Christmas: Sacrifice, Submission and Giving

"Sacrifice" is probably not one of those words you'll see printed on a Christmas ornament. Neither is "submission," or "demoralizing," or "obedience" -- concepts that rarely come to mind while staring into a Christmas creche. But, sacrifice is the very essence of Christmas.

The coming of God to Earth was a tremendous gift. Emmanuel, God with us, come to give His life for all. Sacrifice. But that life began long before a Babe's first gasp or a bar mitzvah, or a public ministry; Jesus sacrificed His life the moment He left His glory, His kingdom in heaven for the dark warmth of a young mother's womb.

The King of kings elected to lie in a feeding trough and be lauded by simple shepherds. Jesus chose to have His bottom cleaned and His nose wiped. He submitted to rules about jumping on the furniture, and eating vegetables, and curfews. Luke 2:51, says He obeyed Joseph and Mary. Do you think they got it right every time? Were they too hard on Him at times? Did they ever opt to "just skip synagogue and sleep in"? How would He have felt, knowing He needed to be in His Father's house, but was instead being told to get back to bed? Do you think Joseph and Mary never found themselves down to their last nerve? But Jesus submitted. He subjected Himself to physical limitations and fatigue, the stomach flu, back-breaking work, difficult neighbors, cancellations and rescheduled appointments, hunger and poverty. And what of Jesus' half-siblings? Oh, the jealousy He must have experienced! The drama at family dinners and special celebrations!

Jesus was "taught" Scripture -- by men! Imagine Shakespeare taking your community college's Lit course, or Mozart sitting through a sixth-grade music class. But Jesus submitted to men's authority. He partook of feasts and watched -- up close and personal -- the idolatry of His people, exchanging love for God, for a love of rules and ceremony. How He must have wept to hear their bitter talk of waiting so long for deliverance and their cynicism toward a God whose timetable was not their own. But He chose this existence among us. For me. For us all.

He endured arrogance and ignorance, people in bondage who cried out for help but refused to leave their circumstances; betrayal and judgment. He lavished love on those who would later cry out, "Crucify Him." He never once spoke out in haste or frustration against inconsiderate neighbors. He never chose entitlement over servitude, despite His being fully, undeniably entitled. He gave up all of Himself -- His "self" -- to be God With Us.

As Christmas nears, let us not forget true giving, the kind of giving that instills this season with its meaning. Giving obediently. Giving humbly. Giving sacrificially.

Mary Remembered

"Christmas is right around the corner", my mother used to say, a veiled warning to be good lest Santa bounce right over the rubber roof of our little row home. Now, I'm thinking about the upcoming holiday, and all it means to me as a believer. So much more than just "be good." I'm not dreading the threat of a Christmas morning wasteland beneath a tinsel-draped dying fir, as I did when I was a child. I'm thinking about the holiday, the holy day.

Christmas is an occasion to remember, and we all need opportunities to remember. We celebrate anniversaries and birthdays and gotcha days to recall important days in our lives, and celebrate the lives of those we honor or the paths we've traveled since that day. It's an important human function to commemorate. I think that might be why Luke tells us twice, Mary locked away the memories of Jesus' birth and His youth, deep within her heart.

I have a favorite holiday memory. My son was, maybe, eight-years old. We had been visiting family in South Philly, and dared not leave the area without a visit to one of the local bakeries. Having completed that ceremony, we stopped for coffee to prepare for the ride home. An elderly woman stood outside the store, shivering in the blustery cold. Steven begged me to give her the blanket from the trunk. As I opened the lid, he saw the rolls we'd just purchased. "Can we give her some of these, too?" I saw my son's heart that day, so kind and gentle; but so vulnerable to anyone who wanted to take advantage.

Mary had given birth to the King of kings, the Messiah, the Lord of all lords. But to the mother in her, He was Jesus, her little boy. How she must have feared for Him! In His kindness, in His gentleness, she had to have known there would be those who would take advantage of Him. She had to have yearned to keep Him close to her forever, to protect His innocence from those who would plot evil against Him. To watch Him grow and begin His ministry, healing and lavishing love on the "greatest of sinners", while the vipers stood closely by, waiting to shame and devour Him -- how her heart must have ached!

But, in her pain, in the darkest of days, she would remember. She would remember the shepherds arriving dirty from the field and out of breath from their haste, eager to see that which the Lord had made known to them. She would remember the wonder on their faces, and the excitement coursing throughout Bethlehem and the surrounding regions, as the shepherds testified to what they had seen. She would remember the fear she felt as, twelve years later, she and Joseph searched frantically through crowded streets for her boy. She would remember the words He spoke, and smile with understanding so many years later. He was so wise and confident, this child of hers, but He was His Father's Son. He had only wanted to help, to save them and teach them about the One who had sent Him. All the good He did sprung from a heart that served His Father and truly loved others.

And how they would repay this boy of hers. A man, now in His thirties, but still a boy to His mother. Hanging from a tree, condemned to death for truth, for love. Why didn't He defend Himself? Why didn't all of heaven come to save Him? But in the space of three days, she would come to know. In the space of three days she would come to remember her son in a new way. By bread and wine. Not just her son, but her Savior.

This Christmas, remember. Teach your children that being good is right, but being truly kind and gentle toward others comes from a heart filled with love, the love of Christ our Savior and Lord.

Getting Your Socks Wet

I call this photo, "Relationship."

It was raining cats and dogs. Though the morning was unseasonably warm, afternoon storms had brought with them winds and much colder air. It was just after 2 pm, when I saw the taillights of my husband's truck refracted by the deluge, and creeping into the backyard. Large puddles had collected in the grass, the dirt path around our stepping stones had become a river of mud, and the deck was holding more water than I'd ever thought possible. Everything about the scene gave me to sigh with relief; we were all in for the day, cozy and warm. The family room had become gloomy with the departure of sunny skies, and I turned to flip the light on for Mom. Just then, I heard it, a voice choked with astonishment:

"What are you doing?! Get back in that house!"

That quickly our grandson had exploded out the backdoor, across the deck and straight onto the banks of Mud River. Bad enough he had no jacket. Bad enough he had not stopped to ask. But this little man was in his stocking feet, running full tilt, and screaming, "POPPI!!!" as loud as his lungs would allow.

Hence, the sopping wet socks which hang, more than a day later, drying on the laundry cart. Abandon, reckless abandon. Excitement. Fervor. Impulse which could have sent him gliding across a slick deck. Disregard for comfort, or well-being, or convention; not a split-second pause to consider what he was doing, or carefully step onto what could be treacherous terrain. A completely spontaneous, unbridled, even excessive response to the presence of his Poppi, the one with whom he longs to work side-by-side. His friend was home, nothing would stop him, and he met him with all he had.

I'm thinking, if my relationship with Jesus hasn't yielded a pair or two of sopping wet socks, maybe it's time.

Most Thankful

Are you thinking about gratitude or blessings today? Maybe you're thinking about turkey and stuffing, or uncomfortable moments with your mother-in-law. But, it's Thanksgiving, the day we are all supposed to be happy and thankful; the day we all say, "We should be thankful everyday." And then go out and get into it with someone over a parking spot on Black Friday. (Or, maybe, we're struggling to make it past dessert without a conflict.)

It seems appropriate we begin the holiday season with a day of thanks-giving. After all, Christmas, the coming of Jesus to mankind is one of the most significant events for which we should be thankful. Without Christmas, there'd be no Easter; without Easter, there'd be little reason for Christmas. And Thanks-giving? Well, that is where Christmas and Easter converge.

2 Corinthians 5:19 tells us:

"...God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation."

We were out there! I mean, we had broken relationship with the very One who designed us, created us, and has a plan for us, as individuals and humanity in general! We wanted nothing to do with a faithful, loving God. Why? All kinds of reasons. Fear, self-centeredness, a rebellious nature, bitterness -- you name it. So, we separated. In Christ, by His coming to humanity (Christmas), God gave us a glimpse of who He is. In Christ, by His suffering in agony and dying on a cross for humanity(Easter), God gave us a clear picture of what He was willing to do to have us back.

