How The Truth Hurts On An Ordinary Day

A busy week finds me, yet again, doing homiletics on Sunday. As I copy and paste The Word into Microsoft Word, these verses just smack me in the face: “I knew how stubborn you were; the sinews of your neck were iron, your forehead was bronze. If only you had paid attention to my commands, your peace would have been like a river, your righteousness like the waves of the sea.” (Isaiah 48:4,18). Whhhhhaaaat?!? 

Yeah, ouch. Nothing quite like seeing my character flaws (well, some of them) spelled out before me. In all honesty, I wondered if changing the font from Arial Bold to a nice, flowing cursive would “soften” the blow. Nope. Font can’t change truth. Changing the font only adds manipulator and indenialcontrolfreak to my list of flaws.

Thankfully I am confident there is hope for my character epitaph. As I cling to Jeremiah 29:11-13 for Camden and Sabrina, I know these promises also apply to me. My story of my life isn’t only what has been, but what will be. I’ve seen what a mess I can make when I choose my own direction. In the last half to my life I pray to have learned my limits, to listen to the lessons, to know that leaning on my own understanding and direction always leads to falling.

“I knew. If only…”, says the Lord. How the truth hurts on an ordinary day…

I have seen how following my own way has wreaked havoc in my life and in the life of my family. I have seen how past choices have scarred my testimony and limited opportunities to minister to others. But I do believe in the days that remain I will see my Lord work through circumstances that once scarred me, and squelched His voice in me, to pave a path of appointment for His purposes in my life. The prayer remains that my character epitaph will be refined and reformed into a shining reflection of Him more than a stone-inscribed memory of me. 

“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. THEN (you mean after I’ve messed it up for myself?) you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me WHEN you seek me (rather than manipulating situations to go how you think they should go) with ALL your heart.” Jeremiah 29:11-13, emphasis and comments mine. 

I don’t know how God will turn around situations I have messed up to bring glory to His Name, but I do know I can’t wait to see how it all works out.  “Announce this with shouts of joy and proclaim it. Send it out to the ends of the earth; say, “The LORD has redeemed his servant Jacob.” They did not thirst when he led them through the deserts; he made water flow for them from the rock; he split the rock and water gushed out. -Isaiah 48:20-21

I say, let it flow.

XOXOXXO

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

Our BSF study on The Life of Moses is complete.  For the past nine months, nearly 200 women and I have traveled with Moses from Exodus through Deuteronomy.  Monday and Tuesday mornings I have had the privilege to serve the women who have so faithfully come to class each week.  The remainder of my Mondays when work isn’t pressing, and nearly every evening during the study, found me spread out on the kitchen table or at my desk, sometimes with as many as 4 Bible translations at the ready, studying and seeking my own revelation.  Since a big part of Bible study is life application, I confess to asking God,

 ”Please show me.  What could I possibly have in common with some Old Testament, 120 year-old dude’s life?  And how is studying his life supposed to impact mine?” 

Oh, foolish, foolish Darlene!  At this stage in my life shouldn’t I know better than to ask God for something like that?  I ask TheGodWhoSeesAll to show me?  Well, God must have heard and He did show me.  And He was probably laughing while He did.  God’s revelation showed me how the people in Moses’ life either represent parts of who I am, or represent people in my life.  God’s revelation also showed me that His call on Moses’ life really isn’t all that different from His call on my life.

The people who appear in the Life of Moses who represent parts of who I am:

