Nature of Grace -- Linda Elmore Teeple

life IS fragile

2011-09-16T08:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I signed into writing.com to catch up on my mail. A shudder vibrated through me as I read a message from Karen: “There is no good way to share this with you. One of our members passed away on Sept. 11.”

I have been a member of writing.com for less than a year and I don’t know people very well—except for rixfarmgirl. Rixy is one of those gems of a friend who is new in my life—someone I know will become a forever friend. And now, she is only a memory. I am stunned, shocked, numb, and so sad.

The way writing.com works is, you post your own writing to be reviewed and you review the writing of others. One of my essays caught Rixy’s eye, she saw potential in me and began to mentor me. I consider her my anchor at writing.com—and even though she is no longer alive, she will continue to be my anchor.

Rixy was a retired English teacher and published author and in her retirement continued to encourage and mentor other writers. She gave meaty constructive criticism that is worth its weight in gold. Forgive me, Rixy, for mixing my metaphors and clinging to cliches—sadly I’m not writing for perusal of your reviewing eye. (Oops, “sadly” is one of those pesky adverbs you wont let me get away with! And I’m starting this sentence with “and” and putting this in parentheses—also one of your pet peeves!)

With Rixy’s encouragement, I signed up to take a writing class in the writing.com New Horizon Academy. I am taking “NaNoWriMo & the 30-Day Novel,” which begins in October. Rixy was to be one of the instructors.

I signed up, in part, because Rixy was one of the instructors. Also because I thought it would be a great way to s-t-r-e-t-c-h myself as a writer. Every day I question, “What have I gotten myself into?” NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month—and I not a fiction writer. However, I hoped that, under Rixy’s tutelage, I could be successful. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. Gulp…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I responded to the e-mail about Rixy’s death, asking if there was anything I could do to help. Karen responded, “If you want to help, you can do your very best in the NaNoWriMo course. That would mean a lot to Rixy.”

Rixy, I will be writing for you! And if a novel evolves, I will dedicate my very first novel to you.

Man with a Missional Heart

2011-08-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

Rex and Linda - '09 Guatemala mission trip
on hotel roof with volcanic mountain in background.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying,

“Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”

And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”

Isaiah 6:8 NIV

Few things bring tears to my husband’s eye, but the words of Isaiah, whether read directly from scripture, or vocalized in music, cause Rex to choke and tear up. He takes the words personally, from God to him.

Traveling with my optometrist husband on eye care mission trips is one of the highlights of our life together. We’ve been to Honduras, Costa Rica, Guatemala, and Kenya and want to keep going on mission trips. There’s one problem, however: my health problems. Fibromyalgia and chronic pain in my right leg, caused by a hodge-podge of issue in my spine, makes walking painful and arduous.

Last winter we signed up to go on a fall mission trip to Honduras with our church but cancelled out a few months later. No way would I be able to negotiate the steep walking paths in Canchias, the mountain village where we were to go. I was disappointed for me, but even more disappointed for my husband.

In July, it became apparent that my left knee, injured in my early 40’s—when I bent down to tie my shoe, no less—needed a total knee replacement. So I chose to have the surgery the same week as the mission trip we were missing. Somehow, this soothed my disappointed heart, legitimizing my absence from the team.

My dear husband, without telling me, decided that he would go on a different mission trip—to our home, to take care of me. Several days into my recovery, I was thanking him for being so attentive to my needs and he replied, “I decided that I would make serving you my mission.”

He touched my heart and took my experience of his love to a deeper level. My love for Rex deepened in like proportions. What an amazing man! If only all spouses and caregivers were this loving and compassionate.

One of Rex's satisfied patients

I know the limitations of my illness affect us both. This has to be difficult for my hubby who is an always-on-the-go guy. If he’s not playing racquetball or golf, he’s water-skiing or riding his bike. He loves to work in the yard and is a Mr-fix-it extraordinaire.

For years, he has taken one week of his vacation time (unpaid) to provide eye care to thousands of people who rarely, if ever, see an eye care specialist. He has a heart for missions. To think that he chose to be my servant—God’s servant—is a gift of grace beyond measure.

Rex, you are my gift of grace from God!

Fragile: Handle with Care

2011-08-19T19:20:00.000-07:00

My son and daughter-in-law have attempted to help their three-year-old son Evan understand that Nana is fragile and can’t handle being tackled or jumped on, like Daddy and Papaw can.

Evan is catching on to the concept of fragility quite well. One day he told his mommy, “Nana is fragile. She’s old, like Panda.”

Yes, it’s funny and I take no offense, but our fourteen-year-old lab Panda is, in my opinion, far more fragile than me. Poor girl has lost most of her sight and hearing and depends on smell to locate where she is and who is present. Her spindled legs spread-eagle on her when she walks on tile or hardwood—her Bambi-on-ice impression. Famous for her jumping ability, she now collapses in a lump on the floor when attempting to leap onto our bed and the sofa.

Just this week, Evan and his two-year-old brother Josh stayed with my husband and me for a few days. Seeing stick-it notepads on my desk, Evan asked to have some. He then proceeded to plaster the notes everywhere. I didn’t see the pattern until he stuck one on my leg. He was marking everything in the house that was fragile! His accuracy was amazing: TV screen, china cabinet, glass top tables, decorative items—and Nana.

During Invisible Illness Week—September 12-18—we hope to raise awareness regarding the difficulties people face when dealing with chronic pain and illness. My precious Evan is far more aware than most adults.

I hope you will follow Evan’s admirable example and increase your awareness of invisible illness and how you can support those who deal daily with chronic illness and pain.

Check out invisibleillnessweek.com today.

If you are dealing with a chronic illness and pain, Rest Ministries—an online support ministry—invites you to explore restministries.com and get connected with other people who understand what you are going through.

You don’t have to be old, like Panda—just fragile.

Invisible Illness blog post—August 12, 2011

2011-08-12T07:27:00.000-07:00

What is an invisible illness?

Consider this:

Nearly 1 in 2 Americans (133 million) has a chronic condition.

By 2020, about 157 million Americans will be afflicted by chronic illnesses, according to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

That number is projected to increase by more than one percent per year by 2030, resulting in an estimated chronically ill population of 171 million.

Sixty percent are between the ages of 18 and 64

90% of seniors have at least one chronic disease and 77% have two or more chronic diseases

In the United States 4 in 5 health care dollars (78%) are spent on behalf of people with chronic conditions. The Growing Burden of Chronic Disease in American, Public Health Reports, May June 2004 Volume 119 Gerard Anderson, PhD

Source: Chronic Care in America: A 21st Century Challenge, a study of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation & Partnership for Solutions: Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD for the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation (September 2004 Update). “Chronic Conditions: Making the Case for Ongoing Care”.

If you don’t see a cane, wheelchair, walker of some other form of assistance, then there may be an invisible illness lurking beneath that beautiful smile and cheery voice. People with chronic illness and pain can be masters at disguising their true emotional and physical status.

At home I feel free to grimace and groan as I cope with pain, but in public, I do my best to appear “normal.” I want to be normal. I want you to think I’m normal. I also want you to think I’m coping well and accept my limitations and restrictions on activities with an air of grace.

The truth is, I struggle with this every day.

I suffer from the mental malady of the “used-tos.” I used to be able to walk a long way, ride my bike as long as I’d like, take my adorable grandsons on outings. Activities that I used to take for granted are now off limits. Places that I used to go—like Honduras and Guatemala on mission trips—now seem to be out of my reach. I used to hike in the woods, just me and my dog Panda, enjoying nature together. I used to spend hours weeding in the garden and now my neurologist informs me that this is just as strenuous an activity as playing football. This may sound like an exaggeration, but I know he is telling me, that, for me, weeding is a danger to the precarious condition of my spine.

The truth is, I an envious of other people who are able to do these things.

The truth is, even though I go to God and depend on him in the midst of my pain, sometimes I am mad at him.

Invisible Illness blog post—August 9, 2011

2011-08-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

For many years, I have written what I call my “ponderings.” I write about my personal experiences, poking fun at my own foibles and tying my thoughts into a Biblical lesson about God’s grace. I love nature and find wonderful metaphors with which to spin these nuggets of truth; truth as I see it. I am not a theologian or minister. I just like to ponder and encourage others to ponder along with me.

I have a very active imagination, and yet—it seems silly to say—I do not have the gift for writing fiction. I have to write from my own experience, boring as it may be. I liken myself to Bert on Sesame St. who collects paperclips and likes pigeons. What do I have to say that would be of interest to someone else? In spite of such reservations, I find that writing nurtures me, and I hope that what I write encourages others to treat themselves with a little bit more grace and gentleness, and to welcome God’s gift of infinite grace.

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As Invisible Illness Week approaches, I hesitate to write about my aches and pains. I’d much rather write about what a pain in the neck I can be! Writing is one way that I escape from inhabiting my pain-filled body. So to write about what I want to escape seems counterintuitive. I am taking on this challenge because I believe in the ministry of Rest Ministries, the sponsor of Invisible Illness Week; and I support the mission of Invisible Illness Week. I want to do my part to increase public awareness about invisible illness.

What is it like to have an invisible illness?

What is it like for my family?

How can my friends and family be supportive?

What are my fears for my future?

What do I miss the most, due to the constraints of my health?

What does a good day look like for me?

What does a bad day look like for me?

What helps me through the pain?

These are the type of questions I will be “pondering” over the next few weeks.

I invite you to read some of my earlier posts along with what I will be blogging about my experience with invisible illness. I’m much more than my diagnoses and hope to give you a reason to chuckle about my foibles while also learning about invisible illness.

Thanks for reading!

INVISIBLE ILLNESS WEEK--September 12-18

2011-08-05T05:42:00.000-07:00

What is Invisible Illness Week?

Check out invisibleillnessweek.com and find out!

I will be blogging about my own experiences with invisible illness over the next few weeks--so check back with me and learn more about what it's like to have an invisible illness.

Handicapped, Disabled or Differently-abled?

2011-06-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

Traveling in the Wheelchair of Life—Part 4

When it comes to sports, I’m definitely handicapped — a congenital defect encoded in my genes. My instinctive reflex to dodge or duck when a ball flies my way, desperately weak ankles and poor eye-hand coordination make me likely to be last picked in all but the most domestic activities. Challenge me to a bed-making race, and I’ll win blue ribbons for speed and neatness. Challenge me to cleaning a bathroom and ... well, you’ll win that one.

I am currently disabled due to knee surgery and a lengthy healing process requiring that I not put weight on my left leg. I get by with the use of a wheelchair, walker, and hopping-about on my right leg. The latter requires modest athletic ability, which as I pointed out earlier, I am lacking. Your prayers for my safety are coveted.

And I am differently-abled in ways too numerous to list. While you may be able to slam a baseball over the fence, I am able to slam computer keys and produce words and thoughts that are equally a hit in my field of play. I am able to listen by the hour (which comes in handy on my job as a therapist) while you may be a non-stop gabber. Don’t ask me to do any form of math and I’ll not ask you to define or spell esclandre, prosopopoeia or guerdon. (Cheer up; I don’t even know what they mean — I’m just messing with you.) We’re just differently-abled, you and I.

Recently I decided to negotiate the grocery store in one of those nifty motorized carts that are now provided for the handicapped, disabled, and/or differently-abled individual. You may not have ever noticed, but a grocery store is an obstacle course in disguise. All those produce, baked goods and soda pop displays, set at angles to keep the physically-abled from racing through the store, are a nightmare for those of us on wheels.

The scariest part for me, however, was backing my buggy up when I failed to stop in time to collect the particular cookies or laundry detergent I was after. Putting my vehicle into reverse set off an obnoxious alarm, not unlike that installed on road construction equipment. I’m not noted for my vehicular backing ability, so I recommend you clear the aisle, street or driveway if you see and hear me operating any mode of transportation in reverse.

The most difficult aspect of grocery shopping, however, was getting into the freezer cases for my weekly supply of Lean Cuisine and Skinny Cow Ice Cream Bars. The freezer doors at my store open outward rather than sliding aside. If you want to feel differently-abled, I invite you to attempt to line up a mobile cart, just so, open the door and lean in for your item.

I do wish to thank all the kind people who helped me retrieve the Wheat Chex and other items stowed on the top shelves. My thanks, also, to those who did not laugh at me and those who pretended to nonchalantly get out of my way (I know you were scared to death and wanted to run for your life!) There are a lot of kind-hearted, gracious and tolerant people eager to be of assistance.

But I am truly baffled by those who were oblivious to this first-time mobile grocery cart driver, who wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. For future reference, I suggest that you look both ways from now on when you cross a grocery aisle to make sure you are not in my line of fire.

”We have different gifts, according to the grace given us.”

Romans 12:6

FYI: Esclandre, prosopopoeia, and guerdon were the final three words in the National Spelling Bee, held on May 30, 2008.

Luscious Legacy - Father's Day Tribute

2011-06-12T04:17:00.000-07:00

I wrote this years ago. Just this week, I was asked to share a favorite childhood memory to introduce myself to a Rest Ministries summer study group. Of course, this came immediately to mind. I love berries, both for their flavor (not to mention their vibrant colors and fruity fragrances) and for the family legacy and memories that burst into the present when I bite into their juiciness.

Blessings,

Linda

“Then God said, ‘Let the land produce vegetation:
seed-bearing plants and trees on the land
that bear fruit with seed in it,
according to their various kinds.’
And it was so… And God saw that it was good.”
Genesis 1:11-12

One hot, summer day, when I was a little girl, my daddy introduced me to the delicious hunt for strawberries. We were visiting Grandma and Grandpa Reuman, my mother’s parents, in Attica, New York. Their large home—hand built by Grandpa—overlooked a picturesque valley. I doubt that Dad and I talked much out there in the field behind the house, but just being with him and having him all to myself was a real treat. I couldn’t resist popping a few of the reddest and juiciest sun-warmed treasures into my mouth right there in the field.

Suddenly, the muted, country quiet was broken by an alarm sounding from Attica State Prison, far off in the valley, alerting the community that a prisoner had escaped. The harsh sound scared me to death, and I just knew that the escapee would come get me! Dad tried to allay my fears, explaining that the occasional escapee was usually a “trustee,” a prisoner who was trusted enough to work outside the wall. Such prisoners were typically due to get out of prison soon, but the security of what was familiar was more appealing than freedom, so they’d head downtown to a bar and wait to be captured, successfully extending their tenure. My fears were soothed and we enjoyed our berries with Grandma’s homemade shortcake.

Strawberries have always been a vital part of my summers, even when I did not have easy access to a strawberry field. During the summer, our neighborhood was frequented several times a week by a truck laden with berries. I got just as excited when I heard this truck coming as I did for the ice cream truck (well, almost). These luscious, locally grown berries sold for the tempting price of four quarts for a dollar. Mom would make shortcake and we’d top it all off with a generous spritz of Reddi-Wip. Dad registered his appreciation with groans of delight and lots of lip-smacking.

Before moving to Anderson, my husband and I lived in Northern Michigan where I went berry picking around the 4th of July. When we returned to Indiana, I couldn’t wait for July to come around, only to discover that I was a month late! You can bet I didn’t make that mistake twice.When my parents retired and moved to Anderson to be near my family, Dad and I took up pickin’ once again. For several years, we went to a local fruit and vegetable farm, oftentimes accompanied by my kids, Matt and Beth, who were as young as I was when I picked my first berry. Later, Dad put in a big garden next to his condo, a generous portion of it dedicated to strawberries.

Bethie and Grandpa loved to trek out to the strawberry patch where Beth would load up her t- shirt with berries and bring them in, thrilled with her payload. It was a special time between little Beth and Grandpa, reminiscent of my own special times with my strawberry-loving papa. I plan to take my own grandkids pickin’ someday!

Exodus 20:5-6 tells us that God promises his love “to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.” Just think: when we receive God’s love and respond with obedience, we pass God’s love on to the next one thousand generations! Is “a thousand generations” simply a metaphor to emphasize the abundance and availability of God’s love? I don’t know. But if the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Indiana can impact the ecosystem in China, then I certainly think God’s love has its own eternal “butterfly effect.”

Just as we receive a legacy from our Heavenly Father, our own family legacies are also passed on. Enjoying strawberries together is a love-filled legacy, a crimson thread in the enduring weaving that is my family. Such a simple act of grace! Every Father’s Day—appropriately celebrated during strawberry season—I fondly remember my strawberry-loving father, Frank Elmore. Thanks for the legacy, Dad!

"Rhythms of Grace"

2010-12-14T04:13:00.000-08:00

"Are you tired? Worn out?

Burned out on religion?

Come to me.

Get away with me and you'll recover your life.

I'll show you how to take a real rest.

Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.

Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.

I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you.

Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)

I find Christ's words of encouragement and comfort apt for application during the busy days of Advent. An invitation to slow down, remember who we are awaiting, and follow his example in our approach to the Christmas season. Shop, bake, wrap gifts, journey to family gatherings via the "rhythms of grace.'

OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES

2010-11-16T13:51:00.000-08:00

Recently during dinner at my son Matt’s house, he asked his three-year-old son, “Who is in your family?” Evan thought for a few seconds, and said, “umm… Daddy, Mommy, Josh… and Evan.” Sitting directly across the table from my grandson, I declared, “I’m in this family, too!” Evan chomped and swallowed before answering me with a swift correction, “No, you’re my grandson.” We (the adults, that is) laughed hysterically. Evan continued eating as if nothing special had occurred. I suppose he’s used to eliciting laughter and is too young to question whether we were laughing at him or with him.

QUESTIONS FOR GOD

2010-11-16T13:29:00.000-08:00

I recently was invited to contribute an essay to a book being published by David Liverett, a wonderful artist from my hometown of Anderson. Writers were asked to choose one question that, if given the opportunity, we would want to ask God. Each essay is accompanied by a portrait of the author, created by David. Many hours of love and talent went into the portraits and it is an honor to be included. Here's my question for God:

“Suffer Little Children…”

“All things work together for good.” Romans 8::28

My life is woven together with countless questions. Some have found answers; some remain a mystery. A few have faded; I’ve made peace with the unanswerable. But there are several tenacious tendrils of wonderment wound tightly around my heart that will not untangle nor let go.

Is it a boy or a girl? I had pondered this question while pregnant with our first child. On January 26, 1977, I got my answer, but discovered that I had been asking a moot question. Our son, Jason, was delivered by emergency C-section and lived only a few hours. “God, why did my baby die? Did I do something wrong? Is my faith so flawed that I need to learn a lesson through this tragedy?”

When I went to my follow up doctor’s visit after giving birth, the only question I had for my doctor stuck in my throat like a wad of cotton. It took several attempts before he could decipher my tearful mumbling, “Did he hurt?” I suppose my question was really for God. “Did my innocent child suffer pain while en utero?”

Christmas 1977 I again was pregnant and gender was definitely irrelevant: “Is this baby healthy?” “Will my baby live—or die?” were the questions that weighed upon my grieving yet expectant heart.

If given the opportunity to ask God one question, it would be this: “Why don’t you intervene when innocent children are suffering? I understand the concept of free will in your divine design, but can’t you make an exception where children are concerned!”

As a therapist, I work with survivors of childhood traumas perpetrated (intentionally, or not) on vulnerable children. Threads of infection spider out from the wound into the far reaches of spirit and personality, disfiguring a promising future…

Notice that I did not say that the wounded person is disfigured. All of humanity is created in God’s image and may be made whole by Jesus’ suffering, death and resurrection. God is in the business of reweaving the tattered shreds of our lives into something good.

When Joseph, son of Jacob, was reunited with his brothers in Egypt, he said to them, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)

Heavenly Father, open my heart and eyes to your presence in the midst of suffering. May I trust you will work it for good.

TWO PLUS ONE EQUALS FOUR

2010-11-16T13:13:00.000-08:00

I have the distinct privilege of having two of my essays on raising Leader Dog puppies accepted for inclusion in the very first anthology about service dogs: Two Plus One Equals Four: Sharing the Partnership of People with Disabilities and Their Assistance Dogs. This book is the brainchild of Kathy Nimmer of West Lafayette, IN. The following are my two essays.

Loving and Letting Go

Dog lover that I am, I’m always on the alert for opportunities to increase my lap time with the canine community. One spring I found myself drawn to a “Leader Dogs for the Blind” booth at the Lion’s Club Home Show, an annual event in my community. Every year I would stop at this booth to admire the Labrador retrievers, German shepherds, and golden retrievers sporting blue bandannas and jackets declaring, “Future Leader Dog.”

I began entertaining the notion of becoming a puppy raiser and convinced my husband to join me in this venture. In June 2003, Grace Marie, an adorable, seven-week-old yellow lab, came to live with us.

“How on earth are you ever going to give Grace up?” everybody wanted to know. Even though I knew that Grace was the property of Leader Dogs for the Blind and I signed an agreement to bring her back when they recalled her litter, I loved her as my very own. I reminded myself daily that Grace had a destiny and that it was my role—a temporary role—to prepare her for her life of service.

It had been years since my husband and I had housebroken a puppy. We’d forgotten what it’s like to be rudely awakened in the middle of the night to the pathetic, heart-retching, irritatingly, high-pitched howls of a baby. Totally erased from our minds were the chilly treks outside to feign excitement over a few dribbles and plops, only to return to the house to clean up puddles and piles of “oops—didn’t-make-it-to-the-door-in-time!” messes, as an energized whirlwind of fur whipped around us, nipping at our frigid feet.

Like all puppies, Grace had a mischievous nature and a proclivity toward destruction. Gracie loved pushing our buttons and hearing us shriek, “No! I mean, ‘Leave it!’ (proper Leader Dog vernacular) Grace, I said, ‘Leave it!’ Good puppy! Good leave it!”

Grace was most endearing in her “undearingness.” It was hard not to laugh at her when she stole socks and unmentionables from the bedroom, and with a twinkle in her eye, engaged us in a lively game of keep-away. Panda, our family “goldendor” (half golden retriever/half Labrador retriever), would launch into retriever mode, tackling Grace so we could confiscate the illicit item.

Gracie’s most memorable heist occurred one morning when I was hurriedly preparing food and gathering up things I needed for a very busy day. I was running late and making numerous trips to the garage to load items into the van. For some unknown reason, the van alarm kept going off and the doors kept locking. I was growing increasingly more frustrated by the minute—until I happened upon Grace in the dining room, contentedly munching on my hubby’s remote van key that she had lifted from his nightstand. My frustration immediately evaporated and I chuckled out a less-than-convincing, “Leave it!”

As a first-timer Leader Dog puppy raiser, I was overly anxious about being a good foster parent. Unlike all the other Leader Dog puppies that I heard fellow puppy-raisers proudly bragging about, Grace was not content to lie quietly at my feet, walk obediently by my side, or keep her trap shut in church. One Sunday, she joined in on the anthem as the choir sang. On another occasion, she could not restrain from expressing her opinion regarding the pastor’s sermon.

“What am I doing wrong!” I wondered. “If I were a good mother, my baby would be better behaved.”

In time, I learned to accept Grace for who she was (active, verbal, stubborn, creative, sneaky…) and not worry about ironing out all her personality wrinkles. Just between you and the uptight, inhibited part of me, I take devious delight in Grace’s antics, wishing I, too, could occasionally let myself “bark” during the sermon, chew holes in someone’s favorite new sweater, and pig out on the dessert designated for company.

While I wanted Grace to become a model Leader Dog, I secretly hoped that her trainers would not be able to extinguish all of the quirks that make Grace so exasperating and yet so entertaining. In truth, I also wanted her future partner to realize just what we went through to raise this dog for him or her. (“Grace can be so ornery sometimes—her puppy raisers must have been absolute saints!”)

One Saturday evening, the night before the children at church were to celebrate Grace’s first birthday, the birthday girl helped herself to ten of the twenty-four cupcakes cooling on the kitchen counter—paper liners and all. Several remaining cupcakes bore nose smudges, but evidently did not pass the sniff test. I fully expected a puppy tummy ache to ensue, but Grace tolerated her sugar orgy extremely well.

That Sunday, as the children sang happy birthday to Grace, their cone-shaped, Sponge Bob hats askew atop their heads, I realized that this was also a good-bye party. That nagging question, “How on earth are you ever going to give Grace up?” caused butterflies in my stomach.

A few weeks later, several carloads of puppy raisers, with their gangly, one-year-old pups squeezed between legs and bags of puppy supplies, caravanned to Leader Dogs for the Blind in Rochester Hills, Michigan. We were a solemn group, yet full of excitement and expectation. Tearful good-byes to pups were accompanied by mutually comforting hugs among the grieving puppy raisers, many of whom would journey back to Leader Dogs in a few weeks or months to collect another puppy.

Six months later, when I had the opportunity to see Grace again and meet her partner, I cried tears of joy. I was thrilled to learn her destination was Costa Rica. I had recently been on a mission trip with Volunteer Optometric Services to Humanity in Costa Rica.

Despite the language barrier, our mutual joy transcended all barriers. “How on earth would I ever give Grace up?” I now knew the answer: it is for this moment that I raised her and let her go.

Hope for the Holidays

June 2006 through September 2007 was a difficult and discouraging time for my family as we experienced a series of significant losses. My husband’s oldest brother, Mike, was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer in June 2006. Early in December he was admitted into a hospice care facility for his final days. That very same day, his other brother underwent emergency heart surgery. Within a day or two, I received the news that a friend had died of breast cancer after a courageous battle that began when she was only thirty-five.

During the midst of all of this, we were waiting on a much-anticipated call came from Leader Dogs for the Blind. Our Leader Dog puppy, Hope, was due to be assigned to a blind person and graduate from the program as a full-fledged guide dog. However, the call we received was to inform us that Hope was being released from the program, due to being too timid. We were shocked and dumbfounded. How could this be? How disappointing!

As her puppy raisers, we were given first dibs on adopting her, and on December 26, 2006 my husband and I made the five-hour drive to Rochester Hills, Michigan to retrieve our very own golden retriever. When Hope first saw us from a distance, we weren’t sure if she recognized us. But as soon as we were subjected to the sniff test, she immediately recognized us. Her re-entry into our home was as if she had never left. If she was miffed with us for subjecting her to the rigors of kennel life and Leader Dog training, she never let on. She was her affable self. Our newest Leader Dog puppy was delighted to have an energetic playmate.

Our Sunday school class had been praying us through one stressful situation after another. On the Sunday after Christmas when we shared that Hope did not graduate and become a Leader Dog, we received a brilliant beam of hope from a classmate. Following class, she wrapped her arm around my shoulders and said, almost prophetically, “God knew that you were the ones who needed HOPE this Christmas.”

Prior to this, we’d only thought of Hope’s dismissal as a failure on our part as puppy raisers. Our friend’s insightful words flipped this perceived failure into a gift of God’s grace for grief-filled days. Yes, we indeed needed an infusion of hope during a very dark time. And how ironic that “God,” spelled backwards, is “dog.”

Hope, the golden retriever, and God’s hope continued to be with us as learned that my brother-in-law had succumbed to cancer. This providential ray of hope shone into 2007, offering support when my mother died in April, when our next-door-neighbor died of cancer in May, and in September, when the home of our other next-door-neighbor was destroyed by fire.

