Stylists, AKA, Hair Part 2

I used to complain to my sister, a born hairdresser (minus the certificate from Jean Madeline), that her touch was somewhat less than gentle. I whined as she did her magic that she was pulling my hair and catching my ear with the comb. She retorted that I was a lightweight who couldn't handle the pressure. Little did I know, she had me in boot camp, preparing me for my current stylist, Sophie.

I have a love-hate relationship with Sophie.

Everyone says she does a great job. Even I, with my clumsy, unskilled hands, can't seem to mess up her handiwork. She puts finesse into the old style, and verve into the new one we're working on. She takes her time, checking sides for evenness, snipping tiny wisps that escaped her first run-through. She coifs her masterpiece at the end, crafting flyaway strands into a finished product that Audrey Hepburn in her heyday would have envied. She offers suggestions when asked, but doesn't try to sell me on expensive products to fatten her take home. I absolutely adore my Sophie.

But, oh, the process.

This excellence comes at a price. While the monetary cost is manageable, the experiential bill is excruciating. Sophie is no trifler when it comes to her profession. Her fingers, while nimble, are not gentle. From the time she sits me down in the shampoo chair to the moment we settle up, my head is on high alert. Gone are the days of scalp massaging I used to look forward to after a hard day at work. Sophie, though friendly and chatty, is all business when it comes to getting the job done. My face, ears and neck all get a bath as she suds up my locks. The water more often than not is a tad hot for my delicate sensibilities. The only break I get is when she roughs me up with a towel as we proceed to the electric - er, styling - chair.

Once seated, I brace myself for round two. This is never painless, as the natural contours of my head often get in the way of Sophie's fast-working comb. She pins back unwanted hair with a ferocity that would send Chuck Norris screaming for his mother. Her scissors work mercifully quickly, but not without torturous pulling of tresses that have a mind of their own. When we get to the blow-drying part, I wince inwardly, steeling myself for the anguish I will have to endure as her porcupine needled brush forces my unwilling mane into the shape she envisions for it. When all is said and done, I have a beautiful new look that took years off my life and sent countless follicles running for cover.

After my latest go-round with Sophie, I noticed some interesting parallels to my walk with God. For one thing, I often dread doing what I have to do to earn the rewards that are promised me. I delay keeping appointments with my Savior because they require an expenditure of resources I want to hold on to. Obedience frequently necessitates output of time, energy and emotion, not to mention currency. I get mixed up, thinking these are mine to invest or withhold. I lose sight of one of my favorite assurances, Luke 6:38:

"Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

Also, in a very real way, following Christ involves pain, and lots of it. While salvation is free, Christ-likeness doesn't come cheap (look what it cost Him). The no pain, no gain adage really is true. Blessedly, I haven't been asked to undergo trials like Corrie ten Boom and her family, but I know what marital breakup, loss of loved ones, and single parenting are all about. I couldn't begin to compare my life in the land of the free and the home of the brave with those of Christians whose daily existence is fraught with peril and persecution, but I do understand the upset of prodigal children and workplace distress. Progress in the Christian life, in my experience, is usually predicated on growing pains; there's just no getting around that.

Why, readers may rightfully ask, don't I rebel against Sophie's merciless ministrations? Why not call her on her lack of sensitivity to my poor head's plight? Am I not a paying customer, entitled to pampering and spa treatment? Unequivocally, no! While TLC may be called for in nursery schools and Grandma's house, to my mind it has no place in hair salons. One does not tamper with genius. Allowances must be made for the discomfort of creation (remember childbirth?), with the expectation that the endurance of temporary suffering will produce something of lasting worth. If momentary grief is what it takes for Sophie to enhance my appearance, who am I to interfere? If inconvenience creates greater beauty in my temporal body, how much more can Christ do this in my spirit?

  "Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."(James 1:2-4)

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

I Am Peter

Feet of clay.

That's what I'm walking around in, again.

I suppose it's good for me, as I've been accused more than once of being self-righteous. Holier than thou. I've protested vehemently, of course, citing my attempts at self-honesty and transparency, my refusal to be one of those Christians who wears a perfect face (far from it), while underneath the mask, temptations and dark emotions abound.

I found out recently just how far from perfect I am. The situation, in broad terms, was that I participated in a transaction with several other people, none of whom were professing Christians. Therefore, this was the perfect opportunity to shed some holy light, right? Wrong. Instead of acting honorably, this child of God suggested, shall we say, shortcuts that made the other parties uncomfortable. When objections were raised, I politely argued my position and persuaded the others to go against their better judgment - and I do mean better judgment - and dance to my tune.