• Shiphrah and Puah:  the midwives who spared Moses’ life from the King’s edict that all male babies be killed.  I pray that I have the courage to do what is right in the eyes of God.
• Miriam:  Moses’ almost-always faithful sister who watched over his basket ride down the Nile river.  I’ll admit that I’m pretty good when it comes to “basket-watch” and helping others get safely where they are going.  Unfortunately, like Miriam, I tend to criticize them once they’re there.
• Pharaoh’s daughter:  She “found” Moses floating in the Nile, adopted him, and raised him as her own.  I pray that I am willing to love those who are lost and to show them the way home. 
• Zipporah:  Moses’ almost-always supportive wife who, we assume, left him for a time after she threw a hissy fit in the desert on the way back to Egypt.  If you don’t know the story, read it for yourself.  Anyway, while I haven’t had any ”medical mishaps” in the desert that have made me leave my husband, the truth is that I’m not always as supportive, forgiving, or as understanding as I should be.
• Hur:  Hur, with Aaron, held up Moses’ arms as Israel fought the Amalekites.  When Moses’ arms were raised, the Israelites prevailed, when Moses’ arms fell, so did the Israelites.  I pray that I am like Hur, that I encourage, support, and hold up my leaders as they follow God’s call on their lives.
• Phinehas:  The young man who speared the Israelite man and Midianite woman.  Not that I’m going to shish kabob people, but I pray for Phinehas’ boldness in keeping my home free from the trash that comes at us in this world. 
• Aaron:  The the almost-always faithful brother and priest.  My prayer is that my life will bud, bloom, blossom, and bear fruit indicating that God has chosen me.
• The Israelites:  I’m honestly most like the Israelites in nearly every flawed way.  But similarly to them, I have been in pursuit of God’s plan for my life, in varying degrees of success and failure, for at least 26 years that I can account for.  I’m thankful for His giving me BSF “manna” that keeps me going to Him each day.

 The people who appear in the Life of Moses who represent people in my life:

• Pharaoh:  I pray for the Pharaoh’s in my life, that I can forgive them as God forgives me and that God will change their hearts before it’s too late.
• Jethro:  Moses’ father-in-law.  I pray that my dad will become my husband’s “Jethro”, and that I will listen to the advice of my parents and elders because there just may be a slim chance that they know something that I don’t.
• Joshua:  The successor to Moses.  Leader of the Israelites into the Promised Land.  I pray that I have raised a “Joshua”.  That Camden has learned from my example  how to follow the Lord and how to seek His guidance in every circumstance.  I pray Camden has learned by my example the things he should, and maybe more importantly should not, do.  I pray he will stand on God’s promises for his life as he leads his own family one day.

I’m not that different from the people in Moses’ life.  I’m sure Moses would agree that the same characteristics he found in his circle of influence live on in me.  Sometimes I’m helpful, encouraging, loving, fruitful.  Sometimes I’m having a flat out hissy fit, complaining, and getting on somebody’s last nerve.   

The call God placed on Moses life was to serve Him and His people.  Is that any less than God is asking of me?  When it came right down to it, all God honestly ever asked of Moses was that he trust and obey Him.  Afterall, Moses and God were tight.  They had a face to face relationship back in the nobody-but-the priest-can-go-beyond-the-curtain-or-you’ll-die days, before Christ.  (Actually, Moses and God has a face to back relationship because no human could actually look upon the face of God and live…but you get the idea…)  Isn’t that personal, face to face relationship the kind He wants with me? 

So as it turns out, me and my Main Man Moses have quite a lot in common after all.  Yes, now he’s “my main man”, no longer the irrelevant old dude.  Moses was 120 years-old when he died.  He didn’t get to deliver the Israelites into the Promised Land, but he remained faithful to God to the last breath of his life.  The real clincher for me is that Moses KNEW he wouldn’t get to cross over into the Promised Land.  God had told him so.  Forgive the irreverence of the translation here, but God pretty much said, “Sorry Moses, you hit the rock rather than speak to it, so Promised Land:  DENIED.  Those 40 years you’ve been babysitting my people?  Um, yeah, Joshua will take over now.  But I do want you to haul your 120 year-old bones up that mountain one more time and take a good look at what you can’t have.  Oh yeah, and then you’ll die.”  AND MOSES CLIMBED THE MOUNTAIN ANYWAY.   

I’m amazed at Moses’ obedience and faith in God.  Moses didn’t have the assurance that he would be forgiven his human failings.  But Moses knew God’s character, and God knew Moses’.  I have every confidence that Moses can see God’s face clearly now and that just makes me want to give a big enthusiastic high-five to the sky.  Way to go, Mo.  Guess there was nothing Moses wouldn’t do, no age of retirement that justified quitting, no mountain too high to climb to keep him from being closer to God.  