Our beautiful, beguiling, Hope is a vivid and tangible reminder that we need never lose hope, no matter what losses befall us. Grief is inevitable, a side effect of love. And HOPE is the golden retriever that sticks close to our side, and gently and faithfully leads us on.

Hope is gift that God intends for us to share with others. Thus, Hope and I are preparing to become an animal assisted therapy team. I have completed a course on Animal Assisted Therapy, and once Hope and I pass the Delta Society Animal-Handler Evaluation, we plan to visit senior living communities and other facilities where interaction with canines is beneficial. Maybe we can be a reading buddy team in a classroom. I am a Marriage and Family Therapist and Hope can be a valuable co-therapist, especially when working with children.

The possibilities are endless—when infused with HOPE.

DELIGHT IN WHAT?

2010-09-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

“For Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties,” 2 Corinthians 12:10

Life for the Apostle Paul was akin to that of great leaders of recent history who have suffered for their faith. Some of these heroes may be world famous; some may only be known within your community or in the confines of your own home. Perhaps even you, in the midst of feeling imprisoned by chronic pain, are a Paul.

I find it hard to imagine strapping on Paul’s Birkenstocks. If I follow Paul‘s path, then I am to delight in…What? Weakness? Hardships? Persecutions? Difficulties? This sounds less than delightful. It reminds me of Christ’s imperative to, “take up your cross and follow me,” (Matthew 16:24)

Often in my prayers, I exclaim, “Lord, you don’t understand! I can fake it with my friends and sometimes get away with saying, ‘I’m just fine!’ when I’m really not okay. But you know my limits, and yet you want me to do What? And also take delight in my pain?”

I wonder if Paul felt similarly, during the period of his life when three times he pled with God to remove his “thorn in the flesh.” I may not be persecuted and imprisoned for my religious convictions, but I feel betrayed by my own body as chronic pain disrupts and obstructs my life. Taking care of Me has become a fulltime job. And I waste valuable energy fanning the flames of frustration and fear with my, “What if’s…?” and “If only’s.”

God’s response to Paul, and you and me, is, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness,” (2 Corinthians 12:9) This is an intriguing idea—that my weakness can be a venue for God’s grace and greatness. I am willing to struggle with this paradox.

Prayer: Gracious God, help us to trust that your grace is sufficient. May your power be made perfect in our weaknesses.

GOD KNITS

2010-08-28T21:43:00.000-07:00

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb,” Psalm 139:13

Knit one, purl one. Knit one, purl one. Knit one, purl one. Every summer my family would travel from Indiana to New York to visit my aunt for a week. During those visits, Aunt Marge always took time to teach me how to knit, crochet, sew, and embroider.

My aunt’s unconditional love for me was a portal through which I envisioned and believed that God loves me. Aunt Marge had shortcomings, just like everyone else, which helped me believe that a perfect God would continue to love me, in spite of my slipped stitches.

Years later, when I was pregnant with my first child, every month, without fail, I received a package from Aunt Marge. I eagerly opened each box to discover beautiful handmade baby clothes and blankets. What a demonstration of love! The hours involved in each creation were countless. And, of course, I, too, was sewing and crocheting for my baby—with the skills that Aunt Marge nurtured in me.

During my pregnancy, I “just happened” upon Psalm 139. I dearly love this metaphor of God knitting—my Heavenly Father sitting long hours in a rocking chair, lovingly creating me. I have a feeling that this same Needle Artist is just as active in my life now, repairing tears and patching my worn spots.

Those monthly packages, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, were the embodiment of my aunt’s unconditional love for me. Reminders of God’s love are packaged in the Bible—and tucked away in my heart, just waiting to be opened.

At the age of sixty, I am now a cherished antique, and must be handled with care. I need to accept who I now am—tattered though I may be. We can trust that God is still stitching and patching our lives, even though the patterns may include such dark threads as anxiety, pain, fear, discouragement, anger and grief.

Knit one, purl one. Knit one, purl one. Knit one, purl one.

GARDEN OF EDEN

2009-10-31T07:30:00.000-07:00

“The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees
that were pleasing to the eye and good for food…. God took the man
and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it.”
Genesis 2:9, 15 (NIV)

Many people believe that the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden is merely myth. As a nature lover and tree-hugger, I find it quite credible.

The wooded area behind my house is my Garden of Eden—the sacred place where I walk pensively with my Creator. And yet, this small area of woods vividly represents our fallen world—the garden after Adam and Eve sinned.

The forest landscape is scarred by timber harvesting of oak, walnut, cherry, elm and sycamore trees. In the meadow, beneath towering poles hung with heavy wires, the wildlife habitat is like a war zone. Viable trees, shrubs, grasses and wild flowers were ripped from the ground by heavy equipment to clear and widen the easement.

Before the devastation, there was a trodden path that meandered through the trees and meadow, connecting to another well-worn trail that hugs the banks of the White River. The river trail used to be passable, but now, much of the path is strewn with crowns, severed from their trunks and left to wither and decay.

Beneath these fallen crowns are younger trees, their spindly, supple trunks bent low to the ground under the dead weight of expired elders. The crowning glory of foliage sweeps the forest floor, wildflowers interwoven with the branches, like a grapevine wreath strung with anemone, violets, bluebells, mayapple, asters, spring beauty, toadshade, daisies…

I miss my leisurely walks along the riverbank. Climbing through the dying crowns is like trudging through the wreckage of a tornado. It is difficult to recognize—or visualize— what once was. Now I must clamber over immense trunks and climb through a maze of branches. The spirits of the trees whisper among themselves in the breeze as I wend my way through the tombstones of their cemetery.

Recently, a friend said, “the land has a way of recovering on it’s own.” Yes, and no. I wonder how many critters have fled to quieter meadows and woods, safe from bulldozers. Those one-hundred-plus-year-old trees are goners; it will take as many years for saplings to reach heights necessary to recreate the canopy. I’ll be fodder for trees by then.

Even though I must resign myself to the victimization of the woods, it remains my sanctuary. Just as I now walk with God through the havoc of the woods, so I must walk with God through the turmoil of my life. With God’s help I weave my way through this fallen world and he weaves a floral wreath of promises to care for me, no matter what befalls me.

I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go.
Genesis 28:15 (NIV)

I am with you always.
Matthew 28:20 (NIV)

"NOoooooo!" - August 1, 2009

2009-08-01T04:57:00.000-07:00

“Evan, eat your green beans, please.”

“No,” replies my twenty-month-old grandson, his hazel eyes locked intently with mine.

Hmmm… I never had this problem with his daddy, Matt, who inhaled “greensie-beansies” by the can-full. Matthew was master of the “NO!” under most other circumstances. Surely I can get this sweet son of his to eat his beans.

Evan’s vocabulary is rich in ways to resist. There’s the sing-songy “NOoooooo…,” with O’s streaming from his O-shaped mouth, like bubbles streaming from a bubble wand. Initially, his Mommy and Daddy thought this was cute, but it quickly lost its charm as Evan’s vocabulary of “no” grew.

As with my green beans example, there is the matter-of-fact “no,” with eye contact emphasis, testing the adult, “How far can I go?”

Then there’s the quiet “no,” with a slight movement of his head back and forth, when he is engrossed in an activity, such as playing with the remote control.

And, of course, the emphatic “NO!!!” said with eyes ablaze in vehement opposition, that makes living with a toddler so charming.

I relish those blessed times when a toddler says “no,” and then immediately obeys. “This is MY idea to comply, not yours!”

Imagine yourself a toddler in relationship to your Heavenly Father. I routinely get stuck in spiritual toddlerhood, my first reaction to God’s nudging usually some form of “no.” I take consolation from my Biblical ancestors:

Moses employed the “Who, ME?” tactic, when God spoke from the burning bush, saying, “I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt." Moses queried God, "Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh…?" (Exodus 3:10-11 NIV)

The Old Testament prophet, Jeremiah, adopted the, “I’m too young” line of defense when God informed him that before he was even born, “I set you apart and appointed you as my prophet to the nations.” Jeremiah replied, “I can’t speak for you! I’m too young!” (Jeremiah 1:6 NIV)

Jonah utilized the “Flea-to-the-Sea” strategy when God instructed him to take bad news to the people of Nineveh. Due to acting like a spineless jellyfish, Jonah landed in “time-out”—in the belly of a whale.

There are countless ways to say “no” to God. For example, God says that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, but I mistreat it by ingesting the wrong things, eating too much, and by not getting proper exercise and sleep. God wants me to be a good steward of my time and talents, but I squander both of these gifts far too often. I let my fears of rejection and abandonment get in the way of standing up for God’s truth and the welfare of others.

To be called a child of God is both an honor and a reflection of the reality that, spiritually, I will always be a child in need of my Father’s guidance and discipline. As parents, we have our children’s best interest at heart when we “don’t take no for an answer. “ God does, too.

JOSHUA DAVID TEEPLE

2009-07-22T08:46:00.001-07:00

Born July 21, 2009
7 lbs. 10 oz

PAPA MATT AND HIS TWO BOYS, EVAN & JOSHUA

2009-07-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

MAMA KRISTY AND HER NEW BOY

2009-07-22T08:43:00.000-07:00

BIG BROTHER EVAN MEETS JOSHUA

2009-07-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

FINDING NICK - July 4, 2009

2009-07-06T18:59:00.000-07:00

“I know the plans I have for you…plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11(NIV)

This is the story of a boy and his dog who met in prison; the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. I am privy to this saga, because the dog was my dog, Faith.

Faith is the third puppy my husband Rex and I fostered for Leader Dogs for the Blind. At one year of age, Faith returned to Leader Dog School to begin formal training. Six months into training, she was released from the program due to kennel stress. We adopted Faith, with the intent of finding her an alternative avenue of service.

Canine Partners of the Rockies, a program that matches dogs with adults with disabilities, eagerly accepted her, only to release her a few weeks later. Though her guide dog skills were excellent, they did not transfer well for wheelchair work. As her “mom,” I was distressed that my golden girl had not yet found her purpose in life, or a home and family to call her own.

The boy in this story is Nick, a nine-year-old with Down’s syndrome. At age 2 ½, Nick was speaking simple sentences and enjoyed singing songs with his mom. Then one day, Nick disappeared into a private reality, no long speaking, singing, or answering to his name. When Nick was eight, he was finally diagnosed with autism.

Nick is a sweet, loving child, but when upset, he cries, screams, hits, bites, and throws things. In public, he often refuses to hold a parent’s hand, runs of, and plops to the ground to stage a “sit in.”

Nick’s mom, Katrina, intuitively knew that her son would benefit from having a service dog. Although Nick does not have the usual disabilities for which people typically receive service dogs, this determined mom searched for a program that could help him.

During the same time period, my husband and I were contemplating a third placement for Faith—and that is when God brought Faith and Nick together, via the Indiana Canine Assistant Network.

After several months of training, Faith was ready to be matched with a child. Three days into “team training,” when the child and parents work intensively with the service dog and trainer, Nick began speaking—to Faith. Like most children with autism, he needed something to spin, but one day in training, Nick threw his cup and pencil to the floor and made a beeline for Faith.

Faith was allowed to go home with Nick during training and one night, when Nick was crying, Faith went to him. Nick wrapped his arms around Faith and cried into her fur. With Faith’s comforting presence, Nick’s behavior did not escalate into rage or violence.

Nick is beginning to interact more with humans as well. He speaks in sentences. He sings with Mom—the tunes and lyrics he knew at 2 ½, intact.

“I’ve searched for my son for all these years," says his mom, “and it took a dog to find him.”

“Prayer is the key to Heaven, but FAITH unlocks the door.”

I dedicate my column to the ICAN trainers
at the Indiana Women’s Prison.
You are awesome! God bless you!

FLEDGING - June 2 2009

2009-06-09T05:28:00.000-07:00

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles…
Isaiah 40:31 NIV

There’s a nice young couple who have taken up residence in our home—on a support beam situated on the underneath side of our second story deck. It ‘s a safe place to lay a few eggs, sit a spell, and then hatch some young’uns. From nest construction to empty nest, I’ve enjoyed peeking in on my houseguests.

Ladies (and gents), have you ever noticed how fast another mother’s pregnancy proceeds? My pregnancies dragged on at a tortoise pace while everyone else’s pregnancies fly by like the hare in Aesop’s fable. An avian gestation goes by in a flash—for a bird the size of my housemate, approximately 11-14 days. Once hatched, baby birds grow at the speed of light, so you need to be alert and observant if you want to catch the action.

When Mama bird’s behavior changed from incubating her eggs to making umpteen trips to the grocery store, I began making bed checks on the nest several times a day to see how the babies were growing. I was elated when I first caught sight of little pin-feathered heads and beaks popping up. Then one day a baby bird was pushed out on the edge of the nest, due to cramped conditions, and I knew that, of necessity, the babes would take flight soon.

Later that same day I heard a commotion in the direction of the nest and looked over in time to see one fledgling flutter like a befuddled butterfly, fighting to gain altitude. Its wings were flapping wildly and he was darting this way and that, like a kite being played by a fickle wind. But soon he was able to control his wings and negotiated a less than perfect landing on a tree branch.

I walked over to the nest to inspect it to see if anyone else had fledged. As I tilted my head to look up at the nest, the three remaining babies fled the scene and immediately flew to nearby branches. I sat in wonder as I watched the fledglings flying back and forth. It was like watching my child taking off on her maiden bike-flight. I felt the same pride and elation that I have every time one of my kids masters a new challenge. “Whoo hoo!”

In a week’s time, “my” baby birds (I tend to quickly develop attachments to animals) were transformed from pathetic, helpless, naked newborns into teenagers, eager to earn their flying licenses and receive their flight wings. What an amazing miracle!

Do you ever feel like a baby bird being forced out of your security nest, fearful that you won’t be able to wing it? Over and over in life we find ourselves in new and challenging positions, pushed out of our comfort zone. Put your hope in your heavenly Flight Instructor and let God carry you—and “soar on wings like eagles.”

"GRACE MEANS GIFT" - May 2, 2009

2009-05-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

“For by grace are ye saved through faith;
and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.”
Ephesians 2:8 KJV

When I was forty-something, my mom gave me her most prized possession—her mother’s Bible: a lady-like sized, leather-bound King James Version, with petite print.

What I treasure most about this Bible is my Grandmother’s written notes. My own Bible has many passages highlighted and underlined, with comments written in the margin, the really good pages dog-earred. So with great interest I opened Grandma’s Bible to see what passages were most dear to her. Leafing through its delicate pages yielded only one, concise comment—but it is a comment that speaks volumes.

In carefully executed cursive, at the top of the “Presented to” page, Grandma wrote “grace means gift.” That’s it. Grace means gift. After my initial disappointment, my heart swelled with the realization that this one tiny phrase was the “heart” of my grandmother’s heart.

At the time I discovered her note, I was in the midst of my own discovery of God’s grace. I’m always amazed (but not surprised) at God’s impeccable timing. If I had read Grandma’s comment a couple years earlier, would it have had the same impact? I think not. God saved this precious discovery for a time when I would be most able to receive the full impact of its blessing.

Grandma’s legacy—the realization of God’s amazing grace—was passed down to me through my mother. I’m not referring here to Mom handing over Grandma’s Bible to me, but to her own faith journey. Every time she shared her personal encounters with “grace means gift,” with me, her face glowed and her voice took on the quality of music—an expression that made me say to myself, “I want that! I want to have what she has!”

Even though my mom was raised in the church, it wasn’t until she was 59 that she really “got” grace. In her eighties, Mom wrote her autobiography for her children and grandchildren, and in it she stated, “Unknowingly, there had been a struggle in my life as I wavered back and forth for many years, trying to earn my own salvation FOR God, instead of accepting it as a free gift FROM God through Christ!”

Each one of us has to experience our very own encounter with grace. Grace is such a difficult concept to grasp. But once we’ve “got” grace, we want to share it. And it is through demonstrating grace toward others that we help them “get” grace.

We can lead our loved ones and friends to the water trough of grace, but they have to taste it for themselves in order to experience its refreshing, life sustaining truth. Often times, we arrive at the water trough via trauma, crisis, loss, grief—literally dying of thirst, spiritually. Care for a sip?

Grace means gift!

In memory of my grace-filled grandma
Wilhelminia Schelesky Reuman
1887-1972

PASSPORT TO PASSOVER--AND BEYOND - April 4, 2009

2009-04-13T16:50:00.000-07:00

During March, my daughter, Beth, led a mission trip to Antiqua Guatemala for Ambassadors for Children. My husband, Rex, and I also went to Guatemala on a medical mission with People Helping People. Beth was in Guatemala from the 7th to the 14th; we were there from the 14th to the 21st.

On March 14, we were like “two ships passing in the night,” in the Guatemala City airport as Beth and her team were checking in to ticketing to leave Guatemala, at the same time that our team was arriving. There is no crossing over from the “departures” side to the “arrivals” area, and there wasn’t even an opportunity to wave at each other through a window. To be that close to my daughter in a foreign country and not give her a hug was pure torture.

When traveling out of the country, one’s passport is a traveler’s most precious possession—even more valuable than my aerosol hairspray, which was confiscated at the new Indianapolis terminal. I didn’t carry this document with me to the clinic site or while sightseeing or shopping, but I was always a bit anxious when it was not on my person.

While I tend to be a worrier in my normal life, beyond the U.S. borders I develop the mind of a Stephen King. What if our bus is ambushed by bandits, we’re robbed and abandoned on the side of a winding mountain road, without currency or documentation? Or what if a volcano erupts and…

Even more important than a passport issued by our government is our spiritual passport, given to us by God: GRACE. We are birthed into grace when we are born, for God’s grace permeates everything. It’s like air which is necessary for life, but we can’t see it. Or like water to a fish: invisible, but essential.

No need to purchase this passport: just say “yes” to God’s free gift of grace. While not tangible or visible, you can “feel” and “see” it in the way a grace-filled person demonstrates grace to those around them. This spiritual document can’t be lost or stolen. There is no expiration date; no need to renew it or pay for it, and then wait ten weeks for it to arrive in the mail. And, best of all—no ugly mug shot that you’re stuck with for ten years; our image is a reflection of Christ.

As we observe Holy Week, remember that the events of Christ’s last week of life—his entry into Jerusalem, the Passover meal taken with his disciples, his passionate prayers in Gethsemane, his arrest, beatings, trial, conviction, crucifixion and burial—were all a part of God’s plan to redeem us. Our passports are stamped with Jesus’ blood.

On Easter we celebrate God’s unlimited, uncontainable, unrestrainable Grace, as demonstrated in our Savior’s resurrection.

“For by grace you have been saved through faith;
and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God.”
Ephesians 2:8 NIV

FASTING - March 7, 2009

2009-04-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

I am not a big fan of fasting. I tried it once, but only due to peer pressure. Eons ago, a pious person in my Bible study group decided it would be spiritually edifying to fast during an overnight retreat. I’m not talking eight or even twelve hours; no, twenty-four excruciating hours of gnawing emptiness—to help us focus on God.

Oh, I fasted, and survived, but my eyes were more on my tummy than on God. And I was so famished when it was time to “break fast,” that I ravenous gorged on donuts that a thoughtful Martha among us supplied. I learned two spiritual lessons from this rigorous discipline: 1. fasting is definitely not my mug of mocha, and 2. greasy pastries hit the empty tomb like a tub of rancid lard.

In Old Testament times, the Israelites engaged in fasting—laced with “attitude.” God sounds slightly sarcastic in the following response to the fasting of his Chosen People:

"The bottom line on your 'fast days' is profit. You drive your employees much too hard. You fast, but at the same time you bicker and fight. You fast, but you swing a mean fist. The kind of fasting you do won't get your prayers off the ground. Do you think this is the kind of fast day I'm after: a day to show off humility? To put on a pious long face and parade around solemnly in black? Do you call that fasting, a fast day that I, God, would like?” (Isaiah 58:3-5 The Message)

Actually, God sounds A LOT sarcastic—and angry. I think these are good words to keep in mind if fasting for Lent, whether for extended hours, or in refraining from chocolate, pop, alcohol, or some other addictive substance or activity.

If you’re primarily giving up desserts just so you can fit into your bathing suit over spring break, I strongly encourage you to rethink this. I have a hunch that this motive falls into the “unspiritual attitude” category that brings out God’s cynicism. The object of Lenten denial is to express devotion for God, not adoration for the Sun god of Daytona Beach.

I’ve occasionally given up chocolate, Diet Dr. Pepper or desserts for Lent, but I must admit to mixed and self-serving motives. To my relief, God provides another fasting option; a “doing” fast rather than a “denial” fast:

"This is the kind of fast day I'm after: to break the chains of injustice, get rid of exploitation in the workplace, free the oppressed, cancel debts. What I'm interested in seeing you do is: sharing your food with the hungry, inviting the homeless poor into your homes, putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad, being available to your own families." (Isaiah 58:6-7 The Message)

Our Savior would say a rousing “AMEN!” to that:

“I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least
of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”
Matthew 25:40 The Message

CHANGE - February 21, 2009

2009-02-24T17:23:00.000-08:00

"I tell you the truth,

unless you change and become like little children,

you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Matthew 18:3

----------------------------------------------

Just as I get comfortable, something changes. Sometimes the change is for the better; sometimes it makes things difficult; and sometimes change falls somewhere in the middle. Mostly, change slides up and down the continuum of life and I am dizzied in my attempts to keep up with it.

I’m most uncomfortable when change comes unexpectedly. Just as I tend to be klutzy in the physical realm, I am also emotionally klutzy, falling on my face as the speeding ball whizzes by me, or worse, strikes me dead-on, right where it hurts, especially in my “family bone.”

Right now, my family bone is in good shape. Changes are on the horizon, but they are exciting ones, including a mission trip to Guatemala with my husband, brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew. I look forward to warmer temperatures; but dread the packing and traveling. I love experiencing another culture; but get frustrated because I “no hablo mucho Espanol.”

I would like to think that I’ve grown more adaptable over the years, but there’s a troubling rumor going around that people in my age bracket begin to get stuck in our ways. This was true for my parents, but I can’t imagine this happening to me.

My hubby and I are definitely keeping up with the times. Rex and I each have our own cell phones (but can only execute a paltry few functions). We just entered the postmodern era by purchasing a flat screen TV (we were forced out of our comfort zone when our good-old, good-enough antique set died right before our eyes). And, I am on Facebook (but I have no pictures of me all dolled up, bedecked in “my little black dress,” nor do I have any place to wear it).

Not one school counselor advised me that I would need to minor in computer science in order to manage my daily life in the 21st century. For heaven’s sake, today’s three-year-old knows more about the computer than I do! Must I “change and become like a child” to enter the computer age?

There’s a bittersweet change just around the corner for me. I have been writing for The Herald Bulletin since May 2005 and thoroughly enjoy doing so. However, this column will begin appearing monthly, rather than weekly, beginning in March. To wean you from a weekly column, I will be skipping the last Saturday of February, and then begin the monthly routine. So be sure to look for me on the FIRST Saturday of each month to catch up on my adventures with Grace.

In the event that you go into withdrawal, you can get a fix by logging onto my blog: http://natureofgrace.blogspot.com/. Is not the fact that I am a “blogger” substantial proof of my ability to adapt to change? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear it!

HEART-BREAK - Valentine's Day - February 14, 2009

2009-02-15T18:47:00.000-08:00

“O my Comforter in sorrow,

my heart is faint within me.”
Jeremiah 8:18 NIV

I have a sobering Valentine’s Day message. I wish to share with you a burden that is heavy on my heart.

By profession, I am a Mental Health Counselor and a large component of my practice is with women who were sexually abused as children or sexually assaulted as adults. Boys and men do not escape such abuse, but are far more reticent to report. They’re more likely to end up in drug court or jail rather than in a therapist’s office.

When you’re attending church, a ballgame, or shopping this weekend, be aware that roughly 25% of the women there were sexually abused before the age of eighteen. There are children near you who are currently being sexually abused. If they do tell someone, it is often years after the occurrence. Many of these girls and women will NEVER tell anyone.

You will likely to be standing in line, or sharing a pew or bleacher, with perpetrators. Most will never be confronted with their crimes, and those who are will escape conviction due to “lack of evidence.” There’s no DNA test for the damage done to a human heart and spirit. If convicted, the sentence will not reflect the life-long devastation wrought on their victim and her family.

Many people are baffled that victims often don’t report. “Why didn’t you scream?” “Why didn’t you tell someone?” Perpetrators tell children, “Don’t tell anyone or you’ll get in trouble.” “If you tell, I’ll hurt your mommy (brother, sister, YOU).” Big sisters will often endure abuse in the hopes that younger siblings will be left alone.

Women rarely scream for help because they are frozen in fear. Violence—even threats—is a powerful silencer. Most sexual assaults are perpetrated by people the victims know. Imagine breaking the silence and telling on a relative, pastor, neighbor, family friend, husband or boyfriend; now an entire family is affected. Will you be believed, or accused of lying? (“The rate of false reports of rape is approximately 2%-3% which is no different than for other crimes.”).

Ironically, “22% of all women say that they have been forced to do sexual things against their will, where only 3% of men admit to ever forcing themselves on a woman.”

Shockingly, “The United States has the highest rape rate among countries which report such statistics (13 times higher than England; 20 time that of Japan).”

Sadly, “18% of women who reported being raped before age 18 said they were also raped after age 18.” These women are not “asking for it” by how they act or dress. They are dramatically more vulnerable than non-victims and perpetrators easily find and target them.

Despairingly, those who have the courage to pursue prosecution of their perpetrator, will be further emotionally wounded by painful experiences with medical personnel, law enforcement, the legal system and media. Sitting in a court room with a perpetrator is a nightmare. If they’ve been assaulted by someone they have previously had consensual sex with, they will probably settle out of court; juries are stymied by this dilemma. It’s better to settle for a lesser conviction than to see one’s offender walk free.

Survivors numb their emotional pain via eating disorders and abusing drugs and alcohol. They suffer from long term depression and anxiety disorders. If they ever establish a loving relationship, their love life will be scarred by the abuse. Husbands and boyfriends often do not understand the long term consequences of abuse and, in frustration, push for sex, further wounding the women they love—and their relationship.

All is not well this Valentine’s Day. Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, bouquets of roses, and romantic dinners cannot heal these bleeding hearts.

Compassion, patience, a listening, nonjudgmental ear, are healing ointment and protective bandages—dispense liberally. There’s no greater gift.

------------------------------------------------

Resources:

Sexual Assault Statistics, Men Against Sexual Assault, University of Rochester http://sa.rochester.edu/masa/stats/php

Bureau of Justice: Crime and Victim Statistics, http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/cvict.htm

Bureau of Justice Statistics Rape and Sexual Assault: Reporting to Police and Medical Attention, http://www.ojp.gov/bjs/abstracts/rsarp00.htm

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, http://www.rainn.org

Violence Against Women Online Resources: Document Library, http://www.vaw.umn.edu/library/sexualassault/

WHO (World Health Organization): Gender-based Violence, http://www.who.int/gender/violence/en/

NANA BANANA - January 31, 2009

2009-02-02T17:40:00.000-08:00

I spend Mondays with my grandson Evan. We both love bananas. And we love words—or for Evan, he loves babble.

