Winner, Winner! Chicken Dinner!

I've written before about memorials. An Ebeneezer. A place in time, a place on earth that brings to mind the personal goodness of the Lord in your life. As Samuel said, "Thus far has the Lord helped us." When we're praying for something, and we can't see God at work, the reminders we keep close to our hearts and foremost in our minds, can provide the hope and confidence we need to keep asking. As I was reading Numbers 11, this morning, one of those mile markers came to mind.

The children of Israel were in the wilderness. God had provided manna each day to sustain them, had preserved their lives as well as their clothing, and led them by cloud and by fire. And they complained. They complained so bitterly, the Lord sent fire to consume some of them; Moses named the place Taberah, which means "burning." But their grief didn't stop. They pined for the exotic foods of Egypt; they literally wept for meat. Moses had enough, and Moses complained:

"Why have You afflicted Your servant? And why have I not found favor in Your sight, that You have laid the burden of all these people on me? Did I conceive all these people? Did I beget them...? 

"Where am I to get meat to give to all these people?..."

Years ago, I was in a terrible marriage. My then-husband's infidelities, raising two children alone, working, homeschooling... I complained. Bitterly. Until one day, I decided it was time for my children and I to be free. Complaining wasn't going to do it. I had to trust God to take care of us; I had to follow Him to a better place -- but there was wilderness before. A wilderness of loneliness and exhaustion; a wilderness of testing my resolve and my faith; a wilderness of legal battles and family battles; a wilderness of lots and lots of mac and cheese.

There was a place in this wilderness called "Financial Dearth." After weeks of feeding my children the least expensive of foods -- processed, canned, boxed -- I wanted one thing and one thing only. I wanted meat for my children. Real meat, fresh meat. Complaining hadn't released me from my marriage, complaining hadn't brought me this far; I had to go to the only One who could. I stepped out onto the patio and with tears streaming, I prayed. "Lord, thank You for providing for us; but please, God, I just want fresh meat for my children. Where am I supposed to get meat for my children?"

That very afternoon there was a knock on my door. "Do you want any chicken?" There was some sort of explanation that came with it. My neighbor's brother worked -- blah, blah, blah, had given her a case of  -- blah, blah, blah. I'd heard very little after the initial question. Meat! God had given us meat! "Yes! Yes, I want meat!"

All I had to do was ask, and my question had been answered. Where was I to get meat for my children? Why, from my Father, of course!

Think Before You...

Why can't people just keep their mouths shut? Or in some cases, keep their fingers off "SEND"? What is it that compels people to speak when they shouldn't, or say some of the most bizarre and inappropriate things? This is not just a twenty-first century phenomenon.

In Mark 9, Jesus takes Peter, James and John up on a mountain. As they watched, Jesus was "transfigured". Merriam-Webster defines transfiguration as "a change in form or appearance; an exalting, glorifying, or spiritual change." A dramatic metamorphosis! Moses and Elijah even appeared and began talking with Jesus. The disciples were afraid, and Peter suddenly blurts out, "Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; and let us make three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."

**Record scratch.**

Most commentaries criticize Peter for placing Moses and Elijah on par with Jesus -- three tabernacles, one for each. Others take issue with the "containerization" of Jesus and Moses and Elijah -- Peter placing them under worldly or mortal restrictions. But there were some other things that came to me, and they, too, seem to reveal what I believe was the root problem -- Peter's immaturity:

1. Jesus obviously put a lot of stock in Peter -- His response to Peter's confession (Matt. 16:17-19), and the simple fact He invited Peter to the mountain, demonstrate Jesus had plans for his life. For Peter to volunteer such a fantastical suggestion, as though people would travel to this one place on earth to see Jesus and the patriarchs like some sacred sideshow betrays just how limited his thinking really was. Jesus created all the earth, the universe and what lies beyond; He is an infinite God with an eternal plan for all of creation!

2. Peter's suggestion was completely without thought. Jesus had just explained -- days before -- all that He would suffer, how He would be crucified and rise again. Exactly how was all of that going to transpire if Jesus was living in a hut on a mountain? Additionally, Jesus corrected Peter for designing his own plan (Mark 8:31) on that occasion; yet, there was Peter, "fixing things" again. "Jesus can remain here; He'll be safe." Are there any "fixers" out there? You know who you are.

3. Peter was afraid. Who wouldn't be? But Peter spoke out of that fear rather than speak out of the confidence that comes from a friendship with Jesus, rather than speak out of the peace that comes from knowing God. Over and over the disciples had been afraid; over and over Jesus struck down fear with His presence and power!

4. Peter "did not know what to say." So why speak at all? Because Peter was uncomfortable; he spoke to regain control of the situation. Jesus, Moses and Elijah were speaking to one another; Peter, James and John were looking on, apparently, in silent terror. No doubt, their minds were racing. "What is going to happen? Why did Jesus bring us here? How did these guys come back from the dead?" The perplexities and dread! "I've gotta do something!" Proverbs 17:28: "Even a fool is counted wise when he holds his peace..."