Additionally, all that stuff we did while we rebelled against our Creator? All that stuff we still do, and will do in the moments of fear and self-centeredness and rebellion and bitterness and more, that grip us even now? He doesn't hold any of it against us. Any of it!

Lastly, we are free to tell everyone what has been done for us and for them. We are encouraged to tell everyone what has been done for us and for them. We are made responsible to tell everyone what has been done for us and for them. In a way that is special to how God made us. Back when we were living our lives for ourselves, rebelling and being self-centered, apart from God? We were carrying with us all along, the interests, experiences and abilities God gave us that we might serve Him once we were reconciled! Were you born with a beautiful voice? As you experience more fully all God has done for you, you may begin to realize your love of music was given to you that you might praise Him before hundreds in song. Have you always been curious about nature? As you walk more closely with Jesus, you might walk with your children through nature, explaining to them the intricacies of God's creation. Or maybe your difficult childhood has made you "perfect" for helping troubled kids. God created each of us to tell others in some way, what His love has done.

And if we, celebrate Christmas fully knowing and embracing what was accomplished at Easter, our eyes will be opened to the reconciliation, forgiveness and empowerment given to us. And it is with overflowing gratitude we will greet everyone on Thanksgiving Day, and every day.

Happy Thanksgiving!

What Has God Asked You to Do?

"Can carrots drown?"and"Why not?"and"How do you know?"

Nap time in which I am the only one napping.

7:30 am dance parties in the living room.

Brand new boots "shined" with chalk dust.

Snot bubbles and other unnatural phenomena.

Welcome to my new normal. Tomorrow is my 53rd birthday. Fifty! Three! Now, I've been hearing fifty is the new forty and all that, but whether I look fifty-three or twenty-three, my parts have done fifty-three years worth of bending, twisting, lifting, moving, beating, and reaching. My parts will tell you -- they tell me all the time -- they are fifty. plus. It is because of this, several months ago, I decided to slow things down a bit. I know God has called me to write, and I committed to spending more time on that, and more energy living in the moment. I purposed to focus on relationships, to sit at my Lord's feet rather than busy myself about the kitchen, to pace myself that I might hear the voice of God more clearly. Silly, silly girl.

Perhaps it's my desire for clarity or my obtuseness -- "What do you want me to do, Lord? And You know how dense I can be, so please make it obvious" -- but God never seems to just whisper things to me, like, "There's a fortune in gold hidden under the third pew on the right side. Sit there today." Or, "Not that. Eat this chocolate torte today." No, God says, "TIME TO GO!" Ba-Bam! And I'm there, feeling like some shell-shocked time traveler whisked from Delco 2018 to the Storming of the Bastille. I don't speak the language. I am certainly not dressed for the occasion. I could get killed in this mess. And I can't imagine why I'm here.

How often I have just wanted to say to God, "It looks like there was some sort of error with my visa; but I'm here now, and I think this can work if You'd just..." The truth is, there is a plan. There is no mistake. And, providing I continue to listen and continue to yield myself to the Lord, He will equip me. He doesn't need my suggestions -- in fact, He doesn't need me or anything about me. Perhaps that's why He tends to speak so succinctly to me. "Here it is. This is it. Now do it." What choice do I have but to throw my hands up and say, "This is You, Lord. There's no way I'm going to do this on my own"? I was so not ready for my current role when it came to me, but God was already in it before I ever knew about it. He had already paved the way for this, just as He has already paved the way for your tomorrow while you're reading this today.

God is allowing us all to be a part of something. And "a part," by definition, means we are not the whole. There is a larger picture forming, and like the stroke of an impressionist's brush, the beauty and value of our role is revealed when the masterpiece is complete.

I was listening to an interview with Michael Todd this morning. He said, "If you do the thing God tells you to do, He'll do the thing no one can do." Do that thing today, and though it may be rigorous, though it may be long, God's masterpiece will emerge and your value will come to light.

Fighting Prayer Fatigue

"Don’t be weary in prayer; keep at it; watch for God’s answers, and remember to be thankful when they come." -- Colossians 4:2 (TLB)

I was praying about a situation the other day. I know I'm not praying the way I should, as often as I should. I am praying half-heartedly for an outcome that would bless others and bring glory to the Lord; I am praying once in a while for a situation which is before me day after day. To pray as I should makes me fearful and uncomfortable; to pray in a way that fills my heart with hope, could leave me disappointed with others or saddened by circumstances; to pray as I should is wearisome.

One of the participants in this matter is extremely important to me. I want restoration inside and out; I want a powerful, eternal rebuild within his heart. But, years of praying for him to return to the Lord, years of his "faking it," have left me cynical -- or, at least, that's what I wrote in my journal this morning. No sooner had the ink left my pen, the Spirit spoke: it had not made me cynical, he had not made me cynical, I had allowed myself to become cynical. I had allowed weariness in prayer to cause me to write this person off -- against what God says. I do not have the right to dismiss anyone or any situation.

"You can't worry about his choices," my self-placating voice whispers. And I can't -- I shouldn't worry about anything --  but I should certainly be praying! Always. With thanksgiving. Because of who my God is!

And what would happen if this individual did turn it around? A miracle! A miracle I didn't pray for, wrought by a God I didn't trust to do what I labeled "impossible". A miracle I rejected. A HUGE missed blessing. Prayer is God's invitation to us to be a part of something wonderful and rejoice fully when it happens. God invites us to blessing by commanding us to pray.

And then there's the alternative: what happens if this loved one doesn't get it together? What if his behavior continues in this vein until his freedom is forever relinquished -- or his life? What satisfaction is there in knowing I didn't "waste my time praying" for someone who didn't care? What consolation is there in knowing I was "right"? None. Guilt on top of loss.

Moses, lying prostrate and praying God would take him instead. Hannah, unmoved by the passage of time or the opinions of others. Stephen, stones cutting into his flesh, large rocks sending his head spinning, praying for those who would see him dead, praying blessing upon them! These people of God were blessed by their own prayers, by their right attitudes. And the world was blessed by their faith! For me to fail to pray and see my skepticism come to fruition is the greatest of losses -- for everyone.

Let us not become weary in prayer. "And remember to be thankful for God's answers when they come."

Pressure

Billy Joel warned us. Queen and Bowie were under it. Vanilla Ice sampled it. Pressure. When the difficulties of life begin swirling themselves into the perfect storm. When your landlord and your wife and your kids and your mother and the utility company all seem to have conspired against you. I think most of us can stomach the things we do to ourselves, but when the problems of others brazenly thrust themselves into our space in one relentless assault? Not so much.

But that's me. I'm there.

I got a letter today. Someone who never asked wanted something I don't have within a time limit they never set -- upon penalty of discontinuing services for which I never miss a payment. I received this letter at the end of a day of answering endless texts and emails pressuring me about something else over which I have no control. All of this in the midst of -- some of it with regard to -- a situation in which I perpetually feel inadequate and helpless. Are you with me?

James 1:3, in The Message says:

"You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors."

Ouch! "Shows its true colors?" Red. Red is the color I've been showing. Annoyed that the problems of others have somehow become mine. Angry that, despite doing what I am supposed to be doing, despite being the "responsible one," I am getting beat up. Incensed that people getting paid a lot more than I am to do a job which is supposed to serve me have twisted things up so badly, I now have to do their job as well as my own.

But what colors should I let show?

White (Peace): "Let the peace of Christ [the inner calm of one who walks daily with Him] rule in your hearts [deciding and settling questions that arise]." Col. 3:15 (AMP)

Green (Life): "Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them." John 7:38 (NIV)

Yellow (Light of Christ): "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." Matt. 5:16 (KJV)

And the only Red others should see in me? The blood of Christ. "He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed." 1 Peter 2:24 (ESV)

May pressure reveal in all of us the colors of life in our Savior and Redeemer, Jesus Christ the Lord.

