Honestly, I think we’ve made entirely too big a deal out of “sharing Jesus.”  Why can’t we, in our mountaintop moments, just come out with it, like little Mowgli did?  What’s wrong with saying something like, “Hey, guess what my Heavenly Father did for me today,” or “Can I just tell you how awesome Jesus is?”  Absolutely nothing. 

However, if we ever do get comfortable talking about Jesus as casually and as often as the people around us discuss family problems and antidepressant prescriptions, the responses that we get will probably be mixed.  Some will nod politely.  Others will look at us like we are crazy, and some will really listen.  Hopefully, some will become followers themselves.  Sure, some will resist our Jesus joy and choose instead to sit back and scowl at us, but you can’t please everyone, right? 

Rescue Human

My chihuahua loves me. Everywhere I go, he is there, anticipating my every move, golden eyes steady on mine, curled tail wagging, his posture one of total submission.  When I sit, I have to do so carefully because he often jumps into my spot ahead of me, anticipating a snuggle.  If I don't scoot him over, I will squash him. When I eat cereal, he finishes the milk.  When I go into the bathroom, he sits outside the door. When I come home from work, he sits on top of the big chair, the highest point closest to the front door, and stretches his front paws out toward me, lowering his head for a good scratch and a "good boy, Chico."

I used to think that he did these things because I was the one that fed him, gave him treats, and purposefully dropped scraps of food for him to find when I was cooking.  Now, I am not so sure.  My kids are now responsible for feeding Chico, and my daughter is the one who gives him treats for waking everyone up in the morning. Still, given a choice of family members to spend time with, my dog chooses me nine times out of ten.

Now, I have always thought it strange when people referred to their pets as literally being their children.  After all, we are humans, and they are animals, right?  Nonetheless, yesterday, I found myself asking my husband, "Todd, do you think Chico thinks I am his mother?"

"No," he responded, to my great relief, "I think he knows you are his rescuer."

It makes sense.  I found Chico at the Humane Society in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  He was emaciated and sad and needed a home.  I remember that when I opened the door to his cage, he stood very slowly and crept gingerly across the black metal grate, his ribs a visible framework underneath his short, blonde coat.  The moment I held him to me, he stretched his neck, laid his head just under my chin, and closed his eyes.  He had a cough and was wheezing quite a bit, but I felt his little body relax in my arms and knew that I would take him home. He has been my faithful friend ever since, ardent in expressing his undying love and appreciation for having been rescued.  Not just rescued, but adopted.

In truth, I wish I were more like Chico.  I have a rescuer, too, and I am sad to admit that I get lazy sometimes and fail to express my love for Him and show proper gratitude for what He has done.  I was only six, after all, when Jesus wiped my sin away, and I am tempted to use that as an excuse.  Maybe I would be more consistent in my worship if I had gotten farther down that wide and corrupted road before being set free...maybe if I had done something horrible first.  Of course, the biggest problem with that very lame excuse is that my heart knows just how selfish and human I can be.  It's really not what I was before Jesus that terrifies and shames me. It's what I would be now without Him.  That is the cage from which I have been rescued.  Not just rescued, but adopted.

Tornado Season

It's springtime in Oklahoma, tornado season, and our family is on high alert, especially my daughter. She wasn't born yet when the May third twister took her Mema's house to the foundation in 1999, but she's heard enough about it to develop a healthy paranoia when it comes to storms.  Honestly, I think Hope would live her entire life without a single May flower if only she could avoid April showers altogether, each of which sends her into an obsessive tailspin of activity, checking the weather app on her iPod, lying awake listening for sirens, and deciding how best to hang onto her chihuahua should the roof be sucked off of our house.  I think she's decided to go with putting him inside her shirt.

A week or so ago, it stayed overcast and rainy for several days.  On the way to school, her eyes pink and puffy from lack of sleep, Hope sighed, "I just hate the way this weather makes me feel, Mom.  It's like I'm trapped and the sun is gone for good.  I mean, I know it's up there somewhere because l can tell night from day and the plants aren't dying, but  I just want to see it and feel it for myself so I know everything is okay, you know?"