Peter went on to do incredible things for the sake of the Gospel. In Christ, none of us is beyond help or beyond hope, and maturity doesn't happen overnight. But thinking before we speak (or tweet, or post, or send) is always a good start!

Remembering Those Who Served

Three of my mother's brothers served in World War II. Mom was the baby in her family, so she was still living at home when America entered the war. There were post cards and packets of photos, silk stockings and pennants -- Mom wound up with a boatload of memorabilia. Despite all that, I know very little about my uncles' service. One was in Japan, one in Germany, and one in Australia. One was a bombardier. One refused to ever talk about it again. They all, by God's grace, returned.

What I do know, is that they helped me become who I am today. Maybe they were never aware of it, but they taught me that men work hard, and they care for their wives and their children, but they don't have to sit around sharing feelings and changing diapers to be great husbands and fathers. Maybe it's sexist, maybe it's taboo in this twenty-first century "enlightenment", but moms stayed home to raise their children and dads went to work to provide. And they were all very happy with the arrangement -- my uncles and my aunts. I wanted to be happy as well.

Neither of my parents smoked, but when the smell of my uncles' cigarettes was wafting up the stairs into our bedrooms late at night, I never felt so safe. In a house that was often tense and tomb-like in silence, the raucous laughter and ear-piercing voices of my uncles was a welcome offense for my brother and I. We loved the upset, and our childhood was never more alive. 

Uncle Norman had a cackle that drove everyone in the room to cackle right along with him. He still wore the same size pants he wore when he served in the Army -- only then he wore them at his waist, not somewhere south of it. Uncle Howard had a side glance that could have probably put Mussolini in his place had they sent him to Italy; he made it a point, each time he visited, to tell my mom's poodle to "go play on I-95." And Uncle George -- well, Uncle George was really special. He tortured the life outta me. Yeah, I know, it's sorta weird. But the teasing, the tormenting, telling me I was "full of soup" every time I proudly told him about my report card or something I'd done, it was an affection that was strangely comfortable to me. After all, how tough can a guy be if he takes time out to bother his seven year old niece, right?

As I said, Mom was the baby; she is the only one of all her siblings remaining. Uncle George was the first to pass. Before Uncle Howard died, just a couple of years ago, Scott had the pleasure of meeting him. I'm grateful for that -- Scott reminds me of him the most. Mom still asks for her brothers, is shocked each time I tell her one of them has died. They looked out for her; she looked up to them. 

And so did I.

True Passion Knows No Fear

I know nothing about birds. They're interesting, kinda cool to watch, but that whole fascination with soaring like a bird or whatever -- not my thing. Give me invisibility -- now there's a superpower! More to the point, I have started lapping the parking lot at work for exercise a couple of days a week. It just so happens, our building (and, by extension our parking lot) is situated near a wildlife refuge. All sorts of birds frequent the grounds, and I really am quite proud of myself when I can identify more than the garden variety seagull or the eagles we've become so accustomed to seeing. The other morning, as I was lapping, two red-winged blackbirds were swooping and diving some thirty feet or so away. There was a battle or romantically-intended chase going on, and things were getting heated. My approach did nothing to deter them. Still swooping. Still diving. Still engaged in whatever intense exchange compelled them. When I finally passed them by, they had been mere inches from my feet. These delicate creatures, weighing ounces, were so bent on what they were doing, they had no fear of this enormous beast tromping through their flight path at full tilt. They were fearless. This time.

One day I was sitting in my office at work; our windows overlook the gate where tractor trailers enter. A driver arrived, and as I had her on the phone, she described to me a scene that was taking place in the yard beside her. A few birds had decided to "harass another bird" (her words, not mine). She was pretty upset about it, and quickly jumped from her tractor to shoo away the foul fowl. She was at least ten feet away when her flapping arms, her yelling, and her imposing presence drove the lot of them away. According to her, the offending creatures "had nothing better to do." That may have been true. These birds were certainly not committed to their bullying -- they dispersed at the mere sight and sound of her!

That's the difference between just being something, and being passionately engaged in being something. I can't imagine a skydiver who "kinda likes it." You're either terrified and fully committed to stay on that aircraft, or you relish the thought of abandoning it to fall freely to earth for the next sixty seconds or so. There really is no in-between. Passion removes the middle ground. You're either passionate about always using a seat that doubles as a flotation device to descend, or you're passionate about using a hanky some guy making minimum wage and pulling an all-nighter has crumpled into a backpack. True passion knows no fear.

What does your relationship with Jesus look like? Passionate? Or passionless? Are you just killing time, looking for trouble to get into -- or, maybe, trouble is finding you? Or are you tenaciously engaged in chasing off the enemy, single-mindedly pursuing Jesus Christ? If there is passion in what you're doing, nothing will keep you from it. Nothing will deter you. Nothing will run you from that hallowed ground you seek to occupy.