The Nonreligious Christian

The Farts in Life

2012-02-01T15:31:00.005-05:00

Some time ago a famous evangelical minister posted a status asking his friends whether or not he should accept an invitation to be on a well-known talk show. The responses were immediate and affirmative, except for one guy, who questioned the minister’s right to appear on the show based on his past behavior.

I anticipated this pastor’s response, knowing it could be his shining moment. In my humble opinion, humility does a lot for one’s public image (not to mention one's relationships). ;) I imagined myself typing a response that I'd hope would read something like this:

“Joe,” thank you for your input. You are right. I don’t deserve to be in the pulpit again, much less be on that talk show.” And then I’d take the opportunity to explain how the grace of God has restored my life, and offer “Joe” a glimpse into that amazing grace. (I did a little stalking and found that "Joe" has been dealt a hard deck of cards in the way of physical suffering.)

But that was not at all how the minister responded. What he typed into a public comment field for his thousands of friends to see was exactly this:

“(Joe), don’t be such an idiot. Anyone with a cognitive impairment like yours should stay quiet because you reveal yourself.”

He then went on to compare "Joe" (whom he apparently didn’t know) to “the farts in life.”

This is an evangelical leader whose name most people would recognize. You’ve probably seen him on TV.

I was so shocked by his remarks that I sat there and sobbed for a while, and then off and on for the next two days. This was someone whose online persona exudes grace and humility. In fact, on the homepage of this pastor's ministry you can watch his video decrying Christian arrogance.

But what shocked me even more was the fact that out of over 250 commentors, only three of us called the minister on his character—or lack thereof.

It seems that too many people are, sadly, more impressed with charisma than with character.

I wrote to “Joe” on the comment thread and apologized on behalf of the man. I assured him that God does not view him as “an idiot,” and that we Christians are prone to gigantic blind spots sometimes. And then another pastor of a large church rebuked me for standing by the "sinner" (instead of siding with the Pharisee).

Still pondering the encounter days later, I asked myself, “If these ministers can be so blind to their shortcomings, what is it about me that I can’t see, that’s so obvious to everyone else?”

Maybe it’s that I shouldn’t even be writing about this. Maybe I’m trying to remove a speck in someone’s eye while I have a plank protruding from my own (See Matthew 7:3). And who knows whether this pastor has recognized, repented of, and confessed his sin, and asked forgiveness of those he offended?

I have struggled for weeks over what to do with this experience. I have prayed for this fellow minister. It’s not my intent to expose someone’s weaknesses. (Unless you know where my birthmark is, don’t ask me his name.) Searching my heart, my motive here is, as far as I can tell, to plead with all of us—especially those in ministry—to guard against arrogance.

Help me, Lord.

You Call This a Fast?

2012-01-17T11:53:00.004-05:00

When my pastor asked the congregation to join him in a prolonged fast, I was tempted to decline. Grace and freedom, you know—the stuff of spiritual “maturity.” God will tell me when to fast, thank you.

Except, our family was facing a huge crisis, so I said “yes” to Pastor John’s 21-day fast. “I so need to do this!” I emailed my small group. After all, that’s why we fast—so our stomachs will growl loud enough to impress God into giving us what we want.

Right?

Maybe if I fast God will heal me.

Maybe if I fast God will get me a job.

Maybe if I fast before tomorrow’s speaking engagement, God will make me sound brilliant and eloquent, and by default—humble.

So I made my list of “soul foods” –the things that, for me, too often distract and mask the God-craving—and I committed to abstaining until month’s end:

Facebook

Sweets

Coffee

Movies

Music CD’s/radio noise

I had barely started experiencing withdrawals when our crisis was suddenly resolved. My mouth watered at the thought of break-fast. But alas, the almond biscotti still waits in patient repose for February’s coffee, wrapped in the drawer beside me where I write. I have more reason to fast.

No—I have right, good, and Biblical reason to fast: I need to shed a few pounds of pride. I have two ears to clear for hearing. A heart out of tune, piping dissonant chords—discord—from my lips. Feet prone to wander. Eyes grown so dim I can’t see Him like I used to.

So I fast on.

I fast to half time and nothing seems different: I’m strong and every bit as fat with pride and I'm deaf, flat, aimless and blind.

Then I read in the place He talks about fasting:

*Is this what you call a fast? You give up one thing and replace it with another. You still find your soulish pleasures, reading and cramming and stuffing yourself full of alternatives to what you’ve pointlessly given up. Full of distraction, you’re still full of yourself, the finger still pointed outward, the tongue yet wagging accusation and strife. And what good is afflicting your soul if you haven’t turned to satisfying the afflicted soul of another…?

And so I fast on.

(*Isaiah 58, slightly condensed and paraphrased)

My Sermon on the Mount: A Paraphrase

2012-01-13T10:04:00.001-05:00

Feel free to sit here and listen while I preach to myself.

Matthew 5:1-16 (This is not meant to be an exhaustive commentary, just some scribblings and ponderings.):

Blessed are those who know they have much more to learn than they have to teach, and who are more eager to listen than to speak. The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the humble and the hungry.

Blessed are those who cry tears no one sees, for they have the best Comforter of all.

Blessed are those who do not need to be right, to have the last word, or win an argument. Blessed are those who are okay with being completely misunderstood and misjudged. This is meekness, not weakness. It requires divine strength.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness —pleasing God and doing His will—when everyone else hungers merely for knowledge, power or wealth. For these shall be filled to the full. Fulfilled.

Blessed are those who forgive when forgiveness is undeserved, and who recognize themselves in those they are forgiving. That is how they can feel compassion toward the people they find most difficult.

Blessed are those who understand that it takes more than an open mind to see God; it takes an open heart, offered up for cleansing. Clarity of heart gives way to clarity of vision.

If you really want to be called a child of God, be a peacemaker. Anyone can be a peace keeper. Get up and go and do and say the hard thing.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake—not for “being right’s” sake. You are not on a mission to convince or convict. Don’t take on the job of the Holy Spirit. Live righteously; if they reject you, they’re rejecting Jesus too.

When they poke fun at your faith and talk behind your back and take away your rights and don’t show you the same tolerance they expect for themselves, be glad. Many heroes of the faith have suffered all this and more. They cheer you on from above.

You are the salt of the earth. Salt is meant to be sprinkled, not unscrewed and poured onto a plate of food.* Be just different enough in your words and actions that others will recognize that you’ve got a certain unshakable hope that they need and want. God never called you to be weird, obnoxious or overpowering.

You are the light of the world. Let your faith translate into words and conduct that will point others to God in Heaven. This should be as natural as a city on a hill—living out of the amazing place and grace to which God has elevated you.

*I once heard my very wise Uncle Ben say this.

Coming out of My Funk

2012-01-05T11:17:00.016-05:00

I've been in a bit of a funk. It was over silly stuff - people who don't read and/or google. People who don't come to visit me (which was everyone, I was convinced. They think I live a thousand miles out on the tundra, when in fact I live exactly five minutes from town, if I'm the one who's driving. Eight if it's Dave.) Of course I was ignoring the other reasons why I think "no one comes to visit:"

1. I don't ask them to. I'm afraid I'm not a good enough hostess and no one likes venison or beans (fear of rejection).

2. I need to be more organized and plan things. Not everyone can be as spontaneous as I like to be. (Fear of rejection when I call someone and say, "Can you drop everything and come for dinner in like, five minutes? Because I actually made a killer falafel with tahini and it'd be a shame not to share it. Don't worry about the ice on the hill, we'll tow you up.")

Oh, and I've been really gloomy over my lack of blogging inspiration. Why can't I be one of those daily, anecdotal bloggers and amuse people with every day stories of building fairy castles in the woods and my low housewiferly self-esteem due to the fact that I hate to bake and sew (mostly, though I think I could love it, if I didn't love writing 1,000 times more)?

Of course, I was ignoring the other reason I don't blog more than I do: No one will read it (Again, fear of rejection).

So. I was watching John Piper live at Passion last night and he said something about seeing and "savoring" Jesus. Savoring. I sat there and thought about that word. It had been too long since I'd savored Him. Oh, I'm a real good God-girl. I do my devotions (Christianese for Bible-reading and prayer). But when is the last time I sat there in the silence and savored His presence - even before I felt it? When is the last time I simply waited on Him (Christianese for - oh never mind. You get the picture.)?

It so happened that my Bible reading this morning led me to I Peter 2:2-3: "As newborn babes, desire the pure milk of the word, that you may grow thereby, if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is gracious."

Tasted - (Greek) "eat, partake, feel, experience."

Gracious - "good, pleasant, comfortable."

In other words, if I have ever "tasted"- experienced God as a feeling of indescribable peace, joy and love coming from someone outside of myself, then I should already know that there is more where that came from. All I have to do is open the book and read, and then sit and savor. Savor Him.

(And not necessarily in that order! Don't you de-churched people go getting all rhema versus logos on me.)

Anyway. I knew I was defunked this morning because I did something I do even less than bake or sew: I sat down at the piano and played this song for a while:

Oh taste, and see that the Lord is good

Oh taste, and see that the Lord is good

He has turned my mourning into dancing

Put off my rags and clothed me with gladness

And I will arise and I will praise you

I'll sing and not be silent

Oh Lord! My God! I will give thanks to you forever!...

I'll live only for you

I'll lift these hands up to you

I'll dance before you

I will shout it, I will shout it to you...

Funeral or Homegoing Celebration? A Tribute to Reba Nauman

2012-01-04T16:08:00.004-05:00

Yesterday (Dec. 27, 2011) I attended the funeral of ninety-two-year-old Reba Nauman, who slipped into Heaven peacefully on Christmas Eve, after Alzheimer's Disease had rendered her silent for six months.

It's strange to think of Mrs. Nauman being quiet. I call to mind a feisty small-frame-of-a-woman not afraid to speak her mind. Like the time I was washing her dishes by hand, an ignorant newlywed accustomed to an automatic dishwasher. She walked by and saw that the suds had long turned to grease and floating food particles, and snapped, "Change that dishwater!" To this day, I hear Reba's voice echo over cold, dirty water draining in my sink.

I learned other things during my stays at the Nauman farm all those years ago. I understood that a forty-dollar bottle of fresh honey could cure varicose veins, and that a sharp pinch on the Achilles tendon diagnosed pockets in the colon. I learned not to waste things; spilled corn meal should be swept up and fed to the birds outside. One should never ride on the back of a three-wheel ATV on an incline. And a steaming hot bath is good for a bruised tail bone.

The most important lesson I learned though, was about blood relation. You see, I was a teenager traveling over a thousand miles from home, and having been raised far from my own grandparents. The Naumans offered me a place in their lives even though I wasn't their blood-relative. At least, not in the sense of natural genetics. But because of their belief in the unifying work of the Cross, God's spilled blood was enough to make me feel every bit a part of the family during those brief visits to the farm.

Even sitting there among friends and strangers yesterday, it felt like a grand family reunion. I can only imagine what Heaven will be.

That's why Reba's funeral was more of a celebration of a life well-lived in love for people. I'd felt it, I'd been one of countless blessed recipients. Like the neighbor kids she and Dan had packed into their car along with their own ten children to take to church every Sunday. The grandchildren she'd sewn clothes for. The others, like me, she'd offered the warmth of a home-away-from-home.

And like the kids she taught in Sunday School. Until the end, she was still found "teaching" them, alone in the bathroom, her ninety-year-old mind warped with disease. Her son-in-law would find her in there, hairbrush wagging in the air at invisible students. "Have you memorized your verses?" she'd say with enthusiasm.

I wonder if having Alzheimers is much like being intoxicated with drink when it comes to voicing what thoughts are otherwise hidden in the heart. Like the time when Reba told her son-in-law, "In the name of Jesus, shut up!"

Daughter gently but firmly corrected her. "Mother, we don't say 'shut up' in this house. Furthermore, that is my husband you just spoke to so disrespectfully."

"That's your husband?" Reba said. "Then you're in trouble!"

Such stories filled the church with laughter yesterday. But there were also tears of gratitude for those who laid down their lives to care for a woman who no longer recognized them. Teens giving up their space, wives sacrificing time to read pages aloud, grown men lovingly showering wrinkled skin through soaked Sunday clothes.

Now she is home. Reba is home! Yesterday was not another funeral. It was a joyous acknowledgement of--not something we merely believe, hope to be true, or wish for--but the realization, the knowing beyond a shadow of doubt, that she is more alive than ever--mind whole. Soul and spirit finally, fully alive in God's love. One day her withered body will rise, glorified perfect, to offer eternal worship to the One who exchanged His life for the one she now freely lives.

Germ A. Phobe Visits Retchville

2012-01-02T13:30:00.003-05:00

Germ A. Phobe didn’t choose her name; it was given her by the residents of Retchville. They thought it strange that she didn’t care to embrace their heaving habits, and had chosen instead to move to the faraway town of Intelligence, along the Research River, settling down on Respect Avenue.

But it was lonely living in a place where people stayed home when they were sick. In Retchville, sick or not, everyone went to work every day at the Stamina and Strength factory. They found great pride in their ability to suck it up and spread the Joy of Retching. They’d sneeze, and then slap each other high-fives for being tough.

Germ shuddered at the memories of hands and sleeves swiping wet noses. But she missed them none-the-less—every one of Retchers: Wallace and Vomit, the Hurleys, and dear old Ralph Pukester. She’d never felt more alone, sitting by the hearth in the small House of Consideration.

One evening she looked out the window and saw the glittering lights of far-off Retchville. Maybe she’d go for a short visit. It wouldn’t hurt. She’d draw a hot, Purell bath when she returned, just to be safe. Germ packed her bag with only a few necessities, leaving her surgical mask and latex gloves in the drawer where she’d stored them when she first moved to Intelligence. After all, she wasn’t really Germ A. Phobe.

Germ was greeted by the pleasant sounds of dogs barfing when she arrived in Retchville. She knocked on Chuck’s door, and he opened it, hugging a toilet bowl.

“Hey everyone, look who’s here!” he called to the crowd of purgers partying behind him. There were cheers as everyone raised their buckets in celebration of Germ’s arrival.

Germ blushed at their warm welcome. Spew took her coat, and reached into a bag of chips, bare-handed, to fill a plate for Germ. It was enough to make her want to climb up Chuck’s wall. Germ politely declined the plate of chips and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“How about a drink then?” Spew offered. He grabbed a cup by the rim and used his other hand to fill it with ice.

“No thanks,” Germ said. Maybe she’d made a mistake in coming. Could she ever acquire a taste for cookie tossing? They all had. Was she the only person left in the county of Common Sense who hadn’t embraced the Joy of Retching? Maybe they were right in naming her Germ A. Phobe. Maybe she should give in and heave a sigh of relief at finally being normal.

But she couldn’t do it. Germ grabbed her coat and headed out the door. Chuck ran after her. “Where are you going, Germ? The party is just getting started! You still have at least a *three-day opportunity to change your mind and join us!" Germ kept walking. "Farewell, healthy friend,” Chuck laughed sarcastically.

When Germ reached her house, she grabbed the sign on her door and turned it around. The other side read, “GermAware.” She smiled and went in for a long, hot bath—in water and rose-scented bubbles.

*According to the Mayo Clinic, the stomach flu is contagious for at least three days and up to two weeks after symptoms are gone.The incubation period for the virus can last up to three days, so if the bug is making its way through your family, you may already be infected without knowing it, and should exercise caution and consideration for others when mingling in public.

The Hated

2011-12-13T09:59:00.007-05:00

I have a heavy heart this morning. Yesterday my daughter told me that yet another one of her public school teachers had verbally singled out Christians as an object of scorn. That same day, my friend said that her son’s preschool has a policy against displaying Christmas trees, while making allowance for Menorahs and Kwanzaa candles.

I understand that much of this persecution arises because of the pure idiocy of some who call themselves Christians. And because far too many of us fail to understand how to properly represent the gracious person and spirit of Jesus Christ in the world around us. I get that. I so get that.

But what I don’t understand is how that those who seem to cry the loudest for tolerance are often the least willing to give it. And why is there not liberty and justice for all? And how is it that in public discourse, one can mention the name of Mohammed or Buddha and not miss a suave beat; but utter the name of “Jesus” and all goes silent as eyes peel or dart down into the protective cup of coffee?

Except I do understand. I sit here in the quiet hours of early morning and hold my Bible close, kiss its pages and read His blood-red words through the blur of my tears:

If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you….If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you. If they kept my word, they will keep yours also. But all these things they will do to you for My name’s sake, because they do not know him who sent Me….He who hates me, hates My Father also.” John 15:18-22

In the world you will have tribulation (greek=pressure, oppression, adversity). But be of good cheer, I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

His words are a healing balm to my wounded heart:

I have overcome the world.

Overcome.

I am over it.

I am not angry. I am not Victim. I am not vengeful with a picket sign or bruised with the worn knuckles of those who knock on the door of justice and get no answer.

I am hated.

But I am also loved.

And the more loved I allow myself to be by Him, the more ready I'll be when the real persecution rears its ugly head, rises to its feet, and heads Westward.

We with our thin skin and calloused hearts are hardly ready, my friends.

Book Review - "Married Mom, Solo Parent"

2011-11-29T23:03:00.002-05:00

Some of my local friends will remember Carla Coroy, fellow MOPS mom and Queen of Hospitality Extraordinaire, who left us years ago to move back to her home in Manitoba. Turns out she’s now a published author who’s written a book for the Married Mom, Solo Parent.

As the title suggests, Carla’s book offers hope for women who feel like single moms because their husbands work long hours or away from home, or may “work at home” sharpening online gaming skills until the first light breaks the sky.

I read the book, trying to imagine what it would be like to be a solo parent; Carla made it easy. Her heart-breaking stories of neglect by the local church made me want to send copies of the book to every pastor and leader in church ministry, and to every regular church-goer, for that matter. I only hope that I will be more sensitive to and understanding of the needs of my married friends who are going it alone.

The book’s subtitle is Finding Strength to Face the Challenge. I have to admit, I initially found myself wanting to re-subtitle it, Finding Strength to Immerse His iPad in the Dog Water. Carla offers no "fix-it" solutions for the uninvolved husband, which, at first glance, may seem hopeless.

But that's because I'm not a married-single parent.