I knew exactly what she meant.  My heart feels that way sometimes. When sickness comes or people disappoint or money is tight or I have just gotten so busy that I haven't made God my priority, it's hard for me to remember that God doesn't change and that He hasn't left me.  Though I never doubt His existence or His love for me, I sometimes overestimate the power of the enemy and allow Him to corner my emotions and steal my joy.  

There's no easy way out of a spiritual funk like that.  Now, sometimes, God in His mercy simply breaks through my thoughts and warms my soul with His presence through the words of a song or the embrace of a loved one, but more often than not, He allows me to do the work of seeking Him before keeping His promise to be found.  

In times like those, I rely on God's Word and memories of God's faithfulness to get me through.  Minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day, I consciously--though often not so enthusiastically--choose to do the things the Bible tells me to do and wait for God to show Himself faithful, and you know what? He always does.  Sometimes slowly, but always surely, God reveals Himself to me once again, growing my faith, restoring to my soul the joy of my salvation, and letting me know that everything is okay.

Pick Me Up, Daddy!

As often as possible, my husband and I try to squeeze in  some porch time just before sunset.  We've never lived anywhere with a good sized front porch before, and so we are all about observing the very Mayberry tradition of porch sitting whenever we can now that we have one.  The trouble is, we are one of the only houses on our street that has a big front porch, making it difficult to mix and mingle Andy Taylor style with the neighbors.  Maybe if Todd broke out the guitar and I made lemonade...

Anyway, last night, Todd and I heard happy squealing coming from the new house at the opposite end of our street.  A woman had just brought her two small children out to the driveway to welcome Daddy home from work, one a babe in arms, the other a dark-haired little Princess about two and a half years old.   Overcome with anticipation, the two year old clapped, hopped, hugged herself, and squealed repeatedly as Daddy's car pulled around the corner and eased into the driveway.  As soon as the sedan came to a complete stop, the little girl ran to Daddy, arms open wide. 

Todd and I smiled at one another, remembering what it was like when Hope was that small, and I got a little emotional anticipating the embrace between father and daughter that would surely come.

Daddy got out of the car and collected his things.

Princess jumped and stretched and cried, "Daddy, Daddy! Pick me up, Daddy!" 

Daddy didn't respond, but exchanged a lackluster greeting with his wife and turned toward the house.

Again, "Pick me up, Daddy!"

Todd said it first, willing the man to hear him, though he barely spoke the words.  "Pick her up." 

Daddy made his way toward the front door, and Princess began to lose her confidence. "Daddy. Daddy?" A whimper.

Still no response.  

"Pick her up!" I breathed.

A pang went through my heart as I watched Princess give up.  Quiet and dejected, she followed her parents inside, her soft little arms limp at her sides, her tiny head hung low.

"She isn't going to want to be picked up for much longer," Todd said, shaking his head. "He is really missing out."  I agreed, and we sat in silence for just a few moments more before going inside.  

All evening long, I had trouble shaking the scene from my mind.  The whole thing made me so sad. It should not have gone that way, even if Daddy was tired, even if Princess had been a real pill that day. A father's love is supposed to be unconditional.  Our Heavenly Father's is.  That I know for sure, both from personal experience and from Scripture, but did you know that His affection is unconditional as well?  

"Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you." James 4:8

It's as simple as that.  God loves you and is just as eager to spend time with you as you are to spend time with Him.  Even though He is busy holding the universe in balance, even when you have been a real pill, you can approach Him with confidence, knowing that He will always pick you up when you run to him with your heart open wide.  

 

You Know What They Say

Someone just said to me, "You know what they say about all work and no play..." Actually, no, I don't know what they say.  I've heard that phrase my whole life, but I have never actually heard the rest of the adage.  People just assume I know the rest when I don't.   I wonder if they know it or if they are just pretending to know because it sounds like everyone else knows.  Now, I can assume from the context of the conversation I just had that all work and no play is a bad thing, but why? Does it make you grumpy? Bored? Unhealthy?

There are some people who would probably say that all work and no play makes you more productive than the next person, that it is a good thing. Now, I personally think that perspective is a little off, but who am I to say? I don't know how the adage really goes.  No one has ever told me, and no one has ever shown me exactly what it has to do with me.  So, I guess I will just assume that I know what I am talking about, use the phrase like everyone else does so that I can fit in, and leave others to form their equally valid opinions about this particular partial nugget of wisdom, since there seems to be no absolute right or wrong way to say it.