When the Winds of Change Begin to Blow

Scott and I met in "the Autumn of life," so to speak. We'd both been married before. We had children and homes and jobs. And routines. We were in our forties and -- Ima jes' say it -- were set in our ways. The good thing? We were, for the most part, set in the same ways. We both liked things in order. We spent free time cleaning. (Judge if you must.) We both liked quiet and time to ourselves. We enjoyed long weekends antiquing, and B&Bs. This year we spent our tenth anniversary gardening and sprucing up, hanging out at home with the dogs and barbecuing. Heaven on earth.

Fast forward to this, November 2018. On some levels, we couldn't be more different. We suffered a few losses this summer, and handled them very differently. We've begun a new journey in life, and have very different ideas about how it should unfold or which routes we should take. There have been days, for the first time in our relationship, I've wondered if we would be celebrating a twentieth anniversary. Scott has changed. I have changed. Our circumstances have changed. But our promise to one another has not. And the God before whom we stood when we made that promise has not. He has been with us, guiding and encouraging; softening hearts and sending others to disciple and care for us. He will not ignore us if we call on Him (1 Peter 3:12); He will not abandon us in the midst of something to which He has called us (Phil. 1:6). And it is these truths that assure us we can do this.

Here are a few others:

STAY CALM! I don't have to, I can't, I won't think about our future in a way that stirs anxiety within me. Much of the future is waaaaay beyond my control anyway. Why respond with worry which is not only sinful, but only serves to exacerbate the details? "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:6-7)

STAY REAL! I do have to think about consequences -- potential or otherwise -- in a way that causes me to do all I can to bring about righteous results. Prudence is not anxiety; concern is not worry. I have to make right choices and actively, diligently seek God's will. "Who is the man that fears the Lord? Him shall He teach in the way He chooses." (Psalm 25:12)

STAY FOCUSED! I have to stay in God's Word, pray and trust Jesus for all I say, think and do. External resources are great -- the advice of a trusted friend, books rife with godly wisdom, marriage counseling; but Jesus is -- must be -- my focus. Always. "Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you." (Matthew 6:33)

STAY! I have to be present; to intentionally remember who this man is, his wonderfulness, his fears, his heart, who we are to one another, our friendship as well as our marriage, the respect I have for him -- and why. Issues are just that; differences are just that. The changes taking place in our life, the changes taking place in each of us do not change our responsibility toward one another. Emotionally giving up on our relationship (or my husband) is to give more weight to disjuncture and remove value from commitment. If I "check out," as I am tempted to do when we are unable to come to a resolution, I send a clear message to my husband I no longer respect him and I have ceased to care. "Finally brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy -- meditate on these things." (Phil. 4:8)

So, this Autumn has been particularly blustery. The winds of change have blown through and about our lives. We can choose to be tossed about by them, or shore up our home against them and prepare for the next ten years!

Turning a Page

So. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself right now. I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to take a minute and savor the moment... Yeah, I changed the calendar today. I know, I know. It's impressive, right? We're approaching mid-November, and I just kissed October goodbye. This is who I've become.

In July, I was reading Liturgy of the Ordinary, by Tish Harrison. Since the beginning of the year I'd felt the Spirit's prompting me to take my time, live in the moment, renounce busyness and be more intentional in my relationships. I wanted to do more than make memories; I wanted to cherish them. Today, the chaos in my life is such, I just realized I have an appointment today..

It seems busyness is all I know. So much so -- and this is where my ex-husband and children will appreciate this post more than anyone -- I have a single shoe sitting by the back door. And you know what? I do NOT care where the other one is.

I was missing a Tupperware lid the other day. "It'll turn up," I said to myself, and closed the cabinet door.

As I put the two-year old to bed last night, I noticed the fragrance of peanut butter wafting through the air. It was then I realized he had it in his hair. "See you in the morning."

We spent almost $10 on a pint of organic chili that no one liked. Rather than trying to doctor it up or stomach it myself, I threw it out. My frugal German nature never even spoke up.

The children's toy basket contains cars without wheels and dolls without clothes. I'm chalking it up to creative license.

The sixteen-year old put her Christmas playlist on as we ran errands the other day. Christmas carols before November had even hit the double digits? (Although, the calendar at the Murphy's was still reading "October.") Sacrilege! Nope, we laughed and sang all around town. Not once did Old Me ever whisper, "Must be nice to be sixteen and have the kind of time to put playlists together." In fact, it was then I realized, I need this in my life!

The friends who call "just to talk," the people of all ages and sizes who just refuse to see things as I do, the moments that don't remotely resemble my vision for them, the activities that yield nothing I can cross off a "Honey Do" list, the people who make time for playlists and video games and drives to nowhere. These are the people, these are the things that cause me to live in the moment. It is the single shoes and the naked Barbies that remind me what is really important. I could spend hours fretting over how things look or how they are supposed to be, or I can live in the moment. I can let go of what I think in favor of what is important to others. I can do something fun and frivolous -- or simply appreciate it -- for the sake of changing the dynamic of the things I believe are necessary.

I can measure my days in calendar pages, or moments seeing life as others see it.

Do Not Bar the Door

Ask anyone of a certain age, and they will tell you where they were when they heard President Kennedy had been shot, or the Twin Towers had been attacked, or Michael Jackson had died, or the Birds had won the Super Bowl. Depending on our interests, these are things that mark us, that have an impact on our lives or what we think about the world; these are things that can still evoke the same feelings, years or months later, that we felt the moment the news reached our ears.

In 2009, I had one such moment. I was sitting at my desk, writing and thinking about all the wonderful and redemptive events God had orchestrated throughout my life. He had always been at work, pursuing me and protecting me, despite my rebellion and apathy. I prayed that whatever He had for me, whatever He wanted to do in me, I was on board. A few months ago, same thing. Only this time, I was driving to work. As I twisted along a dark airport back road, I prayed, "I will not bar the door to tragedy or sickness or poverty or persecution or whatever other thing You might use to bring glory to Your name."

I know someone who lost her husband. A husband she loved desperately; a husband who was young. They had the "perfect life," and wonderful plans for retirement. Her loss -- her inestimable loss -- touched me deeply; her ability to forge ahead and find the joy in every day thereafter is a testimony to the God who sustains her. I know someone who has been battling cancer for years. Not even the terrible, disabling, set up a GoFundMe page cancer that draws support and encouragement from all over. This is the wearisome PET Scan that just never seems to come back clean; the ongoing, raise your hand and ask for prayer month after month cancer in which her hair falls out, and grows back, only to fall out again and again. The cancer that never roars, but insidiously lingers to mock our hope and certainty. But not hers! She inspires us all to keep walking when the road is long. I know a woman who died penniless. She'd served in the Peace Corps, earned multiple degrees, ran several businesses, and lived a colorful, adventuresome, selfless life. I met her when she was a client at a food bank, crippled and unable to do some of the simplest things for herself. She knew, though, it had never been about her. Is this the kind of life I would choose? Is this the destiny, the response I would seek in turning all I have, all I am over to the God of Creation?

No, absolutely not. But, here we are. We have suddenly become parents to two small children. Small children who have needs stretching beyond the normal potty training and food challenges. As if that wasn't enough, it requires we navigate the state foster care system. Our home, our health, our financials have become subject to the strictest scrutiny; our life has been in perpetual metamorphosis since August, and our living quarters look like something out of an episode of "Hoarders". Change. Chaos. Powerlessness. Things not in Scott's or my DNA. But I will not bar the door.

Whatever discomfort or confusion or difficulty or heartache I encounter is momentary. It will not mark me or impact my life; it will not evoke feelings of failure or fear a moment longer than it takes me to turn them over to the God Who Sees Me. What remains are those moments of surrender, those moments I asked God to show me what He wants to do, what He will use to bring glory to His name. Those moments provoke me to forge ahead, walk the long trail, and serve others that God might receive the glory -- glory that will ring forevermore!