This book is for those who have tried everything short of divorce, because they happen to believe that God offers something higher than escape from such a marriage. With tenderness and grace, Carla puts that “something” well within reach, in a refreshing and surprising way. Adhering fiercely to Biblical standards for marriage, Carla gives readers permission—not to settle for an apathetic coexistence—but to unapologetically honor the husbands God gave them, and to expect to thrive in the process. And she shows them how.

Carla also offers practical advice in areas such as discipline, chores, intimacy, community, and mealtimes, making this a must-have reference for married-single moms.

(Disclaimer: I received a free copy of this book from Kregel Publications for my honest review.)

Potty-Mouth Old Lady

2011-11-08T14:59:00.001-05:00

With neighbor Shirley’s permission, I’d like to share an incident that happened to her at work recently….

Shirley found out that her manager, young enough to be her grandson, was bad-mouthing her behind her back. Shirley doesn’t take kindly to being bad-mouthed in any manner, so she turned him in to his superiors.

A committee meeting was called. There were tears, and some thought Shirley might walk out the door for good. Later on, the twenty-something man towered over all five feet of the grey-haired woman and offered a failed apology:

“Don’t tell me you haven’t talked about me behind my back before,” he quipped.

“I absolutely have not!” Shirley said, wagging her finger in her young boss’s face. Then she added, “I take that back. Just now, when I was in the ladies’ room, I called you an @sshole.”

(It’s okay to laugh.)

The man turned red and Shirley’s co-workers, drawn to the fight, gasped and covered their mouths. Shirley stomped off.

The next day, Shirley knocked on her manager’s door and he invited her in to sit down in his office.

“I’ve come to apologize,” she announced. “If my dad was alive and had heard what I said to you, he would have knocked my head off my shoulders and let it roll across the floor.”

Her boss offered a sincere apology that time, and Shirley and the young store manager have been the best of friends ever since.

Because Shirley also knows her heavenly Dad is alive, and watching.

Movie Review: Dolphin Tale

2011-11-06T15:11:00.000-05:00

I never write movie reviews because by the time I do the movie I’m reviewing is a dvd covered in dust on your bookshelf. (I can’t justify fifteen dollars for a large bucket of theater popcorn.) But tonight a friend invited me to the discount theater to watch “Dolphin Tale.” It was well worth the price of the ticket and the popcorn.

I won’t spoil it except to offer my own reflections on the film:

“Dolphin Tale” is a story about hand-di-cap:

A disadvantage that makes achievement unusually difficult. (Merriam Webster dictionary).

It’s a story about removing the “dis” from “advantage” and realizing the role of personal suffering in reaching out to others with compassion.

It’s about recognizing the difference between being “hurt” and being “broken.”

It’s about being stripped of excuses….

As I watched the true story of Winter the tail-less dolphin, Kyle the “leg-less” swimmer and Sawyer the fatherless kid, I wondered…

How long will I allow my own “handicap” to excuse me from achieving what God has placed in my heart and hands to achieve?

And you? What is it that keeps you bound to the chair, like Kyle? Swimming in circles, like Winter? And on the brink of giving up, like Dr. Haskett?

Is it the lack of finances?

The want of a spouse?

A house?

A missing limb, or college degree?

May I remind you, “No one in his right mind would try to put a tail on a fish.” Sometimes our minds get more in the way of achievement than our handicaps.

Sometimes we need to shake off crippling thoughts, listen to our hearts, take the plunge and swim full speed ahead.

The Meaning of Life

2011-10-26T15:23:00.008-04:00

The meaning, or essence, of life is relationship. Everything is in relationship—from subatomic particles to parts of a cell to numbers to stars and galaxies. It takes things being in proper relationship to create and maintain harmony—on a micro and macro level.

Humans are also in relationship with each other, of course. Only it's no longer so proper, as it used to be. We were once so transparent we could walk around unclothed with total abandon. There was complete trust—no head games. We really, really knew how to love each other.

Then some little devil sold us a lie that we could do this on our own, be our own god, master the art of relationship without the instruction of the ultimate Artist. And we've been frantically hiding behind fig leaves ever since.

Now it's all about covering—not others, as is proper, but ourselves. Protecting the great Me, wearing masks, building walls for the preservation of the vast empire of Self.

It was better in the garden of Others, being ruled by the One who turned our faces upward and our arms outward from the beginning. He knew that was the only way we'd be happy.

But no, we told ourselves. We know how to be others-centered on our own.

How's that working for us?

Patient, He is. He came to show us how. Allowed himself to be laid bare to reveal a heart willing to die to bring us back into proper relationship. With Him, and with each other.

Some dare follow. Some dare to be loved back.

A healing pain, that love that will not let me go until it has peeled back the last layer of Self so that I may find my true self. All the while, He covers me.

One day, when the last leaf has fallen, “we will be like Him, for we will see Him as He really is.”

The voice of the Lord makes the hinds to calve, and strips bare the forests: and in his temple does every one speak of his glory.

(Scripture references: I Jn 3:2, Psalm 29:9)

On Bladder Health and Unsolicited Advice

2011-08-02T18:47:00.003-04:00

The other day I looked at a woman and thought, If she could listen to what I have to say, she’d be better off. If the opportunity availed itself, she’d hear in my instructive words that I just want her to be happy. My wisdom would change her life overnight. (I see you rolling your eyes. Don't tell me you never have those thoughts, unless you're the Sleeping Beauty.)

But I know as well as you do how obnoxious, how rude, how downright despicable people are who habitually offer unsolicited advice. We may deceive ourselves into believing otherwise, but the truth is, precious few of us appreciate unwelcome instruction packaged in the words of even well-meaning friends. We can be taught through a book, CD, seminar or by simple observation of others. But the minute someone offers, “Are you open to a new idea?” some of us flinch as though we’re being dragged into the multi-level marketing of herbal tinctures (Incidentally, did you know that Extract of Rupturewort has been shown to improve bladder health?).

At least, that’s how I feel, depending on who's doing the dishing out of advice. Don’t tell me how to run my life, thank you.

Except, I truly do believe that I could better the lives of some individuals, by offering the common sense that they are obviously blind to, if only they would ask. But I keep quiet; I am not that obnoxious world-changer (Some may beg to differ, and I am okay with that.).

Here’s the thing. I have to be willing to listen to your instruction to the same extent that I’d like you to listen to mine.

So. (Deep breath.) I, Faith Bogdan, do hereby give you permission to speak into my life. To remove the blinders, pull out the earplugs and wave red flags in my face when necessary. I may not appreciate it at first. I may flinch. I may hang up on you. But for the record,

I. Need. You.

I don’t have all the answers. If I have gained any wisdom, most of it was spoken through the lips of the diversity of people God has placed in my life. You are potentially one of those people.

It has been said that a mark of maturity is the ability to take correction. Here’s to more growth! Are you with me?

Lean in and Listen: A Tribute to Aunt Joy

2011-07-18T15:58:00.005-04:00

On July 12, 2011, my mother called with tragic news: my dad’s younger sister, Joy, passed away suddenly and unexpectedly on a flight to the Philippines, the beloved other homeland where orphans awaited her happy return. For days, a single thought went through my mind like a shockwave: Anyone but Aunt Joy. In the online obituary I wrote: “Never was there anyone more Christlike in character, in conduct, and in spirit.” All who knew her would agree.

When Aunt Joy informed my husband-to-be, years ago, that her young niece had moved from Florida to New York and was attending a local Bible School, she said, “You should go meet her, Dave. She’s a real treasure.” No, Aunt Joy, you are the treasure. Anything good in me was likely learned by watching your example. (Though I do thank you for the connection!)

Here’s what I mean. I’ll never forget the day that Aunt Joy spoke in a meeting. I don’t remember the occasion or the topic, but it was evident she’d inherited a family speaking gene. At the end, when everyone left, I took her aside. “Aunt Joy, Your speech was amazing. However, I have a complaint.”

She scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned in, eager to hear my words of correction. “Okay!” she gleamed as if I'd offered her a Caribbean cruise.

Who takes to instruction like that? Never had I witnessed such humility, such teachability in a fellow human being.

“My only complaint,” I said, “is that you stopped. I wanted to listen to you all day!”

If you knew her, you can imagine her reaction: the way she closes her eyes and throws back that glorious, Covergirl auburn hair, cups her mouth and laughs, “Oh Faithy! Dear, dear, dear Faithy!” She shakes her head wildly and looks at me intently with tear-filled, hazel eyes the same as mine. “It’s all Jesus. Anything good that I am is because of Jesus.”

Eventually, I’ll get my wish and hear her speak all day. Until then, the memories of a life well-lived echo across oceans and through tireless years of devotion, reminding me to lean in and listen.

In Loving Memory

Dorothea Joy Stutzman

September 10, 1947 - July 12, 2011

The Church is Full of Hypocrites (Part 2)--Drinkin', Cussin' and Detrimental Fussin'

2011-06-26T18:22:00.002-04:00

I imagine there may have been two types of reactions to my last post: resounding “Amens,” or the conclusion that I am a self-righteous, religious prude after all.

Truth be told, I am not as hung up on things like cussin’ and drinkin’ as when I see professing Christians (especially if they are in the ministry) flaunt those things, perhaps carelessly, in the public arena (cyber and otherwise). For the sake of love, I’d rather err on the side of caution than risk offending someone in that way.

But I feel the real hypocrites in the church are not those with “exterior sins,” but people who commonly act the way I once did....

Long, long ago (very long ago, when I was about two years old), I drove a half an hour to visit a new consignment shop (Less restrictive driving laws back then.). My sister, Grace, was with me. To our dismay, the store owner, for whatever reason, had closed the shop for the day. We saw her through the locked glass doors, and knocked until she came to see what we wanted.

“We drove a long way, from out of town, to visit your shop,” I said. “There was nothing on your website or answering machine about you being closed today.” I was curt enough to evoke a defensive response from the poor woman.

Grace whispered in my ear, “Be a Christian.” (Back then I would have said that she “hissed” in my ear.)

I then turned on my sister, and I wasn’t very nice. Not to my sister, and not to the lady who owned the store. And not to my sister in front of the lady who owned the store.

Oh, I had a point. I was right in my argument that we’d wasted all that time and gas for nothing. But one can be right the wrong way.

This is the biggest mistake Christians make in a world in which we’re supposed to model Christ. I see it happen all the time (now that I’m all grown up and matured beyond this kind of behavior. Wink.). I don’t care how non-alcoholic and clean-tongued a Christian is, there’s nothing like rudeness, complaining, or a harsh tone (in person or in a Facebook status) to kill one’s “witness.”

This is why waitresses dread working on Sundays. This is why we have a bad name. This is what makes us, in fact, unChristian.

Nowadays, when in situations like the one mentioned above, I ask myself, “What if this person visits my church next Sunday? What if she attends my speaking engagement?”

Perhaps the main question each of us should ask before venting any (even justifiable) rage in public is, “What if this person finds out I’m a Christian?”

And that is what I was trying to say all along.

"Woe to you...hypocrites! For you...have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith." Matthew 23:23 NKJV

"The Church is Full of Hypocrites"

2011-06-16T11:03:00.006-04:00

Recently a friend who had just been introduced to a fellow Christian at a church service said this to me: "I worked with her for years and never knew she was a Christian. She’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever seen.”

Ouch.

The conversation was a painful reminder of something we all have heard before: “The church is full of hypocrites.”

I am one of them; just ask my kids and closest friends. I do my share of tongue wagging. But encounters like the one with my church friend compel me to seek God’s help in becoming a weekday Christian and not just a Sunday morning one.

Because people are watching. As the old song goes, “You’re the only Jesus some will ever see.” I wonder, would someone know anything at all about what Christ is like based on my life alone?

Based on Christians in general? Ask any waitress or Little League coach and the answer may surprise you. Better yet, ask the person you live next to, work with, or sleep with.

Ask your Facebook friends. Do your status posts identify you as a Christ follower? (BTW, LMAO and "effin'" mean the same as spelling it out, and there is nothing terribly impressive about a Christian's public love affair with beer when impressionable kids or dear friends in recovery are watching.).

When I hear complaints about Christians whose daily walk and talk are inconsistent with their profession of faith, it makes me think some would be better off keeping quiet about their faith and staying out of the ministry.

It makes me take a good, hard look at myself and cry out to God for change.

Encounter with a Faith Healer

2011-04-27T12:28:00.006-04:00

There I was, sitting in the front row of a healing service, helpless against a Charismatic minister's attempt to heal my friend. I'd run into Valerie Shedden just a half-hour earlier in the ladies' room. As she gripped her walker and inched through the door I held open for her, I thought of my grandmother after she broke her hip. It was strange to see a young mom moving at the same pace, wincing in pain. Having Multiple Sclerosis was no way to raise a child.

Valerie made her way down the aisle for prayer at the close of the sermon. I followed and sat beside her, hopeful, daring to believe with her and for her. Faith-filled friends gathered around and prayed, each in their own way--some vehemently ordering the devil around, others--like me--quietly, but with authority, praying the Scriptures.

Then the minister grabbed Valerie's hands and ordered her to stand. My insides curled. I'd witnessed this kind of "presumptuous" behavior too many times through the years, and seen its destructive emotional effects. As Valerie struggled out of her seat, I buried my face in my hands and cried, "God, fix this!"

Suddenly a loud noise startled me and I looked up to see Valerie running and skipping across the front of the church, twirling and whooping, laughing and raising her hands in praise. People around me cheered triumphantly, clapping and jumping high into the air. I clapped too, in slow motion, gaping at my walker-less friend, processing the undeniable fact that Valerie Shedden had just been instantly healed of Multiple Sclerosis.

I'd witnessed my first in-person, instantaneous healing miracle. The date was March 14, 2010.

I would have blogged about it then, but --being the person of "strong faith" that I am--I wanted to give it time, wait for the doctor's documentation (she got it), and see where Valerie would be a year from then.

Why was Valerie healed that night? Was it her humble faith? The minister's bold faith? Or did a sovereign God decide that it was simply her time?

While I continue to grapple with such questions, a thirty-something red-head frolics among trumpeting daffodils with her daugher just minutes down the road. I see her on a regular basis, and if I didn't know better, I would never guess that Valerie Shedden once had MS.

But don't take my word for it. Let her tell you her own story.

2011-04-12T08:07:00.001-04:00

Thanks for stopping by! These days I'm blogging at www.ourspendingfreeze.wordpress.com. Stop in and see what I'm up to! I'll be back here soon.

The Day the Lord Returned and Left My Brother Behind

2011-04-01T12:57:00.006-04:00

It's April Fool's Day!

What is the best prank you ever played on anyone, or had someone play on you?

For me, it was undoubtedly that September morning in 1988, the day that Edgar C. Whisenant predicted would be the Second Coming of Christ (88 Reasons Why the Rapture is in 1988). Perhaps you remember the whirlwind of controversy his book stirred up. People everywhere were either laughing their heads off at the misguided minister, or preparing their hearts for the Rapture.

My dad was preparing the practical joke of a lifetime.

My brother John and I went into the kitchen expecting to see Dad sitting there at the table as usual, his Bible open beside the breakfast of health food champions: raw oatmeal and raisins. But he was nowhere to be found. Instead, what we saw was a pile of rumpled clothing on his chair and empty socks and shoes on the floor. Their shapely appearance suggested Dad had been lifted out of them and ushered into glory, stark naked.

Forgetting that date setting went against our family's End Time theology, John screamed, "It's true! It's true! Jesus came back!"

I consoled him by saying, "Obviously it's not true. I'm still here."

Sisters are like that.

The Great Egg Balancing Hoax

2011-03-23T21:06:00.002-04:00

Perhaps you’ve done it—balanced an egg on its wide end sometime during the vernal or autumnal equinox. A friend of mine introduced this phenomenon to me recently, explaining that on these two days of the year, the sun and the earth’s gravitational pulls are balanced enough to keep Humpty Dumpty from wobbling.

I tried it and it worked. There we were, marveling at the wonders of the universe, never minding that we had gone through several eggs to find just “the right one”—particularly one with a tiny tripod of calcium deposits on its base.

I posted our miracle on Facebook and someone replied with a video showing how equinox egg balancing is, in fact, a hoax. The power of suggestion (and lack of patience) disables spring devotees from balancing eggs any other day of the year.

I felt the chagrin associated with being taken by a scam. My friend felt far worse, refusing to believe it at first. She’d balanced eggs on the first day of spring and fall every year since she was a kid. It was a beloved family tradition, a magical memory, and—so she thought—a wonderful science lesson to pass on to friends.

When I emailed this photo to my friend, two days after “the window of opportunity” to balance an egg—she confessed to being a “doubting Thomas.” She said the whole experience caused her to examine her mindset in other areas of her life.

I am reminded of the day I too examined a particular mindset. I awoke one morning and asked myself, Why do I believe in the God of the Bible? What if it’s a hoax—a beloved tradition that I am unwilling to let go of, one that blinds me to objective truth?

I realized that it could not be about what I want to believe. It has to be about wanting to know the truth.

Some days I don’t want to believe that morality matters (because relationships matter). That there is Someone Who watches over every jealous, envious, resentful, deceiving, bitter, complaining, arrogant and self-righteous thought and intent of my heart.

Or that there could be a place called “Hell”—the voluntary, eternal separation from a loving, thus free-will giving God.

So I had to dig for answers outside of my Western, American Christian traditions and conditioned responses. I had to patiently, diligently, “steady the egg” through studies in Biblical archeology, the authenticity of ancient manuscripts and so on.

To my astonishment, truth stood upright before my wide-open eyes, on the level bedrock of reason.

Do you know why you believe what you believe?

Summer and winter, springtime and harvest. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above. Join with all nature in manifold witness, to thy great faithfulness, mercy and love. --Thomas O. Chisholm

Why I Don't Listen to Worship Music or Read Spiritual Books

2011-03-15T11:37:00.005-04:00

I’m about to admit something publicly for the first time. I figured I’d have to sooner or later. One can’t be heavily involved in the Church and keep this a secret for too long:

I rarely listen to music—even worship music. I don’t care much for spiritual books (devotionals and books to help one grow in the faith).

Here’s why. For years I have observed a phenomenon in the church at large. Lay people and ministers alike clutter their minds with noise—Christian radio and cd’s—from the time their feet hit the floor in the morning until the time they tuck their toes in bed. Some even continue the noise after that—with soothing sounds to lull them to sleep. The next morning they start the day with waterproof shower music and turn on the car CD player the second they turn the key. There is always music playing. Good music. For some, 100% God-music.

