And Yet... Thoughts on Holiday Pain

I remember hearing a missionary give a talk years ago. Addressing the matter of God’s provision, this seasoned servant quipped that, in his experience, God is never late but He’s rarely early.

Also embedded in my memory is this observation from a minister whose church I attended when I was very young in my faith. This gentleman, whose name was David, commented that he often noticed the Almighty “singling him out,” as it were – in a good way. He would come across a passage of Scripture or hear something from the pulpit that seemed to be a “Dear David” message. A piece of wisdom or advice that zeroed right in on whatever he was struggling with or working on in his life.

I’m finding the insights of these two leaders quite relevant during what has turned out to be a very bittersweet holiday season. Don’t misunderstand – I’ve lived through downright depressing, even miserable Christmases. Other people’s choices and acts of God find their harsh way into our lives, despite what our culture tells us to expect during a given time frame:

“Christmas means lights and laughter! Valentine’s Day means hearts and happiness! There’s something really wrong with you if you’re not loving life at this moment!”

As though death, demons, and destruction are any respecters of calendars.

Christmas 2025 finds me straddling the line between joy and pain as I grieve with a dear friend who is presently suffering an unimaginable loss. Others around me are coping with similar sorrows. And, folks, have you looked at the news lately? It’s enough to send the jolliest elf right into a full-blown tailspin.

And yet…

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” – Psalm 46:10

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?” – Romans 8:32

Why these verses?

They’re my “Dear Thea” messages from a Mind and Heart which know exactly what my mind and heart are wrestling with. All three of these Scripture gems showed up in my own personal world MORE THAN ONCE in the past week.

Psalm 45:1:

Write, Thea. I’ve given you a voice and the tools to get it out there. Use them when and how I tell you to.

Psalm 46:10:

Thea, I’ve GOT you and everyone and everything around you, despite how things may look. Trust me, like the song says, and rest in my plan, even when it seems ridiculous to do so.

Romans 8:32:

Thea, if I gave up that which was most precious to me for your benefit, I’m certainly not going to skimp on anything else.

I want and need to be held this Christmas, because I’m trying to hold up my fellow man. I know I’m no Atlas, and I’m not trying to be. But how can a person not offer a hand when one of her companions is in danger of sinking?

And yet…

The Lord makes certain promises about how much reign He will let grief have in our lives.

I’m holding Him to those promises.

So, I’m doing each next right thing I know to do. Since tomorrow is the arbitrary deadline we silly humans have set for ourselves to celebrate the immortal becoming mortal for a few decades, I’m going to take care of some ritual essentials. I’ll finish wrapping my packages. I’ll whip up some holiday recipes. Etc., etc., etc.

But I REFUSE to let said rituals destroy my communion with the One we’re supposed to be celebrating. And I REFUSE to endlessly seek some heartwarming feeling that always eludes and always promises more than it can deliver.

Because the Delivery has been made. It arrived 2,000 years ago in a stable. And it mattered – and matters – more than any Hallmark memory or Amazon drop-off ever could.

Our Savior foresaw the ambivalence we would feel at the holidays and all throughout our lives. He knew expectations would go unmet and joy would be tempered with pain. He felt that tension in His own heart while preparing to give His life for our traitorous race.

And yet…

If the trials I’m facing – and those I’m walking through with people I love – are the chisels that render me more like the Savior I strive to emulate, then I will try to yield to the pain without numbing myself. I’ll keep looking for “Dear Thea” love notes wherever He chooses to drop them. And I’ll keep reminding myself that His mercies will always be right on time.

God bless us, everyone.

 

Digging Out

 

Red alert! My bedroom is more of a disaster than usual lately.

I’d love to tell you that this place is a safe haven, Hollywood-esque, complete with matching furniture and all things beautifully arranged in picturesque simplicity. Conducive to relaxation and contemplation.

When I first had it painted a number of years ago, it more or less matched that description. Freshly ironed curtains, crisp new bedding, everything warm and pristine. But the room quickly took on other functions. Office. Writing space. A place to hold long conversations with my children. In recent years, squirmy grandchildren have nestled with me for not-so-sleepy sleepovers.

And now we’re into the Christmas season. Added to which, yours truly is beginning a new life phase at the end of January. I’ll be closing the door on my career and venturing into new horizons, some of which are as yet poorly defined. My bedroom is taking the brunt of all this activity, serving as gift wrapping station and depot for all things retirement. As I write, my desk and surrounding area are cluttered with correspondence from Social Security and insurance estimates, while the bulk of the space hosts holiday cards, winter themed paper, and good wishes for friends far and near.

Did someone say overload?

My “fairy godmother”, Anita, understands. She, too, is constantly in motion, sorting through this pile, straightening that corner, bringing a meal to this loved one, sculpting a pot for that newborn. Her house, at any given time, can be topsy turvy, too, and it’s because she’s alive and cares about the living. She’s let me in on her secret: little by little, progress is made. And sometimes – most of the time, really – disorder is a prerequisite to progress.

A present here and a present there, shuffled from upstairs to downstairs, equates to a bit more breathing room.