“This, is a banana,” I say. “This is Nana,” I say, pointing to myself.

“Da-da-ma-ma-puppy-da-da-woo!”

After a breakfast of O’s and flakes—and bananas, it’s playtime. Evan’s attention span is typical of a fifteen month old—short—and so we do lots of different activities.

Santa brought him a ball pit, a great idea at the time Santa’s elves purchased it, but a not-so-great idea at 10:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve when Mommy and Daddy were huffin’ and puffin’ to inflate it. The pit is basically a small pool filled with colorful plastic balls, topped off by a corkscrew track.

“Eh, eh!” coaxes Evan, as he holds out a ball to me.

“Red ball,” I reply as I comply and drop the ball atop the track.

“Plop!” announces the red ball as it falls into the pit.

“Eh, eh!”

“Blue ball."

“Plop!”

Tiring of this fascination, Evan heads to the house Papaw made for him out of an H.H. Gregg dryer box. Peek in window; enter house; peek out window at Nana. “Boo!” Nana can’t resist squeezing into the house via the toddler-wide door (Papaw didn’t take into account the likelihood that an adult might want to play inside). Evan lights up with delight and quickly joins me for a brief visit.

Then it’s on to his ATV (all terrain vehicle—Papaw went wild in the toy store). Evan’s short legs don’t quite reach the floor yet, but he’s more interested in the sound effects and lights than he is with driving.

Time for a workout on the Fisher-Price fort and slide. No need to “Eh, eh” at Nana for assistance; Evan’s up onto the platform and slipping down the slope head first on his tummy before Nana can say “Nana-banana.”

“Oh! What’s that?” Daddy’s bench press. “Oh, look at that cute baby in the mirror. Would you look at that—two Nanas!”

Time for a walk pushing the nifty, pint-sized, plastic car that transforms into a walker.
Push the button to turn on the TV. Grin at Nana. Turn off the TV. Turn on the TV. Grin at Nana…

Dig through the toy chest. Press lots of buttons that make animal sounds and music; boogey briefly to the beat. Open and close everything that opens and closes. Stack; unstack. Put in; take out.

Motor a matchbox car across the carpet, vocalizing motor sounds.

Sit on Nana’s lap. Have Nana read the six-page, indestructible, cardboard book about baby animals a gazillion times.

Time for a nap—Nana’s.

After a week’s rest, I can’t wait for Monday. I count the days. Can’t wait to kiss those baby soft cheeks and blow raspberries on Evan’s tummy. TGIM!

The Bible refers to God as our Heavenly Father, but I just bet he’s really our “Thank Goodness it’s Monday” Granddaddy.

“I have loved you with an everlasting love.”
Jeremiah 31:3 NIV

MISADVENTURES OF A KLUTZ - January 24, 2009

2009-01-25T12:28:00.000-08:00

Panda, Hope and I have been enjoying excursions to the Bark Park since last July when I purchased their required “Pooch Passes.” One frigid, 24 degrees morning, I donned my long johns, insulated socks, and boots, grabbed a hat and gloves, and loaded my eager, fur-clad companions into the car.

Panda is always uncontrollably excited when she recognizes the Bark Park and I have to let her out of the car first. Hope, on the other hand, waits patiently for her turn. I leashed Panda and she pulled me over the icy pavement to the park entrance. The gate has a keyed entry, but it was standing wide open.

Panda dragged me to the second gate and sniffed the fragrant ground as I unhooked her leash and released her into the park. I turned to leave to retrieve my other retriever—and my gloves, hat, and cell phone—and discovered that the gate had swung shut. I grasp the handle, but it didn’t budge. So I stuck my key in the keyhole and was puzzled that the lock didn’t open. “Maybe the lock is frozen,” I hypothesized, so I removed my key and tried again. No luck.

There I stood, shivering: no hat or gloves; no cell phone by which to call for help; nobody in sight to rescue us. I had visions of my thirteen year old dog freezing to death, paws frozen to the ground. What to do? Against my better judgment, I decided to climb out.

This is quite a dilemma for someone who is klutzy, afraid of heights, and recently underwent microfractive knee surgery. But I rose to the challenge, driven by panic, frigid air, and stinging, snowy mist. My “Center for Fight or Flight Operations” took over, flooding me with adrenaline and reducing my brain to that of a cave woman fighting for her life.

Facing my Mt. Everest—a six foot chain link gate—I began my ascent: right foot on lower gate hinge; left foot on support bar; s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g up; left hand grasping top of left gatepost; right hand grabbing the chain link. Utterly amazed, I heaved myself atop the gate.

“Now what do I do?” I’d only thought of how to ascend, never dreaming I’d make it this far. With my right leg dangling, my left leg scraped across the chain link, throwing my weight over and down. Gravity claimed me, and unbelievably, I landed on my feet. Granted, my landing was not graceful, but I’m certain that angels were involved. With the assistance of a very nice man at the Animal Shelter, I retrieved my senior retriever and all was well.

This adventure got me thinking about when it’s my time to approach the Pearly Gates. I believe that the Gate himself will be there to welcome me with open arms.

"I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved.
He will come in and go out, and find pasture."

John 10:9 NIV

LOST & FOUND - January 17, 2009

2009-01-20T17:55:00.000-08:00

I once was lost, but now I’m found…
“Amazing Grace”

John Newton

I have a long history of losing and misplacing things. “It’ll turn up eventually,” says my hubby. Here’s my track record from the last two months, as it might appear in the Herald Bulletin classifieds:

Lost: one CD containing precious pictures of grandson. Lost in the vicinity of my home. Have looked high and low. If found, please call Nana at 555-5555.

Found: one CD containing precious pictures of grandson.

Lost (again): same CD containing precious pictures of grandson. Lost who knows where. If found, please call...

Lost: one flash drive, created by my son with precious pictures of grandson. Lost in the vicinity of my home.

Found: one flash drive, created by my son with precious pictures of my grandson. Yea!

Lost and found, repeatedly: planner; cell phone, keys; my senses, my mind, my temper…
I have numerous CDs, but the one I lost is priceless to me. I have turned the house upside down. I have mentally and physically retraced my steps trying to remember where I may have put it down. I’ve even enlisted my husband in the search. We’re still looking…

In my favorite parable, Jesus uses the metaphor of a lost sheep: "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home.”

I cherish the image of my Shepherd searching for me when I go astray and rejoicing when he finds me. And to imagine myself sitting upon Jesus’ broad shoulders gives me shivers and brings tears to my eyes.

Not only does Jesus rejoice, he throws a party: “Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.' I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.” (Luke 15:3-8NIV)

I will most definitely rejoice if and when I find my CD, but my joy is miniscule compared to God’s joy when even just one of us repents. He created all of humankind in his image and longs to be in perfect relationship with us.

I have a card that depicts a shepherd, his knees resting on the edge of a cliff. He’s reaching over the ledge with his crook to rescue a lamb perched precariously on a branch growing out of the cliff. Have there been times in your life when you have felt like this lamb? If so, be assured, for God is seeking you relentlessly. You are on your Shepherd’s mind continually and you will be found.

QUEST FOR THE PERFECT FIT - January 10, 2009

2009-01-14T11:17:00.000-08:00

Ye shall seek me, and find me,
when ye shall search for me with all your heart.

Jeremiah 29:13 KJV

There are two goals I doubt that I will achieve: finding the perfect purse, and finding the perfect pair of jeans.

It is common among women to bemoan to each other about the difficulty of finding a pair of jeans that truly fit. Slacks and blouses, sweaters and skirts, and even shoes, we can find. But jeans that fit all aspects of our feminine physique? Unattainable.

If the jeans fit our hips, they definitely will not fit our waists. If we try the low riders, our paunches pooch out over the waist band. If the crotch fits, then you can bet your bottom dollar that the derriere won’t.

Recently I psyched myself up to join my sisters in the quest for the holy grail of dungarees (my mom’s word for jeans). I was desperate. I had stooped to wearing my faded, timeworn Levis that I retired from public display years ago, which are reserved only for solitary activities like hiking in the woods and gardening. I love those jeans! They’re soft and fit every curvature perfectly. I can’t imagine ever tossing them in the ragbag.

So last Tuesday I approached the wall of jeans in Kohls and, on hands and knees, hunted through every single pair for my size. Those disgustingly cheerful morning people, who had been standing outside the store chatting when the doors were unlocked for the big after Christmas sale, had already foraged through the once organized stacks of neatly folded jeans, and reeked havoc.

After two shopping trips and countless treks to and from dressing rooms, a stack of jeans came home with me. Final scrutiny before my own mirror narrowed the field down to three pairs of jeans that I’m satisfied with. They’re not perfect, but nothing can measure up to my beloved relaxed fit, boot cut Levis.

Questing after God is similar to my pursuit of jeans. I often have to psych myself up to find God in my life. The closet of my spiritual life is cluttered and I lack the energy and motivation to be a seeker.

There’s a scene in the movie ET in which the mom opens the kid’s closet which is crammed full of stuffed animals. ET is sitting among the toys but blends in and goes unnoticed by the mom. But if you know what you’re looking for—as the audience does—you can’t miss him.

Sometimes God becomes just another entity that gets lost in my busyness and disorganization. Of course, God is not really lost. I don’t need to go shopping for God; just open the door—to my prayer closet, just as Jesus directs me in Matthew 6:6 (KJV).

Is your prayer closet cluttered with timeworn worries and crisp, new concerns? Whether you prefer to pray figuratively or literally in your prayer closet, do take time to talk to God.

SNUGGLING AND STRUGGLING - January 3, 2009

2009-01-03T13:15:00.000-08:00

Well, how are you doing with transitioning from 2008 to 2009? It’s time to take down the tree and holiday trimmings, sweep up the pine needles and hit the after Christmas sales—and stock up on Valentine’s Day chocolate, the displays of which are already prominent in the stores. Go ahead, pop a chocolate morsel into your mouth and snuggle into the hibernating months of January, February and March.

Snuggle?

Perhaps a more apt metaphor might be of struggling into last year’s stiff, slippery, overstuffed snowsuit that you’ve outgrown and sludging through two feet—no, let’s make that six feet—of snow, while bracing yourself against an icy wind chill of -10—no, let’s make that -60. Severe weather causes painful frostbite, confines body, mind and spirit, and drives you stir-crazy. I see you in my mind’s eye as you shutter at this image and drop to your creaky knees to plead with your divine Weatherman for an early spring. I do envy those snowbirds…

I’ll know that I’ve successfully crossed the final hurdle into the new year when I no longer write 2008 on my checks. Even though I’ve hung the glossy, clean calendar (one I created myself featuring none other than my grandson, Evan) and have entered appointments into a fresh planner, it will still be awhile before I’m fully present in 2009.

Some years I have a mission trip in Central America to look forward to in the winter. Fond memories of sweating in the hot humidity of the tropics offers little comfort. I do so hate to sweat, but I would trade my shivers for sweat beads right about now. Alas, we’re not heading to Guatemala until April.

As you flip the calendar page and turn up the thermostat, would you say that you are snuggling or struggling with your Maker? Do you feel crammed into a religious format? You know: church every Sunday and Wednesday, committee meetings, and yet another pitch in dinner requiring that you use the oven for something other than warming up your buns (a fine Christian friend of mine, who happened to be from the South, living in Northern Michigan during our Air Force years, actually employed the stove in this very manner).

Let’s use the gift of nasty Midwest weather as an opportunity to snuggle into on our relationship with our Heavenly Father. I’ve found that a cup of hot chocolate goes well with prayer and Bible study.

I will snuggle (dwell) in the lap (house) of the LORD forever.
Psalm 23:6 NIV

FYI: My hubby got my goat this Christmas—I’m referring to a goat given in my honor to the India Gospel League, so a family can have milk and raise a few goats for income.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 25 - Breath of Heaven - December 27, 2008

2008-12-30T18:34:00.000-08:00

The Lord himself will give you a sign:
The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son…
Isaiah 7:14

The Guttmacher Institute reports that in 2002 there were 746,820 pregnancies and 425,493 births in the United States—among women aged 15-19. More than 18,000 women in this age group become pregnant every year—in Indiana.

It is a scary proposition to bring a child into the world, no matter what your age. I was twenty-seven when my newborn babe Matthew was placed in my arms. I was ready to be a mom; I was in awe of the miracle taking place; I was head over heals in love with my baby boy—and I was scared silly!

In Breath of Heaven, vocalist Amy Grant captures what may have been Mary’s feelings when carrying the Child of God: “I am waiting in a silent prayer. I am frightened by the load I bear.” The load she refers to here is more than the weight of the growing child or the usual trepidations of an expectant parent. Mary was chosen to bear the spirit-breathed Son of God.

In Grant’s song, Mary prays: “Breath of heaven, hold me together, be forever near me…lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy.” What was in frightened Mary’s heart as she waited in “silent prayer”?

By becoming pregnant out of wedlock, Mary disgraced her family, her betrothed, and her God, and according to custom, did not deserve to live. With a nod of his head, Joseph could have had Mary stoned to death. Interesting, isn’t it that Jesus, who was destined to die himself, was born to a woman who should have been put to death.

Fortunately, Mary had a good support system: God the Father, who deemed that she would bear his son; the angel Gabriel, who informed her of God’s plan; Joseph, a godly fiancé; her cousin Elizabeth, who also became pregnant under suspicious circumstances; and the Breath of Heaven—the Holy Spirit.

Jesus’ parents had to grow up fast, their faith and integrity challenged by his conception, their maturity honed over nine stressful months, culminating in a grueling trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem, just as Mary was due to deliver. This young girl gave birth in a drafty stable, far from home and family.

While Mary’s circumstances occurred in the first century, many young women today find themselves in similar straights, having disappointed family, facing rejection, and dealing with an unplanned pregnancy. The Breath of Heaven gives life to their little ones, each created in the image of God. But life is a struggle, just as it was for Mary, Joseph and Jesus.

As you contemplate the birth of Jesus, pray for the little ones in our community who are God-breathed miracles deserving of love and protection. May we reach out to these little ones and their families as an act of worship—as we “worship Christ, the newborn King.”

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 24 - Believing the Unbelievable - December 20, 2008

2008-12-23T04:31:00.000-08:00

How will this be, since I am a virgin?"
Luke 1:34

"Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you."

Say what? Who said that?

“Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God.”

Um, you have the wrong girl. And you’re creeping me out!

“You will be with child and give birth to a son…”

Hey, I’m still in high school—there’s no way I’m getting prego. Turn off that flashlight—you’re blinding me!

“…and you are to give him the name Jesus.”

If and when I do get pregnant, my boyfriend, Joe, and I will choose a name.

“He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High.”

Just who do you think you are—a prophet? An angel? I’ve caught a few ‘Touched by an Angel” episodes, and, trust me, you’re no more angelic than I am ‘with child,’ as you so delicately put it.

“The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever. His kingdom will never end.”

You’re talking crazy talk, but, just for the fun of it, I’ll play along. So, this small town, blue collar, Jewish son of mine is going to become some sort of bigwig in the Roman Empire—like Joseph was in the Egyptian Empire under Pharaoh?

"The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.”

You’re going to have to explain this overshadowing stuff to my Joe—and my folks. I’ll be grounded for life!

“So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.”

Surely I heard you wrong. Next thing you’ll be telling me this kid is going to be the Messiah…

I have raised a teenage girl and I work with teenagers in my job as a therapist, thus my gut suggests that there was more to the conversation between Mary and the angel Gabriel than what is recorded in the Gospel. After all, both Abraham and Sarah laughed when a visitor foretold that barren Sarah would have a child. (Genesis 17:17 and 18:12) And Zachariah, father of John the Baptist, doubted the angel Gabriel’s announcement that his barren wife Elizabeth would bear a son. (Luke 1:1-23) So wouldn’t a virginal teenage girl be skeptical?

What teen (or adult) today would believe that they were impregnated by the Holy Spirit? (Although I have met a few young women who claim no knowledge of how they got pregnant!) Luke chose, not to focus on skepticism, but to shine a beacon on Mary’s faith—a childlike faith that led her to believe the unbelievable:

“Behold the handmaid of the Lord;

be it unto me according to thy word.”

(Luke 1:38 KJV)

How is God working the unbelievable in your life?

The Holy Spirit overshadows you and your life is pregnant with possibility.

“With God all things are possible.” (Jesus)
Matthew 19:26 NIV

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 23 - Advent Conspiracy - December 13, 2008

2008-12-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

The holidays sometimes bring out the worst in me.

As the countdown progresses from Black Friday to Christmas Eve and beyond, I sleep less, triggering the cross and cranky button in my brain.

I fret over the rising credit card balance as I repeatedly swipe my card.

And I quake in the presence of the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future-weight gain—all the while taste-testing the cookie dough, nibbling on mixed nuts, and hoarding all the dark chocolate covered caramels in the Good’s deluxe 2 lb. gift box (the one I bought for my cousin; but then remembered she lives in Arizona and the candy will get all mushy in a hot UPS truck—so what’s a chocoholic to do, but eat it myself…).

Some days I just want to cry, “Bah, HUMBUG!” and hibernate for the holidays. Oh, but then I dream of chocolate and sleepwalk to my carefully guarded chocolate hideaway for a generous dose of serotonin and antioxidants. The mood elevator kicks in and I’m feeling fine, but then my blood sugar plummets from the sucrose overdose, so I head to the sofa for a nap—or back to the candy stash for another fix.

When the kids were young, I made a birthday cake every year and we sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus. One year I was so out of control that I almost single-handedly devoured Jesus’ birthday cake. I’m usually indifferent to the cake, but this particular year was different. I intentionally purchased a white cake mix and frosting. I’d have to be in dire straights to eat something so “Blah, Humbug!” as white cake.

Well… I discovered that French white cake is dark chocolate’s European kissing cousin. I made countless trips to the kitchen that Christmas to slice just-a-sliver of cake. I polished it off in just under two days, six hours, and seventeen minutes.

Forever frosted in sticky, vanilla shame, I’ve not baked Jesus a cake since. Until I get to heaven, and am safe from gluttonizing Jesus’ birthday cakes, I might do well to join the Advent Conspiracy—an international movement that inspires us to replace consumption (chocolate or otherwise) with expressions of Christ’s compassion.

Here’s the plan: Give the gift of your time, presence, and relationship to loved ones and friends—and then with the money you save, make a donation to a worthy cause.

The Advent Conspiracy has overhauled my Christmas wish list. The clothes and books I asked for? Don’t need ‘em. What I really want is fresh drinking water, nutritious food, medical care, and barebones schools and school supplies—for those who do not have these simple things that I take for granted.

I especially want a goat (available via the India Gospel League for only $85). I think I’ll name her Grace. “Baa-a- (no humbug needed) a-a-a!”

How do you plan to honor Jesus this Christmas?

http://www.adventconspiracy.org/

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 22 - Family Reunion - December 6, 2008

2008-12-08T04:58:00.000-08:00

The Lord said to Jacob, “Go back to the land of your
fathers and to your relatives, and I will be with you.”
Genesis 31:3

Family reunions can be stressful. A pastor once told me that he does far more family counseling in the aftermath of Thanksgiving than at any other time of the year.

In some families, there are personality clashes that set everyone on an anticipatory edge, dreading yet another unfestive family fiasco. The stew of dysfunction is already brewing...

On the other end of the spectrum are the families in which individuals, or even groups of kin, haven’t spoken to each other for years. It may even be taboo to mention the outcast’s name.

After stealing his brother’s birthright and blessing, Jacob fled his family, fearing that his twin brother, Esau, might kill him. He’d not broken bread with his family for over twenty years. The cutoff in this family was cavernous.

And now God was instructing Jacob to return to the scene of his deceit. It was with both fear and longing that Jacob obediently set out with his growing family and flocks for a momentous family reunion.

As Jacob drew near to his homeland, he sent messengers to Esau saying, “Your servant Jacob says, ‘I have been staying with Laban and have remained there till now… Now I am sending this message to my lord, that I may find favor in your eyes.’” (Genesis 32: 4-5 NIV)

When his messengers returned with the news that Esau was coming to meet Jacob—with 400 men—Jacob was afraid and prepared for the possibility of being attacked. He divided his people and herds into groups which he sent out ahead of himself and his wives and children, each with a generous peace offering for Esau.

The pivot point on which this story turns is prayer. Jacob was in conversation with God, both in listening for God’s voice and in baring his heart to his intimately involved, loving God: "O Lord… I am unworthy of all the kindness and faithfulness… Save me, I pray, from the hand of my brother Esau…" (Genesis 32:10-11 NIV)

Despite his long history of deception, God loved Jacob and gave him much more than the desires of his heart: “Esau ran to meet Jacob and embraced him; he threw his arms around his neck and kissed him. And they wept.” (Genesis 33:4 NIV) Gazing at Esau through his tears, Jacob uttered, “…to see your face is like seeing the face of God…” (Genesis 33:10 NIV)

Is there a rift in your heart and family that needs healing this Christmas? If so, may you be encouraged by the reunion of Jacob and Esau.

How have you been a Jacob, robbing your family of God’s blessing?

How have you been an Esau, betrayed and hurt?

Life is too short and too precious to waste even a nanosecond in hardness of heart or paralyzed in pain. Like Jacob, may you be obedient and repentant. And like Esau, may your face be as the face of God.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 21 - Deceived Deceiver - November 27, 2008

2008-12-06T05:40:00.000-08:00

Based on

Genesis 29:1-30 NIV

Have you heard the latest on what’s going on with Laban’s girls?”

“No, I guess I missed that episode.”

The two women were gossiping while walking to the community well.

“Well, Lydia, overheard Laban’s servant telling one of my mistress’ maidservants that Laban pulled one over on his nephew, Jacob.”

“That young man who turned up out of nowhere claiming to be Laban’s sister’s son?”

“Yeah, that one—the guy who, rumor has it, was running from his twin brother, Esau, for some suspicious dealings.”

“Well, well, well…I’ve always been a bit leery of that one—too good lookin’ and too smooth-talking, if you get my drift.”

“Anyway, I’m sure you knew that Jacob agreed to work for Laban for seven years for the hand of his daughter, Rachael. The wedding was last Saturday and you’ll never guess what happened!”

“So, tell me, already.”

“Supposedly, the morning after consummating the union, Jacob discovered that he’d married Leah!”

“No! No way!”

“Yes, way! Laban gave him some lame excuse about it being the custom that the eldest daughter has to marry first.”

“Now, wait a minute. That’s not a lame excuse; that IS the custom.”

"Oh, yeah. Jacob was so distraught that when Laban said he could marry Rachel right away, if he promised to work for him for another seven years, Jacob jumped at the offer.”

“That Laban sure is shrewd, marrying off both daughters and getting fourteen years of labor out of Jacob, for free.”

“Well, you know what they always say: what goes around, comes around.”

“Hmmm…Jacob must have been quite a huckster himself to deserve such bad luck!”

“Don’t you know it!”

“So, what else is new?”

“WELL! I just heard so-and-so say such-and-such about you-know-who…”

-------------------------------------

What goes around, comes around? Or was Jacob simply reaping the consequences of his own poor choices?

I’m guessing that Jacob didn’t learn his lesson completely after deceiving his father and brother and fleeing for his life. I think it’s likely that he continued to be deceptive in his dealings with Laban. And Laban—a con man himself—was on to Jacob. Laban managed to out-deceive the deceiver, no easy task!

Deception continues to fan the flaming tongue of gossip—that’s why newscasts, crime shows, who-done-it novels, soap operas, tabloids and gossip columns are so popular. Honesty may be the best policy, but it’s…well, boring; it’s straight-forward, not intriguing.

While I would never admit this to a soul, I sometimes get a sick sense of satisfaction when a duper gets duped. It fortifies my “holier than thou” persona (when eroded by my own duplicitous omissions and commissions). And focusing on your dishonesty keeps me from attending to my own.

“Love makes the world go round,” but deception lends depth, contours, twist and turns. Imagine watching the in-a-perfect-world version of the soap, “As the World Turns.” No lying, cheating, betrayal, murder = BLAH!

Would you choose a perfect world, if given the chance?

I would, but only if I’m allowed to overindulge in chocolate and pizza—and drive over the speed limit occasionally!

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 20 - Jacob's Ladder - November 15, 2008

2008-11-18T04:43:00.000-08:00

As a child, I experienced a repetitive dream in which bears escaped from the zoo and were terrorizing the city. People were evacuating and I was left behind to fend for myself. I would run and lock myself in the bathroom, but the bears could eat through the door. Somehow, I always awoke before they ate me. I think the bears symbolized my older brother (Sorry Mike; I couldn’t resist!).

Jacob, who ran from his older brother, Esau, had a doozy of a dream, too, which came on the heels of his father’s blessing (“May God give you of heaven's dew and of earth's richness—an abundance of grain and new wine. May nations serve you and peoples bow down to you. Be lord over your brothers, and may the sons of your mother bow down to you. May those who curse you be cursed and those who bless you be blessed.”)

At the end of a weary day of running, the sun settled on the fugitive. Jacob plumped up a stone and rested his head, drifting into a fitful sleep, his father’s blessing fresh in his mind. He dreamt of a stairway rising to heaven with angels ascending and descending on it. And then God spoke to the sleeping Jacob:

"I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac. I will give you and your descendants the land on which you are lying. Your descendants will be like the dust of the earth, and you will spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All peoples on earth will be blessed through you and your offspring. I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

Think about it. Jacob had maliciously stolen his brother’s birthright and blessing, and yet, God chose to bless him—unconditionally.

"Surely the Lord is in this place and I was not aware of it,” uttered an awed Jacob. “…This is none other than the house of God…the gate of heaven.” Jacob then took the stone on which he had rested his head, set it up as a pillar, and named the place Bethel (House of God).
Unable to fully comprehend God’s grace, nor fully trust the divine promise, Jacob made his commitment to the God of Grace conditional: "If God will:

· be with me,
· watch over me on this journey,
· give me food to eat and clothes to wear, and
· return [me] safely to my father's house,
then the Lord will be my God.”

If…then…

How often do I put conditions on my commitments to God? More often than I would like to admit—like, maybe, 99.9% of the time!

“You are a chosen people…a people belonging to God.”
1 Peter 2:9 NIV

Based on Genesis 27:16-28:22 NIV

EVAN'S FIRST HALLOWEEN

2008-11-09T19:51:00.000-08:00

It's a bird! It's a plane!

No! It's Evie the Bumble Bee!

There's nothing cooler

than bee-ing the Nana

of a bumble bee.