Moses did not have the assurance we have in Jesus Christ and he was obedient anyway, simply out of his love of God.  We have the full assurance of God’s presence, His Holy Spirit, the sacrifice of His son for our forgiveness, but some of us still refuse it.  I don’t remember where we were in the study of Moses’ life when the light bulb switched ”on” for me.  The reason it was important for me to study the Life of Moses was to realize, with new perspective, just how absolutely thankful I am for Jesus Christ.  That I, and you, do have the full assurance of seeing God face to face and that encourages obedience as a result, not as a condition.  So I, too, will climb the mountain anyway, and I will continue do the service the Lord enables me to do, until He calls me home. 

XOXOXXO

“There on the mountain that you have climbed you will die and be gathered to your people…” -Deuteronomy 32:50

               

 

 

Waiting for the write words…

Whenever one of those internet ‘Get To Know Your Friends Better’ questionnaires goes around, there is inevitably the question:  What’s your dream job?  If you know me well, then you know my dream (would it really be considered a job?) is to write a book.  For years I wanted to write a book about my life that would be a funny take on some very unfunny happenings…until I took a good look at the reasons I wanted to write it.  I realized the reasons I thought I wanted to write it weren’t the real reasons at all.  What I really wanted to write was a thinly-veiled tattle of what has happened in my life, to make it not-too-unfortunate, and to phrase it so it would be a not-too-uncomfortable read.  I wanted to wrap it in a laugh and make it okay to say it.  I even started, and titled, this blog during that time.  The process is journaled here as it has happened.  

But now I wonder.  I’m rethinking this desire to write.  Is it my own selfish hope?  Is it my own selfish dream?  Is it my desire, or is it God’s desire for my life?  Is this how I’m supposed to be used?  Certainly God wouldn’t use me for vengeance.  I’m pretty sure He’s got His own lightning bolts for that.  I’m kidding.  Not really.   

I want God to appear to me in a burning bush and tell me what to do.  But I find that God doesn’t really take reservations for those kinds of appearances, and in the meantime I might want to “chill” on that boldness and be careful what I ask for.  So I pray.  And wait.  And take the advice that I give Camden, “When you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything.”  In the process of praying and waiting and following my own advice, I’ve learned to stop obsessing about writing, to stop smiling through clenched teeth when well-meaning friends ask, “How’s the book coming?”, to stop obsessing over the words that come or don’t come, and to listen. 

I’m amazed that what I hear the most are questions from young people who are trying to figure out this life.  Young people who are wondering where they stand in this crazy world, who are trying to figure out who they are supposed to be, who are wondering how to get where they’re going without losing themselves along the way.  I wonder if I hear them as they need to be heard?  I wonder if the words that bang in my head are for them, if the life I try to live is because of the example I need to set for them, if the soundtrack that constantly spins in the background of my life speaks to them? 

I don’t know, but it’s okay.  I’ll take it as it comes.  I’ll stop trying to tell God how I want Him to appear to me.  I’ll keep waiting, keep listening, and keep praying that in God’s time He gives me His words to speak.

XOXOXXO

“So is my word that goes out from my mouth:  It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”  -Isaiah 55:11

“Give Me Words To Speak” by Aaron Shust

Hand-Me-Down

If you had older siblings or cousins when you were growing up, you’re probably familiar with hand-me-downs.  And if you grew up with a mom like mine, you learned early-on how to be resourceful.  Mom was green before green was in, homemade before Martha made it big, and vintage before it was chic.  Mom taught my sister and me to cook, bake, and sew.  But more importantly, Mom loved us. 

Back in the day, before thrift stores and Goodwill, my mom found ways to widen the hand-me-down circle.  Mom was befriended by a few ladies at her work who shopped way outside the budget of my family.  These women would send paper bags of their daughters’ outgrown or discarded clothes home with my mom, and after an evening of trying-on and tweaking, my sister and I had new clothes!  Mom returned the items we couldn’t use, and paid the ladies alittlesomething for the ones we could.

Looking back on that time, I never remember feeling bad or sad about any of it.  I suppose we were poor, but I don’t think I knew it.  I must have been pretty happy about the clothes because I’m wearing one of those dresses in my 5th grade picture…a royal blue sweater dress with lime green stitching.  And if Mom felt bad or sad about any of it, she never let it show.  She made us feel important, loved.  Mom gloried in our hand-me-down fashion shows, in making cupcakes for the belly of every child I ever shared a classroom with in Fluvanna county, and most importantly for me as a child, Mom gloried in me.