But it’s noise.

Then they find themselves at a crisis or crossroad and need an answer from God, and they can’t figure out why He isn’t speaking.

Perhaps He can’t compete with the noise in our heads. Perhaps we rarely get quiet enough to hear His voice. It is still and small, as He told us.

We don’t hear that still, small voice through the noise of the lyrics still buzzing in our ears long after the music has been shut off, so what do we do? We read. We pick up the latest hot item from the hottest conference speaker and hope that maybe we can hear God’s voice in the pages written by one of His spokesmen.

But too often it’s just more noise—another voice singing a different tune. And it clutters our minds and clouds our thinking and clogs up our spiritual ears.

The last time someone handed me a spiritual book and said, “This will change your life,” I took him up on it. I sat down and began reading, and my spiritual insides growled with hunger for the real book. This one was a packaged, processed, instant substitute for God’s potent Word. It was watered down, “Truth lite.” It required no meditation or digging for meaning. It was the stuff of man-made revelation fluff. I felt homesick for the real thing.

Worship music has its place in my life. I love high-powered God-songs in corporate worship on a Sunday morning. Or while I’m scrubbing the bathtub or when I need a little something to help me get through those unavoidable hours of kill-me-now dinner preparation and vegetable chopping. Or when I'm overwhelmed with sorrow or gratitude and the only appropriate response is to sit at the piano or turn on a CD and dance.

Niche devotionals can be helpful in defined seasons of life (I just helped to write one.). There are spiritual books that have changed my life and I continue to recommend to them to others.

But nothing can compare to the miracle that happens when one fills up the quiet with the sound of munching on the pure, rich Word of God.

And then waits.

If we keep it quiet, He’ll be sure to speak.

My Radio Interview on Unemployment (And Suicidal House Plants)

2011-03-01T21:17:00.002-05:00

You know you're a Facebook addict when you dream up a status in your sleep. Here's what my slumbering fingers typed last night:

I've finally figured it out: my house plants are dying of suicide.

I told Dave about it when I woke up and he dared me to make it a real status. I'm not that desperate for my dreams to come true.

What does this have to do with today's radio broadcast, you ask? A great deal. Because while Dave and I were on the subject of funny Facebook statuses, we dreamed up this one wide awake, and I contemplated posting it:

Here ye! Hear me! I'll be speaking at Braggsburg Community Church tomorrow on the "The Perils of Self Promotion." Don't miss me!

Dave and I like to make fun of self-promoters, and we always wonder if they know how bad they make themselves look:

My book has reached the Dollar Tree! Praise me! Praise me!

But in all fairness, some of us genuinely believe that our creative efforts in the form of books and such may reach one person and change his life forever. For that reason, we are willing to risk being labeled a self promoter.

The truth is, we want to promote Jesus. And to do that, it sometimes means promoting our stuff--the things we write and say about Him.

Now then. At the end of this post, there may be a tiny link to a radio interview on the subject of unemployment. It may encourage someone.

Go ahead and click on it. And while you do, I'm off to water some dejected house plants.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/cwa-radio/2011/03/01/sisterhood-of-beautiful-warriors

Raise Your Boo-tay

2011-02-26T10:06:00.001-05:00

The other day I was met with disappointment that weighed my spirits, literally, to the ground. After about twenty-four hours of moping around the house, mourning the loss of a certain hope, I fell to my knees on this spot--the wicker chair cushion I store indoors during winter months. It hides in my living room behind a love seat, under my special Peruvian wool throw:

There I let loose a torrential rain of self-pity. God didn't mind, and was kind enough to warm me with the sun's rays pouring in through the East window. I pray in that direction for no special reason, and I pray with boo-tay in the air, like a Muslim, simply because if I don't, I will limp away on prickly, nonexistent legs when finished.

Even if that happens, I always walk away with a lighter heart.

The next day I found myself back in my "prayer closet" for a different reason. I had been reading the Song of Solomon and was overcome once again with the realization that even though Jesus and I have been together for quite some time now (about 35 years), His love for me hasn't grown cold.

Sometimes I let myself believe, deep down, that He reserves His amazing forbearance and strongest affections for passionate and zealous new converts--"newlyweds." But with me--and my stubborn hangups and tenacious habits--He certainly gets tired, like a bored marriage partner.

But Dave is not like that. After seventeen years of marriage, his love for me has only grown.

Could it be that Jesus loves me thus? That He is unmoved by my "down days?" That I will always be close to His heart, and no desert wandering or dismal failure of mine will ever change that? That I am no disappointment to Him, despite days of apathy and seasons of complacency? That He is, in fact, not turned away from me with folded arms? That I can instantly step back into that flow of grace and power to do what He has asked me to do, as if I'd been there all along?

Once again, a rush of tears.

Where do you pray? And do you raise your--you know.

Oh my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely." --SS. 2:14

Why Some Men Don't Get Enough Golf

2011-02-14T12:12:00.014-05:00

Years ago my husband asked someone if he and his wife were going to have any more kids. "You have to play golf to have kids," the man muttered.

Now this made me sad, because I'm a firm believer that married couples should be playing golf. I had to wonder why the man wasn't getting any golf. Perhaps the scenario I've observed in so many homes repeated itself in his house as well:

She spends the entire day chasing a toddler away from mischief, nursing a baby, scrubbing the house, doing laundry, and cooking his dinner. She barely has time to shower before he walks in the door ready to eat. He scarfs down her efforts thanklessly, then plops down in the La-Z-Boy with the remote. His work day has ended, but hers continues as she washes the dishes, bathes the babies, helps with homework and finally collapses into bed, exhausted.

And there he comes, expecting her to play golf.

When Dave told me about the conversation with the aforementioned man, I wished that I had been there. I'd have told him to be man enough to load the dishwasher, change a diaper or run a vacuum. Read a book to the kids. Talk to his wife. Then I would have added, "Dave gets all the golf he wants." (Dave is suddenly choking, watching me type this. Must be I over-peppered the stir-fry again.)

Ladies, I'll take payments in cash, checks or chocolate for this post. Men, I've written a similar piece to your wives on this topic. They can read it in Daily Guideposts: Your First Year of Motherhood, on shelves April 1.

Garbage Plate

2011-01-30T22:07:00.006-05:00

Buffalo has its wings, Philly has its cheese steak... and Rochester has its garbage. On a plate. That's right, in 1918 Nick Tahou became famous with local college students for his fatty "hots and po-tots" special. One day a customer asked a waitress for "one of those plates with all the garbage on it" and Garbage Plates became a trademark and famous regional food in that part of upstate New York.

I had the "pleasure" of trying my first (and last) Garbage Plate at the home of connoisseurs Ryan and Carrie last night. Here is my official guide to building one:

Start with a layer of Ore Ida home fries:

Spread them with a mayo mess of macaroni salad (the leftovers of which I tend to seal tightly in metal garbage cans at picnics since I don't believe in animal cruelty).

Next comes caramelized onions.

Then the meat sauce.

Then the plain old meat. This can be two hamburger patties, a texas hot, egg, steak, fish, or whatever you want to beef up your garbage.

No Garbage Plate is complete without condiments. One on-line instruction guide recommends half an 11-ounce bottle of ketchup. A huge glob of mustard. And hot sauce. Hot sauce is a must.

The key to enjoying your Garbage Plate is to make it look as close to dumpster material as possible. So stir it up until it's one color. (This is where I drew the line.)

Finally, take a bite. Have a tall glass of ice cold soda ready to sip between bites (carbonated drink, or "pop" for you native northerners). Take. Your. Time.

It's a good time to become a bulimic. I had a Pepto Bismol smoothie for breakfast this morning.

Dave totally surprised me. This is the man who refined my taste when we got married 17 years ago. He taught me to cook from scratch and use fresh herbs, that "American cheese" is an oxymoron, and that "casserole" is a swear word. Either he was starving, or just plain old starving. He had two plate-fulls!

Here are Ryan, Kim and Carrie enjoying their "Plats de Refuse," so named at the five-star Lodge at Woodcliff, where the restaurant owner requires customers who order it to eat out of view, at the bar.

All in all, it was a fun now-I-can-say-I've-done-it experience. And not really all that bad compared to other foods I've tried. Did I ever tell you about the hairy goat soup I ate in Haiti?

If You Give a Mouse a Facebook Account

2011-01-22T12:33:00.005-05:00

(If you are not a parent or elementary school teacher who has read the book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, you may not get this. You may not get it anyway. I'm okay with that.)

If you give a mouse a Facebook account, she will want to post a status.

If she posts a status, and it is at all witty, profound, or strange, she will receive a comment.

She will reply to said comment.

She will check her notifications for a reply to said reply.

Before long, the mouse will be staring at a long thread of comments and think to herself, "Wow, look how famouse I am."

The mouse will wait anxiously, patiently, every day, for more notifications, ignoring the opened box of cookies in the cupboard.

Soon she will realize how self absorbed she has become, and post a "farewell" status, announcing to her Facebook friends her decision to quit Facebook.

When no one replies, she will go to bed devouring the box of cookies, realizing that no one ever cared that she was on Facebook after all.

She will be accused of being "extreme" and will want to throw herself in front of a cat.

Then she will realize how extremely self-absorbed she is for even thinking such thoughts, and mutter, "I hate Facebook."

Then she will open her Facebook page again, this time to make a quick check on her friends' well-being--not to post anything. Because she is not, in fact, extreme--just balanced.

(This post is dedicated to my fellow posting addicts. If you are a gamer, seek professional help or consider deleting your account and wearing a Farmville patch.)

(The "patch" idea is not original. It is borrowed from my brilliant friend Suzette, who definitely should be posting more status. Lurker.)

Help Me Identify My Love Language

2011-01-20T21:04:00.007-05:00

If you are not familiar with Gary Chapman’s book The Five Love Languages (how we best express and receive love), here is a list of them, with my comments after each.

I was wondering, can you help me figure out which one of the five is my love language?

1. Physical touch: The last time Dave gave me a shoulder massage, I got annoyed and asked him to quit.

2. Gifts: This may be my secondary love language, as I've already purchased a Valentines' gift (3 weeks early) for Dave. However, I may have nibbled at it a bit.

3. Quality time: Do movies count?

4. Acts of service: What, your husband doesn't do the dishes?

5. Words of affirmation: Like when readers comment on my blog posts and Facebook status? Like when they “like” me? Like if Dave says something beyond “I love you,” such as “You’re a great mom” or “I really like the subtle nutmeg flavor you added to these muffins” or “thanks for being a wonderful wife” or “you look hot in that dress?” And if no one makes the effort to give me a thumbs up on my Moroccan lentil soup or haircut I get depressed and mutter “the heck with the world and I hate everybody," and then I consider packing my bags and going on a road and boat trip to Baffin Island, where there is likely no internet and no email and no possibility that I’ll open my inbox to find no compliments and no facebook notifications!!!!!!

Tell me, shrink. Which might my love language be?

Which is yours?

(On a more serious note, I'm finding that the more I grow as a person--the more I allow God to teach me to love more fully-- I am becoming "multi-lingual" in regard to the love languages. I'm a much better giver. I make it a point to hug and kiss my kids several times per day. I seek out ways to spend quality time with them. And I realize that the only words of affirmation I really need are from God. "...A person with a changed heart seeks praise from God, not from people." Romans 2:20 NLT)

Good-bye Facebook

2011-01-09T22:13:00.003-05:00

(This post is dedicated to Anna, Sarah, Rebecca and Ruthie. You are all worth it.)

I'm not deactivating my account. I'm just taking charge of my life as a result of a wake-up call Saturday morning.

After being gone a few days for a speaking engagement, and running errands, I finally settled down with the girls on the living room floor, promising that the day would be "Girl Day!"

"Really?" they asked.

"Yep. As a matter of fact, watch this!" I said. My four darlings watched wide-eyed as I shoved my laptop into the case it hadn't seen for weeks. I might as well have been a chain smoker throwing away my cigarettes. They shrieked with delight. Rebecca said, "I just love you, Mom!"

"How come?" I asked.

"Because you're spending all this time with us!" We hadn't even begun yet.

We spent the day playing new Christmas games and snuggling in my bed with popcorn and a movie on TV. The movie was "King Arthur" and at one point I told the girls I needed to unwrap the laptop and google King Arthur so that I could better explain what was happening. They all groaned, "Sure, Mom," and mumbled something about Facebook. I assured them of my sole googling intention, but the King Arthur page was slow-loading; certainly a quick check for Facebook notifications while waiting wouldn't hurt.

Twenty minutes later the girls still didn't understand why the Saxons were invading Britain; I had forgotten that a war was even going on. A storm of popcorn hail blew through the bedroom and juice soaked my pillow. Then a fight broke out.

That's when I knew what I had to do: I checked my Facebook inbox.

And that's all I'll be checking from now on. No more Facebook interaction, except for new blog posts and very big news. I will miss following my Facebook friends, but I've had too much fun following my kids' antics--those little details that I've missed while hiding behind a computer screen. Besides, I've got work to do.

Of course I want to be accountable, so I'll be posting daily Facebook status updates of my successes and failures in this new endeavor....

Wait. Never mind.

Just Do It

2011-01-07T15:26:00.000-05:00

My dad has been involved in prison ministry for over twenty years. He has a rapport with the inmates that keep them coming to his class day after day. What’s not to love about a sixty-eight-year-old Bible teacher who walks up to the podium with his jeans purposely pulled down to expose boxers, evoking laughter from all his adoring “homeboys?” Dad is so well respected in the Florida prison system, he was offered a position as County Chaplain. He turned it down for fear of losing personal contact with the inmates in exchange for hours of deskwork and red tape. He is a four-time recipient of the "volunteer of the year” award.

I once asked him, “How did you know it was God’s will for you to go into prison ministry? Did you have a sign? A ‘word’ from God?”

Dad's answer made a lasting impression on me, and has affected the way I understand spiritual guidance.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t even pray about it. I saw a need and I was available to fill it.”

Don’t get me wrong. There is a time and place for waiting on God to receive specific instruction before jumping at a good opportunity. If family or health is at stake, for instance, get God’s input. (I could write an entirely different post about the multitudes of worn-out people who never consult God about their endless activities.)

But a word to Christians who need a lightning bolt answer from Heaven before deciding whether to have tuna noodle casserole or ham loaf for dinner (take my advice and have neither): You’re freaking me out. Quit being so spooky, and wondering why your non-believing friends want nothing to do with your religion.

On simple matters of helping people, God told us His will through the wise King Solomon long ago:

“Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in the power of your hand to do so.” Proverbs 3:27

For those that still aren’t convinced, here is your word from God for today: JUST DO IT.

Ruthie's Christmas Shoes

2010-12-31T11:23:00.011-05:00

If you read the recent Ithaca post, you may remember the skirt I mentioned buying for Ruthie. I was tickled with this purchase, as Ruthie has been wearing nothing but jeans everywhere she goes, including to church. I have nothing against wearing jeans to church, but I am adamantly against my baby girl growing up too fast and no longer letting me doll her up in frills and bows. So I found this skirt at Trader K's in Ithaca and hoped against hope that it would find favor with my teenage wanna-be.

It did. Except that she needed dress shoes to wear with it (I couldn't convince her that her faded brown cowgirl boots would suffice). So off I went to my beloved Kohl's in search of proper shoes.

Headed to the back of the store, it crossed my mind that I could pray for dress shoes. I half-heartedly breathed a quick prayer, feeling that I'd asked for too much lately. Honestly, I hoped God had stayed in the parking lot, so as not to witness my frivolous spending.

Before I could say "Amen," my eyes fell upon these little beauties, left alone on the kids' clearance shelf, marked down to $6.47, in Ruthie's size only:

"Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him." Matthew 6:8

"Every good and perfect gift is from above...." James 1:17

For more on this topic, check out God Bought Me Some Perfume.

If I Lost My Baby....

2010-12-27T00:31:00.003-05:00

There are certain thoughts that go through your mind in an ER examining room with your daughter. As I tied Anna into her hospital gown today, tenderly lifting her long, chestnut-colored hair off her back, the inevitable question arose without warning:

Could I go on living without her? This gentle-spirited girl known for her constant smile and graceful composure in the most chaotic circumstances? This beautiful child who broke open my womb fourteen years ago in this very place, who has brought me immeasurable joy ever since?

I have always felt that losing a child must be one of the most painful (if not the most painful) of human experiences. But I have yet to lose a close loved one. Suddenly, the day after Christmas, my precious firstborn is suffering vision loss, a tear-inducing headache, and extreme fatigue--symptoms unnerving to this mother who's typically nonchalant when it comes to illness.

Of course I prayed for healing, as I am a believer in miracles. But deep down, the what-if's continued as I awaited the results of blood work and a CT scan, followed again by that question I'd never faced until this day:

How would I go through life if God chose to take my baby?

In the horrid split-second darkness of that contemplation, a speck of hope--a solitary consolation suddenly flickered. Six words sprang up into my spirit, bringing me the assurance that I could indeed make it to the end of my life--even triumphantly--without my precious Anna Grace:

I will be with her again.

Make that seven words:

...forever.

All test results came back normal. The doctor's instructions were to "wait and see." I expect that soon enough Anna will be plowing through our fresh, thick blanket of snow on her snowboard, then bursting through the front door for some hot chocolate, her cheeks beaming rosier red than usual.

For the time being, I am drawn to a passage I've read many times before, and now it takes on new meaning:

"If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable." I Corinthians 15:19

The Beautiful (Barred) Bridges of Ithaca

2010-12-21T07:35:00.002-05:00

Today Dave and I drove to one of my favorite places on earth—the “gorges” Ithaca, NY. The day was one fantastic collage of indulgences...

...having coffee in the Cornell campus café with Totka, our Bulgarian friend…

...walking across the Cascadilla gorge, stopping to gaze far below at waterfalls tumbling over giant icicles and frozen streams…

...having Indian food at Sangam and reading Dave’s mind from across the table (Isn’t it wonderful the way the curries tap dance on your tongue…. Don’t forget to have some kheer)…

...finding a perfect skirt for Ruthie of plaid and satin at Trader K’s for $3.25….