Open your ears, open your eyes, open your doors and join in its song!

Someone Worth Writing About

At 10:30 last night, I sat down at the kitchen table prepared to write. Ideas and events had been swirling around in my head through days of constant activity; and though it had been weeks -- maybe months -- since any part of me had seen such a late hour of the night, I figured I'd strike while the iron was hot. At 10:31, our fifteen-year old plopped down into the chair across from me and the deluge began. She is in her second year of high school; there were schedules and friends to discuss. Somehow that all became a trip down memory lane filled with dozens of "do-you-remember-whens" -- many of which I did not. But she remembered. And, I hope, it is this night she will remember as well.

When Olivia and I first met, I and my children were a family of three; she, her dad, and her siblings made us a family of seven. I loved the noisy dinners and crazy bedtimes. I loved taking up pews and rows at the movie theater and SUVs and two lanes at the bowling alley. I loved the constant motion in our home; the hum of life. Olivia was a huge part of that hum for me; she and I bonded instantly. Her easy-going temperament and her transparency were a rare treat in one so young. Olivia, too, seemed to thrive on the excitement and activity of a full house; but she was, at the same time, her own person.

Only a short time later, my son, the oldest left our home; her brother and sister followed suit shortly thereafter. For the remaining few years my daughter remained in our home, she and Olivia never truly bonded. But Olivia was always there, hanging with me in the kitchen, talking on our rides home, and weathering the emptiness that came whenever others moved on. With Olivia and I, it was never blood or biology, but the moments we spent laughing and talking to one another that made us family.

So, this is it; this is what I have to offer my readers. Not much to speak of with regard to profundity or motivation. Just gratitude. For an incredible daughter, a strong and truly courageous young woman, and nights when writing is not nearly as important as living. I'm gonna remember this.

There Came a Season

Seasons. To most of the world, seasons revolve around weather or dates on a calendar or festivals or even birthdays. At the beginning of this year, I developed a "four-year plan." In four years, my company is making some changes to its pension plan, and my plan was to get out before that happened. My prayer with regard to my goal went something like this:

"Dear Lord, I can't see the logic in staying past the proposed revision date. I would like to be out before this change takes place, and I believe to do so would be to be a good steward of all You have given us; so I am going to work toward that end. I know You can do anything, and if it is Your will I stay longer than than the four years. I know You will make that clear, and You will care for us. Whatever Your will."

I started getting things in order. And it began to look like my plan was in agreement with His plan. Until...

...there came a season. In this season, this 50+ year old woman and her same age husband immediately became responsible for two very young lives. In this season, our lives have become an open book to any state agency with a microscope. In this season, we lose sleep and square footage. In this season, we comfort and console only to be told how much the people who hurt them so badly are missed. In this season, we repeat over and over, rules and lessons and reassurances. In this season, we repeat over and over, rules and lessons and reassurances. (See what I did there?) This season is not what we had planned. This season was supposed to be past. This season was not on our radar -- at all!

Exodus 15:22, tells us the Israelites spent three days in the Wilderness of Shur, unable to find water. Now, I am not sure if this means they hadn't actually had anything to drink, but they were, at the very least, watching their water supply dwindle to nothing. In verse 23, they arrive at the bitter waters of Marah. "Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink." After days of God's faithfulness regarding their water supply, they were certain they'd found "real relief" at Marah. But God wanted them to trust Him more; He stretched them a little further. It wasn't until Moses cried out to God on behalf of the people that God made the water good to drink.

In this season, we are discovering the gift of God's grace and His strength. In this season, we are discovering that God can do amazing and supernatural things through us and for us, provided we are following His plan. In this season, we are finding the impossible becomes possible when it is ordained and brought to fruition by God. In this season, we are learning that stretching and molding are part of the Christian life -- and they are much less painful when we surrender to them. In this season, we are reassured that God's ways are higher than our ways, and His plans for His children are always good.

Waves of Grace

Grace. An ever-unfolding, never static, bounteous, interminable dance of breath and life. Or so I am finding.

There were days when I knew about God. Two-dimensional stories slumbering on pages of dusty books. Prayers that gave way to grocery lists, or awakened offenses, or haphazard thoughts of wooden pews. Familiar and traditional, but lifeless and religious. Sunday dresses and smiles; Bible covers and Aqua Net; waxed floors, tiny wooden chairs and the smell of crayons; hymnals and liturgy; fresh air filling my lungs, emancipating sun warming my face after reverent benedictions. Sermon after sermon left behind as we pulled from the parking lot each week.

And then there are todays. Days when I know not so much about God as what God can do. I see it, like leaves rocking with the wind in the tops of the trees. It is grace. Grace that emerges more in the eccentric and broken than in the appropriate. Grace that bears us up through storms and chaos more than through peace. Grace that draws us closer to the Giver rather than launching us out onto the precipice of self-sufficiency. Grace that fills and refills and overfills us with life and hope and grace for others; that never seems to end even when I'm certain I need no more of it. Grace that takes me to places I've never been and whispers sweet, sweet comfort deep within my soul; grace that comes when I feel inadequate or look rumpled or smell of sleeplessness or have tasted defeat. Grace that releases me from doing it all and being enough; grace that allows me to release others as well. Grace that comes to us in the kindness of others; or the Living Word of God; or the refrain I hum as I try to quiet a restless child; or the simple words "praying for you" that appear as a text message just as I begin my day; or the matchsticks in an old jelly jar that remind me of pizza eaten on the tailgate and fireworks reflected on the faces of my blessings only hours before; or the sun on my face as I bid momentary "goodbye" to our church family, the sermons and worship we share lived out, by God's grace, in our neighborhoods, in our homes, in our lives until we meet again.

Grace that I thought I would only find in rightness and order and good grammar has been deluged upon me in the ugliest, most difficult, most disorderly and unexpected of circumstances. Wave upon wave.

It's Not Me; It's Him

Last week my husband and I were making plans to spend Saturday meandering around the streets of Chesapeake City, looking at cars and antiques, having dinner with friends, and acting like two adults without a care in the world. We attended church and I took copious notes; I sat with my friends at Bible study on Thursday, wishing I didn't have to rush right home to Mom. Scott stayed up too late a couple of nights catching up on his favorite television shows, and I stressed over all I had to do throughout my days, wondering if I could manage to squeeze in a decent night's sleep for the sake of my health. On occasion we gave thought to the things we'd lost in the last few months and the extreme weather that had brought with it aching joints and lackluster summer crops. We wondered where the next few years would take us and when we could rest from our responsibilities long enough to enjoy one another.

In the space of two hours on Friday morning, our lives changed dramatically. Saturday was cancelled -- no meandering; dinner would be served by this house chef to a party of six, right at our ordinary kitchen table with the cracked laminate and worn wooden chairs. On Sunday, I quickly  dotted the back of my church bulletin with hieroglyphics as I balanced a Bible and a squirming two-year old; Thursday's Bible study this week has me plotting strategy like MacArthur. In the last six days, Scott and I have collectively logged less sleep than a Folgers taste-tester, and my list of things to do went straight into the garbage just below the dirty diapers. My health became a mere blip on the radar, and had to be -- still is -- turned over completely to the One who made me and knows better than I or any physician what my body requires. Lamented losses and perished produce faded into the past. The condescending laughter of last week's aches and pains could no longer be heard over the roar of this week's sore muscles and stiff joints. Sibling squabbles, evening tubbies, night terrors, car seats, toys underfoot and mounds of laundry replaced quiet moments... And then, there's Mom.