Then I grew up.  Got married.  Worked hard.  Shopped well.  Had good stuff and lots of it.  But I learned very quickly that without love, without being gloried in, I could have everything in the world but feel like a human hand-me-down.  Having the right stuff is often just for show.  It’s something sparkly to distract the focus from the truth, something heavy enough to hide it under, a house big enough to contain it from the neighbors.  The more stuff I got, the more it was to cover for a lack of personal connection, of love, of the glory I hoped to be to another.  In fact, I’m sad to say, that the size and cost of the stuff was usually in direct proportion to the size of the betrayal, the strength of the strike, and cost to the marriage. 

I finally stopped denying that some things that make up the fabric of our lives come with a price that’s too high to pay for the stitches they take to weave.  Some of us age into adulthood rather than grow into it.  The years pass, and one day there we are.  We fail to take ourselves out of the bag, try ourselves on, and tweak those parts that will fit who we want to be.  We rationalize the scratchy parts of our personal fabric as just part of who we are, and rub our family raw from it.  We let ourselves believe that enough ironing will smooth everything over.  And the worst mistake of all is believing that wearing the right name on our shirt, especially when it’s our own, can disguise the fabric we’re made of. 

After divorce , I took my child, my out-grown and discarded hand-me-down self, the cottage next door, and ultimately, a good look at my life.  I forced myself to look not just at the stuff, but at what it represents.  I forced myself to look at me, who I was, who I am, who I want to be.  I held the fabric I’m made of up to the Light and saw the worn spots, the torn spots, the strong spots, and worked toward reweaving myself.  I stitched myself into a cocoon here in our little cottage and, for about a year, treated myself like I was recovering from a long illness.  I didn’t go out much, and when I did it was usually with Camden and at his urging.  I took that time to make our new house a home, to cook, to sew, and to be “at home” for Camden and glory in him.  I took that time to restore what I had lost of me along the way.   

I learned to accept the blame for the prideful covering up, putting up, and shutting up I had done all those years.  I learned what I would, and would not, hand down to Camden as an example of how to lead his own family one day.  I learned that no matter what we had to do without, home would be a place where my son and I could live blanketed in peace.   I learned the need to forgive, and I’m still getting there.  I learned that people are who they are, they will let us down, and the only person I can reweave is me.  I learned to be thankful for the good that came of it:  a son I love so much it feels like my heart is walking outside of my body, and my girls who are mine not by birth, but by bonds that can’t be broken.  I learned to stop trying to measure up, stop attempting to fill-in-the-blank of what people expected of me.  I learned to be more honest, more real, to stop plastering on a fake smile when I’m not happy, and to stop reeling in my joy when I am.  I learned I’m a cotton girl in a cashmere world, and I’m finally comfortable with that.  I re-learned the only One I can depend on to love and glory in me is God. 

Life is no longer as simple, or as complicated, as it once was.  My worn and torn spots have been rewoven and old wounds have healed to wisdom.  It took more than an evening to tweak myself from feeling like a hand-me-down to a vintage garment.  But the glory that my Mom and my God instilled in me keeps me knowing that a hand-me-down is only a hand-me-down if it’s perceived that way.

“No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment, for the patch will pull away from the garment, making the tear worse.”  -Matthew 9:16

XOXOXXO

Hand Me Down – Matchbox Twenty

Fay and Grace

We had two visitors last week:  Fay and Grace.  Fay is one of “those” visitors we just dread hosting.  She always comes uninvited, overstays her welcome, and usually knocks out the power as soon as she gets here.  When she finally leaves (and yes we make sure she’s not coming back) you know cleaning up after her will take days.  Shopping for her visit isn’t even enjoyable.  She always demands the same old things: water, ice, batteries, gas. 

We knew Fay was coming, so we prepared to receive her as graciously as we could.  She monopolized the news, keeping me glued to the television for days in anticipation of her arrival.  When news came of her official arrival, my parents came to stay with us just in case this Fay was as tenacious and hot-tempered as reported.  As we expected, Fay was with us for a few too-many days, rained her fury on us, interrrupted our power from time to time just to keep us guessing, and left us with a whole lot of mess to clean up after she was gone.       