These are but a few of the things that drew me northward to leave the quiet hills of Gillett, Pennsylania, and enter the hustle and bustle of college town.

Something happens to me when I cross the city limit into Ithaca. I come alive—especially on the Cornell campus, or in the Commons. I like to sit and watch the rainbow of individuals go by: professors walking with determined pace; bikers sleek in their spandex, zig-zagging past Chinese physics majors hurrying to compensate for shorter legs, and hurrying because of their endless energy; hipsters and Goths with their electric hair and messenger bags, meandering through accommodating crowds.

Ithacans represent for me the soul that beautifies itself with questions, doubts, searches and discoveries. Faces are left unpainted while spirits shine with the brilliant color of individual thought. It’s all beauty.

That’s what I was thinking on the bridge. That the gorge below was as lovely as the people that walk across it day after day.

Then I looked up and saw that they have added a wire structure atop the railing since our last walk across:

It seems not everyone sees the beauty of the falls. Some only see the fall. The escape. The luxurious jump that ends all that has gone wrong in this world. Intense academic pressure and broken relationships have caused one too many to miss the voice that can be heard in the thunderous rush of an icy waterfall:

You are beautiful. More beautiful to Me than even this, which was made for you.

Have Yourself a Slacker Little Christmas

2010-12-19T01:25:00.019-05:00

I relax here beside my old synthetic scotch pine and realize that Christmas day is one week away. Seven days left to do all the things they tell me I have to do. And yet…

No presents have been wrapped.

Some are still in transit and may not arrive in time.

Some have yet to be made.

The house is a disaster. Flakes of royal icing fall like snow from gingerbread houses and leave a white dusting atop the wet mittens, hats and scarves that cover the dirty kitchen floor. Icicle lights along the roof trim stop three yards shy of the end of the house and dangle alongside a support beam, adding a tacky flair to our cozy cabin in the woods. Someone left a loaded caulking gun resting innocently near the dining table. You get the picture.

No cards have been sent, or newsletter written, or cookies baked, or family portrait made.

A few years ago I would have panicked. “I’m not ready for Christmas!,” I’d chime in with the song of the masses. Then our lives were turned upside down and we were forced to discover the things that matter, buried beneath the stuff we thought we had to have and the things we thought we had to do.

Sitting here today amid this happy mess, hearing my children’s voices as they romp and play in the snow, thinking of guests who will arrive this week, needing, not a polished house, but a comfortable home to rest body and soul… I am at peace. And more ready for Christmas than I’ve ever been before.

A Test for Heavenly Correctness

2010-12-06T23:23:00.010-05:00

Christian, pretend you are a non-believer, working as a retail clerk. You say to a customer, “Happy Holidays.”

Which of the following responses from the Christian customer would most likely make you want to become a Christian?

A. “Excuse me. Did you just say, ‘Happy Holidays?’ It’s ‘Merry Christmas.’ You know what? I know you say that because you don’t want to offend anyone, but you just offended me. How’s that for trying to be politically correct?"

B. “And you have a very happy holiday as well!” She looks you in the eyes and smiles warmly.

Choose one answer. Try not to over-think it. This is a simple quiz. If you get stuck, take a break and come back and try again. You may want to try using the process of elimination to find the right answer. Or phone-a-friend. If you are still stuck, read the book UnChristian by Dave Kinnaman.

The Hole in Adam's Donut

2010-11-08T21:53:00.063-05:00

When my kids were little they used to watch videos of Rob Evans “The Donut Man” singing “Life without Jesus is like a donut, ‘cause there’s a hole in the middle of your heart.” You may have heard or perhaps even recited the God-shaped-hole cliché: In every human heart there is a God-shaped hole…

It’s true. That “something missing” is a friendship with our Creator.

But Frank Ferrari, who spoke at Ephrata Community Church last Sunday, had further insight into the fact that we are created for relationship. Consider pre-fallen Adam. He enjoyed a level of intimacy with God that we can only dream of—completely transparent, guiltless, fearless, open and audible communication, twenty-four hours a day.

There was no hole in Adam’s donut.

AND YET! Look at what God said when he stepped back to examine his first human masterpiece—the man God would walk with from garden sunrise to sunset, enjoying endless conversation:

“This is so not cool! He is alone” (Gen. 2:18, my paraphrase).

So God made Adam a companion, because, as Ferrari explained, inside every human heart there is also a "human-shaped" hole. Jesus can’t fill that one. He left it up to us to fill in each other.

So. I call to mind the several Christians I have met along the way who attend the First United Church of Just Me and Jesus. Darling, you’re wrong. The only physical representation of Jesus we have on the earth at this time is the people that make up His Church—all believers. ("And the church is his body; it is made full and complete by Christ, who fills all things everywhere with himself." Eph. 1:23, NLT)

We are it.

We are the donut hole.

We need each other, like it or not. For our love for God is played out in our love for people. Doing life in the context of relationships keeps our deceitful hearts exposed to ourselves; when we set out to rub shoulders with people only to find we get rubbed the wrong way, we find out who we really are.

But the importance of relationship extends beyond the walls of the church. It is the most basic human need.

It's why studies link physical wellness to healthy relationships.

It's why some will offer and accept free hugs among strangers in the marketplace.

It's why Chuck Nolson (Tom Hanks in Castaway) created "Wilson" out of a volley ball, and gave up on life when that ball--which represented the only relationship he had, floated away.

It is why we are here.

“The essence of life is relationship.” –Victor Dodzweit

Church Mutt

2010-11-05T10:23:00.005-04:00

I once heard the darling Margaret Feinberg refer to herself as a “church mutt.” I can relate. My parents gave me a full range of church experience—dragging me off to “revival” meetings where I grew up in the south, and to conferences and vacation Bible schools everywhere and any time the doors were open. As a result, I feel at home with any Bible-believing group of people. I am not denominationally pedigreed.

I am a church mutt.

I am part reformed. I can march to the sovereign, almighty tune of the Pied (John) Piper and sniff out faulty theology from a mile away. I like to chew on the pure Word. It’s the Gosssspel of Christ!

I am part emergent. I am a hip, organic, raw, authentic, poverty-fighting, justice-loving, earth-tending follower of Christ. Dude.

I am part Charismatic. I’ve tabernacled, harp-and-bowled, danced undignified, and traded my sorrows at the river and in the vineyard. I know about “soaking” at IHOP, and if “courtesy drops” count, I’ve been slain in the spirit twice.

I am part black gospel. I spent much of my childhood attending a mostly black Pentecostal church. I know how to get all dressed up, get all excited, go tell everybody that Jesus Christ is Lord. HalleLUjah!

I’m part independent. I'm willing to raise the standard, be holy, walk uprightly, come out from among them, stay in fellowship, submit to leadership, be loyal and be sweet.

I'm part southern gospel. I like to talk, sang and thank about Heaven and fried chicken, not nec'arily in that order. Y'all pray for me now, ya hear?

I’m part denominational. I know how to tithe, fill out the card, recite the creed, sing the hymns (how I love the hymns!), read the bulletin, pray for the missionary, update the building and eat a harvest turkey dinner a week before Thanksgiving. I like Jack Chick tracts, puppet evangelism and total immersion.

I’m part Quaker. (Pause here for an hour of silence.)

I’m part Calvary Chapel. Verse by verse… We’ll get to the book of Revelation eventually, hopefully before Jesus’ return (which apparently is soon, if you ask my man Chuck.).

I’m part Catholic. I value suffering and caring of the poor. I love quietness and solitude, sacred places, reverence, stained glass windows, and big families with mannerly kids.

I’m part Messianic Jewish. I like to dance “like David danced” and pray for Israel. I almost passed out trying to blow a shofar once (I'm sticking to the tambourine.). I love a good leg of lamb roasted with fresh rosemary and garlic at Passover.

I’m part home-church. I’ve been Shack-ed and told He Loves Me. I’ve been religiously de-toxed, de-institutionalized, de-systemized, de-programmed and de-organized, and I’ve gained twenty pounds on pot luck dinners alone.

I am part word-faith. I might have a tiny (gulp) Osteen gene in my body somewhere. I am blessed. So blessed. So very, very blessed. I do confess.

I’m even small part Seventh-Day Adventist; I like my veggies, whole grains and natural sugar substitutes. But don't take away my "sundae's" (wink).

I don’t agree with all that's represented by the aforementioned neighborhoods of Christ’s Church, but none-the-less, many members thereof are Heaven’s blood-bought future residents. Take a look at the following list of just a few of them. Before you make your celestial reservation, check to see if you would mind living next door to any of the following people for eternity (I must admit, I was disturbed by what feelings surfaced in my own heart as I typed some of these names.):

~Joyce Meyer~John MacArthur~John Bevere~T.D.Jakes~Beth Moore~Charles Stanley~Rick Warren~Rick Joyner~Mike Bickle~NT Wright~Cindy Jacobs~Luis Palaw~Bill Bright~Nancy Leigh DeMoss~Chuck Colson~Loren Cunningham~Heidi Baker~James MacDonald~Darlene Zcsech~Bill Johnson~Matt Chandler~Rod Parsley~David Wilkerson~Margaret Feinberg~Creflo Dollar~Chuck Smith~Peter Wagner~Paul Yonggi Cho~Bill Hybel~Ray Comfort~James Dobson~Francis Chan~....

"There is one body and one Spirit...one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is above all, and through all, and in you all." --Eph. 4:4-6

Hello Halloween (Part Two)

2010-10-27T05:55:00.005-04:00

Well hello there! Thanks for showing up at my door for another Halloween post. You’ll have to decide, by the end, whether this was a trick or a treat.

It’s 4:16 in the morning, but I can’t sleep. So you might as well come on in and have a seat, and I’ll tell you about the gnawing deep in my conscience that woke me up and dragged me down here to write at such an ungodly hour.

I wrote “Hello Halloween” three years ago, impassioned with a love for people. When I dug up the post and dusted it off the other day, I felt that same longing to touch the world with God’s love, so much so that the tears flowed as I polished it up and re-posted.

But I’m afraid I may have removed too much of its natural oils—the grace that must flow if I want to preserve something that I value much higher than my own personal convictions. And that is unity. Anchored amidst that beloved sea of humanity is a 2,000 year-old ship, the Church, the “precious Bride of Christ.”

Sometimes I get frustrated with her seeming inability to navigate the ever changing waters of our culture, and I jump ship, splashing around in the wild and wonderful waves of freedom. But sooner or later I hear the distinct low moan of an air horn, and I swim furiously back to the boat and climb on board, dripping wet with foolish pride.

I steady myself and realize that the tattered ship—the Church—has stayed its course. She is still sailing toward a bright and glorious future.

My previous words haunt me back here in the safety of my cabin: good-bye selfishness and legalism…. A brutally honest and slightly sarcastic voice whispers, Gee-whiz, Faith, when did you take a “hypocritic” oath? You tout yourself as a unity-loving, Body-of-Christ geek and then use something as miniscule as “to Halloween or not to Halloween” to stir up division and cause hard feelings among the brethren.

(Insert tail between legs and back pedal.)

So I have left the previous post as is, because I do like to challenge people to rethink things, or at least understand the “why” behind those who do things differently.

But what I never want to do in my writing, speaking, or even thinking, for that matter, is cop an arrogant, “I’m right and you’re stupid” attitude toward anyone—especially my brothers and sisters in Christ.

Well that’s about it. Thanks for stopping by. Make yourself at home here on my blog site while I try to go back to sleep. And do me a favor—leave feedback if something strikes a chord, whether it’s a dissonant one or it reverberates in a way that brings glory to God. I’m listening. But at the end of the day, it’s Him I have to answer to.

My Almost New Gay Friend

2010-10-18T21:29:00.003-04:00

This morning I attended a Music and Arts Festival. Over Mexican food, I struck up a conversation with a red-headed drummer. We were having fun getting to know each other until the conversation turned to this:

(him) “So can I ask your advice on how to ask that guy out over there?”

(me) “That guy? You’re gay?”

(Smiling casually) “Yeah.”

“Aw…. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

As he read between the lines, a look of disgust came over his face and he walked away. I was left alone with my burrito, feeling sorely disappointed and rejected. Rejected. The man didn’t want to be my friend bEcaUsE of mY beLieFs—just one.

Buddy, I never got your name, but if you’re out there reading this, I’m giving you another chance at friendship. You saw my moves; you know I have rhythm. I was going to ask you for pointers on playing the drums. I was enjoying you—you’re witty, talented and smart. We could have fun together.

And now a moment of truth: It was a dream. This is what happens when I stay up too late at night eating chocolate donut holes. I dream like this during those final sleeping-in moments. But I dare say this dream was perhaps a bit divinely inspired. I felt the emotion that goes with losing a potentially great friend. The rejection and misunderstanding hurt.

I believe I experienced but a tiny fraction of what God feels in the longing to know each person He created.

Commenters: This is not a post about homosexuality. I’m not an internet debater. If you want to know why I believe God didn’t design us to be gay, come on over and sit a spell with me in my cozy log cabin and we’ll have an intellectually stimulating conversation on the matter. I'd really love to hear your point of view as well. But promise me one thing: no matter where it ends up, you’ll still be my friend.

Because I need you. Not with an agenda to save or to change you (I’m occupied full time with the changes I want to see in myself). I enjoy people that think and believe differently, because they challenge and broaden me. They give me the opportunity to be the Christian that loves without condition and listens with understanding.

Philly Mudslide Part Two

2010-10-15T13:31:00.000-04:00

Today marks one week past the deadline for when they were supposed to contact Dave about a job offer. They haven't as much as emailed, or responded to his follow-up voice mail. Nor did they ever offer mileage reimbursement for the four-hour drive to the interview. Dave has decided he'd rather not work for a company with that kind of unprofessionalism. So we're back to square one and okay with it.

Meanwhile, I've added another lesson (hopefully) learned to this trial:

I've been praying all along, "Lord, give Dave a job so we can ___________________." I wasn't filling in the blank with frivolous things. They were charitable, noble desires. But what hit me recently was this: that prayer betrayed a serious lack of faith. I have believed that we have to have stable income in order to bless others. In other words, I want to be self-sufficient. Far be it from me to trust God to provide.

I am buying the same lie the snake sold to Adam and Eve: Why rely on God when you can be just like Him?

Recently a guest minister at our church said, "Live as though your miracle has already taken place." What would that look like? For me, it means I would no longer hold off on making certain purchases for the health of my family, or giving to others in need. I would destroy my "when Dave gets a job" list and start living by faith, trusting in God's unlimited line of credit.

This isn't hyper-faith or presumption. Wisdom and timing have to be involved. But I find myself once again on the threshold of that high-flying jet, ready to jump. Ready to trust.

The Mudslide that Swallowed Philadelphia

2010-10-09T22:38:00.008-04:00

Dave had a job interview Tuesday in which they pretty much told him they’d call by the end of the week with an offer.

But yesterday (Friday) dragged by, hour by snail-paced hour without a phone call (I’m sure the acid in my stomach increased by the fluid ounce with each passing minute once the afternoon hit.). Based on the way they talked at the interview, we figure that either a mud hole suddenly opened up and swallowed Philadelphia, or Bill Gates put in for the job right after Dave, agreeing to do it for free.

From the time that I figure all business offices in the Eastern Standard Time zone close for the day, I curled up in my green La-Z-Boy and cried until dinner. I ate a tiny bit of whatever Dave threw together, and then cried some more. And, I must admit, I felt just a teeny, tiny bit madatGod.

We’ve been at this for five years now (including three years of full time grad school, which is dignified poverty, but still poverty). That’s 40 years Israelite wilderness time, right?? We should be done. Haven’t I learned my lessons?

I don’t need more shoes. Check.

I understand people that are unemployed. Check.

The purpose of wealth is to help those in need. Check.

I must pray for and bless my enemies—those scrumptious darlings that seem to know exactly what Dave should do to get a job, and why he doesn't have one. Check. [This was one of the hardest lessons to learn. But the day I realized that “God turned Job’s captivity when he prayed for his (judgmental) friends” was the day I decided to forgive mine.] See Job 42:10 (parenthesis mine).

I am NO DIFFERENT than those who don't. seem. to. care. Check.

I need to learn patience, and to trust God in times of perplexity. We’re still working on that one.

There I was last night, telling God that I’d learned my lessons, and stating all the reasons this job is perfect for Dave. And what did I get? Silence.

Then I had one of those “Peter moments,” like when a bunch of disciples got offended at Jesus and ran off for good, and Jesus looked at his closest friends and said, “Are you going to bolt too?”

And I found myself saying--like good old temperamental, unstable, double-minded Peter--“Where else am I going to go?”(John 6:66-68).

So I stood there at my kitchen island, chopping tomatoes and onions for salsa, tears streaming down my face—partly from the onions and partly from my dilemma: The source of my utter frustration and borderline despair was also my only source of hope. I saw myself beating His chest with my fists and finally collapsing into Him, surrendering in His embrace.

And then I did the only thing I know to do when nothing makes sense:

I rejoiced. It hurt at first. But I kept priming the rusty pump.

I thank you that Dave just came bounding in the door, knowing he didn’t get the phone call, and yet he’s happy. I thank you that my husband has never once in five years been depressed over this.

I thank you that we are all healthy. We haven’t as much as a cold.

I thank you that we all love each other.

I thank you that we have everything we need, and more. In fact, we are filthy rich.

I thank you for this fresh salsa.

I thank you for this happenin’ log house.

I thank you that you have our back.

I thank you that you won’t let Dave get the wrong job.

And on I went. Within minutes I felt something that I hadn’t felt for a while. It was better than what I’d felt two nights ago, when we all went out to celebrate the job we thought for sure he’d bagged.

That was happiness. Which always depends, of course, on what’s happening.

But this---this was Joy.

On Monday Dave will call and tell them that he is in fact better than Bill Gates for the job. If they don’t agree, I’m still good.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; For I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God." Psalm 43:5

Step Right Up and Git Yer Gospel!

2010-09-29T14:17:00.038-04:00

I went to the fair yesterdee. Not because I enjoy second-hand smoke, rickety rides and greasy-fried dough. I went as an evangelist; some local churches were working a booth to bring the gospel to passersby. I liked the fact that it was a unification effort and no one church was being promoted. I also love to engage people in talking about God.