Growing tired of my Seinfeldesque monologue? Me too.  Here is why I even mention it.  I think that many of us, without meaning to, handle the Word of God the same way.  We act as if everyone knows what is in it--especially those of us living in the Bible belt--and understands what it has to do with them.  We  throw out scripture references in conversation without explanation and quote bits of scripture out of context as it serves our purposes, which is sometimes just to sound spiritual. 

The problem with handling scripture this way  is that God's Word is absolute Truth.   It is the standard by which right and wrong is discerned, and it is very, very powerful.  God Himself calls it a two edged sword, and, like any other sharp object, it must be handled carefully.  Those who wield it like a child running with scissors can and probably will do more damage than good.  

It is so important that we, as believers, become knowledgable about scripture so that we can speak Truth responsibly and intentionally into the lives of others, leading them to salvation and/or a deeper, more meaningful relationship with Christ.  If we don't, they will make false assumptions, spread half-truth (which is falsehood), and become complacent about standing up for what is right because they honestly don't know right from wrong.  We all have to do our part, so that one day, when future generations are told, "You know what the Good Book says...," they will be able to respond with a resounding "Yes!"

Shoulder Pads and Diet Pepsi

Last week on American Idol, Jennifer Lopez wore a dress with shoulder pads for the second time this season. Don't get me wrong.  I am an eighties girl.  I don't have anything against shoulder pads.   I just find it to be an interesting fashion choice for someone like her.  When I mentioned that to my family, my twelve year old shrugged, "Maybe that's all she had clean."

Now you and I both know that JLo had more than one dress clean.  She probably never has to wear an article of clothing more than once, diamond studded or not, if she doesn't want to.  Her closet is, no doubt, something like the one belonging to Princess Mia on The Princess Diaries 2, tiaras and all.  She wore that dress because she meant to wear that dress.  She pulled it out of her personal treasure trove specifically for the occasion.  A mistake, in my opinion.

You know, JLo isn't the only one with a treasure trove to pull from.  I have one, too, though not like Jennifer's, and I was reminded of that during my personal Bible study recently.  I have known Jesus for well over thirty years and, as the wife of a minister, have spent more hours than many people my age focusing on "God things," not always because I wanted to but because it comes with the territory.  I have spent years of my life listening to sermons and Bible studies and have had many one on one conversations with people who are doing great things for the Kingdom of God.  Last but not least,  I have a Bible that contains Truth pertinent to any and all issues that may arise related to the human experience as well as God's clearly delineated plan of salvation. That Bible tells me to be ready in and out of season to share the reason for the hope that I have in Jesus.

Why, then, didn't I respond properly the day that a woman, looking haggard and a bit crazed, showed up on my front porch looking for help? It was about nine o'clock in the morning, and I had just finished watching The Today Show when I heard a banging on my door.  Before I had even opened it all the way, a giant lady reached in and pushed the door back, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and soured laundry.  "It's all gone to hell in a hand basket, and I'm straight trippin', Boo!" she exclaimed.

Now, to my knowledge, I have never been anyone's Boo, so maybe that's why I didn't know quite what to say.  I stood there stunned.  After a few awkward seconds, I think I responded with something lame like, "I'm so sorry.  Would you like a Diet Pepsi?" 

I wish I could say that I shared the gospel with that woman.  I don't know that I have ever come across a person so ripe to hear it.  But, I didn't.  I did get to the bottom of her immediate need and was able to help her purchase school uniforms for her boys, but I missed the chance to introduce her to Jesus.  After she left, I realized my mistake and my heart sank.  It turns out that the woman's boys went to my school, and so I tried repeatedly to find an opportunity to make things right, but I never got the opportunity to share Jesus with her again.  

Whether they admit it or not, those who don't know Jesus want to hear the Truth of the gospel.  Deep down, they want to believe that life is more than they have found it to be on their own.  When they seek us out asking for help, they are expecting the real, life-changing answers from us that we claim to have. In a manner of speaking, that day on my front porch was my big moment on stage, and I blew it.  A heart full of Truth at my disposal, I offered a woman shallow words and a quick fix in her time of real need because I wasn't prepared.  She needed Jesus, and I handed her a cold beverage because that's all I had handy.  A tragic mistake.