Our other visitor was Grace.  Grace came as only she does, bringing the gift of refuge for my parents and much needed rain.  Grace poured on us the love and concern of family and friends as calls, emails, and text messages came streaming in.  If Grace were a woman, she’s the kind of woman I’d like to be.  One who shows up quietly, right on time, knows when and how she’s needed, makes you feel loved, and brings comfort you can count on.  She makes the “Fays” in our lives more bearable, reassuring us that the dreaded visitors are only temporary.  Grace’s visits are the kind we need more of in our homes and families.  She is a wonder to behold and always welcome.  I pray her visits are frequent and enduring to our home and to yours. 

XOXOXXO

Worry Wart

I thought it would be a carefree summer.  That’s what I get for thinking.  Camden had flown the nest and was, and most thankfully, IS doing well in his apartment.  BSF was over with the recommendation to take a break and NOT to try to learn homeletics over the summer.  Work was as efficient as it has ever been.  I was looking forward to some time in the pool (the hot pink plastic one), to writing, to time with my hands in dirt, to being quiet, before the rush of new commitments began again in September.

It hasn’t been a carefree summer.  The first week of summer brought concerns over work, more specifically the lack of it.  But I made peace with it.  Afterall, had I not asked for time to write?  Funny how we get what we’ve asked for, but question the way it’s given to us.  Immediately I wondered if I would be able to honor my commitment to BSF in the fall if I had to take on another job.  We had family visiting and potty issues.  Lightning struck our house and took out our water pump.  Work changed entities and efficiency went down the tubes.  Then came concerns for my brother’s happiness, my sister’s health, my parents’ well-being.  Concerns over nieces, grandnieces, and nephews.  And why not borrow some concerns for my future grandchildren and, oh yeah, it’s hurricane season.  At one point, honestly, I was concerned that wet birdseed would make the birds sick. 

What is wrong with me?  I guess I’m human.  I let silly things clutter my mind and have wee-hour ponderings of things that I simply have no control over.  Still.  I’m supposed to know better.  I do know better.  Camden isn’t racing anymore.  All I can say to that is halleluiah and amen.  He lived through that.  We lived through that.  What could compare to that worry anyway?  I’m here to tell you, nothing.  Worry is one of those red-letter teachings in the Bible…the words of Jesus.  What does He need to do for me to get it?  Red-letter it AND highlight it?  Put it to song?  What? 

The answer lies in me, leaning on Him.  And a SOLID dose of humor to get through it. 

As iTunes spun the other day, I came across a song I’ve had for several years.  Jason Mraz’s The Remedy.  I youtubed the song and have attached links.  One explains the inspiration behind the song.  The other is the music video of the song.  I hope you’ll watch both and that you enjoy them.  The inspiration of the song is precious.  The words of the song are something I wish I could write:  “you can turn off the sun, but I’m still gonna shine, and I’ll tell you why…”  And the video…it’s hysterical on it’s own, but if you know me well you’ll crack up for sure.  Roosters, 80 (as in class of…go Flucos!), 1401 (my address).

“So shine the light on all of your friends, cause it all amounts to nothing in the end.” 

XOXOXXO 

Love and Butter

Jerry and I had a conversation today about life, specifically growing older in life.  His outlook is different from mine.  I won’t attempt to quote him here or breach his privacy, but suffice it to say Jerry feels he has already hiked the highpoint of life.  For him, life is all about physicality.  Life is a mountain we climb up, full of vigor, reach the peak, and descend from there as vigor fades and fatigue sets in.  

I don’t really see life that way.  I don’t see the remaining days before me and what they will bring.  I see life as a crumb trail.  We travel along, leaving bits behind us that others can follow to get where they need to go.  I suppose you could call it a legacy.  As I age, rather than wonder how long I have left, I wonder about the trail I’m leaving behind.  Where will it take those who follow it? 

I recently asked Camden what he thinks of when he thinks of me.  

“I don’t know, Mom.  You’re my mom.  You’re Mom.”

Well, what does that make you think of?

“Home.”

What do you think of when you think of home?

“Love and butter.” 

Well, isn’t that something.  I’m curious to see how this life works out.  I’m curious to see where the trail of love and butter leads Camden in his life.  I’m curious to see how much of that love and butter Camden leaves for his children, my grandchildren.  Yes, I will get older. But the blessing of age will be seeing that happen, and being there to drop those crumbs as long as I can.      