I miss the years when Dad handled the wrapping. Not only did he handle it, he thrived on the whole process! All I had to do was collect the stash, label with sticky notes who got what, and set him in motion. Voila! A room full of gifts was transformed into Santa’s workshop and all I had to do was commission the chief elf.

I’m also tackling ongoing projects – the type that never seem to be completely finished. One is reading/sorting through old mail. Some can go right into the recycle bin, but other correspondence is from groups I pray for and support. These missives contain valuable updates and information that are worth the effort to glean through.

Also, I’ve taken on the monumental task of scribbling on the backs of old photographs for posterity. Gang, this is important – so much more important than wrapping Christmas gifts that may end up with a ho hum reaction (not trying to be cynical, but we all know how this works). I can’t tell you how many photos I wish I’d had my parents label before they died so I’d know the identities of nameless faces staring out at me from sepia tones.

Oh, and did I mention I’m having some health problems? So a cane and medical notes are adding to the confusion.

My car, too, is behaving more like a receptacle than a vehicle. When I apologized for the mess while picking up my granddaughters from school, an understanding employee dubbed it a “Mom Mom’s car” – and it certainly is. Two car seats, a “project box” with things to do on a rainy day, and my own personal stash of necessities – Bible and notebooks, extra pair of gloves and shawl because, well, you never know –  and whatever portables I have in there at any given time (giveaways for charity, bags for the store, party goods for a grandchild’s special day, you name it).

Oy vey!

With so many items coming and going, this feels more like a storage unit than a place of repose.

Breathe.

I’ve written about Christmas craziness before – Grinch Pinch and Woe is Me… or Who is Me? come to mind – but for the reasons I’ve outlined above, this is more than the normal holiday rigamarole. I’m striving to find sanity in an insane situation, knowing these current circumstances are temporary and  believing they will grow me – if I get out of their way and let them be as they are.

My mother-in-law was a wonderful example of living sanely amid insanity. Whenever there was a messy house project going on or holiday havoc, she had this way of keeping whatever she could organized, blocking off the chaos, as it were, and keeping things arranged as tidily as possible around the madness. As a result, I can’t ever remember her losing her serenity in such situations. She never articulated her strategy, but she modeled for me how to try to stay organized when organization was elusive, and that lesson stuck… mostly.

But this is life, folks. I wouldn’t want to live like this permanently, and I don’t intend to. Hence, my efforts to dig out of the chaos, bring things in while getting other things out. Like my brother-in-law (who dubs household overload “Shack-itis”) says, if one thing comes into the house, something else better go out to keep disaster at bay.

A dear woman who was only in my life for a brief season once described her life thusly:

“I love order, but I’ve learned to function in chaos.”

This precious saint and her husband, who were not people of means, were raising their own four children as well as two born to drug-addicted relatives. These people were doing God’s work, no doubt about it, and I’m sure their house didn’t look like a page from Better Homes and Gardens.

But, oh, the love that must have permeated those four walls.

So, I guess my prayer during this season of rush and readiness is for patience while digging out, and joy in the journey.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men,  knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ.”

~ Colossians 3:23-24 ~

 

 

Not My Will... AKA, Counting Blessings amidst Disappointment

The holidays are upon us, and with them, the disappointment of unmet expectations. The coronavirus has robbed our family of several celebrations, and this year illness is yet again shrinking the numbers at our Thanksgiving table.

But how blessed are we that these sorrows are only temporary? So many have lost loved ones permanently to this disease and others. Empty chairs will never again be filled by those held most dear.

Others live with estrangement. Death of affection, as opposed to physical death, has left gaping holes in family gatherings. Our family has experienced its share of strained relationships that took years to repair, but by the grace of God, those fences were mended this side of heaven.

Thank You, Lord.

I must honestly confess to feeling sad today. I can't have what I want when I want it. Or, rather, I can't have who I want at my house this day. 

But there will be other days. 

My sons and their wives will again congregate at Mom's house over turkey and pie. Little feet will again traipse through Mom Mom's kitchen spilling bits of food and gobs of laughter.

It will be OK.

Beloved nieces and nephews will pause their busy schedules to spend time with their aging auntie. Yummy aromas will fill our senses, and tummies will be over-filled with stuffing and other wonderful stuff.

How blessed are we?

I can feel gratitude growing in me as I count these blessings. The things that are troubling me haven't gone away, but somehow they're less palpable when weighed against my treasures. And most of those treasures aren't the kind that put pounds on me, but rather, lighten my load considerably.

I feel lighter already.

Years ago, a Sunday school teacher brought my attention to Psalm 42, in which the writers force themselves to focus on God's goodness even as they grieve. I'm inserting this rich piece of literature here in its entirety, along with a link to a reputable commentary on the psalm to help elucidate the inspired words. I pray it reaches my readers as it has me on this morning of mixed emotions.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and may we all rejoice, whatever our circumstances.

As a deer pants for flowing streams,
    so pants my soul for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God,
    for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
3 My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember,
    as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
    and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
    a multitude keeping festival.