He has my heart a buzzin'.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 19 - Walking in Deception - November 8, 2008

2008-11-09T18:48:00.000-08:00

Deception can be fun. Take Halloween, for example. What child doesn’t love to dress up and pretend to be Spider Man, Snow White, or something scary like Frankenstein? One year, my nephew Jeff dressed up as the Empire State Building and his toddler daughter, Lauren, dressed up as King Kong, taking first place in their community costume competition. Even as adults we enjoy masquerading and deceiving others, just for the fun of it.

I think it would be great fun for my husband and me to dress up as a duo of dice. Grocery cartons spray painted white with black dots would make an easy, inexpensive and clever costume. Rex dismisses dice as a dorky idea—and this from the man who practices optometry on Halloween wearing a mask with a bloody eyeball falling out of its socket.

Looks may be deceiving, but deception is not limited to the venue of vision. Jacob, the son of Isaac, is known for his deceptive finesse. When his father was dying, Jacob donned a disguise in order to appear to be his twin brother, Esau, with the intent of cheating him out of the blessing traditionally bestowed on the eldest son. His duplicity took advantage of the fact that Isaac was blind, and Jacob was able to fool his father by covering his arms and neck with goat skin to mimic Esau’s hairiness. Because Esau was a herder, the odor of the hide further convinced Isaac that he was blessing his eldest son.

This was the second time Jacob used his wiliness against his brother. When Esau came to him hungry and asked for a bowl of the stew Jacob was cooking, Jacob agreed to his request—under one condition:

“First sell me your birthright.”

Esau replied, “I am about to die. What good is the birthright to me?”

To seal the deal, Jacob added, "Swear to me first.” Esau complied.

A cunning opportunist, Jacob knew his brother’s Achilles’ heel and took advantage of Esau in a moment of weakness. Like Isaac, his father, Jacob usurped the blessings of the firstborn son. In Isaac’s case, his father, Abraham, favored Isaac over Ishmael. In Jacob’s case, however, he defied tradition and adroitly appropriated both Esau’s birthright and blessing.

Fearing Esau’s anger, Jacob fled and did not return for many years. In spite of the major fault line in Jacob’s character, God had his eye on Jacob to become a major player in the lineage of the Messiah. God orchestrated events to sculpt the deceiver into a man of Godly character.

We leave Jacob scurrying away from the repercussions of his deception and will follow his journey over the next few weeks. In the meanwhile, how do you play the deceiver in your life? What consequences of deception are you running from? How is God honing your character?

We are God’s workmanship,
created in Christ Jesus to do good works,
which God prepared in advance for us to do.
Ephesians 2:10 NIV

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 18 - River Walking - November 1, 2008

2008-11-02T08:26:00.000-08:00

Sun speckled water gurgles over rocks in a shallow spot in the stream, a glistening mountain range of ripples erupts, mimicking the jutting rocks and mounded stones swept smooth by rushing water. I clamber precariously along the rock-studded shoreline, my pink t-shirt adorned with burrs. I flounder for firm footing on the rock-strewn, shifting floor beneath my hiking boots. My rusty colored footwear mimics the color and wear-and-tear of the languid leaves lazily parachuting from the towering, splotchy-barked sycamores.

I grapple my way toward a boulder hunkered in the shallows. The mat gray ottoman is creviced on top, the indentation filled with morning’s rain. I sweep out the water and leaves that have collected and situate my denim-clad rump as comfortably as possible as bone on rock can be. Following readjustments of my derrière, I dig into my shiny black knapsack and pull out a book entitled The Tree.

Panda, my walking buddy, wanders off, clad in a bright orange “don’t shoot me—I’m not a deer!” blanket snapped securely under her russet chin and white breast. Her mouth hangs open, a pink tongue lopping out the side embellishing a goofy grin. My golden girl, with white fur peppering her muzzle, is in the height of her golden years. But the sparkle in her umber eyes and her agility as she darts to and fro, belie her years.

“Are you a happy girl, Panda?”

With a wag of her tail, Panda trots down the path and disappears into a dense patch of wizened nettles. I turn to my book, its pages crumbled and stained with splotchy, mud colored paw prints. “The resin from the balsam fir becomes the finest cement for optical instruments.” Hmmm… imagine that.

While I’m immersed in botanic wonderment, Panda slinks gingerly into the flowing water, acutely focused on a man and dog on the far shore. I look up just in time to see Panda traversing the river.

“Panda! Get back here, right now!” I yell, authoritatively. Practicing selective hearing, Panda continues on.

With a sigh of disgust, I rise from my perch and begrudgingly slosh into the chilly water and lumber after my wayward dog. Observing my dilemma, the man and dog disappear out of sight. Panda decides to obey and heads back, glancing my way with a glint in her eyes and a smirk on her upturned lips as she passes me.

“Lord, please keep me from falling,” I blurt. Watching my feet, the sun-glinted ripples in the water dizzy me and I momentarily falter. Fully expecting a splashdown, I regain balance. “Thank you, God!” My landlubber boots squish and squash back to my rock. I tether Panda; she’ll wander no more.

In my walk with God, I am often a Panda: I follow the siren call of curiosity and teeter and totter out of God’s will.

“Linda, get back here right now!”

“Yes, Father.”

…though she stumble, she will not fall,
for the Lord upholds her with his hand.
Psalm 37:24

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 17 - Walking Stick - October 25, 2008

2008-10-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

While deep sea diving in the caverns of my mind, I momentarily surface to scan the sky for a word that eludes my grasp. I’m writing about God’s Walking Buddies and balanced on the fence rail, not ten feet from me, is a walking stick. I rarely get a glimpse of these introverted creatures, but this is the second one I’ve seen in a week’s time.

I rise quietly from my chair, not wanting to send her skittering off, but I need not worry. Assuming the classic stance of a walking stick, she is frozen in time, an elongated, low lying statue without stature. I pull up a chair in slow motion and perch beside her, admiring her jointed limbs, delicate feet, sweeping antennae, and twiggy figure.

As I lose myself in her presence, awareness wells up in me and bubbles out in a smile and giggle of recognition. Waiting patiently for me to notice her is God’s “National Geographic” star among walking buddies. I’m energized, excited, and feel all silly inside over this quirky gift. God has given me spiders, mosquitoes, and lightening bugs, but a walking stick—how clever is that?

When Twiggy finally lifts her pencil-lead thin legs, I notice that she is minus her own right “walking stick.” Wonder of wonders, a walking stick can regenerate an appendage. There’s even a rumor afoot that, if beheaded, a “Carausuis” (Twiggy’s swanky scientific name) can reincarnate its head and reconnect it with its body. Alas, the nerve cord cannot reconnect, so I think that means Twiggy would essentially be rendered brainless.

In spite of her handicap, Twiggy motivates quite well and I follow her progress as she struts across the fence rail and scales effortlessly up a brick wall. I position myself in her path and she traverses my pant leg, ascends my torso, and tickles—EEK!—my neck with her “toes”.

Lest she inadvertently take a nose dive under my blouse, I delicately usher her to a nearby bush where she clambers up one stem and down another, teetering on the tips of twigs, the girth of which is similar to her own. Not deterred by dead ends, Twiggy shifts into reverse and inches her way back down the route she came to locate a safer pathway. This unassuming aerialist dangles capriciously while the wind whips the bow at will. Being a klutz from birth and afraid of heights, I really admire this about her.

Do you ever feel “up a stem without a walking stick”? I sure do. While the journey into difficulties is often a breeze, backing out of sticky situations is arduous. When I dangle over danger, the winds of worry whipping me into a frenzy, I need to lean on my Divine Walking Stick for stability and guidance.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways acknowledge Him,

and He shall direct your paths.
Proverbs 3:5-6 NKJV

Changes at the Herald Bulletin

2008-10-19T11:57:00.000-07:00

Well, I knew that the ride couldn't last forever. It's been a really fun ride, too. But, I learned recently that The Herald Bulletin, my hometown newspaper, plans to change its format. In an attempt to attrack more readers, the decision has been made to make changes to my column -- or should I say, the Saturday morning "religious column."

"Readers are wanting shorter articles and more variety," I'm told. So, at a yet to be determined point in the future, I will be sharing my column with three other writers. This means that I will only be writing once a month. And my word count is dropping from 500-700 words (and I always finish at about 699 words) to 500 words.

It feels as if my space is being invaded! This has been MY column and now three other writers will be invited to set up camp in my domain. My Mama always told me to share, but sharing a toy or a pizza is my idea of sharing. Surely she didn't mean that I should have to share my writing space.

Mom had a column for several years in a small Christian newspaper and when the paper closed, her gig was up. I should be grateful that at least my gig isn't completely up. I wish that she were still alive so I could moan to her--she would understand my possessiveness and disappointment. Mom would also tell me that God has other plans for me and she would promise to pray for me.

Thanks, Mom. I'll try to remember that.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 16 - "How I Met Your Mother"- October 17, 2008

2008-10-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

Based on Genesis 24

My junior year in college, a friend insisted on fixing me up with her fiancé’s roommate. I’d given up on blind dates and vowed this would be my last. My Camaro-driving date was really cute. Okay, so I was shallow, but who isn’t at twenty?

I find it hilarious that my eye doctor husband met his wife on a blind date. Move over well intentioned family and friends; match.com is the matchmaker of the 21st Century.

Eons ago, Abraham devised a way to find a wife for his son, Isaac—but there’s someone better suited to tell the story than I am:

“Mommy, tell us again how you met Daddy!”

“Oh, Jacob, I’ve told you this story so many times…”

“Come on Mama! Tell us again! P-L-E-A-S-E!”

“Pipe down Esau... Well, when I was a girl, I had a most interesting encounter with a stranger when I went to the spring to fetch water. He asked me to…”

“Not that part. Skip to the really good part—when you and Daddy met.”

“Yeah, Mom, stop—what’s that word you say to me all the time—stop prograssinating!”

“Well, the man journeyed many days in search of a bride for the son of Abraham, your great-grandfather’s brother. He was adamant that I was the very woman he was looking for. And do you boys know why?”

“Cuz he prayed to God that a girl would come to the spring…”

“…and he would ask for a drink and she’d give ‘em one…”

“…and give all his camels drinks too and she’d be the one…

“…and that was you, Mama...”

“…and we’re STILLwaitin’ for the good part.”

“You do deserve an answer—but you’ll have to wait until next week’s episode to hear the rest of the story.

“Mom!”

“MOMMY!”

“Oh, all right… Perhaps I should have been scared to marry someone I didn’t know, and to move so far away from my home and family, but I felt God calling me. After many days journey…

“Oh, look, Mommy--Daddy’s home!

“Isaac, why don’t you tell the twins the rest of the story?”

“Well, boys, I was out in a field one evening, walking and talking with God, and I saw a caravan approaching. As the camels drew near, I saw the most amazing woman sitting atop the lead camel. ‘Could this be the woman my father sent for to be my wife?’ I wondered. And there I was, all dusty and sweaty, about to meet my wife!”

“Your daddy was so handsome and rode a really cool BC-Camel!”

“Your mommy was so hot… er, I mean, so gorgeous!”

“They say that love is blind, but it truly was love at first sight.”

“And that, kids, is how I met your mother.”

“Oh, Isaac!”

“Oh, Rebekah!”

“S-M-O-O-C-H...”

“Uck!"

“Ick-ick-iky-poo!”

Our Divine Matchmaker longs to match us with the right partner, career, home, etc. Like Rebekah and Isaac, may we be open to God’s leading.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 15 - Walking in Circles - October 4, 2008

2008-10-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

Recently I had microfracture surgery on my left knee, which I’m told will buy me a few years until I need a knee replacement. Prosthetics will be the status symbol of the Baby Boomer generation. My gift to myself on retirement will be a trip—to the orthopedic clinic for an upgrade of parts.

It’s not just golden girls and guys sporting state-of-the-art titanium upgrades; people of all ages need limbs and joints. In fact, animals are being fitted with prostheses. Several years ago, Allison, a five-inch Atlantic green sea turtle washed ashore on the coast of Texas. This little gal was missing three flippers and could only swim in circles, counterclockwise.

Against great odds, Sea Turtles Inc., a rescue organization in Texas, nursed Allison back to health on a regimen of TLC, antibiotics, and a force-fed diet of squid (you’d have to force-feed me, too, to get me to eat squid). Dr. Sudarat Kiat-amnuay* is designing a prosthetic flipper that will attach to a bony stump on Allison’s left rear side.

I recently viewed a u-tube video of a hatchling sea turtle making its way from its nest, across a stretch of beach, to the ocean, an arduous, danger-fraught journey for such a little one. Did Allison make this trek with only one fin, or was she injured by a predator in the water? How did she survive in the churning ocean waves?

Doesn’t Allison’s story just make you weep with awe and wonder? Okay, so I’m the only one weeping into my whole-grain cereal (no squid or squid byproducts—I checked the ingredients list). Allison’s incredible journey is truly miraculous.

Sometimes I feel like I’m swimming in circles, getting nowhere. This brings to mind an image of a penned up Shetland sheep dog spinning in circles, yipping and yapping ad infinitum. When I feel helpless, incapable, lost, I’m an Allison. When I’m crazed with fear or frustration, or rebelling against my circumstances, I’m that spinning sheep herder.

Life’s journey—including our spiritual journey—occasionally takes us for a dizzying spin, like getting caught in the traffic circling Monument Circle in Indianapolis, unable to exit the post-game or rush hour rat race. We feel trapped, clueless, our anxiety and frustration mounting. We go around in circles creating ruts in our lives, our relationships, our jobs.

What keeps us stuck in those ruts? Fear of change, rejection, failure; unmovable attitudes and perceptions that we cling to like a ravenous predator clings to its prey; a lack of insight, foresight, and an inability or unwillingness to learn from hindsight; laziness, stubbornness, prejudice, pride; depression, anxiety, unhealed emotional wounds from our past…

We can continue going around in circles, handicapped and disabled by swimming with only one fin, or we can strap on some additional limbs that will enable us to live effectively. Spiritually speaking, I suggest that those limbs are Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Author, Paul Young, paints an arresting picture of the Trinity in "The Shack," a very popular, yet controversial book. Paul’s wife encouraged him to write a book for their children to help them understand and learn from their father’s painful past and journey toward wholeness. So he wrote an allegory in which Mac, a depressed and grieving man, has a remarkable and life-changing encounter with the Triune God.

We are all wounded and lost, sometimes swimming in circles or embedded in rigid ruts. Paul and Mac strapped on the limbs of grace available only from Trinity, Inc. Both Paul and Mac were swimming counterclockwise to God’s will, hopelessly lost in shark infested waters. What sharks circle you—a painful past, regrets over poor choices, a belief that God can’t possibly love you, forgive you, walk with you?

The rescue boat is close at hand. The life preserver has been flung your way. Do you continue to flail or relax and float in faith? Stretch out your stubs and allow Father, Son and Holy Spirit to strap themselves on.

“Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you.”
Psalm 55:22 NIV

*Dr. Sudarat Kiat-amnuay is an assistant professor in Restorative Dentistry, University of Texas Health Science Center, Houston.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 14 - Walking Sacrifically - September 27, 2008

2008-09-27T07:05:00.000-07:00

“Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love,
…and sacrifice him… as a burnt offering…”
Genesis 22:2 NIV

“Lord, I really don’t want to write about sacrifice and I don’t think my readers are eager to visit this topic either. So how about we” …

“No, really Lord, the timing is just awful. Sacrifice is a downer topic—not a good way to start a weekend, so let’s talk about” …

“You’re not going to give up, are you, God. Gee, you’re stubborn.” … “I’m sorry—I meant tenacious, and that’s a very good quality.” …

Oh, all right, I’ll sacrifice my wishes and write about sacrifice.”

There’s something threatening about the word “sacrifice” that causes my heart rate to go up and makes my muscles tighten. God’s walking buddies in Biblical times make big sacrifices for their faith. That’s not a journey I want to take. I want to hide from God when he’s looking for a sacrificial lamb.

One leg of Abraham’s journey involved a call to sacrifice—a test of his faith, really:

GOD: "Abraham!"

ABRAHAM: "Here I am."

GOD: "Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about."

I don’t know about you, but I find this quite disturbing. What kind of God would ask a loving parent to sacrifice their child? Wasn’t this a pagan practice? Wasn’t Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews—his chosen people—different?

Did Abraham ask such questions? Did he resist God’s instructions? The Biblical account only tells us Abraham’s actions:

“Early the next morning Abraham got up…” and “took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac…” and “set out for the place God had told him about.”

Evidently, if Abraham did question God, he came to a place of obedience overnight. What was Abraham thinking and feeling during the three day journey to Moriah? I would have been an emotional mess. When this little group arrived at the mountain, Abraham and Isaac continued on alone:

ISAAC: “Father?”

ABRAHAM: “Yes, my son?”

ISAAC: “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”

ABRAHAM: “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”

Did Abraham lie to his son? Was Abraham protecting his son from the truth as long as he could? Was he simply unable to utter the appalling words? I don’t think I could say, “Son, you’re the sacrifice—you are the lamb.”

When they arrived at the place God had told Abraham about, he built an altar, bound Isaac, placed him on the altar, and raised his knife…

ANGEL OF THE LORD: "Abraham! Abraham!”

ABRAHAM: “Here I am.”

ANGEL: "Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do no do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”

ABRAHAM: You mean to tell me that this was a TEST? You never intended for me to slay my son? How cruel! How could you put me and my son—my only son—through such agony?

This last response is what I imagine I would say. Abraham, however, took the ram that God provided and made his burnt offering. And then he named that place, “The Lord Will Provide.” He focused on God’s provision and promise, not on his pain.

What is God calling you to sacrifice? You may be experiencing difficulties with your child (or spouse or friend…) that seem impossible to solve and you are called to practice tough love and let go. Or maybe you’re clinging to a bad attitude, habit, or addiction. Maybe you nurse resentments, bitterness, hurts, the need to be right…

What—or who—is your Isaac? Abraham invites you to the altar where, “The Lord Will Provide,” and encourages you with his example to lay your Isaac down. Scary? You bet. Possible? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely!

FYI: The metaphor of laying down one’s Isaac is inspired by a song written by Bonnie Keen entitled, “Isaac.”

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 13 - Walking Expectantly - September 20, 2008

2008-09-21T18:53:00.000-07:00

God said, "…your wife Sarah will bear you a son, and you will call him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him. Genesis 17:19 NIV

Like many women, when I was in my mid twenties, I longed to have a baby. There is something mysterious that kicks in that makes a woman swoon at the fragrance of baby powder. Forget the perfume counter—head for the baby department and go goo-goo-ga-ga over teeny-tiny booties, Pooh printed receiving blankets, and those marvelous onesies. Ahhhh… I love the fresh, sweet scent of a baby.

In spite of the warnings from our mothers about how, even with protection, a girl can get pregnant, so “don’t have sex until you’re married,” for some of us, getting pregnant is not so easy. And for others, it is impossible. Even with all the new medical magic that helps scads of women with uncooperative uteri get pregnant, still there are those who just cannot conceive a baby of their own.

To want a baby and not be able to conceive causes great agony. And the grieving process—the death of the dream of becoming a mother—can be lengthy and exhausting. Sarai, Abram’s wife, longed year after year for a baby. She wanted to give her husband a son. Long after she was of the age to conceive, God told Abram that Sarai would in fact have a baby of her own. Growing impatient with God’s time delay, Sarai and Abram decided to “adopt.”

There were no adoption agencies in Biblical times, but surrogate adoptions were provided for in ancient times. Here’s how it worked: when a woman was unable to conceive, her husband would have relations with another woman and the barren woman would claim this baby as her own. In Abram’s and Sarai’s case, the surrogate mom was Hagar, Sarai’s Egyptian maidservant.

One source I read said that this was accomplished with the surrogate mom “sitting on the lap of the adoptive mother during both insemination and birth.” No wonder modern medicine has labored so intensively to come up with alternative methods for barren couples to conceive!
Women, can you imagine if you were Hagar at the time of delivery? (Men, you’ll just have to hang out with Abram for awhile, pacing outside the tent…) You’ve gone through many hours of sweaty, painful labor and finally its time to start pushing—but wait! “Where’s Sarai? Somebody get Sarai in here STAT!” You are in no mood to wait, let alone to maneuver your aching body onto Sarai’s lap, and then make sure “your” baby drops between Sarai’s legs so the baby will become “her” baby. Um… I don’t think so!

This entire process was further complicated by the fact that, after she became pregnant, Hagar despised Sarai, and Sarai was jealous of Hagar because she was with child. Sarai mistreated Hagar—with Abram’s blessing— resulting in her maidservant running away. But an angel appeared to Hagar in the desert and encouraged her to return to her mistress, which she did.

In giving us “the rest of the story,” Genesis makes no mention of whether the surrogate process was followed. I’m guessing that it didn’t, but that’s my “Not with my man, you won’t, sister!” cultural, Christian bias. Hagar gave birth to Ishmael, but the enmity between Sarai and Hagar persisted and a split in the family eventually occurred. And we think that families today are dysfunctional!

Miraculously, Sarai (now know as Sarah) gave birth to a son who she and her husband, Abram (now known as Abraham) named Isaac. Just like us, Abraham and Sarah were impatient with God’s plan and took things into their own hands. But their Divine Walking Buddy kept his promise, walking with them through their wavering faith. We may meddle and mess things up, but God is faithful.

“For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11 NIV

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 12- Walking in Faith - September 13, 2008

2008-09-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

The Lord had said to Abram, “Leave your country…

and go to the land I will show you.”
Genesis 12:1NIV

Last week I introduced you to Nabeel Yasin, “the poet of Baghdad,” whose poetry was loved by the Iraqi people, but blacklisted by Saddam Hussein. Fearing for his life, Nabeel and his family fled Iraq in 1980 and sought refuge in many cities throughout the Mideast and Europe.

Like nomads, they wandered for literally years, longing to find a place to call home. They hunkered down in Budapest for ten years, but in 1992, following the falling of the Iron Curtain, and the rise of Nationalism in the Socialist country, Nabeel and Nada thought it best to move on, finally sinking their family roots in London.

Abram—better know as Abraham—also knew well the wanderer’s life. He grew up in Ur of the Chaldeans with his brothers, Nahor and Haran. Haran died and their father, Terah, decided to move his family to Canaan. Instead, they settled in Haran. Abram was already married to Sarai (his half sister) at the time of the move.

When Abram was seventy-five, God said to him, “Have I got a deal for you! I have some land that I’d like you to have, no strings attached. I know you’re gonna’ love it. So, pack up all your possessions and gather up your immediate family and livestock and be ready to go tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.”

“Just where exactly is it you’re taking me?” Abram asked, with a touch of skepticism in his voice.

“Well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but I’ll get you there safe and sound—promise!”

“So you expect me to pack up, no questions asked, and go heaven knows where? For all I know you may have some swamp land you’re trying to unload.”

“Now, now, it’s not swamp land! It’s prime property, stretching to the horizon in all directions.

“Sounds too good to be true, if you ask me,” countered Abram. What’s the catch?”

“Like I said earlier, no strings, no catch. In fact, I’m going to bless your descendants and they will be more numerous than all the stars in the universe...”

“Let me sleep on…”

…and you’ll be famous and revered for eons and eons for the faith that you put in me.”

“Famous, you say?”

“Come on, you gotta’ get packing!”

“Okay, but you’re gonna’ have to break the news to Sarai.”

Obviously, I’ve taken liberty with the Biblical account of God’s call to Abram—a projection, no doubt, of how I might react if God instructed me to pack up and leave home with no clue as to the itinerary or destination. Moving away from family is no small deal. Its life changing: there’s homesickness, second-guessing of the decision, feeling like an outsider in an unfamiliar community, trying to adjust to a new house, the “you can’t go home again” phenomena—and what if the grocery doesn’t carry my favorite ice cream bars?

What God actually said to Abram was:

"Leave your country, your people and your father's household and go to the land I will show you. I will make you into a great nation and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse; and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you." (Genesis 12: 1-3 NIV)

Abram set out, obediently, traveling to Shechem, to Bethel and then on to the Negev. Abram veered off course and went to Egypt to sit out a famine, later retracing his steps to the Negev and back to the Bethel area. He packed up camp again and went to live near the trees of Mamre at Hebron.

Wow, that’s a lot of moving—and there was no “Two Guys and a Truck” back then. But most amazing is Abram’s obedience and trust in God. Abram is the Olympic gold medalist of faith.

When you’re wandering through a desert in your life, think of Abram: trust, obey, step out in faith. Your Divine Walking Buddy is before you, behind you, and beside you.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 11 - Walking in Integrity - September 6, 2008

2008-09-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

During a recent trip to San Diego, my daughter and I got pedicures at a salon overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Crazed by the sunshine and salty sea air, I opted to have my toes painted blue. Yes, blue. Bright blue. With raised eyebrows, Beth shook her head at her mother’s bizarre behavior.

“Do you want flowers?” the nail tech inquired.

To which I wholeheartedly replied, “Of course!”

I left the shop quite pleased with my blue-slushy colored nails with white, rhinestone-bedecked flowers. What fun to switch roles with my daughter and be the trendsetter, while Beth played it safe with classic red!

Back a few years, I would not have had bucked fashion rules or peer expectations, and I would have gone to great lengths to spare my daughter embarrassment. Older and wiser now, I’ve become a woman of integrity, from my highlighted hair down to my blue painted toes.

While I am able to say and demonstrate what I believe in small things, am I able to do the same with more important and controversial issues? I know that I am free to speak my mind, but I often censor myself. Occasionally I fear that if I speak up, I will be judged or rejected, laughed at or ignored, as if my opinions are not worth listening to.

However, I do not need to silence myself because I fear punishment or death; but there are many people in this world who do. I am awed by and admire those brave souls who will not bow to tyranny; who speak their truth at great cost to themselves. One such individual is the Iraqi-born poet, Nabeel Yasin.

Now renowned as “the Poet of Baghdad,” Yasin began writing poetry during his childhood. He grew up in the 50’s and 60’s in a close-knit, middleclass, Shiite family, the son of hardworking parents with strong values. He was only eight years old when his brother, Juma’a, was imprisoned and brutally tortured—the first of many imprisonments for three of the Yasin brothers.

“It is your duty to write,” his mother told Nabeel, at age fifteen. “You have been blessed in ways that others have not. And though you should be careful how you do it, you must use your talent.” Saddam Hussein became vice-president of Iraq in 1968, and as he quickly rose in power in the Ba’ath party, Nabeel was penning his own passionate thoughts in his increasingly popular poetry.

Although Yasin did not affiliate himself with any political party, his ideas about freedom and self-expression, fueled by hatred for his brothers’ enemies, resulted in arrests, interrogations, imprisonments and brutal beatings at the hands of the Ba’athist regime. In 1978, his passport stamped with “enemy of the state,” Nabeel went into hiding to avoid certain death. Reluctantly, in 1980, he and his wife, Nada, and infant son fled their beloved homeland.

The Yasins sought refuge in many cities in the Mideast and Europe, finally settling in London. Unbeknownst to Nabeel, though his poetry was banned by the Ba’athist regime, copies of his poems were distributed covertly and memorized by many—a candle of hope burning brightly during over two decades of war and tyranny.