For Now

I don't remember much about my grandad.  He passed away when I was six or seven years old, so the memories that I have of him, though significant to me and emotionally charged, are fragmented and fuzzy at best.  I do remember sitting on his lap in church when I was very small, however.  My grandad was six and a half feet tall, so his was a bony, long lap that extended far beyond the hem of my dress.   It wasn't particularly comfortable, but I preferred it to the padded pew.  I liked the way he would tuck my cold hands under his to keep them warm during the sermon, his long, slender fingers like a heavy blanket.

No matter how hard I try, I can't see my grandad's face, but I can feel his smile, his approval, when I concentrate.  And though I can't hear his voice, I do remember knowing exactly what he expected of me and feeling secure in his love.  More than anything, I remember the way I felt when I was with him, cherished, protected, and preferred.

I do get frustrated sometimes at my inability to connect with this man that loved me so much.  I would love to have just a few hours with him so that I could fill the gaps in my memory, but that is impossible, at least for now.  So, for now I guess I'll be content with what I know of him and look forward to Heaven, where he waits for the rest of his family.

As much as I would love to be reunited with my grandad, I only think about him sometimes.  I was just a little girl when he went ahead.  My desire to finally see my Jesus face to face is so much more intense.  Scripture tells us that though we only see in part right now, someday, we will know in full, and that is exactly how I want to see Jesus, not as I do now, peering through the fuzzy and fragmented lens of human experience. 

I cannot even imagine the relief it will be to see with my own eyes the tender love in my Savior's when He looks at me, and  I can't begin to fathom the thrill it will be to finally hear His audible voice say my name after a lifetime of calling on His. The more I think about it, the harder it gets to wait, but I don't really have a choice.  For now, I guess I will stay the course, live for His approval, and rest in the knowledge that I am loved, protected, and preferred by the One who has gone to prepare a place for me.

Leave It to Jesus

"Father forgive them, for they know not what they do," or something very near to that.  That's what Jesus said while his murderers stared, not helping, not caring, not sorry.   You know, I feel like I am pretty good at forgiving and moving on until I consider this verse. Now,  it's a small thing to forgive small acts of rudeness or neglect, though I find that I do have trouble pardoning the drivers that give me dirty looks and people who cut in line or take up two parking spaces because they think their expensive car deserves more space than mine or cuss at me...okay, so maybe it's not such a small thing.

Anyway, it should be a small thing to overlook the minor infractions of other people, but it's even harder to forgive the intentional attacks of others.  (I would start a list here, too, but I fear what I might reveal about myself!)  So how did Jesus do it?  How did he forgive such an intentional, brutal attack?  Leave it to Jesus to do the impossible...

Here is what I can't get past about Jesus' prayer.  He told God that the killers didn't know what they are doing.   They most certainly did!   How do you accidentally crucify someone?  Even if you were in some kind of trance, the cries of agony would have to bring you out of it, wouldn't they?  Jesus knew this, so what did he really mean? Maybe he was referring to the fact that they didn't know who He was, didn't know that He was God's Son.  If that's it, they were about to find out, weren't they? I must admit that it gives me some degree of satisfaction to imagine their shame and horror when the sky turned black and they realized what they had done.   

And this is where my reverie ends.  This is where the story hits too close to home.   After all, isn't the Jesus they killed the same one that I grieve each and every time I sin?  Is it not His death that I take lightly every time I knowingly choose to ignore the warnings and commands of the Holy Spirit in my heart?  Much as I hate to admit it, I am no better than Jesus' killers in and of myself. Much to my shame and horror, I find that I am just as deserving of God's wrath as they.

And yet, because of what Jesus did, I am forgiven.  Because of what Jesus did, God calls me His child.  Now that I think about it, maybe those who do me wrong, intentionally or otherwise, just aren't aware of Whose I am.  Knowing what God says He will do to those who mess with His kids, I actually feel sorry for them.  I wouldn't wish that kind of judgment on someone else after having been spared myself.  How could I? Hah! Listen to me. Who would have thought that I could learn to have mercy on my enemies?  Leave it to Jesus to do the impossible...