5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

My soul is cast down within me;
    therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
    from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
    have gone over me.
8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
    and at night his song is with me,
    a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God, my rock:
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
    because of the oppression of the enemy?”
1As with a deadly wound in my bones,
    my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

The Great Reset, AKA, Growing Pains 2

The Great Reset

I've been starting to hear about "The Great Reset," a concept that seems to set many hearts aflutter with hope while inducing some seasoned pundits to bite their perfectly manicured nails. As I said, I'm only just learning about this idea, so am not going to comment one way or the other. I am, however, going to shamelessly coopt the phrase for the purposes of this article.

The To Do List

This aspiring author woke up yesterday with a to do list longer than the flowing scarves magicians coax out of otherwise unexceptional sleeves. Much of it was very mundane, things like cooking and correspondence, but nonetheless, important to me and the people who matter to me. Other things were "bigger ticket items" that mandate more time and attention (financial planning, tech issues, etc.).

True confessions: I just had to pause my ruminations upon remembering that I was late paying a bill. The creditor very politely emailed me two days ago, and it's been on my to do list, but, well, refer back to paragraph two. 

See what kind of a week it's been?

The Letdown

I think what's really getting to me has been brewing since Christmas Eve. It's my favorite day of the year, what with the anticipation and beauty and hopefulness that seems to pervade all 24 hours of it.

But that's just the point. It's only 24 hours. No matter how hard I try to savor each moment, Christmas Eve always turns into Christmas morning - also a wonderful day, but one which carries with it the knowledge that that's it for another year. Come December 26, decorations will start to look old and haggard, and huge trash bags will go out to the curb, full of dead evergreens and the remnants of what was and will not be again for another 364 days. 

The Growing Pains

There's a sweet scene in the pilot movie that kicked off The Waltons TV series in which the youngest child confides to her brother that she intends to "stay little" and never grow up. She even has a plan to thwart the efforts of time. By compressing between both tiny hands whatever body part seems to be expanding, she hopes to outsmart the growing pains and stay forever a child.

I get where she's coming from. But, like copper-haired Elizabeth Walton, I fail every year at trying to make time stand still where Christmas Eve is concerned.

Time, after all, will always have its way with us.

And growing pains will always hurt, and they will always be worth every iota of pain they cost us.

What Elizabeth doesn't realize is that, unless she grows up, she'll never know the joys that await the adult world. Parenting, perhaps, but maturity for sure, unless she stymies time's work in shaping her life by making infantile, unwise choices. The satisfaction of tackling hard tasks and experiencing both success and failure in the doing. The wisdom that accompanies whitening of the hair (one of the reasons I stopped dyeing mine - why try to hide the evidence of God's maturing process?). The diminishing concern for pleasing a fickle world, and heightening interest in honoring an unchanging God. Most of these accomplishments are mysteries to the young, as they should be. No one arrives on this earth all grown up, and half the satisfaction of living is achieving a form of wisdom that can only come through bumps and bruises.

The Longevity of the Cross

An insightful (if I do say so myself) sentiment came to me the other day, unbidden. I posted it on Facebook, but apparently I need to remind myself: 

Christmas Day doesn't last, but what Christ did at Christmas lasts forever!

I mean, didn't we see that in spades this year? As the wealth and hedonism of our nation has had to step aside due to the ravages of coronavirus, didn't we gain an inkling of all that we could do without this Christmas? And, folks, not to be a crepehanger, but this isn't even as bad as it can get. Not by a long shot. Political tides being what they are, and with society's fear factor edging off the charts, we could be in for anything.

But, as Corrie ten Boom and her sister discovered in the concentration camp that rewarded them for protecting their fellow man, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." Little did they know that deliverance would come for them as the new year dawned, and joy would take on a dimension far beyond anything found under a pine-needled tree. 

When all the tinsel and glitter of the holiday were stripped away, there lay Christ, still in that manger. Right where He's always been, at the heart of Christmas. 

But our great God didn't stop there; Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.

So, yes, time will march on, and some of its passage will be accompanied by anxiety and even dread. Anxiety about carefree times ending and the hard work of day to day living starting up again. Dread of happiness giving way to trouble. We mortals are prone to these emotions, and I daresay Christ expressed the same just before accomplishing His magnum opus: "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will" (Mark 14:36).

Take a good look at what follows the semicolon, for therein lies the key. Our Savior knew God's will superseded His human one, which was largely operating in Gethsemane. He was setting an example for us that any Golgotha which may loom ahead can be handled through close fellowship with the Father.

The Greatest Reset

Likewise, this author can attack the unknown with faith, even as holidays yield to workaday life and new powers that be replace familiar ones. And whatever "great reset" those powers may wish to impose, a far greater reset awaits all who place their hope in the ultimate reset that took place at Calvary: divinity obliterating the barriers between itself and blemished humanity.

So, finally returning to my to do list, who am I to think I'm going to finish everything before returning to work in a few days? It took Christ 33 years to accomplish His earthly ministry; yet, this girl wants to complete all her self-appointed goals for the vacation within the next 24 hours. 

Not gonna happen.

But what sometimes does happen is what occurred yesterday morning. The MINUTE my prayer partner and I hung up the phone, having studied Scripture and lifted praise and requests to God, I received a call which held counsel I badly need to move forward in 2021. 