I said "engage"--not con. It didn't take me long to recognize the gimmicky, sales pitch evangelism I was taught in moldy church buildings as a child--and I was now expected to do it. I was to stand out there with my marketing scheme, flag people down and trick them into listening to the gospel message.

As I sat in the booth wondering how to get out of the commitment I'd made, I observed a co-laborer make a contact with two women who looked like they had half a brain; they didn't appear dumb enough to spend two hours and twenty dollars playing Pound-the-Puppy to win a Styrofoam-filled bear big enough to fill the back of a pickup. Therefore they definitely weren't going to be suckered in by our tacky methods of slapping another convert under our belt. I watched the expression on the faces of these entrapped women; I wasn't surprised to see them shaking their heads and hurrying off, while the intruding saleswoman patted herself on the back for being "persecuted."

I couldn't help myself. I jumped up and chased them down, wanting to save Jesus' reputation. When I caught up with them I kindly asked their opinion of the encounter they'd just had, and whether or not they even knew where it was going.

"I have no idea what that was all about," the woman said, "It just sounded like a sales pitch to me. I don't have time for that."

Thank you.

This is the "con" in "conversion" (from the book, Unchristian). The message of hope Jesus brought us is not a product to be peddled using gimmicks that turn the bright-minded away. Jesus said "go and make disciples"--not converts. Anyone can go out on the streets, flash a pretty tract in front of people, have them repeat a prayer and fill out a card. Where are those who are willing to build relationships with "outsiders," to gain their trust, to earn the right to speak anything into their lives, and to maintain a friendship with them regardless of whether or not they ever make a decision to accept Christ?

On another note, I had gone to the same fair for the same reason last year. I went at night, when the younger crowd shows up. I had success talking for hours to teens about the relevance of Christianity and how it can give them a new lease on life. I'm not against "street evangelism." It can work in the right crowd. But one thing was certain--I did not trick them into talking to me through some mind game. I was straightforward, having no hidden agenda.

If you're shocked at my stance on street (or fair) evangelism, relax. I have friends that go out and do this and have very good success. I'm proud of the people I know who are giving of their time to share the Gospel in this way to people who aren't turned off by it (a good number of fair-goers enjoyed what we had to offer at the booth).

But God has equipped each of us to minister to a different audience. Had I been a non-believer attending the fair, I would have been downright insulted at the notion that I could so easily change my beliefs through a ten minute conversation over an icy-pop. Had this same booth been erected at a liberal college in Oregon it might have been mowed down in fifteen minutes flat by a bunch of free-thinking individuals.

(For more on how we can be so "unchristian" in our efforts to reach the lost, please read the book, Unchristian, by David Kinneman.)

"I Belong to the Christian Faith" and Other Stupid Books

2010-09-20T23:20:00.011-04:00

A book title in the children's section of the public library caught my attention today: I Belong to the Christian Faith (PowerKids Press, 2010). I decided to check it out and see whether the author of this secular book actually understands the Christian faith.

Here's what I encountered:

Jesus taught us to try to be good people (p. 18).

Oh really? If that's the case, I officially resign as a Christian. Religion teaches us to try to be good people. I'm done with trying. All my attempts at trying to be a good "Faith" have failed miserably. I fell in love with Jesus because He came along and said, "Just rest in my love and let me change you. As a matter of fact, if you'll allow me, I'll come live inside you and shine right through your frail humanity." What a relief!

Jesus taught us that if we believe in God, we will also be given new life and will be with him when we die (p. 9).

"The devils also believe and tremble" (James 2:19). Furthermore, define "God." Jesus said that He Himself is God incarnate. But believing in Him is not enough. It's a matter of what you believe about Him. Eternal life is only promised to those who confess their need for a Savior (repent of trying to do life "my way"), and "believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, that God has raised Him from the dead" (Romans 10:9). A changed life is the evidence of such a confession.

We go to church to worship God (p. 5).

Wrong again. We go to church to complain about the worship.

(That was a joke).

Actually, we can and should worship wherever we are--any place, any time. My personal favorite places to worship are: in the dentist's chair, at the tax office, and in rush hour traffic.

But there is a lot to be said for corporate worship. That's why I think the more important reason for going to church (and more biblical) is for fellowship. We need to rub shoulders on a regular basis with those who, like ourselves, know their desperate need for God.

Perhaps a more appropriate title would be, I Belong to the Christian Religion. But of course that would be an oxymoron to those of us who understand that this is all about a relationship. (Christianity is the unreligion!) But there the book was--displayed right next to I Belong to the Muslim Faith:

One day, Allah will choose whether I go to Heaven when I die (p. 16).

Yikes! Now, this author may be as uninformed as the aforementioned one, so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. But if that statement is indeed true, then Allah and Jehovah can't be the same God (So don't give me that "all-paths-lead-to-the-same-god" cranola.). You see, my God chose me (and you) for Heaven long ago. But it's up to us to accept that invitation. Today. We get to choose-- today.

Now lest I be labeled a bigot, let me close with a quote from the great Christian missionary Brother Andrew: "We must see that the word ISLAM stands for 'I sincerely love all Muslims'."

Jesus, the Smelly Room, and Why I am a PIG

2010-09-12T23:00:00.007-04:00

Picture this. You’re driving through town on a Sunday morning and the marquee outside a church reads, One Time Guest Appearance Today—Jesus Christ. Overcome with curiosity, you go in. If He is really here, you expect to see Him in the pulpit. Even the most egocentric pastor would defer to a visiting preacher of this caliber. But Jesus isn’t there. You look around. Perhaps He’s in the audience, content to enjoy others’ gifts and talents. But there’s no Jesus in the pews.

Realizing you’ve been taken by a gimmick, you head down the hall to the back exit. A figure sitting in a room to your right stops you short. It’s Him. It’s Jesus. And He’s in—of all places—the nursery. God Almighty is in a rocking chair feeding zwieback toast to a toddler. Small kids are playing at His feet, showing Him pictures in books. He laughs as one little girl brushes His hair.

Jesus smiles at you, unmoved by your shock. He goes back to rocking, as if being here is the most natural place for Him to be. Another child climbs onto His lap.

He shouldn’t be in here! You protest silently. Confusion, bewilderment and even anger rise up inside. You notice there are no other adults to help Him. Yet you know, instantly, that Jesus has chosen—chosen—to spend the entire morning service in this stuffy room that smells like a Diaper Genie.

Jesus is playing “This Little Piggy” with a boy’s toes, and it triggers a mental image of other feet--tired, calloused, dusty feet. The feet of Peter, resting in a basin of warm water, washed by the strong and gentle hands of His Master.

Thou shalt never wash my feet!

You suddenly understand why Jesus is here, hidden away in this humble back room.

It’s why He came to church.

The congregation is dismissed and a mom walks in to retrieve her child. Somehow you know that she was scheduled to be in here today. Her mascara is smeared; she’s been crying. God touched her in the service. She thanks Jesus, Who assures her the pleasure was all His.

For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you.

John 13

I know the thrill of preaching, or sitting at the piano, eating a microphone in the limelight. But you know what really thrills me? Sitting in the nursery, knowing I’ve enabled a mother to stay in the service and receive ministry. You know what kills me? When I get up from the pew to go get a drink, walk by the nursery, and see a woman in there who has needs. More needs than me. Hard life stuff. Major domestic distresses and hardships I can’t begin to imagine. I feel like a pig. A PIG. We that are "older in the faith" and have been fattened up on God's Word ought to be doing more giving and less taking. We can and should "get fed" through our own devotional life at home.

Here's a news flash: You don't need to hear "the call of God" to work with children and babies or even love doing it! We do it because there is a need and we're available. We don't do it because the nursery is "a good place to start out." Jesus didn't start out in foot washing. It's where He ended up, after three successful years of front line ministry.

Church Mystery Shopper (Read this if you are a pastor or church member)

2010-08-22T18:37:00.044-04:00

I am on an extended stay out of town and so I got to be a church visitor this morning. I chose my place of worship based on the church's website (Take note, pastors. This is how people choose a place to visit in the 21st century. Your church website will be one's first impression.). It had a clean, professional appearance, and I figured their style is probably as up-to-date as their calendar of events. Another selling point for me was that they offered a coffee-and-donuts hour prior to service (because face it, people need to talk, and food has facilitated talking since the beginning of time). I put on my jeans and drove in a torrential rain to a place in the country that looked like Cracker Barrel. It was a flat-roofed warehouse with cafe tables set up outside that I imagined were used in good weather. I've been alone for almost three days, so I was looking forward to conversation like it was a plate of Homemade Chicken n' Dumplins waiting in there for me.

What I found were four school-age boys sitting against the wall in the only chairs available while their parents rushed around making preparations for the service. The coffee lady welcomed me with a "free-for-visitors" coffee and donuts commercial and walked away. I helped myself and soon realized that I had hydroplaned across flooded intersections to stand in the middle of a room caffeinating myself alone. When one of the boys got up I took a chair and read through my bulletin. The word "community" was scattered all over it, like little C-shaped grubs curled up to die. By the fiftieth checking of my watch the saints came marching in, about ten minutes until starting time.

The doors to the sanctuary opened and I took a seat in the middle, in front of some ladies that looked promisingly conversant. No one greeted me. For a moment I wanted to leave and drive back into town to the church with a steeple, vespers and senior citizens. But then I looked across the aisle and saw a young woman sitting alone--the only one in her row. Her hands were folded on her lap and she looked down. I had a horrifying thought: What if she's a visitor too? I walked across the room faster than Bill Hybels and introduced myself. "Mary" was a sweet, shy twenty-something girl with a welcoming smile revealing teeth that hung like yellow stalactites. She'd been a regular there since the church's beginning.

Announcements dragged on for twenty minutes (Apparently the congregation is illiterate and needs someone to read their bulletins to them). When the people were told to "greet one another in that wonderful love of Jesus" I rushed to the ladies' room to pee out my Dunkin' Donuts and make it back to my seat in time to be welcomed by someone. I didn't missed anything.

The music was fresh and invigorating--an acoustic guitar and bongo drums backdropped by the rain falling outside the open windows. The preaching was even better--perhaps the best I'd heard in years. Conviction was so heavy I felt like crawling down the aisle and laying myself at the altar. Take James McDonald with a sweet dash of Billy Graham and turn him loose in a 40 x 80 warehouse and that's what you've got.

This place should have been bursting at the seams. Instead it had grown to a whopping sixty people in fifteen years, trying to be seeker-friendly while forgetting how to be people-friendly.

After the service, a middle-aged couple asked my name and where I was from. They were sincerely interested in getting to know me. Thank God they showed up. Otherwise, the overall feel of the place was that no one really cared about visitors beyond the obligatory, "Hi, how are you?" For all they knew, I could have been on the brink of suicide. I hate to admit it, but if I had been a non-believer visiting there this morning, I may not have walked into another church for a long time, if ever.

Pastors, laymen--this is a wake-up call.

(Note: If you are not a believer and are thinking, "I knew it. They are no different than anyone else"--well, you'd be right. Romans 3:10 says "There is none righteous, no not one." Jesus said that a physician comes for the sick, not the healthy. The church is made of sick people in recovery; we are in the process of recovering from the fall to become the original loving selves we were meant to be (i.e., Jesus-like). Some are further along on the journey than others.)

Do Monks Bite?

2010-08-21T18:11:00.006-04:00

My girls and I have taken up letterboxing. I recommend this as a great way to spend time with your kids while getting exercise, getting artsy, and getting fresh air outdoors. Our most recent hunt led us up a country road to a monastery, where we sampled a little taste of Catholicism. The conversations went something like this (more or less):

"Isn't this a beautiful place, girls? Maybe we'll see some monks."

"What are monks? Do they bite?"

"I don't think so."

"Wow! Crypts are awesome. Can we light a candle?"

"Not for $2.25. Remember, be reverent and respectful. Tiptoe. Whisper. Don't touch anything. Try not to breathe."

"What is that lady doing?"

"She has come here to pray."

"Why did she have to come here to pray?"

"She feels close to God here. It's a quiet place away from distractions. The Bible says a lot about getting away to a quiet place."

"But is she really closer to God here?"

"No. God is wherever we are. He has made His sanctuary inside us."

"Is that like sanitary?"

"Uh...."

"I can't believe she came all this way just to pray."

"Remember, be respectful. Catholics are wonderful people."

"Are they Christians?"

"Some are. Just like some Protestants are Christians. Some really know and love Jesus."

"Oh. What's that bowl of water for?"

"That's holy water. You dip your hands in it when you come in. It makes you clean."

"Can I try it?"

"No! It harbors bacteria."

"But I thought it makes you clean."

"Never mind."

"Why do they always have Jesus on the cross?"

"To remember his death, which is very important. But I'm glad He's no longer there, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Is that a monk?

"That would be a monk."

"Do monks ever go shopping?"

"Not for video games. Just for food and toilet paper, I think."

"Why do they live here?"

"They have devoted their life to serving God."

"I want to demote my life to serving God."

"DeVOTE."

"I want to serve God."

"Me too. But we choose to serve God in the worldly places, where the people are. Our love for God is shown in the way we treat bossy bosses, and mean teachers, and bratty sisters, and moody moms, and slobbish kids who leave their clothes on the floor..."

"Hey!"

"... and telemarketers, and slow waiters, and tailgaters, and grouchy old men...."

"Monks are lucky."

"They never marry and have kids."

"Never mind. But I still like monks."

"Me too."

"Who is that old man?"

"They call him 'Father' so-and-so. I think he's the priest, kind of like the dad to all these monks, which are called 'brothers'."

"Do we have a priest?"

"Yes."

"Pastor John?"

"No. Our priest is Jesus. But He is our brother too."

"Cool. Our priest is our brother. And God is our Father?"

"You got it, girl."

My Last Build-a-Bear

2010-08-16T15:34:00.012-04:00

Do you see what is wrong with this bear? If you do, chances are you like to sew. You may also like to quilt, can, freeze, knit, bake and raise goats. You probably enjoy reading directions.

I am personally afraid of my sewing machine, but when Ruthie asked me to help her with the Build-a-Bear kit she got for her birthday, I thought, How hard can it be? The box says, "Age 6+." I tossed aside the directions and showed her how to stitch around the thing. Like me, Ruthie is easily bored, so I ended up finishing the project. I realized there was a problem when I started to stuff the last arm. I retrieved the directions and found out how to do a "whip stitch"--on the crotch of the bear. I guess whip stitches are more attractive there.

When I held Ruin-a-Bear up and examined her clubbed arm, I felt depressed and slightly mad at my friends who sew beautiful PJ's for their kids at Christmastime and put away peaches. I wanted to throw the bear against a wall and run away to an eternal library. Thankfully, when Ruthie saw her finished project, she grabbed it, hugged it, and said, "I'm going to sleep with her every night!" (Phew!)

I'm OK with not being good at everything I put my hand to. I know what I am good at. It's not sewing. I won't be opening a seamstress shop any time soon.

Do you ever come across people trying to do something they weren't meant to do? Anyone can learn a new trick, but may not be a "natural" at it. It's a beautiful thing to stay happily on the path you landed on naturally (i.e., were gifted by God to do).

I can learn to sew, and perhaps should, for the sake of my four daughters. OK, that's it. I'm going to start. Tomorrow.

What comes naturally for you?

The Return of Ferdinand (con't. from previous post)

2010-08-12T14:49:00.005-04:00

Last night Ferdy returned to our pond, in all his white feathered glory.

A few days ago Dave received the email from Intel (every scientist's dream place to work) saying that they've chosen another candidate. Oregon would have been fun.

This afternoon I was driving through the rain on route 14 north of Troy. While reaching out into the wetness to throw the wayward windshield wiper back onto the windshield, I listened to a voice mail on Dave's cell phone (I don't recommend the use of cell phones while attempting to fix a broken windshield wiper as you're flying down the highway in the rain.). The message informed me that Dave will not be working for K. in his latex testing lab. This local company has also chosen someone else.

Now this will be a great relief to Dave, because although he would enjoy working with his good friend and former employee (that's right, I said "former employee"), he did not just complete three grueling years of grad school to test rubber gloves. Not even for a short time, only to say "Adios" to K. and leave him to go through the hiring and training process all over again.

I am fine with that. But I was hoping, just a teeny bit, that maybe this could be something Dave could do in the meantime. Which is ridiculous, because it's not what Dave wants to do and it would be very unfair to K. So I was being selfish, and crying in the rain, along highway 14.

Then I started to think about my friends, and other people I know, with bigger problems. Or should I say, with problems. Friends with sick kids. Lonely friends. Friends with confused, runaway kids that are breaking their mothers' hearts. Friends with chronic pain. And friends with lots of money and still without a clue as to who they really are in life.

Then I felt very small, and whiny. I imagined God saying, "This is about a duck?" Yes, a stupid duck. A duck that will come back to us. Soon. Very soon.

My Daughter's Deep Dark Secret

2010-08-11T21:39:00.024-04:00

I noticed this morning that Anna has been distant lately. An alarm went off inside me, since nothing in this world is as important as keeping my kids and hubby close. So I set aside my beloved laptop and squeezed Anna's big thirteen-year-old bubble butt next to me on the green la-z-boy. (Please understand that I am giving my daughter a huge compliment here. She takes after the other side of the family in this regard. I would have given anything to have a butt like that at that age. Or at any age for that matter.)

Putting my arm around her, I asked, "What's wrong? Why do you seem so far away?"

She answered in typical teenage fashion: Silence.

I tried to make it easy, to coax verbiage out of her like I sometimes wish Dave would do for me (Honey, you're sulking because I didn't notice your dress. Is that it? Getting better at this mind-reading thing, aren't I?)

I asked Anna, "Is it me?"

Nope.

"Is it anyone in this house?"

Nada.

"Is it something you did?"

More shaking of the head.

"Do you just need more lovin's?" That's usually it. But not this time.

"Honey, you know you can tell me anything."

She furrowed her brow and huffed. I knew she had something to say. Suddenly she burst into tears and I thought, This is serious. (Because not only does that side of the family have well-rounded buns, but they are normally very emotionally even-keeled.) This is the day my daughter is going to tell me that she is running a meth lab out back. Or dating a pedophile. Or wants to pierce her tongue. (Even mothers of the most angelic children have these kinds of thoughts flash through their minds in such moments.)