“Two generations of Iraqis, some 60 per cent of the population, have been raised in the shadow of war,” wrote Yasin in 2007, coming of age entrenched in “an ideology of violence” that dates back thousands of years. While Yasin believes that Iraq needs assistance from the west, he believes in the youth of his homeland and fervently encourages Iraqi poets, writers and artists “to “ignite a new set of cultural aspirations among the young.”

Would I stand up for—and stand firm in—my beliefs if my integrity was similarly challenged?

Could I find—and inspire—hope in the face of such destructive ideology?

Every country can point proudly to their poets, preachers and politicians who act courageously and inspire hope.

May I—may we—follow their courageous examples of integrity.

May we set courageous examples of integrity, and ignite hope, aspirations and integrity in others.

“As long as I have life within me, the breath of God in my nostrils…
I will not deny my integrity.”

Job 2:3-5 NIV

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 10 - Canine Companions - August 31, 2008

2008-09-02T18:29:00.000-07:00

“Ask where the good way is, and walk in it.”

Jeremiah 6:16

I’m a dog lover, to the very marrow of my bones. I can’t imagine life without my four-footed walking buddies. Together, we’ve traipsed through fields, tromped through the woods, meandered along streams, and wandered up and down lakeshores. I bubble over with joy as I watch my buddies explore new territory with wild abandon.

Let me tell you about my walking buddies and what I’ve learned from each of them about walking with God:

· Muffin, a fluffy, blonde Cock-a-poo-Pom-pet-store-pooch: Once while Muffy was secured on a chain in the yard, a little girl stopped by and asked, “Does that puppy belong to anyone?” Yes, she was that cute! Muffin camped, hiked and boated with us all over Indiana and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula She especially loved to romp in the snow. Like Muffin, I love to cavort and play with God.

· Midnight, a silky, cocker spaniel/Scotty: a freebie from a frazzled friend, who—after several sleepless nights—decided she was not up to raising a puppy. Midnight was a complexity of sweetness and stubbornness. A poor excuse for a walking companion, Midnight walked whenever and wherever she pleased (usually on the lam). At times, I’m as stubborn as Midnight is black. I run off, returning to God only when I’m good n’ ready.

· Trixie, a shy, dainty, red head with white tipped paws and chest—A Humane Society Heinz 57: After we adopted Trixie, a friend exclaimed, “Hey, I know that dog! She used to hang around the ball field near 10th St. School. She’d role over and beg to have her belly rubbed.” Yep. That’s Tummy-Rub Trixie, all right. After being a stray, free to roam at will, she adapted quickly to walking on a leash. Sometimes I am open to God’s affection, like Trixie, hanging around the park, eager for a belly rub.

· “A female, 100% housebroken, golden/Labrador retriever”: During high school, our daughter, Beth, wanted a big dog to run with. Dad did not want another dog, so he set stringent specifications, thinking Beth would never find a dog with such qualifications. We name her Panda—located via the Indianapolis Trader by a not-to-be-outwitted teen. I can’t live up to God’s expectations, but He promised to adopt me anyway—just as Rex kept his word to Beth, adopting that 100% housebroken Trader pup.

I’m a lot like a Leader Dog puppy, too:

· Leader Dog puppy #1: Grace, a rambunctious yellow Labrador retriever with a nose for trouble. Like Midnight, Grace had a stubborn streak, but, amazingly, she graduated from her training at Leader Dogs for the Blind and lives and works in Costa Rica. As with Grace, I have a nose for trouble, but I can shape up and walk straight.

· Leader Dog puppy #2: Hope, a sweet, shy and compliant golden retriever. Leader Dogs for the Blind released Hope from the program late in her training for being shy, nervous and more a follower than a leader. We jumped at the opportunity to adopt her as a pet. This fall, Hope and I will work on certification as a therapy dog/handler team so we can visit schools and health care facilities. I’m a lot like Hope, more of a follower than a leader. My primary calling is to stay close to home and love my family.

· Leader Dog puppy #3: Faith, an affectionate and assertive golden retriever. Near the tail end of her formal training, Leader Dogs released Faith from the program due to kennel stress. We adopted Faith with the intention of finding her a home where she can utilize her training. On September 22nd, Faith will fly to Colorado to join Canine Partners of the Rockies where she will be trained to work with a person with mobility challenges. I sometimes fall short of a goal, but like Faith, I am teachable and full of potential to cross-train and serve in other ways.

Is it true that dogs resemble their masters (or is it that masters resemble their dogs)? I certainly aspire to resemble my Master. How ‘bout you?

“Walk humbly with your God.”

Micah 6:8

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 9 - Creeping & Crawling - August 23, 2008

2008-09-02T18:24:00.000-07:00

I’m itching to write about my grandbaby. My little guy is not walking quite yet, so how do I work him into this series? Aha! Before we can walk, we first must crawl.

Every person on this planet—except, perhaps, Adam and Eve—crawls on their belly, and hands and knees before walking upright. As I read Genesis, it sounds as if Adam and Eve were created as physically mature adults. Were they intellectually and spiritually mature as well?
Just imagine: no brush burns on your tummy and knees, no boo boos from falling down or stumbling into things, no swats for touching no-nos. They had it easy, but blew their unfair advantage, and made life difficult for everyone.

I take care of my grandson one day a week and so have the opportunity to watch Evan’s progression from helpless infant to soon-to-be toddler. Like most babies, Evan’s curiosity is boundless and fuels his constant motion. I erect barriers with furniture and pillows and when he is unable to circumnavigate or climb over them, he screams in protest.

When set free to explore, Evan scoots across the hardwood floors like a swimmer sprinting across a pool. While he is quite capable of crawling on his hands and knees, Evan prefers to scoot, pulling himself forward with his arms. The main advantage of this mode of travel is the ease of flipping himself around quickly to head off in a different direction. As he swooshes around, he reminds me of a duck on water, turning this way and that, creating nary a ripple.

Evan has his sights set on all things outside his reach. He’ll climb a pile of pillows on the sofa, just to see what’s going on outside or to gain a more advantageous vantage point of his environs. He grunts and groans as he exerts himself, but nothing stops the kid. Up, up, up he goes. If I’m holding him on my lap or in my arms, he is compelled to break loose and creep up my torso. If I didn’t have a firm grasp, he’d plummet headlong over the summit of my shoulder.

Remember those old Popeye cartoons in which Sweet Pea would climb out onto a flagpole, or some other equally perilous place? Popeye would down a can of spinach and dash to the infant’s rescue. Well, Evan is my Sweet Pea. His daddy, Matt, did little crawling and took to his feet at nine months of age. He got himself into some heart-stopping situations in which I assumed the role of Popeye (I relied on adrenalin rather than spinach). Just thinking about Matt’s precocity still makes me shudder and I pray that Evan will not follow in his daddy’s fearless footsteps.

Spiritually, when we were infants, God cradled us in his arms, infusing us with his palpable love. When we were toddlers, God held our hands and provided boundaries and caregivers to keep us safe. Throughout childhood, our spiritual caregivers introduced us to the Bible, schooled us in the Ten Commandments, and, hopefully, taught us about God’s love and grace. During our adolescence, God provided priests and prophets (aka, parents, pastors, Sunday school teachers, etc.) to guide and direct our spiritual growth.

And, throughout our adulthood, God continues to cradle us when we’re confused; hold our hands and provide boundaries when we act immaturely; deepen our understand of his Word; and provide spiritual mentors and walking buddies when we are rebellious, or get in over our heads by acting without thinking. We are never completely spiritually mature, but God meets us where we are.

In many ways, I will always be a crawler, creeping along at a snail’s pace, slow to learn and hesitant to trust in God. Even so, my Heavenly Walking Buddy has eyes in the back of his head, and he has my back. Oh, he let’s me take my spills from time to time, but always—always—he calls me to grow and heal, and survive and thrive spiritually. His arms are wide open, whether I sprint or crawl in his grace.

“I am with you always.”

Matthew 28:20 NIV

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 8 - Divine Do-Over - August 16, 2008

2008-08-20T19:29:00.000-07:00

God blessed Noah and his sons, and said to them:
“Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth.”
Genesis 9:1 NIV

What would it be like to be the only family remaining on earth following the flood? Everything has changed. You once lived among people in a village. Now you’re displaced to a mountain—just you, your spouse and children. The animals that you lived with peacefully on the ark are now afraid of you. God has caused them to fear you and he has directed you to become a meat-eater. Perhaps this was necessary because the flood submerged all plant life under water for over a year. Reseeding and growing new plants takes time. It will be awhile before you enjoy fresh produce.

How do you start over? As a Red Cross volunteer in Louisiana, following Hurricane Katrina, I worked with people who were starting over from scratch. Many had to find sanctuary in other states with extended family, or via relocation made possible by the invitation of strangers, churches, organizations, and communities.

One couple in the Red Cross shelter in Covington, LA was invited by Dennis and Emily Carroll to move to Anderson and live with them. Roy and Elizabeth Carrere, of New Orleans, came to Anderson with practically nothing. The Carrolls and the community of Anderson reached out and helped the Carreres make a new life for themselves.

But, there were no kin to take Noah and his family in; no Red Cross or FEMA assistance; no Christian Center, New Harvest Food Bank, Operation Love or Habitat for Humanity; no religious community; not even one caring stranger offering sanctuary. You are alone with a family to clothe and feed. Where do you begin?

The only guidance or instruction from God that we know about is, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth.” You have God’s blessing and his covenant that he will never again destroy the earth by flood, but these are intangible things—you can’t build a shelter or plant and plow a field with them.

Therefore, you get busy procreating, but the pressure of having to be fruitful and multiply kind of takes the fun out of all that begetting. Human nature hasn’t changed and your progeny create all the same problems that existed prior to the flood. There are no wise elders around to advise and encourage you.

Granted, God has provided a food source for you, but you have no idea how to catch, butcher and prepare a zebra or monkey or hippo, especially when the critter is skittish and eludes your novice attempts to catch him. You have no way to start a fire because every tree and twig is waterlogged. Do you eat that bear, or possum or coyote raw, as you see all the animals doing?

I would like to think that if I were in Noah’s shoes, I would be grateful just to be alive—and off that stinky ark. I would hope that I would appreciate the new source of nourishment provided by God, whether I had to eat it raw or cooked.

However, it is more likely that I would quickly become a complainer, balking at my food choices, just as the Israelites turned up their noses at a steady diet of manna. I would feel resentful that I have to rebuild the world, AND the human race. “It’s not fair, God! Why couldn’t you have left a few of those evildoers alive to do all this work? After all, they’re the ones who reaped destruction on the earth and deserve to labor and toil, not me! I will most definitely be ‘too tired’ to procreate tonight, Lord—I feel a headache coming on.”

Judging from my rotten attitude, humanity still hasn’t changed a whole lot since Noah’s day. Thank God, for a gracious God who puts up with a whiner like me—now, that’s a God I can worship and praise!

Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and…

sacrificed burnt offerings on it.
The Lord smelled the pleasing aroma and said in his heart:
"Never again will I curse the ground because of man.”
Genesis 8:20-21

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 7 - Noah's Ark II - August 9, 2008

2008-08-09T17:46:00.000-07:00

Imagine that you are eleven years old, and you are passionate about animals—all kinds of animals, but especially monkeys. You idolize the Crocodile Hunter and you want to be just like Steve Irwin when you grow up. You devour every book that you can find about animals and become a zoological encyclopedia.

Loving animals as you do, you are eager to become a zoo volunteer. In just a few weeks, you’ll turn twelve and will be old enough to achieve this dream. What might a twelve-year-old volunteer do at the zoo? Well, you will start at the bottom, of course, cleaning up after the animals. You don’t really mind, you’ll do whatever it takes to get yourself around all those fascinating creatures. Working at the zoo is an important step toward achieving your long-term goals.

You study very hard and science is your favorite subject. Once you graduate from high school, you plan to go to college and major in zoology. Then you will become a zoologist, all the while, dreaming your biggest dream: your dream of dreams. Someday you will own your very own zoo, which you will call “Noah’s Ark II.” The original ark housed two of every kind of creature, but since your ark is Noah’s Ark II, you’re going to double the population and have four of every animal. This is a lofty dream, but it is your dream. What a wonderful dream for a child your age!

This is, in fact, the dream of eleven-year-old Logan Greene, of Willington, Tennessee. Logan and I share a similar passion for God’s creatures and the natural world. We both loved the Crocodile Hunter. Logan and I have one more thing in common: we are related…

On July 18th, Logan had an experience that no child should ever have to go through. After work and a late dinner out, Logan’s mom, Lisa Teeple, Logan, and his ten-year-old sister, Lexie, stopped at Wal-Mart on their way home, to pick up milk and dog food. After getting back in their truck with their purchases, Logan and his family witnessed a carjacking. A man with a gun approached the vehicle parked catty-corner to Lisa’s truck. Logan was in the front passenger seat and was the closest to the gunman. As they watched, horrified, the man opened the door of the other vehicle and, at gunpoint, pulled a woman out onto the parking lot. Her son was also in the vehicle. The gunman climbed into the vehicle and drove off.

Logan has been asthmatic for years, but his condition was under control, so much so, that he was quite active in several sports. However, on the evening of July 18th, the stress of witnessing a violent crime triggered an unusually severe attack. So severe, in fact, that Logan—just a few weeks shy of his 12th birthday—did not survive. Before medical help arrived, his throat and bronchial tubes swelled to the point that it was impossible to intubate.

You can imagine the shock and grief that reverberates throughout the Greene and Teeple families, at Logan’s school, among his many friends, within the community and church, and among the many medical personnel who attended to Logan and his family. In response, God’s love has been personified a hundredfold in the caring acts of family and friends, and a multitude of strangers. In their hometown, individuals, businesses, organizations, you name it, have enfolded Logan’s family in God’s comforting arms.

This precious boy, Logan, loved and cared for all of God’s creation. While he will never have the opportunity to realize his dreams for Noah’s Ark II, Logan walks with God, now and forever.

------------------------------------------------------------

Logan’s death was an unnecessary and avoidable tragedy, an unexpected repercussion of someone’s selfish act. While I don’t set out to hurt people, I know that I am quite capable of acting selfishly, without thought for how my actions impact others, least of all, those who I can’t see or imagine. I pray for peripheral vision of the heart, so I can see and bless the innocent bystanders witnessing me unawares.

In loving memory of Logan, God’s—and Noah’s—

zookeeper walking-buddy.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 6 - God of the Rainbow - August 2, 2008

2008-08-07T18:42:00.000-07:00

I have set my rainbow in the clouds…
Genesis 9:13

“So how was the movie?” I inquired. My husband, Rex, and our four-year-old daughter had just spent quality time together at the theater viewing, “Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer.” Bethany—our own little Rainbow Brite—was tired, but thrilled by the experience. Dad, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic. He complained about their crick-in-the-neck, front-section seating. “I missed the last part of the move,” he confessed contritely. He had fallen asleep.

According to the official website of Rainbow Brite, the heroine was a precocious young girl named Wisp who was endowed with special powers and commissioned to rescue Rainbow Land from a spell of total darkness and emptiness. In order to do this, she has to find “the sphere of light.” During her quest, she finds a baby who turns out to be the sphere of light. Rainbow Brite fights the Dark One and restores Rainbow Land to its original beauty.

Hmm… where have I heard this plot before? I recognize some themes: saving a people from darkness; a light to lighten the darkness; a baby, who is, in fact, the Light; fighting the Dark One; restoration. The story of Rainbow Brite contains striking parallels with the Biblical account of God’s grace in Jesus. Rainbow Brite, like other fairy tales, is a story of good versus evil, a story of redemption.

The rainbow is a fascination woven like colorful threads into the fabric of many religions and mythologies. To the early Greeks, the rainbow represented a path connecting earth and heaven. In the “Epic of Gilgamesh,” the rainbow is “the jeweled necklace of the Great Mother Ishtar.” It is impossible to consider the rainbow without pondering the amusing Irish tale of the leprechaun hiding its gold in a pot at the end of the rainbow.

In the Bible, the first rainbow appears following the flood, as a symbol: “Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth. This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: I have set my rainbow in the clouds…” (Genesis 9:11-13 NIV)

On a spiritual level, the rainbow is a refreshing symbol of hope and promise, a reminder of God’s love, faithfulness and grace. However, the skepticism and disillusionment of our age clouds the powerful promise of the rainbow. The phrase, “chasing rainbows,” (referring to the pursuit of an illusory or false hope), captures our jaded relationship with the rainbow. There is no pot at the end of the rainbow. Even if there were, it is impossible to reach the rainbow.

I always thought that God gave the rainbow to help us remember his promise. But listen to this: Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant.” (Genesis 9:14-15 NIV) Of course, it is encouraging to us to see a rainbow and remember God’s covenant, but God has tied a rainbow ‘round his finger to remind himself of his promise.

I hope someday to view a rainbow from the window of an airplane. The globe on which we stand blocks our view, but from the sky, it is possible to see that the rainbow is a complete circle. God gave St. John a vision of heaven in which, “a rainbow, resembling an emerald, encircled the throne.” (Revelation 4:3 NIV) I may never get to see a rainbow from the air, but I sure look forward to seeing the heavenly version.

In the meantime, God’s rainbow promise encircles us with protection and encouragement in the storms of life. God’s golden grace cannot be contained in a pot, at the end of the rainbow, or any place else. God’s abundant grace is at his fingertips. I wonder if it just a coincidence that the first time grace appears in the Bible is in Genesis 6:8: “Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord.” (KJV)

Isn’t it just like God to have grace in his eyes?

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 5 - Natalie's Journal Continued - July 26, 2008

2008-07-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

In my previous column, I began to share with you the thoughts of Natalie (whose husband is Noah), as recorded in her journal of life on the ark. Natalie continues:

Day 68: I don’t think I can go on another day. Even Noah’s faith is waning. It’s hard to feel God’s presence in this God-forsaken place. The worry etched in Noah’s wrinkled brow troubles me. The rain stopped ages ago. The stillness outside is creepy. Inside, we’re all getting irritable, especially the vultures, buzzards, and hyenas, who haven’t eaten in weeks. (Poetic license: people and animals were actually herbivorous prior to the flood - Genesis 9:2-3)

What is God waiting for?

Where are you, God?

Day 91: One thing you can depend on with animals is reproduction. We can no longer contain the birds to the upper deck. It’s hard to walk a few feet without stepping on a rabbit’s foot. And Jenny has been throwing up every morning…

July 17th Landing (Poetic license: Bible states, “seventeenth day of the seventh month”): Land! For the last several weeks, the ark has been bumping against something. Noah thought that it must be mountain peaks. But today, the rocking stopped and we are resting on solid ground. I can’t wait to get out of this stink hole!

August: Still waiting. Critter population growing exponentially.

September: Waiting, still. Eggs hatching everywhere.

October: Mountain tops are finally visible. Now we’re getting somewhere!

October 21st: Celebrated Noah’s 601st birthday. Not really sure what day it is, but we needed to do something to perk up our waning spirits.

January 1st: Water is all dried up. Surely we can get out of this pig sty now!

February: STILL waiting…

February 17th: “Celebrated” one full year on the ark by pigging out on chocolate and sleeping the day away.

February 18th: Could not accomplish anything today, due to chocolate stupor.

February 27th: Hallelujah! God has opened the door. FINALLY! Critters have been making a mad dash for the door all day. I’m keeping a low profile.

March 3rd: It took forever to get all the animals off the ark, but we did it! I’m standing on dry ground. DRY GROUND! No, I’m dancing for joy on dry ground! We gathered up rocks and built an altar today and sacrificed burnt offerings to God.

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The author of Genesis takes up the story from here: The Lord smelled the pleasing aroma and said in his heart: "Never again will I curse the ground because of man, even though every inclination of his heart is evil from childhood. And never again will I destroy all living creatures, as I have done. (Genesis 8:21)

Then God said to Noah and to his [family]: "I now establish my covenant with you and with your descendants after you and with every living creature that was with you—the birds, the livestock and all the wild animals, all those that came out of the ark with you—every living creature on earth. …Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.” (Genesis 9:8-11)

And God provided a sign of his covenant, visible to us, even now: “I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind.” (Genesis 9:12-15)

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I can’t imagine how those few survivors felt when they left the ark. I wish that there was a book of Noah—like the book of Job—that fills in the details. Job and his wife lost their family and prosperity; Noah and family lost everyone and everything. How did they feel toward their God, who destroyed all living things? What happened next?

They worshipped their God with burnt offerings.

And this same God who destroyed his creation, responded with a covenant of love marked by the most famous sign in all of history: the rainbow.

ALL GOD'S CREATURES

2008-07-21T19:05:00.000-07:00

“All God’s Creatures Got a Place in the Choir”

Writing about Noah for my Nature of Grace series on God’s Walking Buddies got me thinking about an adorable song my children learned during their elementary years at Liberty Christian School.

I looked up the lyrics on the internet and am sharing them here. I wish I could share the tune as well. But you can view a music video by Maken & Clancey at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NcG1JNpazN4. There's an adorable slide show as well.

I will be relearning the verses to sing to my grandson, Evan. He likes to hear Nana sing (he’s my one and only fan).

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

Listen to the bass it's the one on the bottom,
Where the bullfrog croaks and the hippopotamus
Moans and groans with a big to-toot,
And the old cow just goes moo.

The dogs and cats they take up the middle,
Where the honey bee hums and the crickets fiddle,
The donkey brays and the pony neighs,
And the old gray badger sighs.

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

Listen to the top where the little birds singing,
All the melodies and the high notes swinging;
And the hoot owl cries over everything,
And the blackbird disagrees.

Singing in the night time singing in the day,
The little duck quacks and he's on his way;
The otter hasn't got much to say,
And the porcupine talks to himself.

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

It's a simple song of living sung everywhere,
By the ox and the fox and the grizzly bear,
Grumpy alligator and the hog above,
The sly old weasel and the turtle dove.

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

Whoa!

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

All God's creatures got a place in the choir,
Some sing low, some sing higher;
Some sing loud on the telephone wire,
Some just clap their hands, their paws or anything they got now!

Hands, their paws or anything they got now!
Hands, their paws or anything they got now!

Lyrics: Bill Staines

RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS

2008-07-21T19:01:00.000-07:00

Out of the Mouths of Babes

As a Midwesterner, I am well acquainted with rain. One day, an unexpected, thunderstorm let loose as I was driving home from Castleton Mall. I was trapped in the deluge, my wipers whipping wildly at the rampant raindrops. Every muscle in my body was taut as I strained to see through the torrent. As the traffic slowed, both to accommodate the tempest, and the rush hour traffic jam, my heart was revved and racing.

Next to me, my elementary age daughter, Beth, chattered cheerfully, oblivious to the hazardous conditions. Normally when I’m trying to concentrate on something, I find other people quite distracting. During the carpool era of motherhood, I had little respite from the jibber-jabber of children, especially when trapped in a car as a captive audience of one. Thus, it amazed me that I found Bethie’s bird-like chitter comforting, rather than irritating.

It was her precious voice that provided a thread of calm tethering me to the grace-filled presence of God, protecting me from all out panic. In the midst of the tumult of traffic and thunderstorm, I was enveloped in peace. I love the way that God uses children to bless us, raining down his love upon us, “out of the mouths of babes.”

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 4 - Feminine Footfalls - July 19, 2008

2008-07-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

And Noah and his [family] entered

the ark to escape the waters of the flood.
Genesis 7:7

I’m enough of a feminist* that it rankles me how females are noticeably absent from the Bible. In the story of the flood, Noah and each of his sons are mentioned by name; Noah’s wife and daughters-in-law are each referred to as “so-and-so’s wife.” Even the female animals get equal billing with their male counterparts (“…bring into the ark two of all living creatures, male and female.” Genesis 6:19).

“It takes two,” and without Eve, Adam was just a guy with a set of intact ribs. So, as a Christian feminist, it behooves me to give voice to the women who played an equal part in repopulating the earth after the flood. Men weren’t the only ones walkin’ with God inside that stinky ark. Just for fun, I will assign some names: Natalie (husband, Noah), Sheila (husband, Shem), Heidi (husband, Ham), and Jennifer (husband, Japheth).

Natalie, the writer in the family, kept a journal, which was revealed to me while I was meditating in my hammock swing. Nat’s log is quite lengthy, but these few excerpts provide an inside peek at life in ark.

Minus 7 days, and counting: Well, just as Noah said, there’s a steady flow of animals meandering our way. I thought Noah was daft when he told me that God prophesied, “If you build it, they will come.” Call me a skeptic, but I can’t imagine how we’ll squeeze all those critters into this boat. And there’s no way those huge hippo hips will fit through the doorway.

Minus 3 days: Noah is an excellent architect and carpenter, but he’s inept at organizing this menagerie. So I’ve stepped in. I assigned Sheila and Shem to the third deck to manage the aviary. There’s not much head room up there, so the ostriches will have to bunk with the giraffes and camels. Heidi and Ham volunteered for the lower deck, our “sea on the sea” for the sea creatures. And Jenny and Japh will manage the mammals on the main deck. Noah and I don’t sleep too well, so we’re supervising the night owls, critters like owls, bats, tree frogs and those cute little masked creatures with the ringed tails.

Minus 1 day: Frightened by the ominous sky and thunder, our friends, family, and neighbors are pleading with Noah to let them on the ark. We’ve known them all our lives. How can he turn them away? My heart is breaking. The animals still waiting to board are getting restless—frantic, really. The chaos and cacophony are turning me inside out. Lord, help us all!

February 17th* Lockdown: It’s raining cats and dogs! This morning, a jumpy giraffe jostled me aside in its hurry to enter the ark. Slipping on the wet deck, I banged my elbow on the rough hewn door jam. It is dark as pitch in here! I labor to breathe in this heavy air, laced with Eau de Dung (with just a hint of hay, sweat and rain). Oh, Lord! I just discovered I’m claustrophobic. Don’t shut the door! Let me out of h-e-r-e.

Day 3: I just can’t stop thinking about all my family and friends. The sky is so noisy and sounds angry. Is that the voice of God? I hate being cooped up in this, this…dark, dank, disgusting, oversized dingy. Yet, I have a feeling that even this is better than whatever is going on outside. I shudder to think about it.

Day 31: My head is pounding and I just can’t focus with all this lowing, barking, screeching (oh, that awful screeching!), roaring, and growling. And my boys are bickering. Grown men, fighting. Who cares whose turn it is—just DO IT, for Adams’s sake.

Day 40: An eerie sound woke me with a start from a sound sleep. Silence? The drill and drone of rain drops on the roof and deck has stopped. It’s funny, after so many days I no longer noticed the rain—until it stopped.

To be continued…

* Poetic license: Bible states, “seventeenth day of the second month”

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 3 - The Zoo Keeper - July 12, 2008

2008-07-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

Noah was a righteous man, blameless
among the people of his time, and he walked with God.
Genesis 6:9 NIV

My daughter, Beth, has an interesting job this summer serving as an educator in the summer camp program hosted by the San Diego Zoo. She is working with second graders, specializing in the area of birds. Her training has involved behind the scene close encounters with zoo residents. One day she called home to tell me that she’d been kissed by a sea lion—not the most pleasant experience, I’m told.