It doesn’t sound at all to me like a descent from a highpoint.  It is the highpoint.     

 XOXOXXO

“I wanna leave a legacy, how will they remember me?  Did I choose to love?  Did I point to You enough to make a mark on things?”

Oops, I Did It Again

I have a love/hate relationship with talking.  Not the way I talk, although like most I’m surprised when I hear a recording of my voice…not sounding at all like it does ringing in my own head, but more when to talk and when to shut it.  I remember telling Camden often as he was growing, “Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.”  It wasn’t intended as a no-noise-please request, but rather a life lesson in discernment.  You know, a closed mouth gathers no foot.  Funny enough, the last time I read that statement it was written on the refrigerator note board at Camden’s apartment.  Hmm.

After a nine month study of Matthew, the BSF group I attend had our end of the year “Sharing Day” yesterday.  It’s an opportunity to share what we have learned and what we will apply to our lives from the knowledge.  One after another, brave women shared their experiences, trials, victories, failures, and journeys during the study.  And I sat there without sharing a word.  Oops, I did it again.

I do feel that the discernment of “shutting it” is beneficial much of the time.  Honestly, how much of what we say is just to hear the sound of our own voice?  To toot our own horn?  To one-up the other guy?  Honestly, there’s a whole lot of over-sharing and TMI out there, especially with women.  My husband is continually amazed that within 10 minutes of conversation with a new acquaintance, women generally have shared the number of children we have, how our labors with each one went, the last time we had our period, how menopause is coming or going, and how we stand in our battles with either chocolate or salt.  Not exactly critical knowledge, it’s just what we do.       

But there are times when it’s important to share.  I’m learning that the things we find toughest to say are precisely what we need to say, especially when it may encourage another.  So I continue to work on it.  I continue to strip the ”discernment” (aka: pride) away that keeps me silent.  Maybe I really need to change the title of my blog to “Ok2writeit”.  Afterall, I’m still not saying it, am I?  Sheesh.  Maybe I’m wired differently.  The words that trip over the lips of others bang in my head, but rarely find their way into my voice. 

So I will type it out.  I will take those banging words that were in my head as I sat there on Sharing Day and pray they translate through the pecking of my fingers on the keyboard.  What I would have said is:

I agree that much of the power in the bodily resurrection of Jesus was that it was so unexpected.  Isn’t that just like us?  Isn’t that when He works the most in our lives?  Isn’t that when His work in our lives is the most awesome and undeniable?  When we least expect it?  It is for me.  

Some trials in our lives prune us.  That’s why we wrinkle as we age.  (chuckle)  The pruning helps us become more fruitful and grow in ways we need to rather then ways we prefer.  It’s usually not so bad.  I think of pruning as a Godly attitude adjustment.  A check to get me back on track. 

Some trials in our lives put us through “the press”.  Not the paparazzi, Britney Spears, People Magazine kind of press, but the press that squeezes out our true character.  I think of the press as a “who are you, really?” kind of challenge to my testimony.  In the press will I remain faithful, or will I stumble? 

Then there is the superbad, grandaddy-of-all-trials:  the pulverizer.  Those are the times when all hope is lost.  We doubt God’s love, question His soverignty, wallow in our own fears, see only the situation we are in, and feel God has has turned His face from us.  The pulverizer will bring you to the bathroom floor with only your Bible and roll of toilet paper to get you through the night.     

I suppose the disciples were pulverized by what they saw Jesus experience.  I suppose they were pulverized by their empty pride.  Afterall hadn’t Peter boasted that he would die with Jesus, only to deny he knew Him when it spared his own skin?  Aren’t we exactly like that?  I hear the doggone rooster crowing right now.  I suppose the disciples’ hope in a Messiah was pulverized when He chose to suffer the crucifixion.  I suppose the disciples were pulverized when they watched their Lord die.  I suppose they were pulverized by their own doubt of what Jesus had taught them.  Had He not told them that He would rise on the third day?  Yes, but in their own grief and fear, they forgot.  Don’t we do the same thing?  What if they had given up everything to follow this Jesus only to find that they had put themselves in danger of persecution for an ordinary man?  What would people say?  What would people think?  The disciples saw the circumstances, not the promise.  They saw the storm, not their Savior.  They felt abandoned.  Just like we do.  But our resurrected Lord revealed Himself to them.  He took the powder of their pulverized spirits and cemented their faith through the power of the Holy Spirit when they least expected it.  Just as He does for me. 