I braced myself. Maybe it won't be so bad. She wants to be a nun. Or join the army.

"It's Ferdy!" she sobbed. "He likes the P--'s pond better. He has friends over there and he's been lonely since Dorothy left and I miss him!" The snot was flowing now.

"This is about a duck?" I supressed a chuckle. "I mean, this is about your duck!"

I hugged her tightly, grateful for a problem that could easily be solved with a quick trip to Craigslist. After a few minutes of browsing through listings of five-dollar Pekins, laying hens and pedigreed rabbits, Anna jumped up and went to bake cookies.

What about you? Have you squeezed your teen today?

Nobody Messes with My (Unemployed) Man!

2010-08-10T23:52:00.006-04:00

Yesterday someone called to check and see how things are going with Dave's job hunt. He meant well and I appreciate his effort to pick up the phone and let us know he cares. Let me repeat: I so appreciate that he cares.

But as the conversation developed, I felt less cared for and more judged. I could hear in his words that he views my hubby (whom he's never met) as a man who sits around burping and scratching when he should be out working. The man who just spent three years at perhaps one of the most competitive universities in the world, studying things like polymers alongside Chinese students who never sleep, working eighteen hours a day to come out with a decent grade in Cornell's graduate chemistry program.

Yeah, I'm bragging. I'm also pounding this keyboard too hard. Nobody messes with my man. My man who got home at one o'clock in the morning, slept for four hours, then awoke at five to make the one hour drive to school again--for six and sometimes seven days a week. This is not the kind of man who is content to sit on the couch all day and read Hunter magazine.

But I didn't point any of this out to my phone-a-friend friend. I politely thanked him for caring and said good-bye.

I hesitate to write AGAIN about our "situation." Unemployment is a reproach, an icky disease that people discuss behind your back. It's not like having cancer. Cancer isn't your fault. But unemployment is, right? It's something you can fix, and should. That's why my friend called me up on the phone. Because he's a fixer.

That was yesterday. Tonight my hubby asked me to pray with him. So I knelt beside him on the couch (you know, where he drools all day instead of working) and tried to pay attention to his prayer. If you know him, you know that his voice can put you to sleep and I mean that in the kindest way. His is a deep, soothing voice, and his words are carefully thought out, one at a time almost. So I knelt there and soon was thinking about fashion, and wearing jeggings this winter, and big rings. Suddenly I felt the couch shaking. I put my arm on Dave's back and it was shaking, and I realized he was crying. "Oh God, please use us for your glory. Don't let us miss what you have for us, because we're too busy smelling the roses. Do with us whatever you choose. We give our lives to you."

You know what? Dave may never again wear a white lab coat and goggles. He may never realize his dream of developing something groundbreaking and useful for humans in this life. We may never get to take that cross country trip in an RV and show our kids America. But it's fine by me. Life is short--and then the real life begins.

Skydiving

2010-08-09T10:16:00.002-04:00

Bracing myself in the doorway, looking down at the patchwork of earth below, I am paralyzed with fear. I have no choice but to jump. This is no thrill ride for an adrenaline junkie; the plane is going down.

The plane is a part of my life I’ve worked hard to keep airborne—a bright future constructed of all things done my way. It soared for a while. But so did my blood pressure and heart rate. Trying desperately to stay above the clouds, I turned into an enraged, maniacal freak racing to and fro in this manmade machine called human effort. I screamed orders into the cockpit, but the only one there was me—the one who’d attempted in vain to fly solo. And now that plane is falling from the sky.

So I jump. A momentous I-am-out-of-control-here-and-I-am-going-to-die terror seizes me. I wait for the merciful jerk of rope and harness, a strong arm to catch me. But there is nothing.

I am in free-fall, plummeting forward at the speed of a race car.

The wind roars in my ears, telling me that all will end soon—my body will make a splat on hard rock. The air rushes in, drying my mouth, and I can’t cry out anymore. But I feel a tap-tap on my shoulder and am reminded to spread my arms wide and fly. It’s my guide. I can’t hear his voice, but I feel him bound tightly to me. So I remember to look, and to open up myself to the vastness of earth and sky.

The plane is forgotten. I am no longer an eagle trapped aboard an aircraft. I am soaring on wings of freedom, resting against the mighty force of wind that carries me over dark valleys and raging water. There is no more fear. I know that at the precise moment, at just the right height—when the ground looms in my face, the parachute will open. All will be quiet. I’ll hear him again. And we’ll float gently together to a safe landing, on solid rock.

Applebees and Flat-Screened TV's

2010-07-29T01:50:00.007-04:00

The other day I went to Applebees for a little R&R (Ruthie and Rebecca). The two kids had Bookworm Club cards to redeem for free meals. Settling happily atop spinning seats, we ordered lunch, and began working our way through the trivia and puzzles on the kids’ menus. Not five minutes into our “girls’ day out,” the restaurant manager glided over asked my children what TV station would suit their dining pleasure. That’s when I looked around and counted nine flat-screen TV’s in our immediate seating area. Beyond that, I stopped counting after eighteen.

I wish I could tell you that in that instant, I politely told the man that the decision was up to me, the mother, and that my girls and I were spending quality time together--which for us, translates into the dying art of dinner conversation. I wish I could say that I sent him slinking away, red-eared, with the remote control cradled in his armpit. But caught off guard by his strange offer, I heard myself sheepishly reply, “Do you get Animal Planet?” And with a click, our girl-time went down the drain as R & R sat mesmerized by a show on the rescue of abused and decaying dogs. When it got graphic enough to elicit more than a few frowns from neighboring tables, Channel Surfer turned the girls’ attention to another screen, flashing with transformable superheroes and villains.

Sitting there watching my two young barstool potatoes, I felt violated. I had not put my work on hold and driven twenty-five miles in a gas-guzzling Suburban and eaten transfatty food to let my kids vegetate in front of a TV screen. And yet I realized this is where we’ve come to as a nation. Families that spend mealtimes staring at the tube, stuffing their mouths full and ignoring each other, are no longer confined to the American living room. “TV dinners” are now a dining-out sensation. Applebees, I guess it really is “a whole new neighborhood."

@ Satan--This Post Will Tick You Off!

2010-05-26T12:18:00.005-04:00

There’s a Facebook status I’ve dreamed of typing for quite some time now. It goes something like this:

After five years, three months, 19 days and seven hours of unemployment (with grad school thrown in), Dave is finally, officially EMPLOYED!

Of course my FB friends will ask where, doing what, and I’ll reply with something like:

Research Associate, Harvard… We’re moving to Boston!!!! :)
                                               or
Environmental Scientist, Honolulu (Hey, I can dream!)

If you had told me that come May, 2010, Dave would still be sitting here filling out job applications, I’d have slapped you with a frozen deer steak. But here we are. The journey is long and stained with tears of frustration and self pity.

I remember the night several weeks ago that I lay in bed next to Dave, on my stomach, hugging my pillow. I looked at him and declared, “It’s time to pray a new prayer. There are people watching us, watching our lives. They are watching our faith in a God Who promises to provide. Didn’t the Israelites use that as leverage in their petitions to Jehovah? ‘What will the heathens think of You if you forsake us’?” We prayed together with new boldness, motivated by the desire to bring glory to God.

Nothing happened.

Oh God did provide—many times and in surprising and mysterious ways. He has continued to supply our every need, as He promised (Philippians 4:19). We have yet to go hungry, unclothed, and unhoused. When we need a job is up to Him to decide. There are lessons to be learned in the meantime. One day, one of them occurred to me (and became a real Facebook status):

God wills to be glorified as much in poverty as in prosperity, in suffering as in bliss.

And so I rest my case. There is a joy to be found that defies circumstance, a peace that mocks uncertainty. I have found my living hope, my anchor of the soul. His name is Jesus. When the Heavens are finally opened and the blessings poured out, let it not be said that my countenance changed.

Never Hula Hoop with Barbie

2010-05-17T11:32:00.022-04:00

Yesterday our church ladies put on a Hawaiian themed pool party at the YMCA. Women were expected to swim for a while, then enjoy each other’s company looking like drowned rats. The idea was to create an atmosphere that would make unchurched women feel "comfortable" among us religious folks.

Huh?

I secretly thought it was the most hairbrained idea I’d ever heard of. I mean, what woman over a size (fill in the blank) wants to socialize in a bathing suit? And that among strangers? I ached for us women expected to strip ourselves down to such vulnerability. Then I stopped aching, thinking no one would show up.

I had to show up, as I was asked to provide the entertainment for the after-pool party. I brought my girls, figuring at least they would have a good time. (Little girls are typically more comfortable in exposed skin than we grown-ups are.) I dumped my happy kids in the water and sat on the bench, still in my church clothes (I turn purple and shake uncontrollably in water less than 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Leave me alone about it; I might die and you’d be sorry.).

I sat there, warm and dry, watching thirty women (a third of which were visitors) splash around, enjoying their bathing bash. They played ball and giggled with my girls (insert tinge of guilt here), and walked around the pool as uninhibited as naked toddlers. No one seemed to mind exposing blinding-white skin, spider veins, and thighs that look like the surface of a lake on a windy day. No one that is, except me.

But there was something so beautiful, so precious, about every wrinkle, dimple and sag exposed in that room. Those imperfections comprised one big gift exchange among my sisters. They were the language of unleashed love: "I love you enough to trust you to love me in return, just the way I am." Part of me—the part that doesn’t mind being cold—wanted to strip my rippled self and jump in with them.

After the pool party the drowned rats entered the community room for fun and games. Uh-oh. Could I compete with the fun they’d had in the Arctic? Well, I certainly tried. I taught them how to Hula dance, seeing as I just returned from a trip to You-Tube. (My daughters later told me I looked like a crippled chicken, trying to swing my booty like that.) Then I taught Darcie-the-Barbie how to hula-hoop. “Just watch me,” I told her. I hurled my hula-hoop directly to the floor three times. She got hers going instantly, and stood there modeling her spinning waist ring, saying she’d never tried it before. I think she was lying (wink wink).

Enjoy the following video: Wrinkled Ladies

Chainsaw Lady

2010-04-12T10:14:00.001-04:00

      She’s a high school French teacher by day and a chain saw lady by night. I saw the evidence behind her garage door.
     “The first time I ever used one,” Brenda told me as she caressed the machine’s destructive blade, “was at eleven o’clock pm. I just had to try it. So we drove in the dark to the woods, took a fallen tree home, and I carved a bear.”
     That was a couple of years ago. This southern New York state mom has carved more than bears since then. In her garage is a museum of wooden raccoons, owls, dogs and other creatures that look so real I checked to make sure she kept her trash sealed tightly.
     Brenda has made a profitable business out of her wood-carving hobby. She showed me her pre-orders—pictures of pets customers had submitted to be made into lawn ornaments of discarded pieces of hemlock, silver maple, white pine, cherry.
     Two things fascinated me about Brenda’s work. One was that every facial line, whisker, and feather was created with a giant power tool. There was no fine tuning with a smaller, more delicate instrument; yet her designs are so intricate. I never imagined that a roaring, smoking chain saw could put a sharp point on the tip of a bear’s claws or comb the fine fur of a Newfoundland’s ears.
     The second thing I remember most was what Brenda said about getting her inspiration. “I don’t see a tree trunk sitting there on the ground. I see a bear inside it, begging to get out.” And so she goes to work setting the creature free.
     I’ve been undergoing my own such “liberation” at the hands of The Master Craftsman. It seems that God has looked beyond the chipped and broken edges of my fallen nature and recognized the person He intended. It’s an ongoing and painful process, this shaping me from who-I’ve-been to who-I’ll -be.
     I’m hacked at, sometimes in large and sudden chunks that leave me wondering what will be left. I keep telling myself that God has a picture in mind. He knows what He’s after.
     It was through a tree—cut and raised to bear God’s image—that Another was perfected long ago. His finished work seals my hope of completion.
     The tree—the Cross—is only the beginning.

“For it was fitting for Him, for whom are all things, and through whom are all things, in bringing many sons to glory, to perfect the author of their salvation through sufferings.” Hebrews 2:10

More pictures of Brenda's carvings can be seen at: http://www.facebook.com/#!/album.php?aid=2009331&id=1655815995

Memo to a Homophobe

2010-03-29T11:41:00.022-04:00

This post has been simmering in my thoughts for a while and a couple of recent conversations have finally made it boil over and steam up my blog. Take caution.

In the past seventy-two hours I have heard two Christians on separate occasions call gays “queer” and suggest that they may be pedophilic. (Excuse me while I throw up.) This is the kind of thing that makes me embarrassed to align myself with chrischuns and makes us more persecuted than necessary. Jesus said, “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness sake.” Last I checked, name-calling, insulting, shunning, snubbing, profiling and stereotyping are not righteous.

I know some gay people and they are very kind. Matter of fact, I could totally be friends with the likes of Ellen DeGeneres (don’t you dare play games with her last name) and Rosie O’Donnell. Admittedly, I’m not a TV watcher and don’t know all the details of their lives, but from what little I’ve seen, those women seem fun and funny. I’d rather spend time with them any day than with a bunch of dried-up religious prudes or hypocrites who separate themselves from gays and their TV shows, yet spend hours watching trashy heterosexual back-seat behavior, violence and swearing to boot. Pharisees aren’t “fair, you see.” (Did you know the New Testament Greek word for Pharisee is “separate?” Selah.)

Besides, Jesus likes Ellen and Rosie. If that bothers you, you don't like Jesus. You just think you do. Re-read the New Testament. It was the religious He condemned daily in the temple; after that He enjoyed the company of His sinner friends in their heathen homes--not excusing their sin, but setting them free from destructive lifestyles of every kind, loving them to the Truth. (If you've never cracked open the New Testament, I challenge you to read about this God-Man called Jesus and see if you don't fall in love with Him.)

If you are still reading this, you may wonder what my stance, as a professing fundamaniacal Jesus freak, is on homosexuality. I don’t believe it was God’s intent, and I believe the Bible clearly condemns it (for good and loving reasons, but that's another post). But that has nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but NOTHING to do with how I view or treat gays. If the sin factor plays such an important role in choosing your friendships, you should have nothing to do with me.

For Jobless People Only

2010-03-19T12:37:00.007-04:00

If you are unemployed, or married to someone unemployed, as a result of this unrelenting recession—I am here to tell you what you already know but need to hear and feel, up close and personal. You are not alone. There are many, many people—blue collar and white collar, in your same situation. I know your daily struggle to keep your face above the floods of despair that threaten to take you under.

(By-the-way, if someone says the recession is over, bless his pea-pickin’ little heart. He must not be looking for a job.)

Here’s another thing I know. I know how hard you’re working (or your spouse is working) to find work. I know the hours—hours it takes to scroll through job postings and fill out applications, hundreds of them, hoping to hear back from just one.

I know the disappointment of seeing the same old same old positions listed over and over again.

I know that one can memorize several pages of indeed.com. and the same eight jobs that have been posted at major companies’ websites for months.

I know that not all job fairs are equal. I know that there are unknowing people who can actually laugh at you from their little job fair booth when you ask if they need a chemist.

I know what it is to not care anymore that you may have to move to a frozen –over place like Montana.

Or take a job doing the very thing you went to back to school to try to get away from.

I understand your right to refuse that job, knowing how wrong it would be to take it until something better comes along two months later. I will never judge you for that. It is right.

I also understand that it is more difficult to get a job if you are over-qualified than under-qualified. I know how well-meaning friends and family members sit around and talk about how you should be willing to take just any job, not realizing that you would take any job--if only you could get hired. I know how you want to wring the necks of those who don't understand that a warehouse manager will not hire a scientist to package parts.

I know what it’s like to find out that because of Equal Opportunity laws many (if not most) of the positions listed online were already filled internally before they were posted.

I know the hopes and joys of getting an interview and going out to celebrate because it went so well…and I know the blow you feel when you read that follow up email.

I know that having connections and “it’s who you know” doesn’t always matter.

I know the pain of being judged over the fact that you still don’t have a job.

I don’t write these things to be complaining. I’m not trying to garner pity (I get enough from myself! ;) . I am simply reminding you, once again, that you are not alone. I know those details that can’t be written about, those things you don’t dare mention to anyone.

I know how you want someone to care and that’s all. You haven’t got your hand out. I care.

In my head, I know God is at work to find us work. It just takes a while of actively seeking Him in prayer and in His Word to get what I know in my head down into my heart, to the point that my life reflects faith. I’m not always there. I want you to know that too. I know what it’s like to not always be there.

Soon Dave will have a job, the Lord willing, and this will be over. Until then, “when we are faithless, he remains faithful.” 2 Ti. 2:13

Mrs. Bigot

2010-03-05T10:14:00.004-05:00

I have a perfectly wonderful husband who keeps me very happy. But you know, I've been thinking. Perhaps I'm foolish in limiting myself to just one man. Maybe it's time I explore my options; there are plenty of other good men out there. Aren't I being awfully narrow-minded to say that Dave is the one and only one for me?

Not.

I use such absurdity to answer those who would suggest that I'm "narrow-minded" in my belief that Jesus is the only way to God. Call me a religious bigot, but there are reasons I'm a One-God woman:

First of all, Jesus said Himself that He's the only way to God. Not the best way or the preferred way--but the only way.

Then He backed up His claim by willingly dying to save me from eternal death. No other "path to God" is paved with such love.

He resurrected to save me to eternal life. I figure that if He has that much power over His own life, I owe Him the chance with mine.

Jesus satisfies me. Completely. I tried other "men"--I studied world religions (including the non religion called humanism). I came up empty in my quest for meaning, purpose, peace, and fulfillment. It was only in a person--a relationship with my Creator--that I found the essence of life.

Only the one true and living God offers me the guidance and protection of a father, the comfort and nurturing of a mother, the friendship and faithfulness of a brother, and the intimacy and devotion of a lover. I need look no further.