Funny how putting first things first has a way of calming panic and frenzy and pointing us to the one who holds answers to both.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Check out: Panic? The Wrong God! (Note: sermon starts at 21:50, in case anyone wants to get right to the best part; believe me, it's worth the time).

For more like this, check out Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

Woe is Me... or Who is Me?

COVID is really messing up a lot of plans for me. It threw a mega monkey wrench into my summer, preventing me from meeting my granddaughters for six weeks. It interfered with Thanksgiving (although my son and I had a very simple, low key holiday, just the two of us, which is a memory I will always cherish). Now the latest outbreak of the virus is threatening to undo all my Christmas plans.

Woe is me.

That's how I felt the other day when my kids and I had to face up to the realization that Christmas, like everything else since last March, is going to be very different this year.

But then I did a 180, and guess what? Woe is no longer me!

I had a little help from the Almighty (imagine that). While ruing my fate and licking my wounds the other day (as if I'm the only person in this world being kicked around by COVID), I found myself behind another believer at the dollar store. We had plenty of time to get to know each other, masks notwithstanding, since the line we were in snaked through two aisles and moved at about the same rate at which my nephew eats vegetables (he once looked aghast at his mother over a serving of broccoli, demanding to know why she expected him to eat that "tree"). 

All I know is that, after bemoaning the national plight with this smiling Christian sister, who started out a stranger but wound up a friend, I felt my own Christmas spirit ramping up quite a bit.

The following day again found me in a Christmas crowd. As I wended my way through the store (itself a miracle - with corona cases surging daily and restrictions being issued faster than the old woman who lived in a shoe could pass along hand-me-downs to her bulging tribe, isn't it a blessing we can still shop?), I kept hearing a cell phone ringing. It was always the same tone, a familiar one, but not my own. I found it odd that so many people had the same ring tone, and that no matter where I went in the store, everyone was getting calls using this same bell signal. 

Then the light dawned, the same way it did once when I was driving in traffic and kept being disturbed by an ailing muffler. It took awhile, but I finally realized the reason the obnoxious sound wouldn't go away was because my own car was the one making all the racket!

Sure enough, I searched around in my cart, and hiding under a stray bag lay someone else's cell phone! I picked it up and apologized to the owner, who had been calling for 20 minutes, and we both had a good laugh about my "smack me brow with heel of hand" moment. Long story short, I held on to the errant device till she returned to the store to reclaim it. Of course, I had to give her a Christmas tract and well wishes. 

Just another example of the Lord dumping opportunities to spread joy amidst the everyday reality of corona chaos.

Most of my 57 Christmases have been pretty joyful. Sure, some have been lackluster and a few even painful (it's tough to feel like celebrating when you're in the process of saying goodbye to loved ones or facing the breakup of a marriage), but what of it? Did God ever promise me every day would be an ice cream cake topped with pink frosting? Why should holidays be any exception?

The more I think about this, the more I like how the Whos in Dr. Seuss's classic tale handled the downsizing of their Christmas. You remember the story. The grumpy Grinch robbed them of all their
holiday trappings, but what he couldn't steal was their Christmas joy. They woke up singing, just as they had every other year, refusing to let the presence or absence of stuff dictate their peace of mind.

We could learn a lot from those colorful crooners. Rock on, Whos, and while you're at it, how 'bout replacing our Grinch-i-tude with your Who-titude, and making the latter as contagious as corona.

Thanksgiving Ruminations

The Thanksgiving theme continues in my house. Even though in my home the holiday consisted only of my son and me (due to possible COVID exposure in our family), we had a sweet time. The weekend was very low key and pleasant, providing ample time for catching up on life and some much appreciated R&R. I've been doing some reading (I always have four or five books going at a time, and a montage of articles; I'll never be "finished"), some resting, some cleaning, some chatting - just a lovely season of frolic without frenzy.

The Lord has seen fit to grant me another gift, one that will likely take a bit of time to fully "ripen," but that is well worth the wait.

Sunday's church and Bible study themes focused on Colossians 1:12-18 and Hebrews 12:12-17, both of which emphasize the truth of the first point in the Shorter Catechism of the Westminster Confession. The crafters of this timeless document rightly characterized "the chief end of man" as the glorification of God and enjoyment of Him forever. 

Simply put, if we are to give Christ preeminence in all things (Colossians 1:18), pursue peace with all, seek holiness, and spurn bitterness (Hebrews 12:14-15), these endeavors pretty much open the floodgates of gratitude while simultaneously closing the lid on grudges. In the process, we glorify God by keeping our focus on Him, as opposed to giving heed to anyone or anything that seeks to undermine us.

Ah, but there's the rub.

In recent months, I've struggled with anger towards certain individuals and entities which I felt wronged me. Promises were broken and hopes dashed. At one point I was so enraged that I sat down and composed a gripe list which I directed to the Lord, who is, of course, fully capable of righting all these injustices, if only He would choose to do so! I sought the help of fellow believers, asking them to pray for fairness, but also for a changed heart for me. 

