Dusty and Chewy: They Just Want a Bow Part 2

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. In the space of seven days, our family laid to rest an ancient, adopted puppy (whose tiny stature and feather weight belied her 17 years) and a scaly, bug-eyed bearded dragon, whose winsome personality proved that beauty – and lack thereof – is only skin deep.

The aging canine was our neighbor’s elderly Shih Tzu, Dusty Miller, who spent many a night warming our beds and hearts. She lay with my father as he suffered from heart disease and diabetes that ultimately claimed him. Dusty came as a set with her human mom, Anita, whom my kids call Grandma and I call my fairy godmother, because she stepped into our lives after my own mom died and stuck around to help raise my kids and spirits after Dad succumbed to his final illness. In her later years, Dusty was blind, deaf, and unsteady on her feet. Despite these deficiencies – or maybe because of them – it was that much harder for us to part with her. Her limitations tempered some of the wanderlust she had as a puppy, making her more amenable to shoulder snuggling and lap lounging.                                                            

Yes, Dusty was much more than a dog to us.

The following Friday, my son, Aaron, and soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Elise, called with heavy hearts. On their way out of town to meet up with the bridal party, they had to pause long enough to deal with the death of their pet lizard, whom they spent many dollars and hours trying to make well. Elise had bought Chewy (short for Chewbacca, like in the movie) to keep company with her irascible bearded dragon, Bacon. Chewy bore with equanimity, and perhaps even egged on, Bacon’s head bobbing challenges from his tank across the room.

While I never knew Chewy to take a stand on social issues, she did seem to experience some significant gender confusion. Since it’s hard to tell a lizard’s sex, we relied on behavior cues, but Chewy seemed to buy into the social police’s assertions that there is no typical male or female behavior; thus, to be politically correct, we changed up our pronouns on a regular basis.

We all found his/her clinginess touching. No, maybe I should make that touchy – her M.O. when retrieved from the tank was to hang on for dear life to shoulder, leg, head, or whatever body part he was perched on. In short, her rough, bumpy exterior disguised a cuddly heart underneath. Elise summed it up best when, through tears, she explained, “People don’t understand why we’re so upset about Chewy. They’re right that he was only a lizard. But he was ours.”

This morning, while listening to Max Lucado's 3:16: The Numbers of Hope on audio, I marveled at the wisdom of the following story: the author hearkened back to a trend that was popular when my kids were small – tethering young children to their parental unit when out in public places where it would be easy to lose track of scampering feet. I well remember the shocked looks and gasps of disbelief when other shoppers observed the, let’s face it, leash I painstakingly Velcro-ed to mischievous wrists to keep them from disappearing into pre-holiday crowds. Lucado rightly characterized the thinking behind the action as both protective and possessive, as though the tie-er were claiming ownership of the tie-ee, regardless of how preferable it might have seemed at times to cut the wanderer loose and let him fend for himself. Loving parents don’t do that, despite all the yanking and cranking they endure from wayward children. They resist the urge because love for their little delinquent overcomes the memories of how easy life was before Junior came along.

That’s what it all comes down to. We love our children and pets not because of how they act or look, but despite those things. In my work as a special educator, I’m quite aware that every kid I come in contact with is somebody’s child. These little imps can make it a real scavenger hunt to find something likable or even tolerable to recommend them, but because others took time to uncover the nuggets of gold buried deep underneath my own kids’ annoyances, I try to pay that kindness forward. I have yet to find a student whose armor couldn’t be breached by a kind word, a reward for getting it right, or a well-applied disciplinary measure when all else failed.

As Elise observed, we do it because they're ours. I would add, God did it because we're His.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” ~  Romans 5:8

“What is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?”
 ~ Psalm 8:4

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: They Just Want a Bow

Scorpion Among Us

Hello Readers! I originally posted this piece last month, then took it down temporarily while it was being considered for newspaper publication.  In the interim, "the Donald" has caught flak for his lawsuit-embroiled Trump University, endorsement by the KKK, failure to provide tax returns because of constant IRS auditing, and favorable quoting of fascist Mussolini. If Trump - perish the thought - were to be elected, the question becomes, with so many financial and legal entanglements, when would the former reality show star have time to run the country?