It isn’t a new understanding, this “faith thing”.  But it is a life-long learning process.  Human nature will never comprehend the complete glory of our God.  I can’t say I like the pulverizing process.  I certainly wouldn’t sign up for it.  But I love the result.  I pray to look at the circumstances in life that pulverize us and put us on the bathroom floor to be a process I must endure for His will to be done in my life.  Rather than viewing those times as abandonment, I need to see those as the times when I fall, surrendered, at His feet.  In those times God is holding me in the palms of His hands, crushing me into a powder, adding His will (and I fear, His tears over my doubt), and forming me, yet again, with His hands.   

Our lives take many shapes in the course of our journey.  He formed me, and He reforms me.  I don’t know the shape He will make me next, but He does.  And it will be revealed to me in His perfect time.  And if I were a betting woman, it will happen when I least expect it.   

So that’s what I would have said.  I pray to be more like the women at the tomb who, in spite of their fear, boldly ran to tell.  Given the length of this entry it would have taken way over 3 minutes to get it all out, so maybe I should stick with this writing thing afterall. 

XOXOXXO

Should I Tell Them?

“But I listened when You said to go, and I set out in spite of my fears, about truth mixed with my imperfection, and the question of what to say when I got here.  And now that I’m here, Should I tell them that You are the One who has made me, and saved me to set up a home there inside?  Should I tell them that I am a perfect example of all You can do with a life?  What should I say to them?  What if I’m failing them?  What should I tell them tonight?”   -Shaun Groves  

Listen to the song here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93Ehw8wUrGY

About a year ago, I attended a women’s conference at church.  I didn’t know a soul there, we had only attended FBO a few times, but with Jerry’s encouragement, I took the plunge and went.  I got there late and sat in the back in the first available seat.  The topic of the evening was “The Frazzled Female”. 

Our speaker was animated, funny, and delivered a light-hearted and encouraging message on juggling the roles and demands in our lives as women.  In one particular example, our speaker shared her “coming to terms” with sockballs.  You know, the socks in the hamper that are neither inside- or right-side-out, but balled up in a…well, ball.  I think at one point she even had a conversation with the dreaded sockball, emphatically telling it that she would NOT allow it to ruin her day or her attitude.  Hmm.  Okay.  

Of course, the speaker was making a point of how we, Frazzled Females, can let the little things that don’t really matter get to us.  The final point she was moving toward, and settled on effectively, was how important it is for each of us to have a time set aside to spend with God daily, to study, to pray, to listen, to armor ourselves against the sockballs (and worse) of this world.  I had a wonderful time.  In fact, the woman who invited me to join her table that night (yes Dianne, it’s you…lol) has become a very treasured friend.

I understand the goal of the evening was to provide a time of encouragement, fellowship, and even entertainment.  Yes, life gets crazy.  We take on more than we can handle.  We get fed up with sockballs, we meet our girlfriends for lunch and blah, blah, blah…I mean “share”…until we get a “girl, I hear you” validation.  We feel vented.  We feel better.  We go home and do the doggone laundry anyway.  That evening, we batted around words for ourselves like Frazzled, Fabulous, Faithful, you get the idea. It was a Christian conference, not a rescue outreach program.  But the question that burned in my brain all the way home was:  What about the FRACTURED females?  What about women who are fractured spiritually, emotionally, even physically?  What about women who aren’t allowed to come to a conference like this?  Where does she go for encouragement?  Who gives her a “girl I hear you!” ?  Who makes her feel better? 

My heart was encouraged for those of us at the conference who were amused by our Frazzled days.  But my heart broke for the women, not there, who were Fractured.  I’ve been both.  By the grace of God, I was fractured in the past.  And by the grace of God, life rarely approaches frazzled now.  What I know for sure is I’d choose frazzled over fractured every day. 