The latter is much more important than the former, so the Lord gave me an up close and personal lesson about how to keep a tender heart the other night. I was speaking with a Christian sister, whose circumstances could warrant far deeper resentment than any I might entertain. This particular person has experienced much disappointment on many levels over the years. Let me repeat that. I have watched my friend go through wearisome trials for quite a few years! 

As we caught up with each other's lives, she shared with me the details of the latest challenge she is facing. I might add that she didn't bring the subject up, but merely responded to an inquiry I made about something we had been praying over for her. Not only were her hopes not met, but the manner in which things played out added insult to injury.

I couldn't help myself. In complete puzzlement and awe of the equanimity with which she accepted her situation, I exclaimed, "How do you keep from becoming bitter?"

Her response? 

"You have to try to look at things through the eyes of God."

She went on to affirm her complete faith and utter trust that our great God will always take care of her, because He always has. In short, she will not allow grievances in this broken world to trump thankfulness for the riches she has in Christ.

Let me tell you, this writer was humbled. Humbled by my own lack of forgiveness, but even moreso by the attitude of this saint, who refuses to let life's difficulties and people's cruelty cheat her out of the joy of the Lord. 

So, again, I continue to celebrate Thanksgiving in my corner of the world. My friend reminded me of that crucial exercise the other night. Thanksgiving, despite adversity, unfairness, or unmet expectations. Thanksgiving in joy or sorrow, celestial happiness or crushing despair. 

What a gift I received from my dear friend, which my church leaders then underscored the following morning. Hands down, it's the best Christmas present I'll get this year... or ever.

Beats anything I could ever find under a pine needled tree.

Thea, Thea

“Are You kidding me, Lord?”

The words form in my head before I can edit them. Even in the midst of holiday hoopla, I know I’m conversing with omnipotence; there’s a certain decorum to such encounters. I smile, realizing I'm also communing with omniscience. Why sweat it? 

This is, after all, Christmas Eve, and I know the Almighty realizes it's a hugely busy day for those He came to die for.

I’ve already obeyed Him several times this morning. I woke early, then spent quality time with Him and a few dear friends He laid on my heart. Isn't it about time to get to my chores?

“No, you heard me right, Thea,” He whispers back. “You can choose to ignore Me … but is that really how you want to commemorate My birth?”

I reluctantly seat myself at the keyboard, shooing away fragments of to do lists that are cluttering my brain. The food and presents will have to wait.

The reason I must sit down and write is because the message He’s giving me really concerns all the mania of this time of year. I’ve been mentally checked out most of the week at work (I’ve come to refer to this phenomenon as “Christmas brain”). Task piles upon task as I strive to “get Christmas right,” and I almost resent having to show up at the place that not only represents my livelihood, but also a strong sense of purpose for my existence.

More thoughts arrive unbidden.

“You’ve got another hour, Lord. Then Elise and Aaron arrive, then her father, and he's never been to the house before, and the bathroom's not clean yet, and then we go to Anita’s, and then … “

Breathe.

I had a divine encounter at the super market yesterday. I met up with my son and daughter-in-law to grab the cholesterol and sugar, er, ingredients, needed for today’s festivities. It was the most peace I’ve had all week. Despite the crowds and shortage of parking (we had three vehicles between us), my heart surged with joy to be sharing such madness with two of the dearest people on earth to me. We divvied up the list and finished in short order. I told them I enjoyed every moment of our trip, and I meant it.

I’m ashamed to admit, though, one thing marred my happiness. While scrambling to hunt down my share of the goodies, I bumped into a friend. I haven’t known her long, but there’s a certain depth to our acquaintance that comes from shared struggles. She had been a frequent texting correspondent some months ago, but had fallen off the radar of late and not responded when I contacted her. That’s never a good sign.

She followed along as I shuffled through the peanut butter aisle. At first we chatted about trivialities, but all of a sudden she shared something from the heart. I’m an experienced selective listener (most multi-taskers are), but the down side of only paying partial attention is you can miss important tidbits when you’re in deep speculation about weighty matters like which jar of honey has the best unit price.

I did a mental double take, forced my gaze away from the food fest that had been consuming my attention, and looked her in the eye.

In all honesty, I really didn’t have time for an in-depth conversation in that setting and with that company. BUT it behooved me to MAKE time to share my love and concern for her wellbeing, and to let her know I was praying for her. That was all I had to give in that instant, and it had to be enough.

A young boy once had a small lunch which he was asked to share with a great multitude. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course – a couple of fish and a paltry amount of bread. Still, what he had he shared willingly, and at day’s end, thousands left satisfied.

Do I dare offer any less?

The phone rings as I type that last sentence. When my son's number appears on caller ID, I know it means he and his wife are on their way and my time to write is slipping away. 

And I haven't wrapped one present yet.

I think of a long ago party such as the one I'm helping to host today. An important Guest was expected, one who had never graced that home before and maybe never would again. When the Visitor arrived, one hostess served with gusto, growing more and more resentful of her sister, who chose instead to soak in the presence of their prestigious company. It’s worth examining Luke 10:38-42, where Jesus rebukes Martha, the complainer, and commends Mary, the listener:

“Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus’ feet and heard His word. But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, ‘Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me.’

