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.