I completely believe that when I was the most fractured, God was closest to me.  When everyone else fails you, (and they will…we’re all just human) God won’t.  When we fail ourselves, (and we will… believe it or not, we’re all just human ourselves, too) God won’t.  He allows us to become frazzled, even fractured, so we get to a point that we simply have to turn to Him.  He does it to provide a time for intimacy with Him, for us to seek sanctuary in Him.  I’ve heard Beth Moore refer to this as “The Place of Deeper Still”.  It’s a place we must go with God all by ourselves.  Even Jesus, in His Perfect example, went a little farther, and fell with His face to the ground and prayed.  (Matthew 26:39)  Those times in my life were awful, but the blessing is that the relationship with my God remains.  The devil himself can’t fracture that.

Especially in recent months, I’ve grown increasingly aware that putting myself out there, opening up, is going to require taking baby steps to begin writing a story of life’s journey.  I’m working on pushing pride aside and just letting the real me be known.  I’ve gone from doubting that anyone cared about what I have to say, to wondering if maybe someone could be encouraged by what I’ve learned.  In short, Should I Tell Them?   

Mostly what is different in life now is the peace that surrounds me.  It takes a lot to get me frazzled.  It takes a lot to get me scared.  Fear isn’t part of life anymore.  Joy does come in the morning, even when it seems the morning takes twenty years to get here.  Psalm 30:11-12 reads, “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.  O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.” 

Jerry would say, “Word!”. 

XOXOXXO

Don’t Make Me Come Down There

Okay, here goes. 

If you know me well, and yes it takes a while, you know for years I have kept a journal in the hope of writing a book about my life stories.  The jist is a humorous retelling of both mundane, and sometimes tragic, events.  Over the years, those closest to me have even heard me tell the story behind the title, already chosen.  The journal is bursting, the notes are enthusiastically amended, yet the book remains unwritten. 

 In my heart I know it’s the “sometimes tragic” events that I fear putting out there in the daylight.  Not to flatter myself that the book will be widely-read, but just the thought of all that stuff that I have kept to myself for years out there for the reading scares me so.  No, rather, it strips my pride away so.   

As in life, I find myself falling-in behind the lead of others.  I’m willing to comment on what others say, but too afraid to step out on my own and say what’s on my mind.  Who cares what I think anyway?  I’ve been told I have a knack for this writing thing, but is that a rosey view of my family and friends?  Heaven forbid, I’m like those American Idol contestants who go on national tv, thinking they can sing.  Where were their friends?  Why wasn’t someone in their family more honest with them?  What if I put my writing out there and all my readers hear is the wa-wa-wa voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher?  Good grief!

This week, I was asked by a complete stranger if I have a blog, and if no, what was I thinking?

This week, I was asked in BSF: “What positive for Christ are you doing with what God has given you?”

This week, I looked up at a sign that read:  A journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step. 

Today, plugged into the iPod, I heard the Casting Crowns song, The Voice of Truth.  I’ve heard that song a thousand times, but today it made me cry a flood.  As a music freak, I would be remiss not to include the lyrics here:

Oh what I would do to have the kind of faith it takes to climb out of this boat I’m in
Onto the crashing waves

To step out of my comfort zone into the realm of the unknown where Jesus is
And He’s holding out His hand

But the waves are calling out my name and they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times I’ve tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me, time and time again, “Boy, you’ll never win!  You’ll never win!”

Chorus:
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
The voice of truth says, “Do not be afraid!”
The voice of truth says, “This is for My glory”
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth

Oh what I would do to have the kind of strength it takes to stand before a giant
With just a sling and a stone
Surrounded by the sound of a thousand warriors shaking in their armor
Wishing they’d have had the strength to stand

But the giant’s calling out my name and he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times  I’ve tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me, time and time again, “Boy you’ll never win!  You’ll never win!”

But the stone was just the right size to put the giant on the ground
And the waves they don’t seem so high from on top of them lookin’ down
I will soar with the wings of eagles when I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus singing over me

Even in the craziest of times in my life, I’ve always felt God was with me.  I wouldn’t have made it if He wasn’t.   I don’t know what new treasures He holds for me, but I know for sure that He guided my every step through the old ones…even those treasures so deeply buried I needed a scuba certification, and sometimes a shovel, to find. 

He said to them, “Therefore every teacher of the law who has been instructed about the kingdom of heaven is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new treasures as well as old.” – Matthew 13:52

I think God is saying, “Don’t make me come down there!”  So, I reckon I’d best get to writing. 

XOXOXXO