But I am learning something. I am merely a spectator, a disciple standing by and watching miracle after miracle unfold before me. What would, years ago, have been over-achievement wrought in fires of arrogance and bitterness is now total reliance on Jesus and a humble gratitude for what He will do. What would, years ago, have been perfectionism through gritted teeth and angry intolerance for those who weren't crazy enough to jump on my self-serving, overambitious bandwagon is now love and grace, and the knowledge that NOTHING actually accomplished in the midst of this "culture of chaos" is of my doing. The homemade tomato gravy, the "thank you" notes, and the bathroom that gets cleaned? Jesus. The dentist so willing to slash her prices to help a little girl? Jesus. The sacks -- yes, I said sacks! -- of toys that arrived in our home as early as Monday? Jesus. The vacant eyes that begin to show life and understanding? Jesus. The prayers of many that are felt at all hours of the day? Jesus. The smiles of strangers and the love and devotion of a faithful church family? Jesus. The little boy terrified of dogs that steals strokes of soft fur when no one is looking? Jesus. Healing and health and grace and mercy and joy and peace? Jesus. It's not me; it's not us. It's Him.

Ripples of Redemption

Whatever words I have at my disposal, whatever thoughts I am able to process or formulate into some sort of complete story, they will never be enough. There is nothing in this world and certainly, nothing within me that could ever be enough to tell this story, but God is enough. And as I sit before this temperamental old laptop writing this story, I feel God's words pouring into me.

A friend has told me God spoke a word to her in reference to our current situation. That word was "redemption." And that is what this is, a redemption story. In fact, I believe whatever we allow God to do in our lives is a redemption story. God is a redeemer, and He just can't stop being who He is -- He won't stop being who He is. Years ago, I would have said redemption is what Jesus did on the cross; I would have said it is God's way of saving us from hell. And I wouldn't have been wrong, but I would have only been scratching the surface. Redemption is a process. With every day that passes, God shows me more and more what redemption is all about.

Redemption happens each time I don't freak out because my mother is sitting at the kitchen table in only her skivvies, eating half a bag of chocolate chips. Not because that is who I have always been, but because God has whispered to me time and time again, "I've got this; you have other things to handle right now;" and He has shown me I can trust Him in that. He has redeemed me from the alarmist I used to be, to the person who gets her strength and peace and confidence only from Him. And that allows my mother to know redemption. She experiences love and kindness, rather than frustration and impatience. Redemption happens when the Holy Spirit works above, beyond and in spite of cognitive impairments to bring my mother to the altar for prayer after Sunday service. Redemption happens when I sit sobbing as I watch my mother move forward, alone and on weakened legs, and I am assured I will see her made whole in heaven one day. Redemption happens when I tell this story and it moves others to know who God is and what He can do.

Redemption has always been God's plan for His creation, and He is always moving toward that end. Redemption happens when dark nights come and He takes us through them. And though we have no idea why He would ask us to do such a thing, He whispers, "Wait and see what I will do." Redemption happens when a season of sadness comes into our life, and we are not sure when or how the pain will go away, and why it all had to be; but God says, "I keep track of your sorrows; I know each tear that falls." Redemption happens when those dark nights and seasons of sadness make way for two children to move into your home and into your hearts, and your small, small world of self has been cast aside, darkness and grief become nothing compared to the joy and chaos and hope that now permeate your life. Redemption was His plan even as the nights were long and our hearts were heavy. Redemption happens when I tell this story and it moves others to know who God is and what he can do.

Prayer Closet Adventure

Last Sunday, our pastor was admiring someone's faithfulness and mentioned her prayer closet. "I don't even have a prayer closet," he confessed. "Well, we only have three closets in the whole house," his wife whispered. Thought bubbles began popping above my head, blocking the vies of those sitting behind me.

"We have -- how many? -- closets! Why don't I have a prayer closet?" 
"I don't have a prayer closet because our closets are full." 
"Our closets are full of stuff. Are you telling me I don't have a prayer closet because of stuff?"
"Why am I allowing stuff to determine -- maybe even hinder -- my prayer life?"

The following morning, the cleanout began. Honestly, I travel fairly lightly. Clothes are my greatest possession because of the many hats I wear. Schleppy mom. Cleaner and garden grunt. Athlete. Business professional. Sunday school teacher and far-too-frequent funeral goer. But I was determined to bite the bullet: "If I don't give God these things now, what makes me think I will give them to Him later? I can always find reasons to keep stuff."

Before the day was over, I had two full drawers and a closet shelf. "Now, how to move things from hangers and the closet floor to open spaces?"

The next three days yielded little progress. There was cooking to do, and Mom's birthday, and -- finally -- beautiful weather that drove us out of doors. Friday was the phone call. Two children needed immediate foster care. We'd had a warning. Weeks ago. It could happen. But this is the government, right? "We'll be there in an hour," she said.

So, here I am, at something AM, holding the youngest child as he is teething; I am weeping, and thanking God for the blessing of two drawers and an entire shelf -- room to hold their stuff.

May God hold their hearts.

I'm a Really Big Deal

Brandywine River Museum has been a part of my life since I was a child. If I ever disappeared without warning (of my own volition, of course) it would be one of the first places my family would go looking. The grounds, the architecture and the Wyeth family paintings can keep me enraptured for hours. I feel strangely at home there, whether I am gazing at "James Loper" or exploring the river trail. Strangely, because as much as I have adored everything about the place for as long as I can remember, I never knew I was related to Andrew Wyeth.

Last weekend I was researching a book about a homestead, the owner of which was a documented relation of my father's family. Imagine my surprise when I saw the foreword was written by none other than Andrew Wyeth, relative of my relative. No doubt there are some "third somethings" or some "twice removeds," but I was giddy with excitement. (Fortunately for Scott, giddiness does not preclude rationale, and though I was tempted, I did not awaken him at 4am!) Though I am sure we are related only by a mere marital thread, I had discovered a piece of my history that was a piece of my history! 

But that's just what all of this is -- history -- and a vague, unsubstantiated one at that. As thrilling as it is, it will never change how I live my life or relate to others; my name will remain the same; I inherit nothing and therefore, have nothing I can share with others; and when I am gone, my link will be no more. Maybe you can see where I'm going with all this -- I hope you can. 

I am related -- not ambiguously or distantly, but clearly, closely through adoption -- to the God of the Universe. Maybe you've heard of Him. He paints landscapes and portraits like no other. His work is displayed throughout the galaxies -- farther than the eye can see. He has been creating for millennia and will continue to do so until -- well, eternally! And all of those stars? Yeah, He created them with a mere breath and knows each one by name. (That's my Dad!) And there is no limit to the size and scope of His art; He has created such large works as the Blue Whale and others as small as diatoms. But it's not all visual; He is proficient at body systems and brains, senses and emotions. 

And He is my Father! Yep! He makes me sort of a big deal. He says He crafted me, planned things for me to do, determines my steps, and loves me so much He gave all just to have a relationship with me. And that relationship has an enormous impact on my life and who I am: I am blessed with every spiritual blessing, I've been given a clean slate, forgiven, accepted and redeemed; I am an heir, chosen and royal and shown mercy. I can walk in love and a peace that passes all understanding; I can boldly enter the throne room of the King of kings to receive mercy and grace whenever I need (which is as often as possible!).

You see what a big deal I am? You can be, too.

"For whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved." ~ Romans 10:13

Beneath the Soil

A few summers ago, our daughter was showing her husband the highlights of Delco -- they had twenty minutes to kill. She took him to a local farmer's market, and returned with a plant (and her husband). It was a "Velvet Elvis." Having grown up in the '70s, and having admired such high-quality artwork as the velvet Elvis, the plant's name alone made it a hit -- never mind its beautiful purple flowers and its hearty, only-chemical-warfare-could-kill-this-thing nature. In the summer, Elvis resided on our deck, basking in the sunshine. When the air cooled, Elvis came indoors to sit by a sunny window and constantly shed its chaff all over the floor of my office. Elvis was colossal!

This spring, we sent Elvis back outside. He'd already begun to lose some leaves, but I was optimistic the warm air and direct sunlight would perk him right up. We had a pretty wet April, and Elvis was looking a little worse for wear. Summer's coming, right? He'll soak up that sunshine and be good as new. By now, most of his leaves had fallen, and his tiny, far-reaching branches were brittle and snapping off. But this summer has been rainy and humid like no other I recall. Grass is moldy, our backyard garden is lackluster. And Elvis? Well, Elvis suffered the ravages of this sauna in which we've been living. Eventually, no amount of pruning or pleading would bring him back. His thick branches shriveled to nothing and his roots withered and rotted. Elvis had left the building.

