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?