Shortly after the business was completed, the Lord prompted me to step back and evaluate my behavior. I didn't like what I saw. How, I wondered, could I make this situation right, after I had led others down a wrong path? The deed was done. To fully rectify the situation might have put the others involved at risk; I knew that wasn't the way to go.

I repented, even as I walked around for several days with a layer of guilt the size of  the Sahara (and feeling about as barren). I asked God how I could fix this mess that I and I alone had gotten myself into. I kept feeling like the offender in Matthew 18:6, the one who would be better off taking a swim with a millstone anchored to his neck than to lead innocents astray.

After much prayer and soul searching, the answers came. I apologized to both parties and admitted I was wrong. I also committed in my heart to pray for a third person who may have been collaterally damaged as a result of my dealings in this matter. I'm asking God to provide bountifully to meet this person's needs. Finally, since I couldn't undo what had been done, a couple of dear Christian sisters helped me arrive at a quiet way of making amends to the Lord (for it was He whom I offended most).

Many lifetimes ago, a fisherman in the Middle East made a terrible decision. Like me, he strived to be faithful, but came to a crossroads where following Christ might lead to suffering. Like me, he  denied the one who could deliver him and instead tried to save himself. That same fisherman later penned this heartfelt plea, which now resonates with me more than when I held myself in Pharisaically high esteem:

 ^"For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness;  and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But whoever does not have them is nearsighted and blind, forgetting that they have been cleansed from their past sins."

2 Peter 1:5-9

I also feel the impact of 1 John 1:9 as never before.

Check out: Morsels for Meditation...: I Am Peter Part 2

Cheap Date Part 2 (Disclaimer)

In musing about yesterday's blog post, I realized I may have come off sounding whiny and blaming others' attitudes for my choices. With Paul, I say, "God forbid!" (Romans 6:2). On the contrary, I and I alone (with subtle nudging from Satan) take responsibility for my own actions. The good news is, "His mercies are new every morning" (Lamentations 3:23), so I don't have to live in sackcloth and ashes when I fail. Rather, I can choose to apply the forgiveness He bestowed so many years ago to my wretched state.

Keith Green's version of  Easter Song says it best. 

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

Cheap Date

I sold myself cheap the other night. No, it's not what you're thinking. I am not and never have been promiscuous, with my body at least. My mind, though, is quite another story.

As long as I can remember, I have had a hard time with media. I find I have to be careful about what I allow into my mind in the way of visual and auditory stimuli. TV and films that are too realistic can upset me, especially ones that trigger deep emotions. I get sort of swept up in the lives of the characters, and find it hard to shake off the vibe. When the lights come on in the theater and everyone rises to leave, I'm still stuck in the plot - whether it be romance or action, pain or joy. My mood can be affected for a day or two, almost like a hangover.

Consequently, I found myself troubled after viewing a film about a sex addict recently. I knew just from the title and cast that it wouldn't be a good choice for me, especially late at night, which would throw off my schedule in the morning. Still, I allowed myself to indulge, and paid the price the following day. Although realistic in its portrayal of a man caught helplessly in sin, and ultimately dying as a result of his obsession, Hollywood (not surprisingly) missed a prime opportunity to drive home the point that there are no winners in self-absorption. Rather, it tried to sell the audience on the idea that his liaisons enriched the lives of his lovers, instead of leaving broken hearts and misery in the wake of his selfish pursuit of satisfaction.

None of that, though, is really the point. I knew the movie would bring me down, possibly emotionally, certainly spiritually. Christians enjoy liberty in disputable matters like alcohol consumption and the arts, so I am not here to tell others how to exercise their freedom in Christ. That being said, I know what I can and can't handle. I've had fellow believers characterize me as legalistic about my viewing habits, when in actuality, I'm following the dictates of my conscience. First Corinthians 8:9-13 and 10:23-33 make clear that we are to respect others' spiritual limitations, even if they don't make sense to us. I would prefer to be thought of as a "weaker sister" than for others to coax me in a direction that is wrong for me.


As today is Good Friday, when Christ took on Himself all the sins of humanity, doesn't it behoove us to encourage each other to heed the Holy Spirit's counsel regarding sin within our individual hearts, rather than assume it's the same for everyone?