I'm studying Mark 11, in which Jesus curses the fruitless fig tree. Mark says Jesus cursed the tree one day, and by the next it had withered to nothing; Matthew gives his account, and we assume it means the fig tree withered before their eyes. Either way, it was fast -- miraculously fast. In Matthew's account, the disciples question Jesus specifically as to how this could have happened so quickly. But Mark gives an interesting detail: "they saw the fig tree dried up from the roots" (v. 20). From the roots.

Now, I'm no horticulturalist, but plants just don't wither from the root up; sure, trouble may begin there, but the signs of trouble -- the indicators we can first see -- occur further out, in leaves and fruit and stems. (There's a lesson there about sticking close to the One in whom you are "rooted," but that's for another day.) They saw the fig tree dried up from the roots. Maybe this was Mark's way of indicating the thorough decimation of this tree, or maybe it was not just a miracle of time but of order. After considering Elvis' slow, methodical decline from tip to root, it's obvious the withering of this fig tree was anomalous. It just doesn't happen that way...

...at least, not visibly. The things we see are indicators, usually, of what's going on inside, deep down below the soil. My plant-savvy husband believes Elvis' problems began with the soil; that cool nights and humid days led to constant saturation that rotted the roots, preventing the furthermost parts from receiving proper nutrition. Something we could not see, happening below the surface, that sickened and ultimately did Elvis in.

Like Israel. Like us sometimes. Fearful thoughts, eyes and minds permeated with junk television, false teaching, days without quiet time with God, "little" sins that "don't hurt anyone" -- they all lead to decay and sickness. To the day when our lack of fruit shows the world we are dead at the root. Maybe that was Mark's point; maybe he knew the things we see merely reflect the things going on within.

What is going on below the soil in your garden?

Withholding Respect

"Happiness is being married to your best friend."

Yes, it is. Scott makes it incredibly easy. But, I've learned a lot about my relationship with him through my relationship with the Lord. Take respect, for instance.

I wasn't always respectful. I was tough and independent and self-sufficient and could verbally emasculate a man in minutes. No way was I going to get stepped on by any man! I wanted to be that stand-by-your-man, gentle, obedient, barefoot-and-pregnant, content woman in the kitchen. I wanted to look at my husband with stars in my eyes and believe he was the most wonderful man I'd ever met, that he was sent straight from heaven to me. But I'd been hurt before and, quite frankly, who wants to set themselves up for that again? I had to remind him I could just as easily do without him, if I ever expected to keep from being wounded again, right? Wrong. That only made him distance himself from me and our relationship. They call that a "self-fulfilling prophecy."

Well, Jesus showed me I wasn't perfect. I mean, I guess I knew that, but I'm adorable, so... Yeah, not so much. One time I really hurt Scott. I didn't mean to do it; I didn't think it was that big of a deal. But I felt like public enemy number one. The pain I felt from his hurt plus the pain I felt because he believed I could ever intentionally hurt him was intense. "He didn't even give me the benefit of the doubt!" It was then I realized I hadn't done the same for him. I hadn't even given him a chance. I was guarding against him because of hurt I'd experienced before. How grateful I was that he forgave me -- and even apologized for thinking the worst of me! How grateful I was the Holy Spirit opened my eyes! Wives must treat their husbands with the same grace, mercy, and respect they expect.

And Jesus taught me all about love. Love isn't a cyclone of feelings and passionate kisses on starry nights. Love is giving, trusting, putting others first, striving, carrying another's burdens when necessary, and respecting another imperfect person. ("Not exactly the stuff you'd find on a refrigerator magnet," as our pastor would say.)

God, through Paul says marriage is a model of Christ's relationship with the church. Wives must submit to their husbands in the same way they submit to the Lord. Looking back, I know I was not respectful and submitted to my husband because I was disrespectful and disobedient to the Lord. "As the church is subject to Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything." What if the church was to decide to "go it alone"? (Sadly, some have.) What is a church without Jesus leading it? What is the purpose of calling it "church" without Christ? And what is the purpose of marrying someone I refuse to follow?

1 Peter 3, directs wives to submit to husbands who don't even follow the Lord. Not one word about his deserving it or earning it; not a word about poor decisions or bad investments or broken promises or ungodly motives. We are simply to follow God's orders, having a gentle and quiet spirit, loving and blessing our husband, and let the Lord deal with our husband's heart.

Maybe the same way He dealt with mine.

Old Kitchen, New Kitchen (A Modern Day Parable)

Last year Scott and I remodeled our kitchen. It was loooong overdue. I'm not sure how you feel about God and kitchens, but I felt as though He was prompting me to get this project off the ground -- trust me, I did not want to! My old kitchen was all I'd know for more than twenty years. My old kitchen had been a school room for my children and the origin of many Monday morning breakfasts with them. My old kitchen was one of the only rooms in our home that looked virtually the same as it did the day we moved in. Everything was exactly where I knew it to be; I moved around easily in this sort of culinary ballet. If it ain't broke... But it was. Linoleum peeling, cabinet doors falling off with regularity, exposed floor joists, a temperamental dishwasher, and a stained Formica counter-top. I didn't care, but Scott did. He begged; he threatened. Nothing worked; I was comfortable in my broken old kitchen.

Early last year I began to think about it. The simple fact I would entertain the thought caught Scott off guard -- "Really?" From there it went to gathering ideas and sorting which elements I wanted to remain and which needed a redo. Months before, I'd wanted it all to remain! This was progress. As I thought more seriously about our remodel, I began to count the cost: nights of pizza and mornings of breakfast sandwiches while the kitchen was down; the cost of materials; workdays lost as my husband stayed home to remodel our kitchen. "Show me, God, how all of this is going to happen, if that's what You want." It was a slow, methodical process -- a walk, if you will -- until my broken old kitchen was a memory, and my new kitchen was open for business, ready to serve!

But this is not a simple story of kitchens old and new. This is a redemption story, my story. And maybe yours as well. Like my kitchen, I, too, was broken. In my brokenness, I learned to cope, to function. In my brokenness I found new ways to keep going and make things happen. In my brokenness I survived relationships and time. In my brokenness I learned to avoid or handle carefully those things that would, at the slightest touch fall apart or even harm me. My brokenness wasn't ideal, but it was comfortable, familiar. I really hated to leave it. But the truth was, I was immersed in brokenness, and unable to see what life would look like if I were made whole. Oh, I had ideas. I would look like everyone else. I'd be saccharin sweet and smiling. Everything would be "just wonderful!" I would be a doormat, and I'd wear long denim skirts and Birkenstocks, and tell everyone how my perfect, kind husband brushes my hair each night. (Okay, it was a bit twisted; but I was just not ready to be that person!)

That, though, is not usually how God works. He meets us where we are. He begins with a thought, or a change that leads to another. And time goes by and there's another. And another. And before you know it, this process has taken place. And God is in it. And suddenly, you're excited, and you're embracing the change. And you want more. And you're excited to tell others about these changes; you're excited to serve and to share and to go wherever He takes you. And if He calls you to be a pastor, you go; and if He calls you to be a taxi driver, you go. But it becomes all about Him and what He wants; and He doesn't want you broken anymore.

I look at my kitchen now. It's a far cry from what it used to be. It is eclectic with a rustic element to it. We have commercial-style fixtures, recycled cabinetry and an intentional bent toward functionality and entertaining. It is the perfect expression of who I am -- today.

Vanquished!

Somewhere in the mosquito world there is a picture of me with a headline in bold print:

WANTED: Eaten Alive!

Mosquitoes flock to me like moths to a flame, like cat hair to a sweater, like -- well, you get the idea. If there are eighty people in the room and one mosquito, that mosquito will find me and extract every drop of blood it possibly can before that corpulent little sucker (literally) collapses in euphoria on a windowsill somewhere.