The passion for animals runs deep in my side of the family. My mom grew up with cats and, therefore, so did I, the bulk of whom I lugged home and into the family. Most memorable was golden-eyed Goldie, a “plump” alley cat, who surprisingly graced us with five adorable blue-eyed, wide-eyed kittens (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Creampuff).

My husband, Rex, and I raised our kids with dogs—a good choice as both Beth and Matt developed allergies to cats. Over the years, our zoological menagerie also included gerbils, bunnies, parakeets, zebra finches, box turtles, tropical fish, and a guinea pig. Oops! I almost forgot the ant farm. There was also a close call with lizards when Beth went to the pet store to replace a pair of finches (who had died; may they rest in peace) and returned with two lizards (who were returned to the shop ASAP by a nasty mother).

So, I’d say, it goes without saying, that one of our families’ favorite Bible stories was the ever popular “Noah’s Ark.” Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be the most famous zookeeper of all time?

According to the San Diego Zoo website, animal keeper jobs are very popular and the field is highly competitive. So what sets the modern day Noah apart from all the keeper-wanna-bes?

· Education (college degree in a life science field preferable)
· Experience with animals
· Good work ethic
· A positive attitude about self and work
· Good communication skills with both people and animals,
· The ability to be innovative enough to find solutions to keep animals stimulated
· A positive attitude
· The right personality
· A realistic view of the job: “Animals get sick, they bite, they die, they hurt each other, and they can hurt you, too. And the work can be hard, dirty, and tedious.”

So, how many of you are ready to sign on as Noah’s helpers? Can you imagine being Noah and saying, “Yes, Lord,” to a job that involved building an architectural wonder large enough to house an immense floating zoo? Granted, God blessed Noah’s efforts, but think of what a nut-cake Noah must have looked like to his neighbors?

Who in their right mind would be willing to shut themselves up in a boat with two of every kind of creature—with a few family members to boot—and spend forty dreary, muggy, rainy days feeding and cleaning up after (pewee!) cooped up, anxious, irritable critters? A man who walks with God, that’s who.

While we aren’t all called to be animal keepers, we can still follow in Noah’s footsteps. He was obedient, trustworthy, hard working, and a man of strong faith and conviction. He must have been pretty laid back, thick-skinned, and blessed with a remarkable sense of humor, as well.

While our forte may not involve caring for critters, we all play roles in life in which we are “keepers.” We keep each other in our prayers, we keep confidences and vows. When life is hard, we keep on keeping-on. We are peace keepers in our families and at work. We’re taught to keep off the grass, keep out of trouble, and keep our mouths shut (when chewing, or on the off chance of saying something we shouldn’t). We KISS (Keep it simple, stupid!).

Most importantly, many of us are also keepers of children, as parent, grandparents, guardians, Sunday school teachers, scout leaders, advocates, coaches…

And, yes, some of us even keep stray felines.

How will you follow Noah’s example and be a better “keeper” this week?

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 2 - Walkin' the Walk- July 6, 2008

2008-07-05T05:04:00.000-07:00

In my opinion, genealogy (like that in the Bible) is b-o-r-i-n-g. But, employing my imaginative ear, I discovered a melodic lilt in the Genesis genealogy. Listen to this account of Adam’s son, Seth:

“When Seth had lived 105 years, he became the father of Enosh.
And after he became the father of Enosh.
Seth lived 807 years and had other sons and daughters.
Altogether, Seth lived 912 years, and then he died.”
Genesis 5:6-8 NIV

Sounds a bit like, “Father Abraham,” that catchy tune about Abraham’s many sons, don’t you think? Well, maybe not so much.

For six generations in Adam’s family tree, you can simply fill in the blanks and the reading flows smoothly—until you get to Enoch. Like the other accounts, we learn that Enoch was 65 when his son, Methuselah was born, he lived another 300 years, had other sons and daughters, yadda, yadda, yadda. But the end of his life has an interesting twist:

Enoch walked with God;
then he was no more, because God took him away.”
Genesis 5:21-24 NIV)

I’m glad I had my morning dose of caffeine, otherwise, I might have read right over this intriguing digression from convention. Did Enoch walk with God face to face, like Great-great-great Grandpa Adam did in the Garden of Eden? What does “he was no more” mean? And, from where, and to where, did God take this mysterious man? Enoch didn’t walk the walk of his ancestors, or of his descendants, for that matter—but evidently he did walk with God.

So what happened? Did Enoch set out for work one day and never come home? When the setting sun slipped below the horizon, was Enoch’s wife sick with worry? If I had been her, my mind would have been wild with wondering if my dear husband had been abducted by a caravan from afar and carried off and forced into slavery. So did Enoch’s family report him as missing? Did they send out a search party?

How was it determined that God took Enoch away? Did someone witness his disappearance? Imagine how Enoch’s wife might have felt when she learned that her beloved had, indeed, been taken, not by evil-doers, but by God. Did she buy this story? Was she aggrieved, and yet, relieved? Or did she think the news-bearer was a lunatic?

In his letter to the Hebrews, Paul tells us that, “By faith Enoch was taken from this life, so that he did not experience death; he could not be found, because God had taken him away. For before he was taken, he was commended as one who pleased God.” (Hebrews 5:11 NIV)
In the only other New Testament reference to Enoch, Jude reports that he was a prophet:

“Enoch…prophesied about these men: ‘See, the Lord is coming…to judge everyone, and to convict all the ungodly of all the ungodly acts they have done in the ungodly way, and of all the harsh words ungodly sinners have spoken against him.’” (Jude 1:14-15 NIV)

Sounds like Enoch was a doom and gloom prophet, but, unfortunately, he was right. Enoch’s great-grandson, Noah, and his family, may have witnessed the fulfillment of this very prophecy, from the safety of the ark during the torrential flooding of the earth.

However Enoch disappeared, we at least know that God was in control and that Enoch was in great standing with God.

The English clergyman, Matthew Henry (famous for his Bible commentary from the turn of the18th century), describes Enoch’s walking with God as, “his constant care and work; while others lived to themselves and the world, he lived to God. It was the joy of his life.”

While Enoch remains a mystery to me, I know enough about him that I want to follow in his footsteps. He had an intimate, walking-buddy relationship with God. He courageously confronted ungodliness and proclaimed God’s truth. Enoch obviously set a wonderful example for his progeny, for Noah, his great-grandson was also a man who walked with God. (“Noah was a righteous man, blameless among the people of his time, and he walked with God.” Genesis 6:9)

Enoch “walked the walk”—God’s walk.

WALKING BUDDIES: Part 1 - “Barefoot in the Park” - June 29, 2008

2008-07-01T04:31:00.000-07:00

Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God
as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.
Genesis 3:8 NIV

As a child, I rarely wore shoes, unless social expectations required it of me. I had my saddle shoes for school, shiny, black, patent leather church shoes, and well worn, dirty Keds for play, all of which I kicked off whenever I could. “Going barefoot is the gentlest way of walking and can symbolize a way of living—being authentic, vulnerable, sensitive to our surroundings,” states Adele Coombs, author of Barefoot Dreaming

I wonder what our Heavenly Father’s footsteps sounded like to Adam and Eve when they heard him approaching, in the cool of the day. And I wonder what our great-great-greats’ footsteps sounded like to God. I bet God could hear Adam running swiftly, and Eve skipping playfully, toward him, in eager anticipation of a daily hike with their divine Walking Buddy. After they disobeyed God, did Adam and Eve tiptoe around, walking on eggshells, trying to avoid him?

Imagine having actually walked with God on a daily basis, and then losing this privilege. The concept of “walking with God” permeates the Biblical record, threading its way through the Old and New Testaments, like a well worn, familiar trail. In the Garden of Eden, and again when Jesus walked the earth, human beings were blessed with face to face encounters with God. For most of us, though, our walking with God is metaphorical in nature.

As I have mentioned many times, I feel closest to God when I am surrounded by lofty trees, birdsong and the heady fragrance of moist earth. Many of my writer-walking buddies recognize and experience the holiness and healing power of walking:

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits,” said Henry David Thoreau, “ unless I spend four hours a day at least, sauntering through the woods and over the hills and field.”

Raymond Inmon advises, “if you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking. Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.”

“In the woods we return to reason and faith,” mused Ralph Waldo Emerson.

And my very favorite quote comes from Joseph Campbell: “God is the experience of looking at a tree and saying, ‘Ah!’”

These nature lovers “see” God in nature. While I believe that nature provides sacred space in which to encounter God, I also believe that God willingly walks with us wherever we are. When we’re caught up in the rat race of life, God is there jogging beside us. When we are wearily lugging groceries out to the parking lot, our minds a million miles away, worrying about this and that, God is there, pushing the shopping cart with its squeaky, wobbly wheels. When we’re pacing the halls of the hospital as a loved one undergoes surgery, he is there. Whether you’re hobbling or hoofing it; mucking or gadding about; knock-kneed or pigeon-toed; limping or leaping; barefoot or booted; taking your very first step or have one foot in the grave, God is right there with you.

I think it was God’s intent for us to live a barefooted life—a life of pure authenticity, shameless vulnerability and exquisite sensitivity, like that referred to above by Adele Coombs. We were created to live in God’s presence, naked and unashamed, to walk shoulder to shoulder with none other than God. Wow!

The very first thing we learn about God from the Bible is that he is THE creator. The author of Genesis takes great care in detailing all that God fashioned. He created flora and fauna, rivers and mountains, not air conditioned buildings, with windows from which to view his creation. Perhaps this is why I go to the woods to hang out with my Walking Buddy. While I don’t go barefooted on these treks, I do think my walks with God give me a delicious taste of living a spiritually barefooted life.

Someday, we will know the joy of face to face intimacy with God, known heretofore only in Eden. How heavenly that will be!

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.

1 Corinthians 13:12 NIV

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 5: "Get Up!" - June 21, 2008

2008-06-21T04:17:00.000-07:00

Jesus said to him,

"Get up! Pick up your mat and walk."
John 5:8

Recently, I spent a frustrating afternoon of wheeling myself to and fro in our galley kitchen, bumping my wheelchair clumsily into cabinets, and rolling over various dog appendages. My coup de maitre, however, occurred when I pulled lose the bottom shelf in the refrigerator door with a wheel of my chair, spilling pickle and jam jars—which rolled all over the kitchen.

“Rex, I’d really like you to spend a few hours in this wheelchair,” I said sweetly, later that day, “so you can see what I’ve been going through.”

Rex’s answer was swift and unequivocal: “I’ll sit in a wheelchair, if and when I have to, but no sooner.”

“Not even for me?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” sweet, and simple. My hubby is a kid at heart and I thought sure that he’d jump at the opportunity to operate such a cool vehicle, performing a few wheelies to impress his girl. Slipping my feet into his shoes, I could certainly understand his perspective, so I wasn’t (too) miffed. Between his comment and my mental “shoe-fitting,” however, I did briefly contemplate tossing the delicious dinner I had so lovingly created for him in the trash. This would be a double whammy, since I rarely cook to begin with. But being a marriage and family therapist by trade, I knew that such a reactionary response would not result in a pleasant evening. So I just made him fix his own plate.

During my fourth week in the wheelchair, our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary came—and went. I was not in a celebratory mood. I want to walk into the restaurant on my own volition when we celebrate this benchmark in our marriage. Thus, I’m looking forward to dining on—hmm—succulent Alaskan King crab legs dipped in drawn butter, perhaps. Oh, and, of course, I will thoroughly enjoy my dining companion as we reminisce the past and dream for the future.

Well, the day finally arrived when my doctor said: “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” Granted, that’s a paraphrase, but he gave me his blessing and sent me out the door with a few exercises to do. The joy of this day is right up there with the day my hubby proposed, our wedding day, and the births of our children. You may think I’m joking, but six weeks in a wheelchair is comparable to waiting years to meet the right man, waiting fifteen months from time of proposal until my jaunt down the aisle and back, and nine months of pregnancy (times three, equals 27 months).

I celebrated my healing with lunch at Panera Bread, followed by a leisurely shopping spree. Said spree yielded a beautiful black dress with variegated white polka-dots, to wear when we celebrate our anniversary. I have a lot to celebrate. During my tenure in the wheelchair, my long-suffering mate has been an absolute sweetheart. I’d hate to know how many trips to the fridge I sent him on, just to retrieve a Dr. Pepper or an ice cream bar. He wheeled me here, there and everywhere, loading and unloading my chair into and out of the car, in spite of his temperamental back. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that I’m the most blessed woman alive.

I’m also very grateful to God for the medical miracles that heal hurting limbs. But more than this, I am grateful because I know that my Savior would jump tall buildings at the chance to take my place in my wheelchair. He went to the cross to save me from my sins, and now he’s said, “Linda, get up!"

I am thrilled to be on my feet again. I’m putting my six weeks of obsessing about the gift of mobility to good use by preparing a series on walking, entitled, “Walking Buddies.” I hope you’ll enjoy a stroll with me.

“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
… soar on wings like eagles;
… run and not grow weary,
…walk and not be faint.”
Isaiah 40:31

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 4: Handicapped, Disabled or Differently-abled? - June 14, 2008

2008-06-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

In this day and age of politically correct language, I’m thoroughly confused on when to use certain terms, lest I cause offense. When is it proper to refer to someone, such as myself, as handicapped, disabled or differently-abled?

When it comes to sports, I’m definitely handicapped—a congenital defect encoded in my genes. My instinctive reflex to dodge or duck when a ball flies my way, desperately weak ankles and poor eye-hand coordination make me likely to be last picked in all but the most domestic activities. Challenge me to a bed-making race, and I’ll win blue ribbons for speed and neatness. Challenge me to cleaning a bathroom and…well, you’ll win that one.

I am currently disabled due to knee surgery and a lengthy healing process requiring that I not put weight on my left leg. I get by with the use of a wheelchair, walker, and hopping-about on my right leg. The latter requires modest athletic ability, which as I pointed out earlier, I am lacking. Your prayers for my safety are coveted.

And I am differently-abled in ways too numerous to list. While you may be able to slam a baseball over the fence, I am able to slam computer keys and produce words and thoughts that are equally a hit in my field of play. I am able to listen by the hour (which comes in handy on my job as a therapist) while you may be a non-stop gabber. Don’t ask me to do any form of math and I’ll not ask you to define or spell esclandre, prosopopoeia or guerdon. (Cheer up; I don’t even know what they mean—I’m just messing with you.) We’re just differently-abled, you and I.

Recently I decided to negotiate the grocery store in one of those nifty motorized carts that are now provided for the handicapped, disabled, and/or differently-abled individual. You may not have ever noticed, but a grocery store is an obstacle course in disguise. All those produce, baked goods and soda pop displays, set at angles to keep the physically-abled from racing through the store, are a nightmare for those of us on wheels.

The scariest part for me, however, was backing my buggy up when I failed to stop in time to collect the particular cookies or laundry detergent I was after. Putting my vehicle into reverse set off an obnoxious alarm, not unlike that installed on road construction equipment. I’m not noted for my vehicular backing ability, so I recommend you clear the aisle, street or driveway if you see and hear me operating any mode of transportation in reverse.

The most difficult aspect of grocery shopping, however, was getting into the freezer cases for my weekly supply of Lean Cuisine and Skinny Cow Ice Cream Bars. The freezer doors at my store open outward rather than sliding aside. If you want to feel differently-abled, I invite you to attempt to line up a mobile cart, just so, open the door and lean in for your item.

I do wish to thank all the kind people who helped me retrieve the Wheat Chex and other items stowed on the top shelves. My thanks, also, to those who did not laugh at me and those who pretended to nonchalantly get out of my way (I know you were scared to death and wanted to run for your life!) There are a lot of kind-hearted, gracious and tolerant people eager to be of assistance.

But I am truly baffled by those who were oblivious to this first-time mobile grocery cart driver, who wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. For future reference, I suggest that you look both ways from now on when you cross a grocery aisle to grab an item, watch for out-of-control drivers at all corners, and for goodness sake, YIELD to anyone on wheels.

"We have different gifts, according to the grace given us.”
Romans 12:6

FYI: Esclandre, prosopopoeia, and guerdon were the final three words in the National Spelling Bee, held on May 30, 2008.

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 3: "Be Still" - June 1, 2008

2008-06-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

“Be still and know that I am God.”
Psalm 46:10

Recently I rose from my wheelchair and began to walk. I immediately realized what I was doing and was horrified. I’m one of those strange people who follow doctor’s instructions to a tee, and walking is a no-no for two more weeks. In spite of my alarmed reaction, I continued to walk. I cannot explain my behavior, except to say that it transpired in a dream. Numerous times, though, I’ve caught myself on the verge of really getting up to walk. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk to the kitchen for an ice cream bar or to run down stairs to fetch a book. Why, I’m almost looking forward to the day when I can enter the yard to do doggy-doo-doo-duty.

Why, oh why, am I stuck in this wheelchair? The message I keep getting is, “Be still, Linda…” I’m rereading God’s Joyful Surprise, by Sue Monk Kidd, and this message flashes at me like a garish neon sign from every other page. It pops up in everything I read, in fact, like an annoying pop up internet commercial, but without the congratulatory announcement that I am the 10,000th visitor, and “click here to claim your prize.”

It’s so hard to be still, physically or mentally. Recently, my daughter observed me reading in my wheelchair, wheeling back and forth, as if in a rocker. “Mom, that’s the perfect chair,” she declared, cheerily, “for someone like you with restless leg syndrome.” I also have restless brain syndrome, AND restless spirit syndrome, as well.

As I sit, rocking back and forth, it occurs to me that maybe God is urging me to be still. Maybe he is longing for me to listen to him; to become quiet and to put away my long “to-do” list for God, and simply listen. “It’s not like God to yell in order to make Himself heard over all the sounds in our world,” states Sue, in God’s Joyful Surprise. “Rather He calls on us to turn from our frantic lives and grow quiet.”

Grow quiet—in this noisy life of mine? Quiet implies silence, and, “without listening, silence is just a vacuum. But learning to hear His whisper is the most delicate miracle of all.” Julian of Norwich said that when a person is at ease or at rest with God, she “does not need to pray, but to contemplate reverently what God says.”

I often tell my clients that 90% of communication is listening. This has to be true, also, in our relationship with God. Just think, when we go to God in prayer, we don’t have to say a thing—just listen. And in our loss for words, our confusion, our tangle of emotions, “…the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.” (Romans 8:26)

During warm weather, a part of my bedtime ritual is to sit outside on the deck and listen to the sounds of the night. As I sink into the velvety darkness, and as the silence envelops me, I slowly become aware of voices in the nearby woods—a symphony of tree frogs, cicadas, owls, even raccoons. What I initially experience as silence is actually a cacophony of critters. I love the feeling that I am not alone. I love that in the midst of darkness is life.

Perhaps listening for God is similar to my nighttime listening. In the dark times, God often seems absent and silent. But could it be that if I quiet myself I will feel God’s presence, hear God’s whispers? Can I relax into God’s presence and let God be God? Can I trust the Spirit to intercede for me? This depth of relationship with God is what I long for.

Perhaps my wheelchair is just the vehicle I need to enter into this intriguing silence where God waits for me.

“I have stilled and quieted my soul.”
Psalm 131:2

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE: Part 2 – Wheelchair Fever - May 24, 2008

2008-05-25T17:04:00.000-07:00

You’ve heard of cabin fever. Gardeners, eager to plant flowers, may still be experiencing it, given the unseasonably cool May we are having. Well, I’m in the throes of wheelchair fever. As an introvert who loves her solitude, who can sit for hours reading or writing, I imagined that this stint in a wheelchair would be a breeze. WRONG.

Like my three retrievers, Panda, Hope, and Faith, I sit at the window, looking longingly out at the world, all of us whining, squirming, and chomping at the bit when we see a squirrel and can’t get outside to enjoy its company.

In some ways, this wheelchair provides freedom. I can get around the house quite well, although I can’t ride it down the stairs to the family and laundry rooms. I can maneuver the hallway path at Anderson Psychiatric Clinic well enough. But beyond these tiny spheres, I need help from others to get where I want or need to be.

Shortly after getting the wheelchair, I crashed headlong into the wall of my limitations. My mother-in-law had come down from Ft. Wayne for a few days to help out after my surgery. She’d taken me to my very first post-surgery social event—my AAUW book discussion group—and returned me safely to the house. I wheeled myself to my bedroom to release the dogs from their kennels and assumed that Mom had followed me in and closed the door to the garage. As I followed Panda, Hope and Faith to the kitchen to let them outside, I discovered that both the door to the garage and the garage door were wide open. Hope and Faith took advantage of the opportunity to embark on an adventure.

I grabbed my walker and charged out the front door, hoping I could beckon them back, but they were nowhere to be seen. I hobbled out on the sidewalk to get a better view and could see Hope down the street. I called and called, “HOPE! FAITH! COME!” but my girls were exercising selective hearing. I barked at Mom to bring me my wheelchair and I took off down the driveway and out into the street in pursuit of my wayward retrievers.

“FAITH! HOPE! COME!” I shrilled at the top of my lungs as I wheeled my “Cruiser III” as fast as I could. By this time, I spotted Hope being shooed out of a neighbor’s garage and I pumped my arms as fast as I could. Finally, my neighbor, Charles Shumate, noticing my dilemma, got off his rider mower and chased my dogs homeward. Charles and Mom were able to capture the rambunctious retrievers and lead them to the house. Exhausted from the chase, I wheeled myself slowly home, relieved that this adventure concluded positively.

At the end of our driveway there is a sizable bump which prevented me from getting my chair up onto the driveway. So, I backed my chair up a few feet and took a running start, like I do with my recumbent trike. I hit the bump hard and the chair tipped completely backward, spilling me awkwardly onto the pavement. I landed with a thud, hitting my head. Charles came running down the driveway to see if I was hurt. Other than sore elbows and a sorely bruised ego, I was fine.

Unexpected things happen in life that stop us short and knock us over. It’s tough to admit that we have limited capacities. Our “best laid plans of mice and men” are dumped by the wayside, leaving us in a heap, stunned and spinning. Such events call us to slow down and turn to God for direction.

Like my trusting Charles, who righted my wheelchair and delivered me home safely, I need to trust that God will wheel me safely where he wants me to go. But it’s tempting to keep my hands on the handrim and use my feet as rudders and breaks.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways acknowledge him,

and he will make your paths straight.

Proverbs 3:5-6

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE: Part 1 – Expect the Unexpected - May 17, 2008

2008-05-21T07:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a bum knee for eighteen years. It all began, one summer day, when I bent down to tie my Nike and something slipped out of place in my knee, resulting in excruciating pain. An MRI revealed nothing sinister, and I’ve dealt with my malady these many years.

I knew it was just a matter of time before I’d need to undergo surgery. After all, my family had endured fourteen knee surgeries. My brother, Michael, has had three, my daughter, Beth, four and my niece, Kelly, takes the prize with seven. All of the above are athletic people. I, on the other hand, am a klutz. The closest I come to displaying athletic ability is when I ride my recumbent tricycle.

Well, recently, along with my knee innards feeing like shifting sand, I developed a huge lump on the back of my knee. I immediately thought CANCER! and made a doctor’s appointment. The lump turned out to be a cyst caused by my knee leaking oil. Sounds like a problem for an old jalopy, doesn’t it? Surgery was in order.

I chose to have my surgery this spring because I want to be up and running by the time Evan, my seven-month-old grandson, begins walking. If he’s anything like his daddy, I have a mere two months before I need this knee back in service for toddler chasing.

A few days before my date with surgery, I dug Beth’s crutches out of a cobwebbed corner of the basement and gave them a try. I couldn’t crutch three steps without keeling over. The doctor had said I’d only need to use them for two days following surgery, so I figured I could manage with a walker for that brief time.

When the doctor got his teeny-tiny scope, instruments and camera inside my knee, he discovered it was in much worse shape than the MRI and x-rays had revealed. After cleaning away the damaged cartilage and arthritis, he performed a microfractive surgery, which is medical-ese for drilling tiny holes in my knee. If this procedure works, my knee will develop new cartilage. Oh, not like the cartilage I was born with—more like a scab, I’m told, which is better than having no bone coverage at all.

“Well, she’s not going to be happy with me,” predicted my gown-clad orthopedic surgeon. He was speaking to my husband, immediately following surgery, as I slept blissfully nearby.

I appreciate my surgeon’s thoroughness in tending to my knee. Unfortunately, recovery from microfractive surgery takes lots longer than for a simple trim-some-cartilage-and-get-out surgery. I’m not allowed to bear weight on my left leg—for six weeks. I’m dismayed by this unexpected turn, but I know my surgeon operated in my best interest.

So, instead of spending spring time in the great out-of-doors riding my trike, gardening, hiking among the wildflowers in the woods, etc., I’m a wheelchair wallflower.

In my better moments, I look at this unexpected turn as fodder for writing. In my less-than-better moments, I feel sorry for myself; I yell at the dogs for walking, ever so s-l-o-w-l-y, in front of my wheelchair; and I whine to my husband, but not too much. I need to stay in his good graces. He’s currently my ticket to freedom, and I certainly wouldn’t want to alienate him. I balance my whining with words of appreciation, to which he sarcastically says, “You owe me big time.”

So over the next few weeks, I will be whining (er, I mean, writing) about “Traveling in the Wheelchair of Life.” Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my wheelchair wheelie—but only if you promise not to squeal on me to my surgeon.

As for my toddler chasing, while I’m confident I can keep up with Evan on the straight-aways in my wheelchair, it’s the turns and stairs that have me concerned. His mommy and daddy announced on Wednesday that Evan is now crawling. It’s going to be a tight race as to who will be up on their feet first.

And we know that all things work together for good to those who
love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.
Romans 8:28

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 7: Arrayed in Grace - May 10, 2008

2008-05-13T05:31:00.000-07:00

The kiln has cooled and the Potter eagerly opens the door on his long awaited vessel of clay. One by one he removes the pots from the kiln, handling them gingerly. His hands recognize his precious pot even before his eyes do. Eagerly he holds it up to the light, turning it every which way, exploring his final product. He runs his hands lovingly over the cool, hard surface, admiring its shape and hues.

Now the Potter adds his final touches to his creation. He may paint designs on the surface of the vessel—pictures that tell a story, a geometric design, or flowers, perhaps—or garnish it with touches of gold or precious gems. And then—THEN—he turns his vessel over, and with great flourish and tears of joy, the proud Potter adds his signature to his work of art.

As a work of God’s hands, I am so much more than clay and glaze and paint and gilding. There are secret ingredients at work in this earthly yet spiritual vessel. First of all, I have been created in the image of my Maker. A touch of the divine enlivens my clay. Secondly, I am a living, breathing being (more like a fragrant, life-giving loaf of bread than a lifeless jar of clay), growing and developing spiritually, due to the yeasting of the Holy Spirit.