Check out Steven Curtis Chapman's Dying to Live 

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Cheap Date Part 2 (Disclaimer)

Between, AKA, They Never Said "I Told You So"

"Let no one despise your youth..." 1 Timothy 4:12

I know a young woman who is actively putting her life back together after years of anger and addiction tried to snuff it out. As the parent to two young men, and an educator who works with youth, I often have the unenviable privilege of watching the younger generation learn from its mistakes. In the all-too-frequent moments when I find myself clutching a catcher's mitt, ready to meet the pitches these youngsters lob my way, I smile while recalling how my own parents approached the challenge of sending new, green players out onto the field of life.


Though long gone from this earth, David and Barbara Parrish live vibrantly in my heart and mind. How gratefully I remember those two dear souls welcoming home their prodigal offspring after hours of cautioning and arguing failed to produce the U-turns they implored me to consider. I'm especially indebted to them for the homecoming they extended to their bedraggled daughter, who appeared on their doorstep with annihilated self-esteem, two preschool children, and no visible means of support. They spoon-fed me, literally and emotionally, nurturing my body with nutrients and my soul with encouragement. They shored up my foundation and, in so doing, that of my boys. Their love and support knew no bounds; their peaceful, retired lifestyle morphed overnight into a diaper-changing, bed-wetting, order-disrupting, wonderful sort of pandemonium, which they embraced unhesitatingly. Remarkably, they rarely complained, and even made adaptations as I got stronger and asked them to step back so I could resume more parenting responsibilities.

Never, ever, did either one say, "I told you so."

As the years passed, so did their health, and both in their turn were confined to bed. They wondered sorrowfully about their purpose, now that so many of their activities of daily living had to be done by others. I hope they believed my reassurances - just as heartfelt as the ones they offered me when I came home shattered and debilitated - that there was precious meaning in simple things they could still do, like squeeze a grandchild's hand. I reminded them that, while pushing the kids on swings was no longer an option, that was no substitute for storytelling by Granddad to toddlers camped out on his bedroom rug. That 10-year-old Tommy would never forget Grandma's rapt attention to his faltering reading of fourth grade material, so his beloved grandma could still enjoy books even though her eyes were failing. Not to mention the priceless gift they gave our family by allowing all of us to give back to them in their weakness, demonstrating grace and unfailing love as they drew their last breaths in the room that held so many happy memories.

Now, in reflecting back on my parents' graceful sacrifices in the wake of their children's missteps, it seems fitting for me to beseech heaven for the same lack of self-righteousness. This came into clear focus while I enjoyed lunch recently with the recovering young woman mentioned earlier in this post. I noted with interest the seating at our table. She sat sandwiched between three mid-life women and three boisterous teens. She didn't seem to feel entirely comfortable with either group; indeed, much like me when I returned home 15 years ago, she's in a stage of transition between dependence and self-sufficiency. She, too, needs space to grow and encouragement to thrive. She needs room to make even more mistakes as she ventures forth on her journey into well-being.

Most of all, she doesn't need to hear, "I told you so."

                           
                                   David and Barbara Parrish, who never said 
                                   "I told you so" to any of their offspring 
                     (I am in the center, graduating from Villanova University in 1989)  

Check out Steven Curtis Chapman's Fingerprints of God

Check out Newsboys' Miracle Child

Baby's Breath, Maturing Marvels

"All your children shall be taught by the Lord,

and great shall be the peace of your children." Isaiah 54:13

The jails are full of people whose mothers wish they could trade places with me.

It's hard to remember that, though, when my kids disappoint my (probably inflated) expectations. When our conversations begin to resemble the Lincoln-Douglas Debates. When some of their life choices and spiritual goals are 180 degrees removed from my own (at least at this stage of our respective developments).

Yet, when I step back and ponder the positions in which some of my friends find themselves, my own life stands out in stark contrast. Several moms I know have to visit their kids behind bars. Others have spent thousands on drug and alcohol rehab programs, often with minimal success. Some have lost children to suicide or illness.

In recent weeks, I've had the sad privilege of standing alongside a couple whose short-lived pregnancy just ended through no fault of their own. A "missed miscarriage," the doctors called it. This experience has brought back a flood of memories for me, as I relive the day 20 plus years ago when I said goodbye to my unborn baby (a girl, I decided; we called her Abby), whose little heart was too frail to survive, and wouldn't beat for the fetoscope. I limped grief-stricken down the same path my friends are traveling now, enduring the IVs and invasive procedures, the sympathetic looks and ill-conceived comments. How well I remember waiting, longing for the calendar to turn from February to March, to just be rid of that awful month in which God had reclaimed my child.