"Almighty God, you have made us for yourself. And our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you." --St. Augustine

"I am the bread of life. He who comes to me shall never hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst." John 6:34

Humility and How I Obtained It*

2010-02-21T23:24:00.003-05:00

     I once attended a leadership training seminar in which a teacher opened her session with the question, "How humble are you?" I couldn't resist shouting out, "Very!"
     That's the treacherous nature of humility. It is the strange virtue that disallows one to be conscious of it. My husband possesses such a virtue. But just to make sure, I once looked at him pointedly and asked: "David Bogdan, are you humble?" I smirked, curiously awaiting his reply. Both "yes" and "no" would have been "wrong" answers. Without too much delay, he said, "It's all relative."
   But there's more to humility than merely not being puffed up. Jesus talked of being "poor in spirit" (Matthew 5:1), i.e. teachable, "needy" in the healthy sense of knowing you have a lot to learn. I thought about this recently while listening in on a discussion about what it looks like to be humble. A man said he cannot receive from teachers or preachers that are a little too pious or self-confident. As he repeated for the third time that he chooses what internet preacher to listen to based on his or her humility quota, the irony of his words struck me: How humble is he? Isn't humility having the ability to hear from anyone, leaving it up to God to handle that person's pride?
    Furthermore, the apostle Peter admonished Christian slaves to honor and respect masters that were harsh and unreasonable (proud), as well as those who were kind and gentle (I Peter 2:18). If God expected that much from first century slaves, should He not expect a humble attitude from me toward a minister who's lacking in humility?
    Some say that you can't be humble and at the same time know that you are. Let me take it one step further: Those that are truly humble are aware that they have an incurable, deep-rooted pride of the most sinister sort.
So...how humble are you?

*Humility and How I Obtained It is a fictitious book title, a joke told by the beloved (and very humble) Bible teacher Bob Mumford.

Love is Not for Fraidy Cats

2010-02-09T22:21:00.024-05:00

John thinks the opposite of love is fear. At least that's what he told me in his first letter. I had always believed--no doubt along with most people--that love's opposite is hate. I'm sure that's also true, but consider what the apostle wrote in his epistle (are you tongue-tied yet?):

"There is no fear in love" (I John 4:18). John went on to say that "he who fears has not been perfected in love." That got me to thinking.

Fears what? What do I fear more than anything else? What do you fear the most? Maybe for you it's death, or the loss of a loved one, but if we were to be honest, I wonder how many would agree that we mostly fear something so silly it's embarrassing to admit: We fear the same people who fear us. We worry about what others think while they worry about what we think. We are afraid of fraidy cats--people who blush and sweat and tremble and get blotchy red necks and butterflies in the pit of their stomach just like we do. No matter how long a string of letters trail behind their name.

What if there were such a thing as "fearless love?" What if we could find ourselves at a place of perfection, completion, in this kind of love? How would it change our lives if we loved without a trace of fear? I've been thinking about this for a while, and I've concluded that with "fearless love" for people I would...

never be intimidated

express myself without inhibition

walk in transparency

not fear being judged

freely admit to my stupid mistakes and laugh at myself

risk reaching out to those who might wound me again

request that interview

ask for that endorsement

apply for that position

start that business

preach that sermon

befriend that neighbor

forgive my husband

engage the cashier

schedule dinner guests (This is huge for me; I have an irrational mental block about hospitality and cooking. Which is indeed silly; I make a mean lasagna. Besides that, I know that people don't come primarily for the food; they come for friendship.)

dance like nobody's looking

avoid the use of clichés

What would you add to this list? What would it look like if you could love without a trace of fear?

Too bad it can't happen. Too bad we have to settle for very human-like human love--love that loves with reservation. Love that loves while carefully protecting "self." Love that is afraid to let go. Love that's chained by fear--fear of rolling eyes, fear of being spent, or "dissed," or under appreciated....

If only there were someone that had this "fearless love" and could somehow work it into our DNA so that we grew in it, became perfected in it. If only we could inherit this kind of love, as a father passes certain genes onto his children. What if there were some type of, say, heavenly Dad who recognized our fearful, less-than-perfectly-loving condition and offered to do something about it. And we took Him up on it. Of course it would involve quite the transformation. A spiritual heart transplant of some sort. A mystical transfusion of blood. A receiving of that heavenly love in ourselves first. But oh, what we could do with this new and fearless love!

"And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him." I John 4:18

I Corinthians 13 for Evangelicals, Charismatics and Otherwise Very Nice People

2010-01-24T17:12:00.005-05:00

Though I speak in tongues and prophesy with shocking accuracy… though I fiercely defend truth and valiantly guard good doctrine… though I silence the skeptic with skillful debate and bedazzle Christian minds with Biblical insights about love—but have not love—I am a bothersome ringing in God’s ears.

Though I weep for the nations and intercede for cities… though I have faith that scatters demons, lengthens limbs or brings multitudes to their knees… though my days be marked by fasting, my nights with fervent prayer and my years by serving on plague-ravaged soil—but have not love—to God I am nobody impressive.

Though I give lavishly to survivors of earthquakes, passionately pursue justice for the enslaved, care for our precious earth, fight tirelessly for the rights of the unborn… or the hated; I have helped others, as I should, and that is good—but if I have not love—it does not get me an ounce of credit with God.

Love suffers long and silently under unfair assumptions and cruel accusations—never feeling the need to defend or explain.

Love freely expresses genuine happiness over another’s success.

Love does not casually slip her good deeds into conversation.

Love prefers to others-promote.

Love cannot remember yesterday’s insensitive remarks. It has forgotten last year’s rude comment.

Love is not paranoid or suspicious; there is no fear in love.

Love is not quick to correct.

Love can take correction.

Love’s first response to injury is compassion—not exposure.

Love is crushed at the news of an enemy’s failure.

Love puts up with immature babble.

Love patiently bears with incessant whining, yet is not manipulated by it.

Love is gracious under unprofessionalism, never feeling the need to “help” by pointing out where improvement is needed. Yet it knows when to confront with fearless grace.

Love is not short with the telemarketer or stingy with the slow waiter.

Love does not get even with the in-law; it dares to get flowers instead.

Love spends itself caring for the aged mother, never mindful of lost opportunities.

Love holds close the distant teenager. It keeps holding tight around rigid arms.

Love never fails. Philosophies, programs, causes, books, lifestyles, facelifts, ministries, sermons, bailouts, heroes, romances, cash, adventures, diet plans, dating profiles, miracle drugs, business ventures, spouses, children, parents and friends may disappoint, fail and vanish away.

The sum total of all of our wisdom and knowledge combined is but a speck of dust compared to what we don’t yet know, but really need to know. It will be done away with, when that which is all we ever needed comes to us.

It is time to put away childish thinking, living, behaving—childish loving.

One day we will see clearly the essence of love. We will see Him face to face, and we will know ourselves and each other as He has always known us.

People talk of the greatness of faith and hope. But one day there will be no more need for those. Only love will remain. For it is the greatest.

(See the original I Corinthians 13 for the truly inspired version.)

She Makes Men out of Kool-Aid

2010-01-07T22:45:00.012-05:00

     Today I went to the mailbox and found an envelope with a small red Kool-Aid stain wrapped around the edge. Rather than discarding the soiled piece of mail, the sender had taken an ink pen and outlined the front part of the stain, transforming it into a perfect, red-faced lumberjack. On the back of the envelope was a cute red bear with a heart tattoo on its arm.
     "Just like Georgia," I smiled.
     Georgia does that with life too. When unexpected turmoil gets splashed into her existence, she dons her spiritual beret and quickly beautifies what most of us would prefer to toss into the "no thank you" bin.
     Here's what I mean. Seven years ago her (then) fiance was diagnosed with cancer. She had a hospital wedding ceremony anyway, while he was undergoing treatment. The local newspaper showcased a radiant bride next to a hairless groom in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV.
     Three years ago Georgia's obstetrician informed her that since her five months-pregnant womb had completely emptied itself of amniotic fluid, the baby boy inside would most likely be born dead, or at best suffer severe brain damage. Georgia refused to give in to fear, notifying the doctors that God willing, her baby would be fine. Two weeks ago, little Garrett was romping around my kitchen wearing Dave's hunting boots, healthy as can be.
     Georgia struggles to make ends meet, on a regular basis. Yet I'll never forget the day she called to offer me half of her tax return because Dave was out of work. I refused the offer, but knew it would have thrilled her to put the money in the mail even though she was much more in need, with four little mouths to feed and no husband at home.
     I was shocked to learn one day, after knowing Georgia for several years, that she suffers from an auto-immune disorder. She had never once complained of her symptoms.
     And there's her past. It's the real reason she should be wearing a frown, rather than penning smiles on envelopes and constantly wearing one too. You see, Georgia's birth mother tried to scald her to death as an infant in a steaming bathtub. She was rescued by social services, only to be placed in one fostering hell home after another.
     Georgia knows what it's like to have the blinds shut and door locked every afternoon when you're twelve years old.... She still remembers the way they laughed at school when she arrived wearing the contents of "the bucket" she'd been forced to empty at three in the morning on an icy driveway.... The memories are as fresh as the road kill served for suppers--skunk, raccoon, squirrel and woodchuck. "If it's still warm it's safe" he'd always say.
     And there were the cruel and unusual punishments--hours standing against the wall trying desperately to not let the quarter slip off...but she was so tired. And that's when the coffee was brewed. And forced down, black, at four in the morning.
     How Georgia hates the smell of coffee!
     Sometimes I forget when she comes to visit. "But this is hazelnut!" I always say. We laugh.
     Georgia should be throwing Kool-Aid stained envelopes away.
     One day she did start over though. It was in a country church with simple folk. The preacher told them Jesus could make their scarlet-stained heart as white as snow. Georgia ran forward and a lifetime of misery rushed out in tears. "If you don't love me, I can't love me. And no one else will," she told God.
     I have only scratched the surface of the untold hardships of Georgia's life. The rest are too dark and painful to mention here. Yet since that day at the altar, twenty years ago, Georgia's worn a smile as big as her heart. It's funny. She's the one that cheers me up. Me with a husband at home. Me with the happy childhood memories. Healthy me. (Slightly more) wealthy me. I can only conclude that I need a little more of the Jesus Georgia has.
     And a beret.

(This story written with permission.)

Why I Don't Make New Year's Resolutions

2010-01-01T10:38:00.011-05:00

I don't make New Year's Resolutions; I make daily ones. I got the idea from an old prophet.

In the Old Testament book of Lamentations (chapter three), Jeremiah is having one big pity party. He feels the pain of Israel's broken resolutions and is about to give up on everything and everybody, including himself and God (who Jeremiah is sure must be against him as well). Until...

     "But this I call to mind,
      and therefore I have hope:

      The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases
      his mercies never come to an end;
      they are new every morning."

Suddenly poor old Jeremy remembers God's mercies (Hebrew, hesed), or covenant/steadfast love. At the end of the day--at the end of his rope, his hope--that is what remains. New mercy will be waiting in the morning, after his long, dark night of affliction.

From Jeremiah I learn that God's mercies are new every morning--not every year. That means if I fail at keeping my latest resolution, I get a fresh start within twenty-four hours.

Actually, I don't have to wait until the cock crows. I believe Jeremiah is simply telling us that God is abundantly merciful, always merciful, instantly merciful. When the apostle Paul told the Philippians to forget the past and reach for what lies ahead (chapter three), he meant the past--whether it's ten minutes, or ten years in the past. God's mercies--his hesed--means that my future is one fresh start after another, starting now. No failure of mine can interrupt "the steadfast love of the Lord."

So here goes. My New Day Resolutions:

Today I resolve to limit myself to one Lindt Truffle and no more.

I resolve to eat an unfulfilling-but-healthy apple.

I resolve to get outside and walk, unless it's in the single digits. Then I resolve to move to Florida.

I resolve to figure out what's for dinner by noon. I resolve to have it on the table by five (-ish). I resolve to smile sweetly and bite my tongue until it bleeds if they don't like what I make. I resolve to hire a cook.

I resolve to not raise my voice at the children.

I resolve to be a respectful, non-nagging wife.

I resolve to write a blog post (check).

I resolve to get myself in bed by ten o'clock so as to awaken tomorrow well before the kids do and enjoy an early morning tea with God.

I resolve to run into God's ready arms if I fail.

I resolve to listen when He tells me I am loved anyway, and that tomorrow will be a fresh start.

Recipe for a Miracle

2009-12-31T11:09:00.002-05:00

1 fully ripe circumstance

2 cups impossibility (no substitutes)

Drain natural resources

Add one grain of faith

Fold in prayer

Let praise rise until doubled

Punch down doubtful thoughts

Need

Let praise rise again

Punch down words of defeat

Leave in furnace of affliction until edges are golden

Chill and wait

Charismaniac Attack

2009-11-11T11:53:00.003-05:00

My ideal church would meet in a gym, allow bagels and jeans during the sermon, and make skeptics feel right at home. It would not allow the kind of person who attacked Gail Tipton* one Sunday in the early 1980's.

Gail is a fiery Baltimorean preacher with a college education and a distaste for nonprofessionalism. So when her pastor invited a cornfed woman from Kentucky as the guest speaker for morning worship, Gail folded her arms. This hick had runs in her stockings, coffee stains on her blouse, and very unbrushed teeth. But that wasn't all. At the end of a butchered sermon, the dear woman pointed to Gail and called her forward for prayer!

Gail wanted to run and hide, but instead lurched toward the front of the church and her worst fear was realized--she was about to be attacked by a charismaniac. Holy Roller Hillbilly yelled, spitting out every "s" in Jesus' mighty name, pushed and shoved unkempt fingers on Janet's head, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in her belly, in her belly, and in her belly! She shundalah-ed, roared, bound and finally loosed poor Gail to her seat. Janet went home and took a bath, half ready to throw in the Pentecostal towel and become a Methodist.

I relate to Gail. The left side of my brain frequently complains to God about the wackos in His family--the dreaming, angel-chasing, sign-seeking, shaking, quaking folks that clutter my would-be tidy Sunday service and logic-loving mind.

Three months after the quack attack Gail was rushed to the emergency room with unexplained internal bleeding. Her abdomen was swollen and she was close to death. Lying on the hospital bed in desperation, Gail silently cried out to God for help. Wanting to not make a spectacle before her roommate (polished as she was, you know), the frail woman grabbed two IV poles connected to bags of blood, and inched her way into the bathroom. She shut the door, leaned over the sink, and bargained with God:

"Do you remember that dear, sweet (very dear, very sweet) woman from Kentucky that laid hands on my stomach a few months ago, and prayed for healing before I knew I needed it? Well if you answer her prayer, I promise I'll never make fun of one of your servants again."

The next day Gail went home, healthy, leaving the doctors befuddled as to what had caused her hemorraging. She's been healthy ever since.

Gail spoke in our church--our little charismatic church--last Sunday. The night before I had talked late into the night with my dad about my disillusionment with the "containters" in which God stores His presence--people like the little lady from Kentucky. I had no idea that the next morning's topic would be Treasures and Containers. As Gail spoke so passionately and eloquently about the need to value the container (God's people) for the treasure (God) that they hold, I wept.

How many times had I reacted like leperous Naaman when Elijah told him to dip in the muddy Jordan seven times (II Kings 5)? It took the same humility for Captain Naaman to receive his healing that it will for me to receive what God might say and do through the sometimes muddled waters of "spirit-filled" church. Containers aren't perfect, but the treasure within, is.

(Note: I happen to attend a charismatic church, but consider myself interdenominational, or nondenominational. I feel at home in any church where the Bible is preached and Jesus is our common ground.)

*name has been changed

God Bought Me Some Perfume

2009-10-13T20:58:00.003-04:00

So I've been wanting some new perfume. But as the luxury remains on my "when-Dave-gets-a-job" list, I'm content to sniff-n-wish every time I go to the mall, taking home samples of my latest "favorite."

There's this verse in the Psalms about God giving us the desires of our heart. I've always piously declared that as long as our desires match His, He will do just that. But perfume? Way too carnal a thing to desire.

Not so, apparently, for at church today a lady (knowing nothing of my secret parfum pining) handed me a bag containing a gift box of five small bottles of unopened designer perfume. "I wanted to give you a present," she said, and walked away.

My guess? God told her. I really should stop being suprised and let it sink in that He really does like us that much--enough to buy me perfume.

"If you'll hold on to me for dear life," says God, "I'll get you out of any trouble. I'll give you the best of care if you'll only get to know and trust me. Call to me and I'll answer, be at your side in bad times; I'll rescue you, then throw you a party. I'll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation." Ps. 91:14-16, The Message

Date in the Woods

2009-10-13T20:54:00.001-04:00

Today was Date-with-a-Daughter Day. This is the second month of a new and very important tradition that I've known for a while I was going to start someday. Recently I suddenly realized it's time to start. So one day each week one of my four daughters goes with me on a date.

Today I spread a blanket on a sparkly sunny-shady plot of our land and lay with my twelve-and-a-half year old under a pristine September sky, sipping Praline Mocha coffee. We talked for at least an hour about the dangers of antibiotics, her new career goal (to be a homeopathic horse quack, I mean doctor), and what God does about people who never had the opportunity to hear the gospel (she directed the entire conversation). It was wonderful. Anna's at that delicate preteen age where she could go either way. Some days I see her almost teetering over the wrong side of the fence (in attitude) and I know it's because she needs Momma time.

I know kids don't come with a guarantee that they'll never go off the deep end. We do our best but ultimately they make their own decisions. People tell me girls are scary that way. I'm listening. If they turn out okay it'll be by the grace of God. But if they don't, never let it be said that I didn't spend the time with them that they needed. These coffee dates are my feeble attempt at teenage rebellion insurance.

Snitchin' from the Kitchen

2009-10-13T20:51:00.001-04:00

Last Sunday one of our daughters was found stealing marshmallows from the church refrigerator (Well wouldn't you be tempted? The seat can only sit beneath a tummy's rumbling and a preacher's rambling for so long). In our dwelling, the punishment must fit the crime, and so it was decided that the aforementioned would go without sweets for the rest of the day.

This was acceptable until our dear friend Xiu Yun, petite owner of "The Famiry Wok," gave our children a package of orange-almond cookies. When Dear Daughter realized what her snitchin' from the kitchen cost her, she ran up to her room and fell into a torrent of tears strong enough to soak through the knotty pine-lined ceiling. Ruthie, listening to the despairing cry, sat and studied her cookie. Suddenly she jumped up and with wide-eyed revelation pled, "Can I give her half of my cookie?"

I smiled. My damsel in distress had been rescued. A few minutes later a red-eyed little girl and her sacrificing sister were chomping on cookie halves, their legs swinging wildly beneath the table.