 And Jesus answered and said to her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.’”

Check out Jonny Diaz's "Just Breathe"                    

Anything But Old Maids

Some may consider Corrie ten Boom and her sister, Betsie, old maids.

The traditional meaning of this derogatory term is a woman no one saw fit to marry. The phrase is rarely employed these days, as many now embrace the single life by choice. However, such was not the case in the Ten Booms’ era. The ideal for most women in the early part of the 20th century involved marriage and motherhood. That was not to be for Cornelia and Elizabeth ten Boom.

Corrie endured a broken heart in her youth when a man she had every reason to believe intended marriage chose another for his wife. Corrie turned to her father, Casper, for solace. He offered her the option of transforming her thwarted romantic love into love for God. Fortunately, she heeded his wise counsel, and humanity is richer for that.

Corrie and Betsie were denied success as the world defined it. Rather than becoming bitter, they found contentment and happiness in caring for their family of origin, pursuing careers in the family watchmaking business, and studying the word of God. When opportunity met necessity, they built a secret room in their house and conducted speed drills with the Jews they took in to see how quickly hunted humans could cluster behind a fake wall.

I submit that these women were anything but old maids. Had they married, their attentions might well have remained on the care and nurturing of their families, rather than saving God's chosen people from the evil inflicted on them by Hitler's henchmen. They likely would have been safely tending their own hearths when Nazis raided their childhood home, the Beje, in Haarlem, Holland. They undoubtedly would have remained ensconced in household duties, rather than ministering to broken people behind barbed wire fences.

And Corrie might never have learned the message she delivered to untold numbers of thirsty souls in a post-war world shattered by violence and grief: “There is no pit so deep, that God is not deeper still.” 

It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This

We're having dinner at Anita's, celebrating the birthdays of all three of my kids - the two I gave birth to, as well as my "labor-less" daughter, Elise, who in a few short months will assume that role legally when she weds my firstborn. Elise and I rinse dishes while Anita - that great roaster of all things fowl, not least of which is the incredible Peking duck she just served us, complete with homemade pancakes - recuperates from all her effort.

That's when it happens.

I glance out the window to catch a glimpse of Aaron, who went outside to catch a smoke.

Except he's not alone. And he's not smoking.

He's playing catch with Ethan, barely 19, who used to drive Aaron to distraction and even goad him to violence. Once Aaron got over the thrill of finally having someone cute and cuddly to play with, he realized Ethan was here to stay and did annoying things like leaking through his diaper while they sat cheek to cheek watching cartoons.

Five years behind his brother, Ethan quickly figured out how to aggravate Aaron to the nth degree by making up in mouth what he lacked in stature. I ruefully recall the feeling of being a human barrier between two warring kids. Of delivering lectures on the importance of brotherhood and being each other's best friend, those "you and me against the world" speeches Paul Williams himself couldn't have pulled off convincingly.

It wasn't always like that, I remind myself. There was that time I left the two of them at football practice while I ran a quick errand. I can still see the picture of love incarnate that greeted me when I returned 45 minutes later - Aaron carrying injured Ethan across the field and into my arms.

I sneak another peek out the window. They're cracking up at some comment I'd probably disapprove of, then chucking the ball around some more.

Tomorrow, unbeknownst to us all, we will say goodbye to Anita's dear Dusty. My boys, no, men, will take a leading part in her sendoff. She was our "rent-a-dog," coming for visits and even sleepovers. The dog they walked and never cleaned up after, despite Mother's regular reminders. Dusty supplied a vital ingredient in their lives, and in return, they will gently escort her to her final resting place, cradling her lifeless body wrapped up in a special sheet. They will crumble handfuls of dirt into her grave and wish her well.

A week later, Ethan will leave a night of fun with his friends to come home and help his brother grieve over the loss of a second beloved pet. The irritating little brother has become a lifelong friend, available when the chips are down.

But tonight they play ball without a care in the world.

I find myself humming Diane Warren's timeless tune:

These are the moments I thank God that I'm alive

These are the moments I'll remember all my life

I've found all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

These are the moments I know heaven must exist

These are the moments I know all I need is this

I have all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

I could not ask for more than this time together

I could not ask for more than this time with you

Every prayer has been answered

Every dream I have's come true

Right here in this moment

Is right where I'm meant to be

Here with you here with me

I smile through tears at Elise and say, "It doesn't get any better than this."

Check out the full version of I Could Not Ask for More

OBE or OBEY?

A friend at church has coined the acronym, "OBE," which stands for "Overcome by Events."

I like that. I like it a lot. Especially today, when nothing I've touched has come out right, and several things have come out wrong, starting with this morning when I put the phone in the refrigerator (thanks, younger son, for posting the photo on Facebook, alongside of the ones you took of the turkey I set on fire on Thanksgiving). 

But I digress...

I'm choosing to add a "Y" to my friend's acronym, and change the meaning as follows: "Overjoyed by Elohim and YHWH."

Anyone care to join me?

Setbacks

"My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition to the king; 

my tongue is the pen of a ready writer."