                                                        

There’s an old folk tale about a scorpion thumbing a ride across a river. I’ve heard several versions of this story with slightly different endings, but the one point all agree on is that, halfway across, the scorpion stings its trusting transporter. The shocked conveyor asks why its passenger would do something so foolish, since now both will drown, and here the varying punch lines come in. The one I like best has the scorpion reply essentially, “Who knows? It’s just my nature, and you knew what I was when you said ‘yes’ to me.”

We have a blonde-haired, combed over scorpion in our midst. Oh, he’s dressed in fine clothes and makes an enticing appeal, but he’s a stinger nonetheless.

Just ask the investors he defrauded when he availed himself of a tax loophole allowing him to declare bankruptcy, not once, not twice, but four times. Ask the campaign investors whose money he is using, despite his constant boasting that he’s self-funded. 

Self-funded, my Aunt Fanny! Trump's fortune cost untold numbers of gamblers  their families’ security, and his claims of self-funding show a distinct lack of gratitude to donors, who have outspent him on his presidential campaign.

Ask the ex-wives he's accumulated, and his sister, Maryanne Trump Barry, whom he claims would be an excellent Supreme Court choice, but from whom he's now distancing himself. That he would even consider her for such a high rank belies his supposed commitment to life, itself a turnabout from his previous ardent pro-choice position. Think how blindsided Republicans would feel after blocking Obama’s end-of-term SCOTUS choice, only to find themselves saddled for God knows how long with Trump's sibling, who rigorously supports partial birth abortion.

Ask Vera Coking, the widowed senior citizen whose home he tried to seize so he could build a limousine parking lot for his casino.Trump tried unsuccessfully to force Coking to vacate under the legal principle of eminent domain, which has historically displaced homeowners for purposes such as national park development and national security needs. Never has this tool been used for such mercenary exploits as Trump had in mind. Talk about the greed of big business.

Ask Carly Fiorina, whose appearance he publicly ridiculed, then back pedaled on. When called on his denigrating statements, he reverted to the adolescent defense that he was just joking. I didn't buy that when it came out of my seventh grader's mouth, and Trump's use of such a lame explanation makes it hard for any parent to hold up adults as role models. Let's not forget, this insult was leveled at someone with whom he supposedly agrees on major principles. Think how far such communication skills will take him when he sits down to hammer out deals with leaders with whom he dramatically differs, and who have access to weapons of mass destruction. Even our cousins across the pond, with whom we often see eye to eye, are a hair's breadth away from refusing to deal with him.

Ask the rest of the Republican party, with whom he has cast his lot, but savages at every turn and is now waffling on a written pledge he made publicly to forego a third party run so as not to undercut the ideals he claims to identify with.

Let's even ask members of the opposing party, whose campaigns he has funded handsomely over the span of his long career, before defecting in recent years. Even ask the Clintons, whom he hosted at his most recent wedding but has now turned on in his grab for the Oval Office. 

In short, Donald Trump has shown himself time and again to be self-interested to the point of unethical legal maneuvering and campaign bullying. Shame on the American public if we allow him to become a nominee for the highest office in the land. 

"The Lord detests dishonest scales, but accurate 

weights find favor with him."

Proverbs 11:1

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to

 keep oneself from being polluted by the world."

James 1:27

"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.

    And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

    and to walk humbly with your God."

Micah 6:8

On Sacrifice

Absurdity

Something very precious is being lost in our country. The loss began happening with the advent of the women’s movement and has continued steadily over the past few decades. The notion that women are entitled to equal earning capacity due to their innate equality in brain power and inherent value has morphed into the idea that they are equal in every respect, including physical strength and protectorate capacity.

I recently viewed the latest Republican debate and was more than a little distressed that several key players ardently supported the mandatory conscription of women, should we revert to a draft. One candidate subsequently voiced his opinion that men should not expect women to protect them. Call me old-fashioned (and I’m sure some will call me worse than that), but I believe a woman’s willingness to nurture life from womb to adulthood should more than satisfy her protectorate requirements. Then again, many women these days are rejecting the former and haphazardly performing the latter, which perhaps has contributed to men’s lack of willingness to sacrifice for them.

Nevertheless, it used to be an insult to be accused of hiding behind a woman’s skirt or tied to her apron strings. Now this bearer of two X chromosomes fears that too many XY owners not only allow themselves to be carried by the women in their lives, but have come to expect it.