I give praise to my maker, joining Isaiah who proclaimed, “I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.” (Isaiah 61:10) The paint, gilding, and jewels that array my earthly shell are endowed with mysterious properties: salvation and righteousness.

In our society, we are so focused on our outward appearance and beauty that we tend to discount our personal assets—our intelligence, talents, skills, personal qualities, values, etc. If we are often blind to our own goodness, how are we to recognize and appreciate the mysteries of the Potter that pulse within our spiritual being?

In a famous Old Testament passage, the great prophet Isaiah prophesied about the Messiah, saying “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” (Isaiah 53:2) By human standards, Jesus was not handsome. In fact, there was nothing special about him that made him appealing and attractive, such that people were drawn to him by his looks— just a thirty-something, average Joe.

Jesus knew that, “the Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7) Jesus became an earthly vessel, just like you and me; a vessel from whom our Heavenly Father’s love and grace flows.

So, my fellow vessels of clay, the next time you get down on yourself, remember whose you are and who you are in Christ:

You were carefully chosen and created by the Divine Potter
There are secret spiritual ingredients at work within you.

You are created in the very image of God. The fact that you are prone to sin does not negate this amazing truth.

You are a one of a kind creation. Gratefully, joyfully—and yes, proudly—bear the signature of your Maker.

You are adorned with salvation and righteousness, thanks to your loving Creator and the sacrifice of his son, Jesus.

And on those days when you just can’t look beyond your physical appearance and see your worth, remember that you are every bit as good lookin’ as Jesus!

We’ve spent seven weeks talking about being God’s vessel; now it’s time to let the Potter have his way with us. Let the spinning begin!

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will.
While I am waiting, yielded and still.
Adalaide Pollard, 1907

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 6: Godly Suffering - May 3, 2008

2008-05-07T07:55:00.000-07:00

“ …So if you are suffering in a manner that pleases God,
keep on doing what is right,
and trust your lives to the God who created you,
for he will never fail you.”
1 Peter 4:19

Last week, I left you roasting in the Creator’s kiln. You kicked and screamed all the way to the kiln, questioning God’s judgment, but at some point, you yielded to God’s will.

Yielding is more than difficult. Yield is “a general term referring to any sort of giving in before force, domination, argument, entreaty, appeal.” Synonyms for yield expand the pallet with shades of surrendering (submit and capitulate), yielding through weakness (succumb), and yielding out of respect (defer). We might also say that we buckle, cave, or knuckle under. If you want me to yield, dispense with force, domination, or argument. I respond more willingly to entreaty or appeal. To surrender or capitulate shouts “LOSER.” Deferring out of respect is somewhat palatable, but I’d really rather be in charge. Are you identifying with my distaste for yielding? So why subject ourselves to the fiery furnace of God’s formation?

The apostle Peter offers us these disconcerting words of encouragement: “Dear friends, don’t be surprised at the fiery trials you are going through, as if something strange were happening to you. Instead, be very glad—for these trials make you partners with Christ in his suffering, so that you will have the wonderful joy of seeing his glory when it is revealed to all the world. So be happy when you are insulted for being a Christian, for then the glorious Spirit of God rests upon you. ... it is no shame to suffer for being a Christian. Praise God for the privilege of being called by his name! (1 Peter: 4:12-16)

Our trials make us partners with Christ—in his suffering. Peter is referring to a unique suffering—suffering for being a Christian. As an American, I worship whom and how I please. I’m familiar with the pain of physical and emotional suffering and the angst of spiritual upheaval, but I’ve not been persecuted for “being” a Christian.

Recently I viewed “The Reckoning,” a documentary film about the Dutch Resistance during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands during WWII. The film tells the true stories of ordinary citizens who came to the aid of the Jews, risking their own safety and very lives.

I try to imagine myself in the shoes of Diet Emmon, a young woman who transported counterfeit identity and ration documents under the noses of the Nazi soldiers. How would I feel, sitting on a train when German soldiers board and begin to search the train? How would I feel hearing that my fiancé, also a member of the resistance, was captured and exterminated in a prison camp? How would I react when arrested and imprisoned for three months, not knowing what my fate would be? And on release, would I be able to return to resistance work, as Diet did?

I pray I never have to experience such suffering, but Christians and non-Christians alike, worldwide, suffer religious persecution as a way of life. But I will offer what suffering I experience to my Savior. My suffering is fraught with resistance and complaining, but I offer my suffering, such as it is, to come alongside Christ in the suffering he endured for me.

Centuries ago, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednigo were thrown into a fiery furnace because they refused to bow down to the golden idol of King Nebuchadnezzar. Yet they testified that “if we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up." God joined them in the furnace and saved them from the fire. (Daniel 3)

This fire was not the kiln of God, but the inferno of Satan. Whether we are being shaped by our Master Potter, or suffering in the hands of evil, God is with us.

“…lo, I am with you always,
even unto the end of the world.”
Matthew 28:20

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 5: The Hot Seat - April 26, 2008

2008-04-27T15:51:00.000-07:00

Well, the red letter day is finally here. We lumps of clay have been kneaded, pounded, wedged, sliced, and slammed and are now soft and supple. We have been skillfully shaped on our Heavenly Potter’s wheel, air dried, glazed, and are now ready to take a lickin’ in the fiery furnace. Just bake for 24 hours at 2000 degrees.

"Excuse me? You’re going to put me in a kiln, heat me up to 2000 degrees—and leave me there for how long? I DON’T think so! When I sing, ‘Have thine own way, Lord,’ inviting you to mold me, I agree to wait and yield and be still. I see no fine print indicating that I’ll be sauna-tized at 2000 degrees. You surely read the recipe wrong, Lord.”

My unyielding attitude and my questioning God is nothing new. According to Isaiah, God’s people are often prone to argue with their Maker:

“You turn things upside down, as if the potter were thought to be like the clay! Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, ‘He did not make me’? Can the pot say of the potter, ‘He knows nothing’? (Isaiah 29:26)

"Woe to him who quarrels with his Maker, to him who is but a potsherd (a pottery fragment) among the potsherds on the ground. (Isaiah 45:9)

When I’m in an adolescent, pottery-fragment sort of mood I often speak back to God. I’m resistant throughout this process of becoming a clay vessel, but now—NOW—I’ve reached my limit. I kick and scream all the way to the kiln. “Woe to him who quarrels with his Maker”? I’m WAY beyond quarreling. I’m out of here!

There are times in life when the pressure is so great, the heat so hot that we can’t imagine being able to endure and survive. The Bible encourages us to“…yield your hearts to the Lord,” (Joshua 24:2), but this yielding can feel more like succumbing, losing, or dying. “Yielding” conjures an image of a flexible tree branch that yields to the wind or bends low when pelted by rain or burdened with snow or ice. I think of yielding to cross-traffic or moving aside to let someone go ahead of me in line. I hear a senator saying, “I yield to the good senator from the state of Indiana.”

Perhaps “yielding” is an apt term for clay as it is being shaped on the wheel, but I think there needs to be a different word to describe what is expected of me when trapped in a kiln-like experience; a word that blends courage, determination, guts, grit—a word one might use to describe a Navy SEAL, perhaps.

The prophet Ezekiel reveals to us a God who yields:

"This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Once again I will yield to the plea of the house of Israel…” (Ezekiel 36:37)

The God of Israel put up with the repeated unfaithfulness of his people, yielding to them with a grace beyond measure. As I enter the kiln, I need to remember that even in my unfaithfulness, God continually forgives me, loves me, and never gives up on me. Can I bring myself to yield to my Heavenly Potter who has modeled for me a holy yielding?

Sometimes I feel as if I am thrown head first into the kiln of crisis, like when I entered the hospital to give birth to my husband’s and my first child, only to be devastated a few hours later when our baby died. Sometimes I voluntarily step into the chamber, as when I chose to conceive again and entered the fiery furnace of fear. I personally fanned the flames—until the moment when our second child, Matt, announced his arrival with a lusty cry.

I hope that my yielding will “yield [a] harvest and God, [my] God, will bless [me].” (Psalm 67:6) I want to be like “a tree planted by streams of water which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.” (Psalm 1: 3) Maybe I can endure the blistering heat if I know good will come of it. And I take heart that “my leaf does not wither.”

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 4: A Lull in the Process - April 19, 2008

2008-04-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.”
Psalm 37:7

I’ve been exercising my “waiting” muscle quite a bit lately. On a recent mission trip to Guatemala, I waited in a long line at the ticketing counter at Indianapolis International Airport while members of our People Helping People mission group were methodically checked in – at 4:15 a.m., no less. I waited to go through security; I waited for the plane and waited to board the plane—and then waited some more. In Guatemala City, there was customs and immigration and waiting on luggage, my mind spinning with the conveyor, as I hoped and prayed my suitcase arrived safely. I waited for the bus to arrive and load up passengers and luggage for the six hour trip to San Marcos, and then waited to check in at the hotel. And that was just the first day of the trip.

The waiting wasn’t all that difficult at first. I was excited to see old friends and meet new people, to hear mission stories, to experience a new country and culture. But as the day wore on, and I wore out, my tolerance for waiting waned. “Just feed me and put me to bed, please,” I wanted to whine, “enough with all this waiting.”

Most journeys entail periods of idleness; some we enjoy and others we detest. However, not all waiting is wasted time or useless inactivity. Waiting can be purposeful and necessary. As we visit the pottery studio this week, we’ll notice that the pots have been removed from the wheel and lined up on shelves. They’ve been set aside to air dry prior to firing.

We’re eager to move along, get glazed and gorgeous so we can be admired and appreciated for the beautiful vessels that we are. But why rush? There’s a trial by fire coming up soon, so let’s dawdle awhile, shall we? Just as all the previous steps in the process have proven essential to a positive outcome, this waiting game has its merit as well. If you’ve ever made a loaf of bread, you know that the dough must be set aside to rise. Rushing the process and baking the loaf before the yeast has done its job results in an inferior loaf of bread (I can personally vouch for this). Similarly, if a woman has “a bun in the oven,” it’s not advisable to rush the process. (Go ahead and groan—I deserve it.)

So here we sit, waiting. We’re bored. We’re anxious. We’re frustrated and feeling useless. Finally, the conveyor belt cranks into service and we’re on the move. If you’ve ever witnessed a makeover on the popular show, “What Not to Wear,” the application of makeup is the final step in a total makeover overseen by fashion gurus Stacy and Clinton. The objective is to transform a clueless-about-her-looks woman into a sophisticated, eye catching “gee, I wish I looked like her,” model of potential for all other women who have let themselves go.

Likewise, it’s time for the blah clay vessels to get their crowning touches of glaze. The process is a lot like getting one’s hair tinted. When the dye is applied to the hair, the recipient is going to look worse than ever. The dull, colorless appearance of both dye and glaze bear no resemblance to the hues and luster of the final products.

But be patient. For once the dye is rinsed out and the hair shampooed, gelled, curled, teased, scrunched, carefully arranged to look natural, and finally sprayed to preserve the work of art, then the stylist will swing the chair around and let you gaze upon your more youthful image.

My analogy fails at this point, for while the person enduring the tinting process may spend a few minutes under a warm hair dryer, a clay pot is about to serve a lengthy stint in a hot kiln.

I’ll join you next Saturday on the hot seat. In the meantime, ponder these words of John Milton:

“They also serve who only stand and wait."

How might you be a servant in waiting this week?

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 3: On the Potter's Wheel - April 12, 2008

2008-04-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

“For we are God's workmanship,
created in Christ Jesus to do good works,
which God prepared in advance for us to do.”
Ephesians 2:10

Okay, folks, it’s time to get in shape! As a tyke, my daughter, Beth, begged us to wake her up early so she could watch “Mousercize” on the Disney channel. She was so in to exercise, that for Christmas, she requested “Get in Shape, Girl” products—pint-sized, pink exercise paraphernalia like a mat, sweat band, tiny bar bells, etc. But her idea of getting in shape was to get comfy on the sofa and “watch” Minnie and Mickey and their cheerful, colorfully clad, energetic friends sing and sweat. That’s my girl, all right: just like her mama.

However, this is not the kind of getting in shape that I want to talk about today. No exercise videos or leotards required. No running shoes, no sweating. Did I hear a collective sigh of relief? You’re not going to be required to do anything in this step of the process of becoming a clay jar. You can just lay back and let the Master Potter do his thing.

Once the impurities and air bubbles have been pounded out of us (Part 2, March 29) the potter places the purified clay on the wheel. It’s essential that the potter center the clay on the wheel, for if it is even slightly off center, the pot is likely to collapse at some point during the shaping process. Twila Beahm, my artist friend, likens this to real life. If we aren’t centered in God, life spins out of control and splat!

When the clay is centered, the wheel is set in motion, and the potter uses his very skilled hands to force the clay to rise up into a cylinder, and then presses on top of the clay with his thumbs or palms. The potter repeats this process three or four times to increase the clay’s flexibility and strength.

From time to time, the potter will dampen his hands with water to soften the clay and make the texture more smooth and supple. Water symbolizes the Holy Spirit, and the Spirit moisturizes and softens our hearts. We are supple—responsive to the Potter’s touch, and in his hands, we grow more flexible and open to new situations.

Now pressing his thumbs into the center, the potter “opens up” the clay, gradually hollowing out the vessel. A little pressure with the finger tips evens out the thickness of the cylinder walls. Finally—drum roll, please—the potter shapes the clay into a vessel.

That wasn’t so bad, now was it? All that pressing feels like a massage. Well, maybe not a massage, but a good work out, at least in compared to the beating we took in the preparation session last week. I guess we could say that this phase is our “work out” or “exercise routine.” We do stretches to enhance our flexibility and weight training to build our muscle strength. “No pain, no gain,” as the saying goes.

But wait, what’s this about spinning? I’m getting dizzy just thinking about it. Pastor Howard Chang makes this spiritual application: “Often we want to run from or change our circumstances. We may even become embittered toward God because of the situations we find ourselves in. If we do, we will only find that we will face the same circumstances elsewhere. Why? Because we are still the same clay, spinning on the wheel of life’s circumstances.”

As the wheel of life spins, we have a choice: to fight our Master’s shaping, or relax under his touch. If you’re like me, you do some of both. When we want to climb off the potter’s wheel and run away from the trying circumstances in our lives, it helps to remember this:

“We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28)

I enjoy needlework, and as I stitch, a picture slowly emerges. With mere thread, fabric, and a pattern, I create what will be seen out of what is unseen. God can do likewise. Clay or cloth, it matters not. His touch transforms.

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 2: Preparing the Clay - April 5, 2008

2008-04-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

“As the clay in the potter’s hand, so you are in my hand.” Jeremiah 18:6

This very day, I am winging my way to Guatemala to take part in a Christian medical mission. One of my favorite things to do at the mission site is to play with the children. A very popular activity involves my painting their hands bright colors (rojo, verde, azul, amarilla, y naranja) and letting the kids place their handprints on a piece of paper. On each piece of paper is printed, “Usare mis manos para ayudar no para lastimar,” which in Gringoese means, “I will use my hands to help, not to hurt.” Domestic abuse, child abuse, gang violence, and similar crimes scar every society and the best way to fight it is by educating the children.
Hands are an essential—and the most important—tool for the potter. Our Heavenly Potter has provided the metaphor of clay and potter to help us understand how God shapes our lives. While his hands are loving, his touch is not always gentle. As we begin to look at his process of forming us, we need to keep the following points in mind:

God’s touch is purposeful. He knows our true potential and how we fit into his purposes. He has a master plan, and a plan for each and every one of us, and he has the power to create and bring his plan to fruition.

God’s hands are steadfast. He does not give up on his project.

His touch, whether gentle or firm, is always that of a caring and loving God. The hands of the Master Artist are sensitive, listening hands. Twila Beahm, local potter, says she listens to the clay and it speaks to her. Given that we are all so unique—right down to our handprints—I believe that our Potter began his relationship with us well before we were formed. God is all about relationship—relationship with his creation—and relationship involves listening.

Our Heavenly Potter is well pleased with his handiwork. (“God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.” Genesis 1:31)

With this in mind, let’s peek in on the Potter and observe him at work. After carefully selecting the clay, the potter must remove all the impurities, such as gravel, stones, and small tree roots. Laying the clay out, he picks out the foreign matter. Over and over again he kneads the clay and smashes it down. Using a technique called “wedging,” he slices the clay in half and slams the halves together, forcing out the air bubbles.

“Ouch!” Sounds painful, doesn’t it? But this process is extremely important. If the impurities and air bubbles are not removed, once on the wheel, the pot may collapse due to these flaws. This reminds me of childhood piano practices in which I would practice a song over and over and over, working to eliminate my flawed key strokes. A song can be ruined by the strike of a wrong key and EVERYONE at the recital will remember THIS note—not the fact that you’ve played a million other notes perfectly. (I refused to participate in recitals for this reason.)

My piano practicing was grueling. I would get so frustrated with myself that I would pound the keys and bang my head on the keyboard. When my kids were young and loved to watch Sesame Street, I recognized myself in that muppet character who was a piano head banger. I wonder if our Heavenly Potter gets frustrated with us as we collapse on his wheel, yet again—and again. It’s a painful process—for both pot and potter.

I’m relieved to know that God does not settle with seconds and keeps his hands to the wheel on which we spin.

Next week, the fun begins, as our Potter places us on the wheel and gives us shape.

“O Lord, you are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.”
Isaiah 64:8

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD - Part 1 - March 29, 2008

2008-03-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will.
While I am waiting, yielded and still.
Adalaide Pollard, 1907

I am not an artist skilled in working with clay, but I do love to play with it once in a while. Clay can be expensive, so when my kids were tikes, I made my own play-doh with a recipe passed around my group of friends. It involves salt, flour, food coloring, and a few other secret ingredients. To my relief, it was much easier to clean out of the carpet than the real Play-Doh. Whether it be clay or homemade play-doh, it’s just pure fun to squish it between my fingers, make my handprint, with all the lines and creases, and shape and reshape it into balls and ropes. Artistically, that’s about as far as I ever got with this medium.

In high school, however, I did have one brief encounter with clay in art class. I made an unusual looking pot. My art teacher, Mr. Graboski, took interest in my pot (I think he must have felt sorry for me) and enthusiastically directed me to do different things to make it more interesting. Under his tutelage, my pot had numerous uniquely shaped openings. Personally, I thought it was ugly, but Mr. G couldn’t wait to get it fired and see the final masterpiece. Unfortunately, the kiln malfunctioned and every pot in the batch melted into oblivion. I was crushed.

So it is with a wee bit of hesitancy that I again pick up clay, if only metaphorically, and fashion it into a series for your reading enjoyment.

To begin, let’s get to know the Potter. Our Heavenly Potter has been working in clay ever since he created Adam, “of the dust of the ground (actually, one part dust, two parts water) and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.” (Genesis 2:7) During a prototype planning session, God proposed, “Let us make man in our image, in our likeness.” And so it was that, “God created man in his image, in the image of God he created him; man and woman he created them.” (Genesis 1:26-27)

One of the first questions pondered after a baby is born is, “who does he or she look like?” Our curiosity must be inherent in our very nature, since it seems that family resemblance was important to God as well. Think about your spiritual family resemblance—you look like God! Well, the gene pool has been tainted over the eons, but in some sense, we still retain a smidgeon of God’s DNA.

It is a loving God who fashions us on his wheel. Recently I had lunch with Twila Beahm, a local artist who has found her niche in clay. As she talked about working in clay, her face shone with joy and her eyes glittered with emotion laden tears. She tells me that the clay speaks to her, that it has a mind of its own. When she remembers to listen, allowing the clay to express its longing for existence, she is always awed by the results. Twila takes no credit for this, stating firmly that it is God who is at work. Creating in clay is very much a spiritual experience for her.

In several places in the Bible, human beings are referred as “jars of clay.” Being fashioned into a pot is a strenuous, painful process. This shaping and firing, waiting and yielding is—the PITS! But it’s comforting to know that God wants the best for us—to be like Him; to have the very character of Christ. Just as the potter carefully chooses the clay, so God has carefully chosen us (“You did not choose me, but I chose you.” John 15:16). I am not a mistake, nor are you. We’re handmade by a “hands on” God who loves us and wants the best for us.

JUICY FRUITY FREEDOM IN THE SPIRIT - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 12 - March 22, 2008

2008-03-23T16:11:00.000-07:00

“Gotta have sweet, gotta have Juicy Fruit.
You want, you need, you gotta have more sweet.”

It’s Wednesday morning, 6:05 a.m., to be exact. I’m scrunched up in the corner of the sofa, Hope, our golden retriever, curled up next to me. Panda, our goldendor, claims the remainder of the sofa, curled up like a donut (not to be confused with a cookie). It’s raining cats and rabbits and the thumping of the rain on the roof almost blocks out the wind inspired melody wafting from the chimes suspended from the deck railing. “Gotta have sweet,” it chimes; “you gotta have more sweet,” it reminds. Yes on Sunday, I’ll be free to enjoy sweets again.

God is playing serendipity with me again. I log on to biblegateway.com to look up Galatians 5—the home of the Fruit of the Spirit—and there on the website home page, the “verse of the day,” flashes in neon lights:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” Galatians 5:22-23

How odd that I’ve not noticed this “verse of the day” feature before…

Back on January 5, I posed the question, “Gum and grace—is there a connection?” Have I convinced you that practicing love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and even self-control will sweeten your life?

I also shared a scripture with you in that first column of the series on the Fruit of the Spirit. Galatians 5:1-22 are the verses preceding the passage listing the nine fruit:

“Christ has set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you…

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom…

“My counsel is this: Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit, just as the free spirit is incompatible with selfishness. These two ways of life are antithetical, so that you cannot live at times one way and at times another way according to how you feel on any given day…

“What happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard…” (Galatians 5:1, 13-14, 16-17, 22 The Message)

Tomorrow is Easter and this passage reflects the truth of Easter: “Christ has set us free…” Paul counsels us to, “Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit.” He then asks, “What happens when we live God's way?” and goes on to answer his own question: “He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard…” How does our garden of freedom grow?—by using our freedom “to serve one another in love.” Loving others is an act of true freedom.”

So what are the spiritual sweets in your Easter basket this Easter? Indulge freely on the sweet fruity treats of the Spirit. Love freely. Be joyful. Pursue peace in your relationships. Practice patience. Sow seeds of kindness. Be God’s goodness in the lives around you and look for the goodness in our troubled world. Handle yourself and others with a gentle spirit. Find the freedom in faithfulness. And when it comes to self-control, remember, “against such things there is no law.”

“To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood…
to him be glory and power for ever and ever!
Amen.”
Revelation 1:6

JUICY FRUITY WHAT??? - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 11 - March 15, 2008

2008-03-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

“For the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, faithfulness, goodness, and gentleness. Against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23) So, I guess that just about wraps up the Fruit of the Spirit.

Well…to be completely honest—and I suppose I should be, given the spiritual nature of this column and, it being Lent—there is one more fruit.

God was doing great, rolling along quite nicely with all these warm and fuzzy fruit—and then he had to tack on self-control. I don’t know about you, but when God asks me to exercise self-control, there’s a part of me that rises up like a two year old and says, “No!” or like an adolescent who shouts, “Just try and make me!”

I find it quite ironic that we are considering the fruit of self-control the day before Palm Sunday. Many of you have been practicing self-denial during the season of Lent, restraining from eating chocolate, drinking pints of pop, or indulging in some other addiction or temptation. So, how has that been working for you? Now be honest, a whole bunch of you blew it in the first week of Lent and gave up and caved in. You wimped out, just like me.

This past Sunday, my pastor invited the congregants to join him in two weeks of self-denial from something we love. Jim Lyon l-o-v-e-s Cadbury Eggs and he proved it to us by indulging in the chocolaty treat right there in front of us during the service. How rude! As he licked the gooey, yellow center off his fingers, I was convicted right then and there to give self-denial a second try. So I put my commitment in writing and took it forward.

In Sunday school, my hubby and I compared notes on what we’d each given up. He is giving up cookies. Rex is such a cookie addict that it was part of our prenuptial agreement that I was to keep the cookie jar full of freshly baked cookies. (I did pretty well on this until we both were diagnosed with high cholesterol.)

For my two-week act of self-denial, I have given up sweets. I thought it was pretty funny when Rex told me he was giving up cookies, all the while stuffing his face with a donut. I thought it was hypocritical to give up one type of sweet and still have an array of other sweet treats to indulge in. Not fair! If I’d know that he was only giving up one type of sweet, I might have gone a little easier on myself!

I’m relieved to say that I am doing well with my self-denial. I made it through that tough moment of temptation when I almost talked myself into eating a chocolate fudge kiss—under the guise of it being my daily dose of antioxidants. Then I successfully avoided eating the chocolate bars I was given at JC Penney’s—a sales gimmick in which a 10 or 20% discount is stamped on the inside of the chocolate wrapper. I did accept the discounts, however, and enjoyed them guilt-free.

Self-control is not fun. It’s like having to clean the toilets or having to get up early in the morning to go have a colonoscopy. It really is in my best interest to be self-controlled, but I resent it all the while. Self-control is also not easy. But then, it wouldn’t be self-control if it was easy, would it!

Fortunately—and ironically—we don’t have to do self-control all by ourselves. According to Titus 2:11-12, “the grace of God…teaches us to say ‘No’ to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives.”

And I think we’d find that self-control comes easier if we just focus on controlling our own behavior rather than trying to control everyone and everything else. Personally, though, I find it much more satisfying to focus on conforming your behavior to mine or God’s standards!

FYI: I know you’re wondering what I required of Rex in our pre-nup. He had to agree to never, ever, EVER bring snakes into our house.

JUICY FRUITY GENTLENESS - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 10 - March 9, 2008

2008-03-08T04:19:00.000-08:00

“By the meekness and gentleness of Christ, I appeal to you.”
2 Corinthians 10:1

Chivalry is not dead, at least not for those who follow Christ. Christ was—and is—chivalrous. He is our Knight in Shining Armor.

When I was seventeen, I saw the movie, “Camelot,” and fell in love with King Arthur. I also fell in love with Lancelot. I loved Arthur because he was honorable and good. I fell in love with Lancelot because he was gorgeous (Franco Nero)! …and they were both gentle.

GENTLE? Yep! Knights adhere to a code of ethics called “chivalry.” To be chivalric, you must be “loyal, courteous, protective, and gentle and honorable to all, including enemies.” A knight seeks love and glory, not for himself, but for his lady and his king. Knights are courageous, humble, obedient, and chaste, and they live by three things: courage, honor, and fidelity. Knights are frequently described as “debonair,” which in medieval times meant “gentle” and “courteous.”

Knights answered to their military leader, but they also followed the church codes which stressed “protection, humility, and service to the weak and poor.” They were devoted to the Virgin Mary, and respected, worshiped, and revered women. “Knights upheld their lady’s every ‘whim or desire’, no matter what the cost, even if it meant death.”