My sister was expecting her second at the time, which seemed doubly cruel, as I had no toddler at home to cuddle during my loss. A loving family member, suspecting my bitterness at the seeming inequity, wrote me at the time, "Nature is sometimes not very fair."

That summed up my feelings during that barren period. Still, if I had delivered my Abby in July of 1991, my beautiful Aaron couldn't have arrived in March of '92. Though I didn't know it then, the Almighty had a lovely, loving gift in store for me, made more treasured by the tears that readied my eyes to behold it.

As I told my grieving friend, I've had to really delve back into my memory to recall the waves of hopeless despair that held me captive that cold, gray winter before the sun resurfaced at last. My todays are too often full of wrangling and negotiating with the young men my sons have become, and I lose sight of the passion with which I begged heaven for a child's breath on my shoulder. It's been good for me, actually, to revisit that bleak time, as I've found my fuse exceptionally short lately with the two blessings God has asked me to shepherd. I get tangled up in their shortcomings (of course, I don't have any myself), and lose sight of their wonderful qualities. The confidences they share with me. The laughing together at old sitcoms. The porch light a thoughtful teenager thinks to turn on. The trash neatly stacked (unprompted by Mother) at the curb by a young adult who surely has better things to do. The remorse they show when they let me down, and the forgiveness they unfailingly offer when their mom's feet of clay crumble time and again.

So, as I render prayers for heartbroken parents and parents-to-be, I also seek patience and gratitude while staying the course with my two miracles. I bank on the promise (quoted above) that God gave Isaiah to share with floundering parents like me, who are doing their best while entrusting their wing-spreading birds to an almighty safety net. Though works in progress (like their mother), Aaron and Ethan are my joy and my crown, and I would do well to view them with great pride.

For more like this, check out:                                              

Morsels for Meditation...: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

Morsels for Meditation...: My Ethan

Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

I like the way my sons are turning out. They've always been supportive of me, no matter what I'm going through. They tend to be non-judgmental of their flawed but trying mother (for example, I doubt either would bat an eye over the fact that I just ended two sentences with prepositions). Although we differ in our approaches to organized religion and our ways of expressing our faith, I see God making headway in both their lives, and it humbles me.

Lately I've been feeling a fair amount of angst about some decisions that are before me. I've been praying about them, staying in God's word, seeking Godly counsel ... still, I haven't quite made it to the peace that passes all understanding stage. I've been walking around at times deflated, discouraged, even despondent, wondering if God's sure what He's doing in my life.

In despair, I called my older son the other day for comfort. He's almost 21 and has a pretty good head on his shoulders. More to the point, he loves me, and I needed to feel loved just then. His counsel was short, sweet and sound. First, he said he trusted my judgment about whatever challenges I was facing, and indicated that he believed in me. Second, he promised to help with an upcoming party we were planning, which was making me feel even more overwhelmed (and he kept his word). As if this psychological and practical support were not enough, he wondered aloud if I had counted my blessings lately.

No need to reread that last sentence; you got it right the first time. I admit, though, I did a double take after he said it. This is a principle I've been trying to instill in my kids since they were little, but like the first time they crossed the street without holding my hand, I felt terrified they'd get it wrong and kill themselves before the lesson sank in.

It blew me away when he began ticking off a gratitude list on my behalf, as easily if he were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance for the billionth time. It sounded like he'd been noticing silver linings his whole life, and right then the clouds began to part for this (at the moment) visually challenged mother.

I went home later and hung out with my younger son. He caught a clue it had been a rough day when I announced we were getting take out for dinner. When it was time to go pick up the food, he offered to stroll up with me and get it. Since walking is one of the few exercises I don't "hate, loathe, despise and abominate,"  but one of the few he dislikes, this was an act of love. Alas, the credit card I brought to pay for our feast was the only one the restaurant didn't accept! Since I hadn't brought cash, this little error necessitated a second round trip in 20 degree winds. Ethan retraced his steps in the cold with nary a murmur (even offering to make the return trip solo so I could relax). When we finally sat down to eat, he generously suggested I pick out a show to watch while we grazed (and shared his dinner with me, 'cause let's face it, if one egg roll is good, two's gotta be better). In typical Ethan form, he even tried to chip in for the tab.