Masculinity

My dear friend, Cynthia, died several years ago. She was, in a word, brilliant. Her talents in drawing, music, writing, gardening and cooking were second to none.  Her wit was unparalleled. She could find wry humor in the mundane and, as a result, was a sparkling conversationalist. Perhaps Cynthia’s most remarkable feat was her evolution from an introverted, almost reclusive person into someone who forced herself out of her shell to the point where she came to know and love neighbors, perform at a music recital, and find love with an exceptional man named Bob.

Bob respected Cynthia’s independence and fought for it. When Cynthia’s boss mistreated her, Bob supported her decision to leave the position, even though she had no other employment prospects. He gallantly assumed the financial cares of the household, while she happily oversaw home projects. One of my most treasured possessions is a hutch he built for her. I assumed custody of this cherished piece after her passing, and found Bob had inscribed on the back the date of its completion, along with the date Cynthia approved its specifications – a tandem effort if ever there was one.

Possibly the quality which endeared Bob to me the most was his defense of Cynthia's honor. Among other things, my relationship with Cynthia was comprised of mutual barb-throwing. There was no truth behind the insults; it was all part of a complex relationship that spanned my entire lifetime and was based on raw humor and meaningless jibes. However, Bob let me know in no uncertain terms that assaults on Cynthia's character, even in jest, were not funny to him. He lived out his love for her, taking every opportunity to compliment her publicly and show his adoration for her.

When his wife received a cancer diagnosis, Bob joyfully cared for her body, soul and spirit, even in the midst of unrelated personal tragedy and his own health concerns. Although my friend had no health insurance when she fell ill, Bob drove her to appointments and assured his beloved they would find the money for her care. To this day, I suspect he’s still making payments on medical bills she incurred before they were even married.

To me, Bob is the epitome of what it means to be a man.

Maternity

The notion that women can and should gain as much education and career experience as their talents and pocketbooks allow is not only reasonable but essential in today’s society. The days when a woman’s primary concerns were the care of home and family are long past and, as a one who has had the privilege of being both a stay-at-home mom and a breadwinner, I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to spread my occupational wings a far greater distance than my mother did. HOWEVER, ability has brought with it a steep price tag. Many men have come to EXPECT their children’s mothers to give birth, fly right home from the hospital with barely a day or two to recover (sometimes less), and six weeks later be back on the job site pumping milk and rigorously performing  in their profession.

Since when did maternity become less a profession than teaching, ministering to the sick, or running a company? Last time I checked, motherhood required skills in all those areas, and many more. My parenting role has demanded more of me physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually than any paid position I’ve ever held, and the monetary compensation was zilch. No, make that negative numbers. The hours were longer and the stakes higher than any job I’ve ever worked (including waitressing, which is saying something), but the rewards have been commensurately exorbitant. My children’s successes have given me greater joy than any raise I’ve ever gotten, and lasted far longer than any paycheck I ever received.

Some mothers are horrors. I get that. I’ve seen it. Some are mediocre at best and abusive at worst. Should the lack of responsibility of a few denigrate the entire calling, any more than Kermit Gosnell should besmirch the whole medical profession? Should we not still do all in our power to heighten the prestige and purpose of so great a calling, even as we call to account the few bad apples in every bunch?

Sagacity

At the risk of incurring my younger son's ire, let me state unequivocally that my Christian faith informs and undergirds my views on this and every subject. About this, I am unapologetic. Indeed, the founders of this country, while not all practicing Christians, injected Biblical principles into the infrastructure of our democracy. Those same founders, not incidentally, fought for independence on behalf of their wives and sweethearts, who supported in ancillary roles. 

Women today, unlike their ancestors, have the choice to serve directly on the battlefield. Nevertheless, the difficulties of military service, horrors of war, blurring of lines between the sexes and blurring of gender in general all make the military an occupation that should be chosen by women rather than imposed upon them.

Profundity

"Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God." 1 Corinthians 11:11-12

"So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise." Galatians 3:26-29

" Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her... In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated their own body, but they feed and care for their body, just as Christ does the church..." Ephesians 5:25, 28-29

Unshackled

Today, January 16, 2016, Pastor Saeed Abedini and several other American detainees were released from Iranian captivity. A deal was cut between our country and Iran – a prisoner exchange – which is not the way I would have done it if I were making decisions, but I’m not and so be it.