            Psalm 45:1

Yesterday I had the privilege of helping dear friends pack for a move. This is their third relocation in about as many years. It's exciting and scary at the same time. This represents a new beginning, with all that goes with it.

In this case, a happy reason sparked the change - a new career. Oftentimes, however, new beginnings stem from setbacks. I, myself, am in the midst of one. I'm rewriting my novel, Belabored, having gleaned advice from wise and gentle shepherds, who assured me my concept is strong, but the delivery needs some tweaking.

Over the past few months, while praying about how to revise my book, I did a lot of reading. I especially enjoy biographies, as they inspire me to persevere through difficulties. In God's wisdom, He steered me to the life stories of Louisa May Alcott, Jane Austen, and Laura Ingalls Wilder, all of whom faced rejection and revision challenges time and again. In studying the details of Wilder's publishing journey, I was surprised to learn her editor insisted she completely rewrite her second book after her first met with great success. I've somehow always subscribed to the notion that great writers, once having "made it," cause such a stir that publishers come clamoring for their every word, even random scribbling on restaurant napkins.

It doesn't seem to work that way. 

I have to say I'm rejoicing in the journey. As the rejection slips mount up for my "firstborn," a collection of essays entitled, Unleashed: Reflections of a Dog Walker, and articles I submit seem to vanish into cyberspace with nary a whimper of interest, I feel undaunted. The latest casualty was a long and tortuous application I compiled for a friend who is more than deserving of professional recognition. The thumbs down came last Friday.

Why am I so happy? I feel positively ebullient. Whereas I've been low on energy since the school year began, at this point I can't wait to get home to my keyboard to start tapping away. The words are literally right at my fingertips, and ideas awaken me at night and have to be recorded. Like an injured athlete tasked with relearning all that was once second nature to him, I feel myself rising with defeat - inspired, optimistic, expectant.

This must be what success feels like.

"It is to your advantage not only to be doing what you began and were desiring to do a year ago; but now you must also complete the doing of it; that as there was a readiness to desire it, so there may also be a completion out of what you have. For if there is first a willing mind, it is accepted according to what one has, and not according to what he does not have."
                              2 Corinthians 8:10-12

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Endings and Beginnings

Morsels for Meditation...: Endings and Beginnings Part 2

The Mom Thing

Oh, the joys that come with obedience. My son "rose up and called me blessed" last night ... and oh, how I needed that.

It's been a tough few months. Trials with parenting and home ownership have been demanding and costly. As a result, I've felt my energy flagging, and have been giving in far too often to the lure of "my drugs," AKA, my escape idols - food, sleep and TV.

Last night, after a particularly grueling day, I felt legitimately entitled to zone out. I tucked in early and pondered my options. Halloween candy was calling from my son's attic room, where I had hidden it from myself. The square box siren began its trilling thusly: "You know you deserve a good movie. Even a questionable one. You're a grownup. You can handle it. At least a sitcom. One of your favorites is probably on, and maybe the language and plot line won't be too crude this time. C'mon! What're you waiting for?!"

For those who may be new to my blog, I've explained before that food and entertainment are for me snares that lead to over-consumption and lingering, hangover-like symptoms that sometimes last for days. This may seem legalistic to some, but these things are traps for me, and I know it. Romans 14 does an excellent job of explaining that what one believer finds just a tasty morsel, his brother may encounter as a gluttonous, ferocious task-master.

Ah hem. Getting back to the point. I chose to ignore the seduction of the sweets, and tune in to a Charles Stanley message rather than whatever garbage was on TV. I got maybe 20 minutes into his "Fight Your Battles on Your Knees" when the phone rang. It was my older son, Aaron, calling for the second time in one day. He's been somewhat AWOL lately, so I was thrilled with this sudden burst of attention. Get this: he was calling to thank me for the faith-filled upbringing I had given him - not over-the-top, he stated, like the religious fanatics portrayed by Hollywood, but just a strong, Biblically grounded core - and added that, despite the many stressors he's encountering, he's been counting his blessings (another principle I tried hard to instill in both my kids).

Talk about over the top! I felt like I was on a mountaintop! How would my reaction have been different, I wondered, if this call had come in the middle of a food-fest hosted by moi, attended by Tinseltown's finest. One, I wouldn't have wanted to pick up the phone, since it would have interfered with my idol worship, and I never like to be interrupted during a worship service. Two, guilt would have intermingled with the joy that this news produced. Instead, I drifted off to satiating sleep after an hour-long, praise-filled, edifying dialogue with my son.

The mom thing? With God, I think I can do this!

Wrestling

"O Lord, 40 wrestlers have come forth to fight for Thee. Grant that 40 wrestlers may gain the victory!"

I wrestled with God - and lost.

Like the patriarch Jacob, I met God on the wrestling mat, asking Him for something I hoped was His will for me. I prayed and hoped and hoped and prayed. I consulted with other believers and prayed some more. I rationalized and tried to reason with God. I provided good, Godly explanations for how this might benefit His kingdom (in case He hadn't thought of them on His own).

Yesterday He answered, clear and unmistakable:

"NO!"