Makes it easier to count your blessings when two of them are living under your roof.

                                                       Aaron and Ethan Williams

For more like this, check out:

 Morsels for Meditation...: Baby's Breath, Maturing Marvels

Morsels for Meditation...: My Ethan                                                        

Pedigree of a Savior

My mother was exceedingly proud of her ancestry, which boasted two aristocratic English families whose roots went back to the Mayflower. My father, less than impressed with her credentials, once wryly referred to Mom's genealogy as her "family twig."

I received as a Christmas gift a calendar Bible, and as I ingest my daily helpings of God's Word, I've been struck by His choice of flawed vessels to bring His Son into the world. For example...

Did you know that Jesus's distinguished lineage included Jacob, who connived his way through life, lying to his ailing father and alienating his only brother? Also among our Savior's illustrious ancestors was Perez, the illegitimate offspring of Jacob's son Judah, whom he conceived with his widowed daughter-in-law when she was posing as a temple prostitute.

Peyton Place, anyone?

And let's not forget David, the man after God's own heart, whose illicit union with Bathsheba resulted in the murder of an innocent man in one of the most shocking cover-ups recorded in Scripture. These two adulterers later produced Christ's ancestor Solomon, whose liaisons with foreign women led the wisest king who ever lived into idolatry and compromise that besmirched his throne and ultimately divided his kingdom.

These are the some of the juicier tidbits in Jesus's history. From a humble beginnings standpoint, Christ descended from Leah, Jacob's unloved wife, who played second fiddle to her beautiful sister Rachel, and had to be pawned off on unsuspecting Jacob through her father's trickery. God's Son could also claim among His relatives Rahab, a member of the world's oldest profession, and her daughter-in-law Ruth, whose widowed status forced her to beg scraps and marital protection from a stranger.

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

I can only conclude that Philippians 2:8 is the understatement of the century - no, the millennium. Better yet, the entire stage of human history. Christ's heritage, culminating in His birth to an unmarried teenager who just barely escaped being left at the altar on the strength of a dream given her disgraced fiancé, better qualified Him to land a role in As the World Turns than to head up the divine church.

And yet, this family tree was carefully, painstakingly constructed by none other than God Himself to serve as the vehicle by which He would introduce freedom to handcuffed humanity.

How fitting that the Son of God, who descended from such “colorful” ancestors, chose to grow up in an obscure town which His peers held in contempt. John 1:46 states that the thinking of Jesus’ day was “Can anything good come out of [Jesus’ home town] Nazareth?” Apparently, something good could – and did – come out of this humble, despised city.

Kind of gives you hope for the rest of us, doesn't it?

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Pedigree of a Savior 2

Seeking Peace and Perfect Justice

My friend and prayer partner, Tina Simon, has been at it again. Feast on her bittersweet herbs:

   

Last Words of Karla Faye Tucker, convicted murderer (right), who was executed after trusting Christ in prison:

“Yes sir, I would like to say to all of you — the Thornton family and Jerry Dean’s family — that I am so sorry. I hope God will give you peace with this. Baby, I love you. Ron, give Peggy a hug for me. Everybody has been so good to me. I love all of you very much. I am going to be face to face with Jesus now. Warden Baggett, thank all of you so much. You have been so good to me. I love all of you very much. I will see you all when you get there. I will wait for you.”

As a Christian, how do I view justice? Are we to be the avenger of blood? Or are we to bring that “mercy that endures forever?” If mercy trumps justice, then what do we owe the victim?

If we had never sinned, we would never know of mercy. Mercy requires an offense. Jesus suffered the ultimate death penalty in the place of all those sinners who would come to believe in Him and accept His offer (perhaps our greatest sin is the arrogance to think we don’t need a savior and, therefore, we don’t need to accept this offer; we need not “bend the knee").

There are times when I wish I could keep it simple in my mind and heart; either I am enraged for the rights of the victim, or pity the offender. I am often in sympathy with both, and don’t know how to come to a satisfactory answer for either.

I know that if things had been different, I could be standing in the dock. If my life had been different, if God hadn’t saved me. Still, I’m kind of tired of the refrain, "I’m depraved because I was deprived."  While that is often the case, I know as a sinner I’m also responsible for my own behavior, that the state doesn’t wield the sword for nothing.