Regardless of how it was accomplished, this is a direct answer to prayer. My friend, Tina, and I have been praying and fasting over this matter for months now. Others have been praying just as hard, and organizations like the American Center for Law and Justice have been petitioning and demanding his release for years.

A friend’s son slipped into eternity last night. He must have felt imprisoned in his own skin, and chose to end a life of pain and agony. I empathize with this young man because the cold fingers of despair have gripped my heart at various low points in my life, luring me to yield to the same unthinkable temptation. But for the grace of God, my loved ones might still be mourning a desperate decision based on circumstances that got oh so much better just because someone convinced me to hang in there.

Shackles. That’s what held both these sufferers captive. Visible or not, tangible or not, these fetters eat into the skin and infect the victim’s insides with rot and disease. In Saeed’s case, physical confinement held an American citizen hostage for over three years; in the latter situation, a despondent teen succumbed to whatever mental torture drove him to a desperate, irreversible act.

My soul wants to rejoice with Saeed, even as it mourns with my friend. More importantly, my spirit wants to cry out to others who are in captivity not to give up before the miracle. The miracle may be a dramatic, life changing improvement - an unshackling, if you will. It may show up as clouds that shape themselves into an angel or a cross. It may be nothing more than a sunrise breaking over a new day, providing opportunity to better one’s circumstances.

Or it may be something a Jewish carpenter did two millennia ago that people are still talking about today.

No matter what form the unshackling takes, it’s worth waiting for.

“God found Gideon in a hole. He found Joseph in a prison. 

He found Daniel in a lion’s den.

He has a curious habit of showing up in the midst of trouble, 
not the absence. 

Where the world sees failure, God sees future.

Next time you feel unqualified to be used by God remember this,

he tends to recruit from the pit, not the pedestal.”   -  Jon Acuff

 Check out Matthew West's Hello, My Name Is 

A postscript: I know a young person who was upset over his grandmother's passing. He was so distraught that it occurred to him to take his own life so he could go and join her. A wise counselor advised him, since he was still young and had barely begun his life, a better plan would be to honor her by "living a little extra for Grandma." 

Daddy's Arms

His saucer-shaped brown eyes are full of wonder and curiosity. At 18 months, he's capable of awkward maneuvering, but vulnerable enough to need his parent's watchful eye. His roving spirit is tempered by a homing signal which sends him back to his father's arms between excursions. 

He's an absolute delight, and we all adore his toddler wanderings at Tuesday night prayer meeting.

The other night, he engaged in his usual rambling around the room. He never seems to tire of the over-sized windows and stacked banquet tables, nor the ring of chairs which make up our small group. He weaves in and out of our circle, sometimes allowing his hand to rest on an unfamiliar lap, but ultimately making his way back to Daddy. His tiny footsteps tap the uncarpeted floor, on which his sneakers squeak when he occasionally drops down on all fours.

After a while, he returned to Daddy's seat. Tired of roaming but not content to sit, he made it known he needed to sway. Dad dutifully scooped him up and rocked his child until his arms begged for mercy, at which point he slung the boy around like a backpack ~ the difference being, he would've let the backpack hang. 

He did no such thing with his son. 

Gripping the child under his seat (the one nature gave him, that is), he piggybacked him back and forth for the next 20 minutes. The young explorer rested one hand on Dad's shoulder and let the other dangle. 

Why? Because he had utter confidence in his father's protection. He didn't have to cling tightly because he knew his father had him, and that no ill fortune would befall him in that secure position. 

“The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

~ Deuteronomy 33:27

Check out:  Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

Leaning In

The Horror

More terrible news yesterday. Gun violence in yet another public arena. This time, brutality on the West Coast, ending with loss of lives and shattered peace of mind for those who survived.

This one strikes close to home. My sister lives in California and I work with the special needs population, which was victimized by this unspeakable crime. Not that my personal connection to this atrocity should matter. The real heartache is, I ache because these stories are becoming so commonplace that it's hard to make myself ache over them anymore.

What to do? I ask in dismay. Wanton mass murder seems the order of the day: Oklahoma City, Columbine, Nickel Mines, Newtown, Charleston, Colorado Springs, etc., etc., etc. Notice, I deliberately didn't mention the Twin Towers and the Boston bombing. Why? Because at least the scoundrels who perpetrated those acts weren't our own countrymen. The ones I cited, and probably this most recent one, were carried out by fellow Americans on their own people.