At seventeen, I thought the Middle Ages would have been such a romantic time to be alive—that is, if I survived the Black Plague. I’ll just have to be content with being a product of the 70’s and the Women’s Liberation Movement. And for the purposes of this article, I will look at gentleness and chivalry from this perspective—because men and women alike are to be the Knights of God’s Round Table.

The terms “gentleness” and “meekness” are often used interchangeably, but Paul pairs them up when he refers to, “the meekness and gentleness of Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:1) Humility is also tossed into the mix, as in Ephesians 4:2 where Paul instructs us to “be completely humble and gentle.”

“As apostles of Christ,” Paul states, “we were gentle among you, like a mother caring for her little children.” (1 Thessalonians 2:7) I love this image—it reminds me of being a grandma, and I don’t think I’ve given you an update for awhile on my grandson, Evan, who is now five months old—but I digress…

Another image of gentleness is that of a horse who has been tamed. A gentled horse remains strong and powerful, and yet is controlled and steered by its owner. As Christians, we are to be teachable, allowing God to mold us into the persons God created us to be. Our tongues and our actions are powerful, yet controlled. Our strength comes from giving God the reigns of our lives.

Jesus invites us to “take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:29) We are yoked together with our spouses, children, parents, coworkers, friends, and relationships require cooperation, tolerance, patience, courtesy, selflessness…gentleness and humility.

And last, but not least, is the image of the Good Shepherd: “He tends His flock like a shepherd,” prophesied Isaiah, speaking of Christ, the Messiah. “He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young." (Isaiah 40:11) When we are gentle, we carry people close to our hearts, just like our Shepherd carries us. We are all broken and fragile in different ways, we all go astray, and we are to treat one another with the gently.

In sum, Christian chivalry involves giving ourselves in service to humanity, in service to our King. Our Code of Ethics emphasizes gentleness, meekness, and humility. We are to be gentle like a mother, and like a shepherd; gentled like a horse or oxen; and as gentle as a knight in service to the Virgin Mary, his king, and his lady.

“Chivalry is dead”? I certainly hope not!

JUICY FRUITY FAITHFULNESS - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 9 - March 1, 2008

2008-03-04T04:45:00.000-08:00

But you, O Lord,
are a compassionate and gracious God
…abounding in love and faithfulness.
Psalm 86:15

Last week I expressed my concern for the state of faithfulness in American relationships. Today I take a lighter look at faithfulness, sharing a model of faithfulness extraordinaire: DOGS.
My introduction to dogs came as a big, red stray who Mikey and I “invited” into our home. We immediately fell in love with her and named her Tomato. Our parents allowed her to stay the night and I was out of my mind with jealousy because Tomato chose to sleep with Mikey. I’m sure it was because he was stinky—dogs like that sort of thing. Tomato left us the next day and I was heartbroken.

When I was 24, for my birthday, Rex took me to Cleo’s Pet Shop in Marquette, MI to get a dog—the very first thing on our agenda after settling into base housing at K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base.
Before making the trip into Marquette, Rex spoke with the shop owner by phone and learned that a litter of Cockapoo-Pomerian puppies was selling fast. We raced into town and dashed into the shop. Of the two remaining pups, one was full of energy and bouncing off the cage attempting to get to us. “We want that one,” we said, pointing to the shy one trembling in the corner of the cage.

“There’s a family coming in to get a puppy who called before you,” cautioned the shopkeeper, “so I have to give them first pick. They should be here any minute.”

I was already bonded with my precious Muffin Marie when a little boy stormed into the store, took one look at me cuddling the puppy, and pointing, declared, “I want THAT one!” The little imp hadn’t even looked at the other puppy yet, who quite obviously was a much better match for this spirited child.

I think the parents could tell that I would turn into the dog-lover-from-hell if they tried to pry the puppy from my arms and they successfully fast-talked their rascal into getting the other puppy. Thus, I saved Muffin from a life of perpetual torment, for which she was eternally grateful. In return, Muffy loved me unconditionally.

There is nothing like a dog to warm ones heart, and feet. Oh, our canine companions can be challenging at times, like when they dig. They can be disgusting, as when they eat poop (which is actually excellent preparation for dealing with the poop, pee, drool, snot, and vomit of newborns and toddlers). But all in all, they are the next best thing to God. Adam—whose task it was to name all the animals—obviously knew this, for DOG is GOD spelled backwards.

I realize that the Bible says that humans were created in God’s image, but I think dogs were the prototype. I wonder, does God sometimes wish he’d settled for a canine companion rather than upgrading to the human model?

Really, dogs are the perfect model for all the Fruit of the Spirit we’ve studied thus far. However, I must admit that not all dogs are juicy-fruity gentle or self-controlled—our fruity topics for the next two weeks. For example, our Midnight—an adorable Cocker-Scotty mix—was obstinate and rebellious, outsmarting every method contrived to keep her contained in a kennel or the house. We dubbed her Houdini-night and Midnight Magic. But other than the occasional Midnight, dogs come pretty close to perfect, wouldn’t you agree?

Having raised puppies for Leader Dogs for the Blind, I know that the faithfulness of a guide dog involves loyalty, devotion, obedience, dependability, conscientiousness, and trustworthiness. Thus their blind partner can rely on them to keep them safe and on track. Sounds just like God, doesn’t it?

Follow in the paw prints of a dog and you’ll be a model of faithfulness, too. But watch out for those Midnight moments—we all have them!

Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see;
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy Faithfulness, Lord unto me.
Thomas O. Chisholm

JUICY FRUITY FAITHFULNESS - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 8 - February 23, 2008

2008-03-04T04:33:00.000-08:00

Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother,
and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
Genesis 2:24

What does it mean to be faithful? Faithfulness entails loyalty, trustworthiness, dependability, and stickability—when things get tough in a relationship, the faithful stick it out.

When I think of faithfulness, I immediately think of marriage. For centuries, marriage has been the foundation upon which society was built, “an ironclad institution that was held together by law, by religion, by family pressures, by economic dependency.” (Dr.David Popenoe, co-founder, National Marriage Project, Rutgers University).

The marital and family landscape of our nation is dramatically changing. Data on divorce from 2002 paints a picture in which a couple will marry in their mid to late twenties, divorce in their late twenties to early thirties—after seven years of marriage—and remarry within three to four years. Sixty percent of these second-time-around-ers will revisit the divorce court after another seven years, possibly completing the marriage-divorce-remarriage-divorce cycle in less than twenty years, and by their early to mid-forties.

Given that over fifty percent of first marriages in American crash and burn, why even bother with the formalities of marriage?

You would be amazed at the number of young moms I see in my therapy practice who have never been married, but have several children, each of whom has a different father. Many of these dads are “deadbeat dads,” taking little to no interest in, or responsibility for, their children.

What truly alarms me is that these young moms don’t even realize that they and their children deserve better! This is the norm for them. It’s the life their moms lived. They “survived” childhood without dads, so what’s the big deal? Typically these young mamas come from very dysfunctional homes characterized by uncontrolled anger, chronic conflict, addictions, abuse and neglect. Sadly, many do not have a high school diploma or GED and they work part time for minimum wage (which, of course, means they have no insurance or benefits and live paycheck to paycheck, constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul).

Why do these young women settle for this kind of life? Because: they are starving for the love and affection of a daddy; because they are scared to death to be alone; because they don’t have anyone in their lives they can truly rely on. Why are the daddies so undependable? Because their own dads were absent and they have no clue on how to be a faithful spouse or parent.

In the U.S., we have 913,000 divorced, single dads, 3.392 million divorced, single moms, 693,000 never married dads and 4.181 million never married moms. Fifty-nine per cent of kids in the U.S., under the age of 18, live in a single parent home. The U.S. comes in dead last in the Western world in terms of the number of kids who grow up with both biological parents.

Are you shocked? I hope so! What a sad, scary commentary on the state of the family in America!

So what can you do to make a difference?

If you are in a troubled marriage, swallow your pride and seek counseling. Make the time. Find the money. And, guys, read the marriage and relationship books your wives are begging you to read. NOTHING is more important—especially to your kids—than your marriage!
If you’re in a healthy marriage, show it! Be a model for young couples and youth. Teach your kids and grandkids relationship skills and the value or commitment.
If you are the child or teen of divorced or never married parents, take heart. Learn everything you can about healthy relationships. Break the cycle!
If you are a single parent, be encouraged. You have the most difficult job on earth! There are counselors, social agencies, and churches who want to support you. Reach out!
If you are among the growing population of grandparents raising grandchildren, God bless you—you are saints! If you know such grandparents, help them out! Every one of them will tell you, “I’m too old for this job!”

JUICY FRUITY GOODNESS - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 7 - February 16, 2008

2008-02-19T04:03:00.000-08:00

“God is good…”
“…ALL THE TIME.”
“All the time…”
“…GOD IS GOOD.”

The phrase, “God is good,” calls for a response. No matter what Christian gathering I have been in, the congregation or audience knows to respond, “All the time.” This exchange is always echoed by its reversal: “All the time,” “God is good.” If I were walking down the street and someone said, “God is good,” my mind would automatically finish the phrase. Like “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” “God is good…” is etched permanently in my mind.

I guess if you had to boil down the Good News to six words, “Jesus loves me” and “God is good” would just about cover it. Knowing that I’m loved is essential to my well being. And when things are going wrong and my life seems to be falling apart, it’s vital that I believe that God is good, ALL THE TIME—even when God seems absent.

David—the shepherd boy turned King of Israel—knew the meaning of crisis. When he was facing a giant, running for his life from King Saul, worrying himself silly over a rebellious son, running from his own sinful nature that led him into adultery and murder, or grieving the death of his newborn son, David inevitably sought God’s goodness. “I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” And he encourages us to, “Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord. (Psalm 27:13-14)

In spite of one adversity or blunder after another, David firmly believed that, “God is good…all the time.” This does not mean, however, that David always felt the presence of God and God’s goodness. Many of his psalms record his fears, despair, loneliness, and his desperate cries to God to reveal his presence and purpose. In the midst of our own crises and losses, we easily identify with David’s feelings. We wonder, “Where is God?” In the midst of emotional pain, our focus narrows and we tend limit God’s goodness to our current situation. If we’re suffering, then God must be “away from his desk” and not returning our urgent voice mail messages.

We need to broaden our focus and reconnect with the truth that God’s goodness is inexhaustible and ever present. “God's providence has been supplying unending resources for life for 6,000 tumultuous years of human history,” states John Ritenbaugh. “These come as air, water, food, housing and reproduction and all the uses man's creative mind and energetic workmanship put them to. Even our minds and workmanship are products of God's goodness!” And, “in spite of our stiff-necked and rebellious conduct, He has continued to bear patiently with us, forgive us, supply us with life and knowledge and move us forward with His purpose.”

Yes, life is tough—and a lot tougher for some than for others—but our lives are permeated with God’s goodness and presence. We are bombarded daily via the news with countless examples of sin, downright evil, and mass destruction in the world—from the daily webcam of Brittany’s life to acts of terror around the world. Thus, we have to make a concerted effort to live out our spiritual heritage of goodness.

We can reconnect with God’s goodness by being God’s goodness in this sin wrought world. Juicy Fruit Goodness:

· begins with intention (It is possible to do good things, but for the wrong reasons, for example, to make ourselves look good or in the hopes of getting something in return.),
· is done out of goodness of heart, no strings attached, no hidden motivations,
· can be gentle (aid, forgiveness, mercy…) or sharp (confrontation, correction…), and
· is always done with the well-being of the recipient in mind.

“Ya’ll be good now, you hear?”

Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can.”
John Wesley

JUICY FRUITY KINDNESS: Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 6 - February 9, 2008

2008-02-13T13:37:00.000-08:00

“‘ My kindness shall not depart from you.”
Isaiah 54:10

“Jesus B.” Jesus what? “Jesus, be,” says Pastor Jim Lyon (Madison Park Church). The point of his sermon is that we are to strive to be like Jesus: Jesus, be. Jesus describes God as kind and instructs us to “be” kind as well: "I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You'll never—I promise—regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we're at our worst. Our Father is kind; you be kind..” (Luke 6:35 The Message)

While being kind isn’t always easy—and often is not my initial gut response to a challenging situation—I have a “God-created identity” with a spiritual predisposition to be kind: to Jesus “be.” The kindness gene is encoded in my spiritual DNA.

Most mornings, while still lying in bed, I whisper in my heart, “Thank you, Lord, for this day and for your loving-kindness which lasts forever.” Psalm 143:8 confirms that I’m on the right track when I acknowledge God’s loving-kindness before my feet hit the floor in the morning: “Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto thee.”

“Loving-kindness” is kindness extraordinaire; kindness that goes the extra mile; kindness that permeates a personality; kindness bestowed on friend and foe. It’s difficult to describe, but I know it when I experience or witness it.

I experienced synchronicity (“the coincidental occurrence of events,” or as I like to call them, “God-incidences”) as I was preparing this column on kindness. While surfing the web in search of kindness, I learned that February 11-17 is “Random Acts of Kindness Week.” There was no rhyme or reason to the timing of my series on the Fruit of the Spirit; I never got the memo that there is such a thing as Kindness Week; and I’m not organized enough to plan ahead to coordinate such a meeting. It just so happened that this column on kindness falls on the eve of Kindness Week: God-incidence!

The purpose of “Random Acts of Kindness Week” “is to raise awareness about kindness and to invite people to give and receive kindness daily.” It provides the opportunity to experience the fruit of kindness: JOY!

The words “random acts of kindness” are a response to the well known catch phrase “random acts of violence.” “‘Random’ does not necessarily mean ‘unplanned’ any more than random acts of violence are unplanned.”

I invite you to act upon your “God-created identity,” to “Jesus, be,” and look for ways to be extra kind this coming week. The Random Acts of Kindness website (http://www.actsofkindness.org/) documents what people all over the world are doing to promote kindness:

· In Colombia S.A., Damir, Juan and Erasmo handed out chocolates in their school neighborhood. “We were glad seeing people smiling with happy faces when they receive their chocolates.”
· "UMOJA" (togetherness), a group of Kenyan youth formed to increase community awareness of the issues of the youth, raised funds by picking up trash.
· Bookworms in Hawaii established the “Honolulu BookCrossing ‘Ohana (family)” with the objective of making “the whole world a library.” How? By leaving books they’ve finished in public places, labeled with an invitation to take, read, and pass along the book to someone else.
· “Nostalgia,” a trio in Bangor, Maine sings at nursing homes and the VA hospital.
· The Extra Milers of Jeffersonville, Indiana, identify and honor people in their community that “go the extra mile.”

Please join me in this coming week in celebrating “Random Acts of Kindness Week.” Start with a smile. Dr. Steve Elliot, a local physician, reports that when he was in Russia on a mission trip, he was recognized as being an American—because he smiled. Sad to think, isn’t it, that there are places in the world where people are so downtrodden that smiles are rare.

Let’s light up Madison County, and beyond, with our smiles this coming week. Let’s also be good listeners, mediators, encouragers, Extra Milers… Jesus, be!

JUICY FRUITY PATIENCE - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 5 - February 2, 2008

2008-02-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with patience.
Colossians 3:8

“All good things come to he who waits.” “Patience is a virtue.” I wish that I had a nickel for every time a sagely adult offered such wisdom during my childhood—to spend on Juicy Fruit gum, of course. Yada! Yada! Yada! A lot of good those words did me when I was waiting for a new toy, a special event, a new pet (although I rarely asked permission for a pet; I just showed up at home with them), or a long awaited privilege. Patience remains an uncomfortable fit for me.

Nevertheless, I must remember that the Bible instructs me to clothe myself with patience. I think my patience is hanging askew on a rusty hanger in the very back of my closet, or maybe even wadded up under a pile of out of fashion shoes that I haven’t worn for ages.

In our spiritual closets, patience hangs out with the likes of love, joy, peace, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Galatians 5:22-23), diligence, faith, virtue, knowledge, godliness (2 Peter 1:5-6)), purity, understanding, (2 Corinthians 6:5-7), compassion, humility, meekness, forgiveness, harmony, thankfulness, wisdom, gratitude (Colossians 3:12-17), endurance, (Colossians 1:11), experience, hope, tribulation (Romans 5:305), suffering, affliction (James 5:10-11)—

—Whoa! Hold on there! I’m not comfortable at all with those last three garments: tribulation, suffering and affliction. Surely this is a mistake. I must have accidentally switched shopping bags with someone else while shopping. I would NEVER make such a purchase—even if it was on sale at 75% off!

Much as I hate it, patience is accessorized with suffering. The apostle Paul set an example for us to, “rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Romans 5:3-4) And, “know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance,” states James. “Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:3-4)

Life is difficult and Paul further advises us to put on the armor of God, including a belt of truth, a breastplate of righteousness, and a helmet of salvation. We are also to carry the sword of the Spirit and the shield of faith (the word of God). All the while, we are to pray and be alert. I need to dig through that shoe pile so my feet can be “fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.” (Ephesians 6:10-18)

Sandwiched in among garments of grace, drab garments of suffering, and unwieldy armor are additional garments that Clinton Kelly and Stacy London (fashion hosts of “What Not to Wear”) would throw in the trash can: anger (Colossians 3:8), “repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community.” (Galatians 5:19-21 The Message)

Recently I prepared a box of clothes for the Christian Center—which remained in the trunk of my car for several weeks. Occasionally I rescued something that I realized I could not live without. It’s painful to give up my comfy yet shrunken warm up pants and my oversized, time worn sweatshirts. I feel like me in them. But some garments simply must go; the same is true with the nasty rags that clutter my spiritual closet as well.

There’s also a pile in my closet of items in need of repair, plus a scarf that I started to crochet last winter. I don’t have much patience for mending or finishing difficult projects, but I really do need to get my closet in order.

I’ll need to dress myself in patience for the task. Patience does not drape loosely on my form, moving only when fluffed by my hand or a breeze. Practicing patience involves “concentrated strength,” said Edward Bulwer-Lytton. I’d better don my bib overalls of self-discipline, too!

JUICY FRUITY PEACE - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 4 - January 26, 2008

2008-01-26T18:53:00.000-08:00

Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called children of God.
Matthew 5:9 NIV

Speaking of children of God, I had the great pleasure of spending an entire day with my four month old grandson, Evan, on Monday. I am officially Evan’s “Granny Nanny” on Mondays – from now until he graduates from high school. Hmmm… I’ll be seventy-something by then, so maybe I’ll want to retire, say, before he hits those difficult teen years.

And speaking of peace, there’s nothing more peaceful than a baby’s gaze while taking his bottle or an angelic face while snoozing during naptime. I couldn’t resist dressing Evan in his, “You’re looking at PERFECTION” t-shirt. The prophet Isaiah said, “You will keep in perfect peace all who trust in you, all whose thoughts are fixed on you!” (Isaiah. 26:3 NLT) This Granny Nanny certainly experienced perfect peace!

The concept of peace, unfortunately, is divisive. Peoples and parties disagree vehemently with each other on how to establish peace. There’s the nonviolent camp and the violence-can’t-be-avoided camp, and every shade and flavor in between. According to christianlibrary.org, during the 3100 years of recorded world history, the world has been at peace only 8% of the time (that’s a paltry 286 out of 3100 years) and 8,000 treaties have been made—and broken. Clemens Kirchner defines peace as, “a short pause between wars for enemy identification.” I imagine Kirchner spoke sarcastically, but given the statistics, I’m afraid that he is right on target.

Peace on earth is precarious, both to establish and to preserve, and our track record is lousy. While Jesus is called the Prince of Peace, he also said, "I've come to start a fire on this earth—how I wish it were blazing right now! I've come to change everything, turn everything right-side up—how I long for it to be finished! Do you think I came to smooth things over and make everything nice? Not so. I've come to disrupt and confront!” (Luke 12:49-53 The Message) But Jesus also promised, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you,” and in the same breath encouraged us to, “Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” (John 14:27 NIV)

My heart is often “troubled” and my life is shadowed by all sorts of fears. So how do I make Jesus’ words a reality in my life? Apostle Paul makes this suggestion: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, 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 your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6-7 NIV)

My writer-friend, Connie Arnold, expresses a similar thought:

"A Still, Small Voice"

There’s a quiet spot in the depths of my being
where God in silence dwells,
The holy, infinite presence of God,
where awareness slowly wells.
Away from the noisy outer world,
enclosed where it’s calm and still,
Breathing in deep tranquility,
as mind and spirit fill.
It’s a silence that speaks without words,
and doesn’t sound to the ear,
But listening to it with my heart,
can soothe every doubt and fear.
The unconditional love I feel
makes each anxiety cease,
As the overwhelming essence of God
floods my soul with the sweetest peace.

Connie Arnold

I met Connie in an online writers’ group. On Monday, while writing this column, I took a break to catch up on all the e-mails that had piled up while I was gone on vacation last week. Connie actually sent me this poem that very day. Given the dozens of e-mails awaiting me, I wasn’t reading them very carefully. I sped through Connie’s poem and was about to close the e-mail when I felt a nudge to reread it. The second time through, the peace of her poetry seeped into my soul and I felt its message.

Rather than rushing on to the next newspaper article, I encourage you to read Connie’s poem again and let the Spirit guide you into “the holy, infinite presence of God.” May your soul be flooded “with the sweetest peace” today.

FYI: you can check out Connie’s poetry at http://www.freewebs.com/conniearnold/.

JUICY FRUITY JOY - Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 3 - January 19, 2008

2008-01-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

“Joy is the ribbon of the Lord's personality wrapped around and tied to all the gifts He gives us.”
Sharon West

My daughter’s middle name is Joy. According to one version of Webster’s dictionary, joy is “the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires.” Another version equates joy with happiness, gladness, cheerfulness. Bethany’s middle name is not based on Webster’s worldview, but on the Biblical meaning of joy.

This particular Fruit of the Spirit is a cornucopia of fruitiness, so lush and full that it is difficult to paint its portrait within the limits of this column. Close your eyes and imagine with me a cluster of warm, fragrant, fresh-off-the-vine grapes. Pluck and savor the burst of flavorful juice as you partake of each grape one by one:

1. Joy is a quality derived from our transformational relationship with God.

2. As we yield to God’s creative purpose—in which we are being transformed into His image—joy takes root, grows, blossoms, and produces fruit.

3. “Joy is the sign that life has found its purpose, its reason for being!” John W. Ritenbaugh

4. The fruit of love and joy are inseparable: Joy is the offspring of our obedience to Jesus’ command to love.

5. Biblical joy is not an end in itself; it is a blessing, a byproduct of our relationship with God.

6. Joy is a product, not of the natural mind, but of the Holy Spirit.

7. Joy involves self-denial. When carried out with the intent of serving God and ministering to others, selflessness produces sustained and eternal blessings.

8. Joy and suffering are woven together in the cloth of life. As we listen to the presidential debates, it is evident that our world is riddled with a multitude of insolvable problems. We live each day with an edge of anxiety based on an historical knowledge that all sorts of disasters, both natural and human-made, are inevitable. No presidential, candidate—or any political or religious world leader—has all the answers.

The first seven grapes are tasty and easy to digest. This eighth one gives me indigestion! The fact that suffering is an inevitable aspect of life is hard for me to swallow. Especially such bitter grapes as child and domestic abuse, war, terrorism, world hunger, poverty, greed, theft, murder, corruption in politics (and religion)… And yet, the Biblical message is that we are to “rejoice always.”

9. "Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crops fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign Lord is my strength. Habakkuk 3:17-19

So how do we “yet…rejoice”? How do we not get bogged down in suffering and lose sight of joy? The ever present tension between these two realities finds resolution only when we yield to God’s creative purpose, to that mysterious transformation into God’s image (#2).
While God wants to save and transform us, Satan, “the god of this age,” seeks to separate us from God’s love. But keep in mind that:

10. “The devil may be able to attack you but he has no power to steal your joy. Joy is a spiritual force inside your human spirit. Satan can touch your body, finances and family as the book of Job teaches, but he can't touch your spirit. Your spirit is off limits to the devil.” (Tom Brown)

“Joy and sorrow are inseparable,” said Kahlil Gibran. “Together they come and when one sits along with you…remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.” When sorrow sits with you, remember that joy is curled up close by. When joy sits with you, do not let anxiety rob you of your joy. Partake of its juiciness and be strengthened.

True to her name, my daughter, Bethany Joy, gives me great joy, but her essence is a mere foretaste of the JOY to come!

JUICY FRUITY LOVE: Juicy Fruit of the Spirit - Part 2 - January 12, 2008

2008-01-26T18:00:00.000-08:00

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.”
Herman Hesse

Since the beginning of time, human beings have puzzled about, agonized over, sought after, shied away from, and bask in the light of love. It’s one of those things that are difficult to define—although everyone from Charlie Brown to Gandhi have tried—but you know it when you see it.
Or maybe I should say, you know it when you feel it. In Story of My Life, Helen Keller wrote:

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding line, and no way of knowing how near the harbor was. "Light! Give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.

We have all had our “at sea in a dense fog” experiences; times when it feels like we are groping along without plummet and sounding-line.

Years ago, when I was still a fairly new and inexperienced driver, I was driving home alone from my counseling job at Northern Michigan University, to K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base, in a white-out. I was terrified! It was pitch black and my headlights illuminated the blizzard of snowflakes that the wind was driving relentlessly at my windshield. My eyes struggled in vain to focus past the snow. I was lost in a shaken up snow globe with no sense of direction.

Having grown up in New York and Indiana, I thought I knew snow, but life in northern Michigan introduced me to the profound power and danger of all those delicate, beautiful, tiny little flakes in cahoots with each other and with the wind. This, of course, was before the days of cell phones, GPS devices, and OnStar. It was just me and God and a gazillion capricious snowflakes. The sense of aloneness was overwhelming. And, believe you me, I was prayin’ up a storm (pun intended)! How my tires remained on the roadway, God only knows.

For Helen Keller, Anne Sullivan’s determination to reach through Helen’s blindness and deafness was the beacon of love responding to “the wordless cry of my soul.” The beacon of love that led me safely home that wintry evening was God. Sometimes LOVE reaches out to us through other people; and sometimes LOVE enters our terror directly and steers us home.

What fog or white-out are you lost in right now? Perhaps you are in the midst of a stormy relationship, or negotiating blindly through divorce, or feeling deluged by a diagnosis of cancer. Maybe you have been blindsided by the death of a loved one or the loss of a job. Or maybe your heart is being tugged in two directions and you don’t know what to do. Your soul cries out, “Light! Give me light!” Trust that your Harbor is close by, even though you can’t see it. Know that this storm will pass and your path will become clear.

The only thing that gets us through the overwhelming storms in life is love: God’s love. But it is our calling, our privilege, to be God’s love with skin on it. We are the beacons of God’s love. Mother Teresa said, “In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.” What small thing can you do to help another person hold onto hope in the midst of their storm? Just knowing that someone else cares, that someone else sees your pain and is willing to sit with you through it, is the miracle that keeps you paddling. A card. A hug. A smile. A willingness to make eye contact with eyes full of fear or sadness. A casserole. A ride to the hospital. A phone call. A sack of groceries. A shoveled driveway…

You are God’s GPS to the lives around you.