It is much harder to feel compassion for both the offender and the victim, but I know it is right. Yet, there needs to also be some way of protecting society. We must do our best to serve both.

I suppose what is saddest is that we can’t seem to reach people early enough. Perhaps that is part of what makes me feel uncomfortable - the thought that we have somehow failed, too. With each prisoner, as well as every victim, society in some measure has taken part in the offense. We fail both the offended and the offender when our culture refuses to acknowledge the elephant that sits so prominently in every American living room. It is disguised as the American dream, which demands the sacrifice of our children to abortion and day care and latch key living. This is at best. At worst, our offspring go to bed hungry, abused and terrified -and no one is listening.

I know that every believer - no matter how vile his crime - is with Christ in heaven, and I will one day share heaven with that person, but that does not answer for the crime here on earth. Perhaps in this sinful world, our criminal justice system represents flawed and fallen humans' best attempt at justice. It's the best we can do.

I wonder what kind of results there would be if someone did a study to find out just how much help or closure there has been for the victims or their families five to fifteen years after the offender has been convicted. Does it ease the rage any? Is there peace or resolution? Have we done our utmost for the victims and their loved ones?

Maybe my dissatisfaction with the answers we currently have to all these questions stems from the fact that there is no really adequate solution. Only Christ provides the ultimate answer as He changes hearts, one person at a time.

I constantly remember the phrase, there but for the grace of God go I. I am both victim and perpetrator, sinner and sinned against.  I feel myself in the body of both and want to minister to both sets of needs. I know forgiveness lies with Christ, but there must still be a penalty paid down here.

Thank you, Father, that in Christ, Psalm 85:10-11 is made whole:

Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other. Truth shall spring out of the earth; and righteousness shall look down from heaven.

Happy New Year!

Two short anecdotes from this past Sunday at church, just perfect for the New Year:

Shared by Pastor Rob Eyre, who filled Bethany Evangelical Presbyterian Church's pulpit on December 30th:

Pastor Eyre was at one time involved in a community organization/public policy class with Princeton University. The students took a field trip to a somewhat depressed area in New Jersey, where a garden had been planted in a formerly barren field. Unbeknownst to the well-meaning horticulturalists, the section of ground they had beautified was filled with lead; the group was much dismayed to receive notice that they were being fined for their toil, pending the removal of the toxic element. The extraction process would be complicated and expensive.

To everyone's delight, research concluded that a certain plant could be used to leach out lead from contaminated areas. The plant in question actually thrives on lead. Once harvested, the element could be put to practical use, thereby turning a profit and leaving previously noxious ground safe for planting. It was a win-win situation for all, and the gardeners found themselves in the lovely position of being paid for their efforts!

The auspicious plant that turned crushing failure into shining success? The mustard seed.

Imagine something as tiny and unassuming as a mustard seed having the power to swap disaster with victory.

"'Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.'" Matthew 17:20

*********************************************************************************

Shared by Megan DeHaven, Youth Director at Bethany Evangelical Presbyterian Church, at Bethany's Sunday night praise service:

Meg, who has the heart of an evangelist, befriends local children as she and her dog stroll around their neighborhood. So far her efforts to reach out have resulted in Meg and her husband, Mike, hauling home a trunkful of pumpkins they hoped to carve with community kids who didn't show up for the Halloween festivities.

Lately, though, things have been looking up. Meg was pleased to be invited this past holiday season to a Christmas concert by one young lady she has gotten to know. On the appointed day, she was feted at an outdoor "concert" chirped by two little girls with rhyming names, whose repertoire consisted of a monster song, one Christmas carol, and a couple of miscellaneous tunes. The cherubs apologized for their dearth of material by explaining that, while they had been inviting people to their concerts for years, Meg was the first person who ever showed up!

The little ones excitedly produced Meg's "all access backstage pass," which entitled their guest to post-concert goodies and fellowship. Upon learning, however, that the promised cocoa and snacks had been gobbled up by hungry siblings, Meg hosted the singers at her home for holiday movies and treats.

The grin on Meg's face as she related this story underscored the message she derived from it -  how we as God's children so often invite Him to our "show," but deny Him access to our behind-the-scenes doings.

Maybe if we reversed this process, our "show" would be less of a show, and more a way of life.

"We proclaim to you what we have seen and heard, so that you also may have fellowship with us. And our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son, Jesus Christ." 1 John 1:3

Check out Keith Green's "To Obey is Better than Sacrifice"