Several times a year, my students practice lock down drills, huddling in dark corners of shuttered classrooms, hoping they never have to actually use the skills they're learning. This is the world we've inherited, the legacy we're leaving for our children.

Again I ask, what can be done?

The Prayer 

First and foremost, I pray. For all concerned. The innocent and the guilty alike.

Before anyone accuses me of being a bleeding heart, let me clarify. I pray also for justice and consequences to the fullest extent of the law, despite any claims of repentance uttered by perpetrators. That's God's job to sort out. Ours here on earth is to stand in the way of these criminals killing again. But, since I'm not in the role of dispensing justice this side of heaven or in the hereafter, I pray for the next best thing: changed hearts for malefactors in the making. It's based on a simple botanical concept: remove, re-root, and replant. First, I ask the Master Gardener to remove sin and replace it with Christ's righteousness; then, re-root the organism in living water (the Holy Spirit's infilling); and ultimately replant the new believer into surroundings that will foster growth and maturity.  

When all is said and done, I've prayed for the wrongdoers and the victims, direct and indirect, for in the wake of every massacre, collateral damage is done. People die (the obvious victims). Others survive the carnage, but are forced to live with horrible memories. And family members on both sides of the crime lose loved ones to the grave or prison. Nobody wins.

The Action

But prayer is a catalyst for God-directed action, which brings me to my second step: continued writing. Every page I turn out, in one way or another, is meant to prick readers' hearts with Christ's truth. This, along with whispered messages of hope and encouragement to the young minds God has entrusted to me at home and at school, is probably my greatest contribution to society. Oh, I sign petitions and make phone calls to Capitol Hill. I vote. But, like the old man on the beach who kept tossing starfish back into the ocean, I make my largest dent one organism at a time. I tally victories the same way, and how sweet those occasions (however few and far between) when one realizes one's intervention has helped rescue a drowning creature. Lest I become discouraged, I recall Harriet Tubman, Corrie ten Boom, Oskar Schindler and Irena Sendler, whose "one victim at a time" efforts yielded untold descendants of the people whose lives they saved. I like to imagine Martin Luther King, Jr. and Jonas Salk descending from the loins of some of the folks whose prayers were answered in the form of frail masses of DNA simply doing their part.

The Leaning

Finally, and overarchingly, I simply lean into Christ. This is perhaps the most difficult step, but no less crucial than the other two. I'm reminded of the first and, if I can help it, last time I will ever ride a motorcycle. The experience was harrowing to say the least. As the passenger, I had to depend on the driver in front, who instructed me to lean with him into every curve. This advice smacked of danger and disaster, and ran counter-intuitive to every impulse in my body that wanted to remain upright! I had to lay aside my doubt and fear and muster trembling trust in the one who did the steering. By trading in my comfort zone for what seemed unnatural and unwise, I actually participated in keeping us and the bike safe. Who'd've thought?

Conclusion

The last thing I want to do is offer pat advice. I don't understand why God allows these heinous crimes, and I haven't the first idea how to offer comfort to those affected by them. Sadly, I am personally acquainted with three individuals who have lost loved ones to murder, and I consider it a privilege to support them in the ways I've described. Beyond that, I shake my head with the rest of you ... and weep.

Check out Matthew West's Do Something ~ and then, go out and do something!

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

Dump Cake ...

... is an easy, delectable dessert made up of layered ingredients, each yummy in its own right, which when combined, make for a sensory splurge rivaled only by little wonders like Mount Rushmore and the Grand Canyon.

Fear not. The above will be the only mention of confections, so you won't have to go scurrying into the kitchen to break any dieting endeavors. I use it only as a metaphor for the varied morsels I plan to serve up in this post. I've been away from blogging for a few weeks, concentrating instead on a book proposal for my "firstborn," a collection of essays entitled Unleashed: Reflections of a Dog Walker. In the interim, God has been hurling little idea pellets my way, any of which could warrant its own article. Since I don't have time for that at the moment, I'm going to fling them all your way and hope together they form a tasty treat worthy of the read.

Tasty Treat #1: Turtle Soup

"Pray without ceasing..." 1 Thessalonians 5:17

"Be prepared in season and out of season... 