The good news is, I'm less upset than I thought I would be. In the past, letdowns like this have left me bereft. I guess I'm making progress since what I feel is more like, "Onto the next challenge. I'm disappointed and a bit annoyed, but my life didn't depend on it, so neither does my joy."

I've been reading of late about how the Israelite kings wavered between trusting God and worshiping idols. At times it seemed like faithful rulers balanced out adulterous ones. Gradually, though, the curve shifted to the point where idolatry and disobedience became the order of the day, with only occasional glimpses toward the one true God. The results were disastrous, with grown children following the patterns of their wayward parents, and the entire Jewish nation ultimately being uprooted into captivity.

"Let this not be said of me," I keep writing in the margins of my Bible.

A dear friend who taught me much of what I know of God's dealings with His children once postulated that God teaches believers a concept, then gives them a test to prove their understanding, like a classroom professor would do. In light of God's refusal to grant my request, combined with what I've been learning about Israel's kings, I'm thinking this may be one of those situations. Dare I hope I passed His test?

This morning a Christian sister called to thank me for a small gesture of friendship. As we hung up, I sensed she had more to say, but couldn't get the words out before the call ended. A few minutes later she called back to finish.

"You had once [read, a year ago] asked me to pray about __________________ that's been on your heart," she began. "I felt the Lord's leading to offer to pray for you now about that subject, if that's alright."

Was it ever alright! Little did she realize her prayers addressed the very issue I was now grappling with. I bowed my head with this obedient saint who had no idea she was engaging in divine warfare just by dialing a phone number. And marveled at the God who is never late but rarely early, who is able to hand a victory to His children, even when they wrestle with Him - and lose.

Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

After rereading my entry from April 20 and hearing my pastor preach on 2 Chronicles 20 since then, I need to amend one of the conclusions I drew before. I previously stated that God appointed unidentified attackers to fight the battle that faced His people in this chapter. I now realize the ambushes that defeated Judah's enemies were the enemies themselves! There were three armies threatening Judah, all of whom  turned on each other, leaving God's people to just show up for the "door prizes" (see v. 25).

This reminded me of the first time I watched the classic film, Jurassic Park. My sister Jo Ann, who had seen the movie before, tried to build suspense by telling me just enough without giving anything away. As we viewed the culminating scene, she promised with a sly smile, "Help comes from an unexpected source." If you haven't seen the movie, here's where you may want to stop reading, as I'm about to spill the beans.Who could have predicted the T-rex would show up at crunch time to devour the velociraptors that had cornered our heroes?

In similar fashion, the Almighty bailed me out of my recent protracted trial. When He was ready to move, His actions were sudden, stunning, and unmistakable. I had no clue what curve-throwing means He would use to spring me. I had braced myself for the long haul, so was delighted at this heavenly change-up.

Ephesians 1:13 claims that we as God's children demonstrate "the praise of His glorious grace." It really is all about the glory. His glory. He's entitled to it when He acts miraculously on our behalf, but is no less deserving when He leaves us in the trenches. If anything, the tougher the ordeal, the harder He works to get us through it.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Deliverance

Morsels for Meditation...: Sleep on It

Morsels for Meditation...: God Rather Than Men

Deliverance

I'm excited to report that God has removed a very tough faith challenge from my life. I had been struggling for many months with a difficult, uncomfortable trial that has given me, the queen of afternoon naps, agita and insomnia. In grappling with the situation, I had imagined numerous ways in which the Lord might intervene, if He chose to change my circumstances at all. At last I resigned myself to accepting things as they were, and prayed for strength to hang on until deliverance came. In less than a week, He moved creatively, definitively, and beyond the narrow scope of my imaginings. Not only was I removed from the furnace, but God granted me a lovely new situation to replace the old hair-raising one. The kicker: I did nothing but show up for the miracle.

In my efforts to cope with the turmoil I felt during those trying months, I had availed myself of much Scripture in which God's people stood up under the divine refining process. Perhaps my favorite story is 2 Chronicles 20, in which King Jehoshophat learns just how inventive God can be in helping His people overcome adversity. I love how God's spokesman tells the worried king, "Listen, King Jehoshaphat and all who live in Judah and Jerusalem! This is what the LORD says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s. Tomorrow march down against them... You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the LORD will give you, Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the LORD will be with you." (vv. 15-17). In the end, God appoints unidentified attackers to crush Israel's enemies, while His people stand watching from the sidelines! I didn't dare hope for such a marvel in our post-modern, theologically barren society. Still, I wondered if He could possibly be giving me a hint of things to come. Little did I realize, I was only hours away from just such a stunner in my own 21st century life.

When I recently confided my seemingly insurmountable problem to a concerned party, she asked how I was holding up. At the time, my heart was thumping and stress hormones raced around my body like flies at a picnic. While I couldn't honestly deny feeling anxious, I heard myself say, "I have everything I need." And suddenly I knew that was true. It was then that I realized what the prophet Habakkuk meant when he recorded these words: "Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop 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." (vv. 17-18).

Rejoicing, I'm finding out, is a state of mind that comes with the doing, not the other way around.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Sleep on It

Morsels for Meditation...: Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

Morsels for Meditation...: God Rather Than Men