The other morning I sat down at my desk and it began -- that high-pitched, weed-whacker in overdrive sound. Contrary to popular (or not so popular) belief, you can hear it coming. (see "When You Hear Nothing, Look Out!") So, there it was, humming in my ear. tzzzzzz! I swatted. And I felt its wispy little wings across my face. I swatted again. tzzzzzzz! Over to the other ear. "This is going to be a long day," I thought. tzzzzzz! tzzzzzz! In the midst of all this swatting and humming I had things to do. Phones to answer. Drivers to direct. And before I knew it, I was engrossed in what I was supposed to be doing. Several minutes later, I was making room for the next round of paperwork, and there, beneath my keyboard...

It was a beautiful sight. Vanquished! And I hadn't even been trying.

God does that sometimes. Think about your need for a Savior. Two thousand years ago, did you know you needed one? You weren't around two thousand years ago, you say? Exactly my point! Even before God sent His Son, even before Jesus died and rose again, God knew we needed a Savior. Thousands of years before we were even born provision was made, a plan was in place -- and what did we have to do to for it? Nothing! God already had it covered. Our Savior paid for each sin on the cross -- He was full propitiation; and He conquered death and rose from the tomb. Our enemy vanquished!

Now, I could have gone on swatting and dodging the humming in my head for the rest of my day, but there was no need -- my disgusting, parasitic tormentor was dead. Vanquished! And all I had to do was believe it! I didn't slay that vile beast, but I didn't go on in fear either. I accepted the beast was dead, gone, and I went about the business to which I was called.

Be blessed today and walk in the freedom that belongs to those who serve Jesus Christ our Lord!

A Penny for Your Thoughts

Can you tell me why people hate "the rich," but spend crazy money trying to win the lottery?

Jesus loved the rich. Well, sure, Jesus loved everybody; but, surely, He didn't approve of the rich, right? Wrong, He loved them. Abraham was wealthy. God rewarded Solomon with wealth. Job was wealthy before he became ultra-wealthy! Expensive gifts were presented to Jesus in childhood; pure nard valued in the tens of thousands today, was poured on Jesus' feet -- and He encouraged it! Jesus loved the rich.

Mark 10:17-27, provoked my thinking this morning. The young man that approaches Jesus is, we can assume, an achiever, an up-and-comer of his day. "What must I do?" he asks. But true discipleship is not a works-driven life; it is a life in which faith and works are two sides of the same coin, so to speak. Faith produces works which, in their implementation, grow and strengthen our faith.

"Then Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said..." (v. 21)

Just stop there for a second. This young man had it all wrong. Jesus said, "I know you know what to do, but I want you to know who you were made to be." Jesus had compassion on this young man; His heart was breaking for him. He loved him.

Scripture tells us the young man went away sad; but I don't think he was alone in his sadness. I think Jesus was sad as well.

"How hard it is for those who have riches (verse 24 says "trust in riches") to enter the kingdom of God!" (v. 23)

Where did that exclamation point come from? Do we know from the original text that Jesus was emphatic? Was it anger or judgment? Was this a "woe" kind of statement (as it is so often suggested to be)? Or  do we insert the judgment and woe, the bitter jealousy of those who have not been given great wealth?

Jesus was not filled with contempt at this young man or the money he possessed (after all, Jesus had given it to him). He was sad and righteously angry at the grip money had on this young man's life and by extension, his soul. Jesus was mourning the loss of this young man aloud, possibly, that others might see wealth for the tremendous responsibility -- even hardship -- it is; that others might love and have compassion on those with wealth.

James 3:1 tells us to be aware, those who become teachers will be judged more strictly. We understand the responsibility a teacher bears, and we esteem godly teachers as courageous givers of a precious gift. Do we consider those with money as highly? Are we praying for them as they steward their finances? that they not fall into temptation? that they continue to be gracious with the blessing God has given them? that they remain wholly God's and do not allow money to be their first love?

"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." (v.25)

Jesus doesn't say the rich can't or don't enter the kingdom of God. He is saying it is hard for them, and it's not necessarily a responsibility we should want or a dream we should chase. As with us all, the rich cannot do it in their own strength; but "with God all things are possible." I'm just pretty sure Jesus would want us praying for them.

And that's my two cents.

Because of the Hardness of Your Heart

In Mark 10, the Pharisees ask Jesus about divorce. Short version: He tells them it was permitted only "because of the hardness of [their] heart." God had designed marriage for one man and one woman for life, for them to become one. In their quest to do things their way, some of the Israelites had defiled their marriages. God made provision through divorce so no further sin or harm would come, mostly, with regard to wives. And even then, He did not view divorce lightly. Jesus reiterates that, though it was "permitted," that was not the design; divorce has consequences and stipulations. God wants His people to choose Him and His plan, but if they refuse, He remains their loving Father and has even taken measures to protect them from themselves!

I began to wonder how many things He had "permitted" in my life because of the hardness of my heart. How many times had I defied what I knew to be right, and God protected me from myself? How often had I gotten a glimpse of God's plan and thought, "Oh, no! That's not gonna work," and made my own way -- seemingly unchecked?

Could I have been a mother to the child that threatened my future? "[I will ] give you a future and a hope." (emphasis mine)

Is it possible I could have remained married to an adulterous husband? "For with God nothing will be impossible."

Could I have forgiven my father and had a relationship with him? "Love will cover a multitude of sins." 

What if I had gone to the Lord about my loneliness instead of seeking fulfillment in others? "He will quiet you with His love."

"Because of the hardness of my heart" I hurt someone, I murdered my child, I lost my house, I lost a relationship with my family, I suffered physical injury, I inflicted emotional pain, and I failed to realize all that God could have done in my situations. I failed to "taste and see the Lord is good; blessed is the one who trusts in Him!"

Does any hardness remain in my heart today -- hardness that keeps me from doing things exactly as God wills? Are there things I am trying to fix or avoid, or maybe just "rework" a little? What if I meet them head on with Jesus at my side? What if I meet them head on with Jesus leading the charge?

Do not allow the hardness of your heart to determine the outcome of your situation.

Father Knows Best

We all have habits -- some good, some not so good. Like the person who asks you a question and, before you've had a chance to even process what they've said, they are offering options. So, you allow them to finish and begin you repl-- they've interrupted again, "I could leave it over here, if you like."

"Well, I th--"

"Or, I could move it over there. I left it there yesterday." 

"If you pu--" And on it goes.

I feel like we are that way with our Heavenly Father sometimes. Before He's had a chance to answer or just as we begin to see His plan take shape we interject ourselves. Especially if it appears God's ways will make us a little bit poorer, maybe a little inconvenienced, a little more uncomfortable, perhaps a bit more humbled or less relevant. I mean, do I have to do without in order to learn gratitude? Maybe so. Through Isaiah, God tells us His ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts higher than our thoughts. Our Heavenly Father sees it all! His vision is not limited by time or walls or deceptions. He knows what is best for us and for His glory. But that's not an easy truth to swallow -- or follow.

For instance, the adult who grew up in a dysfunctional household. Of course they didn't want that! Their Father didn't want that! But those the world would called "damaged" are living, breathing examples of God's grace! God was there to do all those things a loving parent does: preserve their lives, speak encouragement to them, restore order in the midst of chaos, teach them right from wrong, love them harder and better than any other parent -- dysfunctional or otherwise -- could! Those children were raised by God Himself! It was hard. It's not what we would like to think is the right way; but it's the Father's way.

I'm going to turn things up a notch and ask you a really uncomfortable question. If the death of your newborn brought about the repentance of your wife, or your father-in-law, or a neighbor would you interrupt that plan? Would you be grateful that, because God had your child with Him, another child had come to know Him? What if -- to your knowledge -- no one came to know the Lord, if you could find no purpose in the death of your child? Would you be okay with what your Father had allowed?