 2 Timothy 4:2

If there were a tortoise and hare competition, I would definitely be rooting for the former. I'm one of those annoying people who gets wet in the pool one fingernail at a time, complaining all the while about the frigidity of the water. When at long last I'm immersed, I'm immediately ready to jump ship, head for shore, and snuggle in my beach towel.

While this spectacle may be amusing at the swim club, it's a hindrance in other aspects of life wherein one is called upon for swift, sustained action. When we have the luxury of time to make a decision, it is appropriate to proceed cautiously and prayerfully. Sometimes, though, life comes at us fast and furious, and we have to draw on a bank of prayer which we have amassed preemptively to make a split second decision. It is at those times we have to shrug off the turtle in us and make room for the hare.

Tasty Treat #2: Facebook Fricassee

"We will give ourselves continually to prayer and to the ministry of the word." Acts 6:4

"Without ceasing, I make mention of you always in 

my prayers ..." Romans 1:9

Facebook is nothing if not a great time waster. I've emerged dazed and disgusted with myself more than once when I realize I've just thrown away an hour of my life scanning meaningless status updates about what someone on the other side of town cooked for dinner. Meanwhile, my own pots and pans remain silent as I sit glued to an electronic social life that is anything but.

On occasion, though, I get it right. These are the times I respond to someone's cry for prayer, right then and there. Anyone can promise to pray, but how likely are we to remember after we move immediately on to the next person's new profile pics and shared files? How much better to heed the following suggestion:

"Let us pray, let us pray, everywhere and every way

Every moment of the day it is the right time

For the father above, He is listening with love

And He wants to answer us, so let us pray"

~ "Let Us Pray" by Stephen Curtis Chapman

I find it expedient to drop everything and utter a prayer right over the air waves, so to speak. If, as we proclaim, we are not ashamed of the gospel and of being ministers of that gospel, why not type an actual prayer in response to someone's request for it?

Along the same lines, I was shocked to realize the other day how many times I laid aside time with God to check my phone. Either I received a text or thought of one I simply had to send immediately, before the impulse left me. When all was said and done, I had interrupted my business meeting with God no less than a dozen times to attend to fleeting earthly business. Imagine how ridiculous I would look if I reversed the dynamic and told my employer I needed time out from my job every time I felt the inclination to pray or encourage a believer. I'd be job hunting in a heartbeat! Yet, I thought nothing of putting God on hold so I could foster earthly relationships. With His help, I aim to improve in this area.

That's all for today, readers. I hope my musings are not too scattered or diverse for you. I suspect your palates are eclectic and can handle the buffet I laid out in this somewhat random fashion, knowing I tried to offer savory samples that would both nourish and satisfy.

Pedigree of a Savior 2

A friend recently challenged me to read through the Book of Matthew, an account of Jesus' life with which I thought I was very familiar. Interestingly, there's always something new to be learned when one revisits previously studied material. As I'm delving into this gospel, I'm seeing old truths that for me are new.

Scandals

God placed the Messianic line in the wombs of many less than reputable women. Chapter one of Matthew lists Jesus' genealogy. Scattered throughout the long list of His progenitors are five women whose accomplishments included prostitution, adultery and foreign birth (Ruth hailed from Moab, a nation which descended from incest following the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and carried on generations of strife with Israel). How amazing that, of all the "nice" women God could have listed in Jesus' birth record, the ones He saw fit to mention by name were scandal-ridden. Eight times as many men are listed in this chapter as are women, and the one thing that small female fraction had in common was an undesirable background. Yet God used these women with checkered pasts to be vessels of salvation. 

Dreams

God used dreams to accomplish His purposes and warn His people five times in the first two chapters. Five times! I read these pages just about every Christmas, yet I never noticed this glaring fact. The dreams fall into categories of: 

a) guidance superintending the family into which Jesus would be born, and b) life and death warnings which direct the hearers either to do or not do something which will ensure the Son of God's earthly survival.

Obedience

In order for divine guidance to make a difference in the recipient's life, obedience is crucial. In the aforementioned dreams, Joseph and the Magi acted on the information God delivered to them. The Lord roused these men in order to impart instructions, and they lost no time (but they did lose sleep) to follow His leading. 

What Sin Disgraces, Grace Displaces

I find hope and a call to action in these texts. What sin disgraces, grace displaces. Simply put, God loves to use underdogs and transgressors to carry out His plans, and He may use supernatural means to reveal them. Most importantly, if we are willing to be used, we must stand willing to obey.

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