Too often we prefer our suggestions, our opinions over God's. They seem to make sense. And sometimes, they definitely feel more comfortable. But, would you prefer the Father never impressed upon you the value of life or home or family or each ordinary day? Would you prefer He didn't love you enough to discipline you? Would you prefer God never propelled you forward in your faith or strengthened you in your walk with Him? Would you prefer your Father never protected you from something worse by giving you something bad? Or manipulated events to bring Him glory? (If you can answer "no" to that one, you better check yourself.)

Our Heavenly Father loves us beyond all comprehension and is sovereign beyond human ability. Trust me -- trust Him. Father knows best.

I Demand a Reasonable Explanation!

I am waiting on test results right now. "If the results are positive, it could be..." Do you know the drill?

Some annoying health issues have popped up -- issues I attributed to my aging carcass maturing form. "If this is my 'new normal' I want no parts of it," I recall saying. It turns out I might be in luck -- this collective of maladies might be caused by a real live health issue; not aging. "That's much more like it," I thought; "I knew there was a reasonable explanation!"

What's truly unreasonable is, I am preferring the option of managing a lifelong condition over the inevitable norm of aging. Now, I'm not actually praying for bad results, but I've been asking for an "answer". What if the answer is, I'm just getting old? What's my problem with aging?

Well, I love my truck. If I sat in my driveway each day with my truck idling I would put "miles" on the engine and use fuel, but I'd be going nowhere. I would never experience the enjoyment of cruising down the road and discovering new places; all that wear and tear would be without purpose. I feel like that now. I'm aging; I'm well on my way to crepey skin, cataracts, incontinence, thinning hair, forgetfulness, brittle bones, and unchecked flatulence. But, though I'm old enough to hurt and old enough to be tired, I'm not old enough to benefit from it. I can't retire; I can't do what I want; I can't even get my 10% at Chili's! I am in "age limbo." Just like my idling truck, there are plenty of "miles" but I haven't gone anywhere! I'm fourteen all over again -- too old to play with the little kids, but not old enough to play with the big kids. It's awkward, and uncomfortable, and I'm not liking it one bit.

But here's the thing -- it's not about me. Whether I'm fifty-three or twenty-three or eighty-three, this is all just a block on the calendar, a dot on the map. It's my life lived in and through and by and for Christ that holds significance. Without Christ I am nothing more than a deteriorating corpse. He is my life, and He gives whatever this aging body is going through meaning. My purpose or worth is not measured by the number of miles I've traveled, but Whose call I was following; and whether He leads me down the quiet road of age spots and orthopedic shoes, or a chronic condition, He will bring me through it. He is my strength when I am aching from age or aching from poor health; He is my fortress when I am weary from old age or weary from poor health. He is my comfort when I am in limbo or in crisis.

By demanding "some reasonable explanation" or purpose for my problems, I am saying, "I can do this as long as there's some good reason for it;" but I am not meant to do anything other than surrender to what God wills. It is not my job to endure it or establish a purpose for it. What do I even know about good and bad? In point of fact, I may never know why He's taking me down this road, or He's got me idling in the drive. The "why" is of little consequence as long as I am leaning on the One who carries me so completely.

Tired of the Same Ol' Routine?

It was quiet except for the song of crickets. I stepped out onto the brick walk, mentally preparing for the drive home. The trees were backlit by the blue-grey glow of the setting sun, and fireflies were floating just above the grass. The air, though still laced with the humidity of a hot July day, had become a little cooler, relinquishing most of its oppressiveness. An hour of driving was before me, on winding country roads, at a time of day I would normally be asleep; but it was not unfamiliar terrain or heavy eyelids that disturbed me. It was the familiar; it was weariness; it was leaving the serenity and fellowship I'd known for the last few hours and heading back to responsibility, work, and the busyness of urban life. I felt burdened. "Why can't I...?" Go here. Do that. "Why isn't my...?" Life like this. My family like that.

Maybe you've thought something similar from time to time. Not a shallow ingratitude or jealousy, but a weariness, a heaviness that immediately leads us to wish we were somewhere else, someone else. James K.A. Smith said, " Sometimes the difference between drudgery and epiphany is just seeing things from the right angle." And that ideology appeals to my inner optimist, but what happens when your inner optimist has run out of steam?

"God shows up." It's an expression our pastor loves to use. God is there all the time, each day, in the extraordinary and the mundane. And sometimes it's in the extraordinary we see Him best: the brilliant sunrise, the cry of our first child, the money that "arrives" to the pay the taxes, the hardened father who comes to know Jesus. When there is "simply no other explanation," God is effortlessly revealed to us. And who among us has not sought and deeply known God in the impossible and hopeless moments of life? But what about the ordinary? Is God in the routine and frustration of caring for a disabled child each day? How do I find God when I've answered the same question or made the same request multiple times? What is God doing when doctors are telling you the same thing over and over and none of it seems to make any sense? Where is God when you are nodding to the same guards week after week, and you know you will be until you die or she does? God shows up.

Not that He wasn't there all along -- He was; He is. But, if we look, if we seek, God will become just as evident in the all too familiar as He is in the strange and insurmountable and wonderful. It's more than just an internal optimism, a "looking on the bright side" that comes from within ourselves. It's more than just searching for purpose and fulfillment in our commitment to that purpose; seeking a gift or looking for answers. Our search is a search for God, a search for the Giver Himself, the Way, the Truth, the Life; our search is to know Jesus and who He is, in abundance. Our quest is not a quest for relief from the weariness and sameness of our life; but a search for Strength and Life Himself.

A Comfortable Life

Her humming was becoming louder and louder. Mom was sitting in the kitchen, directly below my office, as I attempted to read the Genesis account of God's call to Abram. Like the beat of Poe's "Telltale Heart", I couldn't take it anymore. "Forget it. I'll just go get her breakfast." But it was hours before she normally eats, and she was simply having coffee. Mom was safe and content. "I just want my home to be normal again."

Our pastor spoke on Abram a few weeks back. He called attention to God's command for Abram to go out of his country, away from his family, and from his father's house. God took Abram away from a place he was established, comfortable, prospering, that He (God) might do something for an entire people. God did not hide the fact, there would be something in it for Abram -- "I will make you a great nation, I will bless you and make your name great..." -- but those were "will"s and "would be"s. When Abram packed up the clan and all their possessions, he had nothing but a promise; it was because of his belief in that promise, he left all he knew. That is faith: walking out our belief.

I believe God gave Jesus to die for my sin. I believe Jesus rose from the dead and reigns as King of kings and Lord of lords. I believe the presence of the Holy Spirit in me is His guarantee of all He has promised. Presumably, it is because of those beliefs, I seek to bring glory to my Heavenly Father, to proclaim the name of Jesus, and to follow the Holy Spirit's direction.

For a long time, I chose to remain trapped in my past. Although Jesus had delivered me, stepping into the light of redemption and newness of life was far too scary for me. One day God showed me the toll that darkness was taking, and I moved toward His Light. Scott joined me on my journey, and we built this fabulous life together. Our home was safe and comfortable, a haven of rest and healing. I needed the familiarity and tranquility of our home.

And then came Mom. Mom is no trouble at all -- she really isn't. But with Mom came banana peels on the coffee pot, a full-sized adult with the hygiene of a toddler, mounds of tissues in the laundry, unexplained sound effects, anxious pacing, nights of unrest, and baggage. Baggage I carried for years, baggage I shed, baggage that sickens me has been brought, quite literally, to my doorstep. Suddenly, my home is not the comfortable, healing place it was before; and God is calling me to love.

God is telling me I no longer need my place of comfort, but The Comforter. It is time to leave my place of refuge, for The Rock. God is removing my place of peace that He might be my Peace. God is transforming my place of healing that I might better know The Healer. There was a time of learning and renewal that took place within our cozy little home; but it is time for something more, to stretch and mature. And if I will walk out my beliefs, if I will go forward in faith, if I will leave comfort to Him, God will do something for His glory and my good.