Isn't that what Christ, our Brother, has done for us? Seeing we had stupidly cheated ourselves out of forever enjoying the good pleasure of the Father's Kingdom, Jesus willingly offered us a share in His inheritance. He couldn't bear to see us go without all the joys intended for our lives here on earth; He couldn't keep the gift of eternal life--power over the grave--all to Himself. He could only be happy sharing it with us. That desire cost Him dearly.

And I wonder, when Father God looked upon that sacrifice, if He felt what I did when I looked into Ruthie's hazel eyes that day---the joy that comes when "mercy triumphs over judgment" (James 2:13).

Bible Characters on Facebook

2009-10-13T20:47:00.001-04:00

(Just for fun, for my fellow Facebook addicts out there)

Abraham just gave Lot a L'il Green Patch.

Noah needs more farm animals.

Suggest friends for Job.

Isaac is now married.

Solomon--Interested In: women

Adam has just added you as his relative.

Elijah just took the "What Movie are You?" Quiz and the result is: Gone with the Wind.

Hide Baby Moses.

Ignore Delilah.

Absalom just took the "How will you die?" Quiz and the result is: Hanged by hair from a tree.

Ruth just harvested barley in Farm Town.

The Apostle Paul just sent you a Holy Kiss. Kiss him back!

Jonah just took the "What Movie are You?" Quiz and the result is: The Perfect Storm.

Saul just threw a spear at David.

Abraham just took the "What Bible Character are You?" Quiz and the result is: Abraham.

God wrote on Belshazzar's Wall.

Idiot's Guide to Heaven and Hell

2009-10-13T20:40:00.001-04:00

As Anna and I snuggled in for a recent “Bible time” together, we read the passage in Matthew 22 in which Jesus told the Sadducees that there would be no marriage in Heaven.

“No marriage in Heaven?” my almost-thirteen-year-old gasped, then sat beside me gaping in disbelief. I could read her mind. Already looking forward to the dating years, I’ll bet she was praying right then and there that Jesus wouldn’t come back for a very long time.

Sensing her disappointment, I explained that most of us are mistaken about Heaven. We picture ourselves strumming harps as we float along on fluffy clouds in and out of private mansions. That would get dull after a few thousand years. If Heaven is merely a pain-free, glorified extension of this present existence, I’m disappointed.

But this is what I told Anna: Heaven is a literal place, to be sure. There are untold pleasures to be enjoyed with all the five senses and more. But beyond that, Heaven is as much about “being” as it is “doing.” Since “the essence of life is relationship” (Victor Dodzweit), Heaven—or eternal life—is the ultimate experience in relationship. Complete transparency characterizes the community of Heaven. We will experience each other with an intimacy that far surpasses the physical intimacy lovers share on earth. Someone explained that in Heaven, when you meet a person for the first time, you see them from the inside out, as opposed to the earthly “working your way in”. You immediately see (sense, feel, know, realize) one’s true self (character, personality) the instant you meet him or her. And better still, you love and appreciate what you see! It’s as if the person who once rubbed you the wrong way has been completely emptied of every trace of annoyance, and the positive aspects of that personality have been condensed and magnified to make up the entire individual, so that we will understand each other as the unique person he or she was always meant to be. And we’ll have an eternity to “discover” people as if for the first time, one at a time, and to enjoy them forever. It makes me giddy just thinking about it.

And that’s just the people part! Greater still will be experiencing God—the pure essence of love. People that have momentarily died, gone to Heaven and come back, all tell of an incredible feeling of being enveloped in a love that warmed them beyond what human language can express.

Hell is the exact opposite. By definition, it is the absence of the presence of God. Here on earth, the worst infidels are still able to call on God, for He is here. Not so in Hell. It is a place of utter abandonment—a loneliness unlike any ever experienced on earth. Some people joke and say “at least I’ll be in good company in Hell—we’ll party!” That won’t be the case. Hell is a place where God respects one wishes and allows them the fullest experience of what they always wanted on earth. So those that lived for themselves will get just that—they will have their “selves” all to themselves. Randy Alcorn writes of an individual who found himself in Hell and soon heard a blood-curdling scream, thought to be a demon. He realized it was his own scream; the thing he loved too much to ever deny now turned on him to torment him for eternity. As will all those things some choose to hold on to—hate, fear, greed, envy, and so on. They are the only company one has in Hell. They become all consuming giants now feeding on the one who used to feed on them.

Aren’t you glad we can choose Heaven? The Bible says that Hell is reserved for Satan and his angels. God never meant for any human to go there, and He did the ultimate in giving us a way out. Just ask Jesus about that.

Oops, I'm a Mom! (My Book in Progress)

2009-07-24T21:20:00.000-04:00

Ever cried over a positive pregnancy test--and not with tears of joy?

Has it put a damper on being the mom your kids need?

You're not alone. Let's face it--there are many reasons it's not always convenient to be pregnant:

I'm still in high school!

I was just looking forward to the empty nest.

Not a honeymoon baby!

I only wanted two.

So much for my career.

Did you say, "multiples?"

I never wanted to have children!

If you try to wish away the day a little pink line appeared on a pee-stick, take my hand. I've been there. Let me walk with you through the pages of this little book and help you move past "post-oops blues" to discover that this is not the end--but a hope-filled beginning of your life.

Reviews of My Favorite Books

2009-01-16T21:45:00.002-05:00

Much as I’d rather be blogging, I have GOT to finish my book. So in the words of an animated tiger, “TTFN!” (TA TA for Now!). But before I take my blogging hiatus, I thought I’d leave my own reviews of a few of my favorite books:

Dinner With a Perfect Stranger, by David Gregory—What if you could go to dinner with Jesus and ask him anything? This engaging novella does just that. Over fine Italian dining, Jesus gives the main character answers to questions we’ve all had. I’d recommend this book to (1.) Anyone who wants to know what sets Christianity apart from all other religions and (2.) Christians wanting to fall in love with Jesus all over again.

Inside the Mind of Unchurched Harry and Marry, by Lee Strobel. The title says it all. I wish pastors of small churches would quit strategizing about how to grow and just read this book.

UnChristian, by David Kinneman—Christians, prepare to cringe. The author lets us know that is us, not Jesus, people have a problem with, and details why.

Mere Christianity, by C.S. Lewis—A down-to-earth explanation as to why it makes perfect sense that there’s a God and what are His intentions.

Redeeming Love, by Francine Rivers—Think God doesn’t like you? Guess again! Warning to Moms: Cook ahead and freeze meals before starting this book—you’ll be glued to the couch until finishing this riveting deluge of passion. But it’s worth the life-changing read. By the end you’ll be stripping your soul stark naked and going on a honey-moon with God.

My Skin Disease

2008-11-04T19:58:00.001-05:00

I've been reading up on Epidermolysis Bullosa--a life-threatening skin disease in which the epidermis does not attach to the dermis, due to lack of the protein collagen. Consequently the skin blisters with the slightest bump or scratch. The blisters are painful and cause scarring, which leads to deformities in the extremities. A child with EB knows only a life consumed with daily wrappings, ointments and dressings, constant pain and emotional suffering. It was all I could do to get through each heart-wrenching paragraph and picture describing this gruesome condition.

And then I realized I have the same disease.

My physical epidermis is attached just fine, but I have a skin hyper-sensitivity of another sort. Call it the "disease to please," the fear of man or public opinion, or plain old being too sensitive--the fact of the matter is, I blister inwardly at the slightest bump to my ego. I'm constantly dressing new wounds and nursing old ones it seems--as a result of what someone said to me or thought about me. I tiptoe my way around people at times, careful to not get my too-thin skin scratched. It's a nasty ailment, this approval-addiction affliction.

The good news is, unlike EB, there is a cure for my particular skin disease (for more on the cure, read the post, "Have You Seen My Self?"). I am in recovery. My skin is slowly but surely thickening. I'm finding that I'm more and more able to survive the bumps that result when I say something bold--or stupid for that matter. Stares, whispers and bad opinions--real or imagined--are becoming but the brush of a feather against my increasingly resilient skin.

More and more I'm able to walk away from a people-encounter without suffering for hours over things like, Did I talk too much? Was I too opinionated? Did I sound immature? Ignorant? Was I a busy-body? I am so misunderstood! I was misjudged! (Should I have announced this blog post on Facebook--or will they think I'm tooting my horn?)

I'm hanging what people think and going to take the bandages off.

The Unarians

2008-09-30T22:09:00.000-04:00

I watched a documentary about the Unarians--a group of interdimensional pseudoscientists who believe aliens of higher intelligence--the "Space Brothers"--will soon come to earth to show us the right way to live and be. They will make us people of peace and not war, love and not hate. After showing us the way, they will make for us a new and eternal home, full of everything good.

Poor souls. You can't blame them. Wouldn't we love to believe that someone very human but also very perfect would call Himself our brother, come from a heavenly place and live among us, show us how to live, offer to make us just like Him, and then promise us a better and enduring home than what we now have?

Imagine that.

Christian Genius

2008-08-28T21:01:00.001-04:00

I'm pretty sure he's a genius. Definitely one of the most intelligent persons with whom I've ever conversed. A graduate of Berkeley and Cornell, he spends his days playing with chemicals and debating the difficult questions. He can speed-read a page faster than I can say, "Did you really read it?" What's more, he remembers every detail.

I enjoy spending time with this fascinating Chinese-American who eats deer hearts, makes music and speaks a few languages. But it's not his brains that impress me the most. It's his heart.

"Jason the Genius" is a born-again Christian. As if this isn't paradoxical enough, it was how he converted that amazes me the most. I would have guessed Jason saw the light while debating intelligent design and evolution on campus, or while reading apologists like McDowell or Zacharias. For years I've insisted that we can only reach intellectuals through reason. "The mind is their door to the heart." Jason proved me wrong.

It wasn't through philosophy, new scientific discoveries or historical evidence that Jason came to Christ. Amazingly enough, he heard the simple gospel message at a vacation Bible school as a twelve-year-old. Rather than reason it away with his sharp mind, he embraced it with a humble and receptive heart. Something clicked in his spirit when he heard the truth--We need a Savior. It can't be us. It can't be just God. It must be God becoming one of us. In an instant, it all made perfect sense and a young boy made his way to the altar.

But Jason didn't check his brains at the door. I'd love to see any agnostic challenge him on matters of faith.

Jason moved away recently and our family will miss him greatly. He is an inspiration to me, and an example of one who is truly sold-out to Jesus and trusting Him with his entire life. His is a solid faith, the stuff of devoted saints willing to go the way of the Cross. I'll never forget the night we sat around the computer with Jason, watching his idea of a great movie--a document of the suffering underground church of China. This--more than seeker-friendly, happy-clappy church is what attracts Jason. I was sobered.

Jason is living proof that what Paul wrote in I Corinthians 2 is true: the things of the Spirit (God's Spirit) can only be discerned, understood, known, through our spirit--not our intellect. The wisdom of God is foolishness to man. And it is with "the heart"--not the mind, that one "believes unto righteousness" (Romans 10:10). That explains why people all over the world--of every shape, size, color and intelligence quota--are finding out that Jesus is indeed "the way, the truth and the life."

We will miss you, Jason. Keep the faith.

Church at a Bar

2008-08-17T20:10:00.002-04:00

I was discussing spiritual things with a Jehovah's Witness several years ago and she made a comment that caught me off guard:

"You Christians are always bickering over petty issues. You're hopelessly divided over doctrines and methods. You've got your splits, cliques and denominational walls. Who would want to be a part of that?"

Ouch.

Having nothing to say and knowing she was right, I changed the subject.

I wish I could have known back then to say this: There is a difference between uniformity and what she claimed to have in her church--unity.

Uniformity depends on everyone seeing eye to eye, agreeing on all points of the law, worshipping the same way and holding to all the same convictions. Been there, done that.

True unity, on the other hand, is not dependent on any of the above. In fact, the more diverse the crowd, the more meaningful the "unity of the Spirit," as described in the book of Ephesians. When believers are unified, the only common ground they need is love for our Lord Jesus. All differences fade away in the light of Who He is.

Ephesians says Jesus came to tear down the walls we put up between ourselves. While so many Christians insist on keeping those walls erected, some are choosing to keep them down. I saw evidence of this today, of all places, in a nightclub.
Passersby on route 352 in Big Flats may have wondered what was happening at Tags on this bright Sunday morning. They may have been surprised to find out that we were having---church?

Yup. If we call ourselves followers of Jesus, we should hang out in the places He did. And scripture makes it clear--he liked being with "nonnies." He had lunch in their homes and sat in their taverns. It was the religious folk who were disturbed by this habit of His.

But what I most enjoyed about this morning's gathering was not just our willingness to rub shoulders with "the world," but the fact that five churches closed their doors today and gathered together to celebrate our common thread--Jesus Christ. What made it so remarkable was the diversity in the crowd. I know most of the ministers represented, and many people in their churches. Let me tell ya, we aren't cut from the same mold. We worship, believe and baptize differently. We vary in all things color, age, education and political persuassion. Why last year even the local Rabbi and his wife joined us. If there were ever reason to raise walls, the several hundred people gathered at Tags today had them.

But our unity centered on our love for a Man Who loves us all.

The service began with a time of praise and worship, led by band members from different congregations. A dance team performed a very hip-hop rendition of "Awesome God" and then we enjoyed an inspiring message by Bob Cornwall, a man not affiliated with any church, but who travels from place to place encouraging believers to stay unified and fulfill the Great Commission. Afterward people purchased food prepared by Tags and sat around catching up on each others' lives, or getting to know one another for the first time. I looked around; people of Catholic, Methodist, Weslyan, Pentecostal, CMA and Baptist backgrounds were smiling, laughing and stuffing their faces. No one seemed to be quibbling over predestination and free will. It was a little (and quite literal, to be sure) taste of Heaven on earth. There is simply no other religion in which members can be so divided and yet united at the same time.

Then again, this isn't exactly a religion, is it? The Church is a family, a group of people in relationship. You know how your own family members can differ in points of view, yet the family name unites you. We have the same family name. What's more, because of the cross, we're blood related! I could start preaching right here.

It was suggested we send a thank you card to the owner of Tags for the free use of his facility. I hope many people follow through. It is my hope that someone looking on at this event today took note that: we are grateful for such a lovely meeting place, we left it clean, and we love one another. Who knows, maybe that girl I talked to years ago was looking on with curiosity....

Have You Seen My Self?

2008-03-27T01:11:00.001-04:00

I was recently browsing videos at the local library and glanced at one entitled, "Zen--the Search for Self." I thought, "Yuck."

Please don't misunderstand--I'm not bashing Buddhists. I deeply love and respect people of all faiths. But if you don't mind me saying so, I'd rather not go looking for "self." I'm trying desparately to lose it. And strangely, the more I succeed at doing so, the better I feel about myself!

I'm discovering myself really for the first time--the enhanced version, my truest self, the person I was intended to be. As songwriter Sarah Groves said, "I just showed up for my own life."

I've chosen a "religion" (if you want to call it that) that teaches that in order to find one's "self" (or "life"), one has to lose it. Self has to be buried, reckoned as dead. One's life has to become "hidden in God." How different from endless meditation on "self," trying to find oneself, to make a name for oneself.

Every now and then I lose perspective and get full of "self" -- either through feeling like I've said or done something really special and that everyone should applaud me, or through facing my own stupidity and feeling swallowed up in the foolish words of my big mouth. I have to say, whichever way, being so "full of self" feels really gross.

A humble harpist came to our church some time ago and told the "sock" illustration: I am like a sock and Jesus is the matching sock--my soul mate. The man then interlocked the socks together like one does when folding clean laundry and said that God wants me to be lost in Him, and He in me, like that mated pair of socks. I rather like that idea.

I don't think any one of my socks, if it were alone, and could talk, would be going around saying, "I need to find my self." Drawers full of unmated socks are bothersome.

I recently was at prayer and asked God, "Show me where I'm proud and arrogant." Then I quickly changed the request to, "Better yet, just let me hide myself in You. And what I don't know won't hurt me." And "my meditation of Him became sweet" (Ps. 104). It's really a wonderful thing--the loss of self.

God Wants You--RICH?

2008-03-21T21:07:00.002-04:00

I was raised in the Bible Belt and still remember falling asleep on carpeted convention room floors under the voices of great men of God like Kenneth Hagin, Kenneth Copeland and the like. I was only a kid but knew that the faith they preached about was what God wants us to have. I knew I served a God that yearned for us to ask that we may receive. My Heavenly Daddy wants to bless.

But I fear that much of the church has taken the beautiful truth of the Word/Faith teachers and twisted them into a "God wants you rich" prosperity doctrine that makes God look more like Santa Claus. Get your list ready, He's coming to town.

I recently heard a minister say, "Financial lack makes you depressed and envious. It hinders God from using you in the world." Are you kidding me? It's the RESPONSE (the wrong response) to lack that's what makes you this way. Can you imagine someone telling Mother Teresa that God wants to "prosper" her, that she doesn't have to remain under a "spirit of poverty?" What if the prosperity message was taken to the underground church in China, to the saints who are joyfully imprisoned and impoverished for their loyalty to Jesus? Would the Fransican monks have wanted to drive around in a Lexus? Would someone dare tell missionary Heidi Baker--who willingly lives with the bare minimum among the poorest of the poor--that her material lack is an "attack of the devil?"

The apostle Paul did very gladly "spend and (was) spent" for people's sakes, suffering hunger, near nakedness and unspeakable hardship. He never once implied that He was waiting for his "financial breakthrough." And what's more--he wasn't depressed or envious either. Why I'll bet he was the happiest man of his time, and he was dirt poor. And what income he did generate wasn't through leaching on the local believers. He made tents.

Perhaps we should stop blaming financial struggles on the devil and the curse of our ancestors. Instead of acting as though God will wave a magic wand and get us out of debt--why not get to the real issue? We're stupid with our money. Bring in the Larry Burketts to teach the church how to handle finances wisely, and we won't need any more prosperity sermons.

For that matter, what if we had a paradigm shift that caused us to start seeing the needs of the world more than our personal comfort?

For Thinking People Only

2008-03-04T10:48:00.001-05:00

I suppose many nonbelievers assume I'm like a lot of "religious people" who are going on blind faith. Nothing could be farther from the truth! As a matter of fact, it was the employment of reason, intelligence, logic, scientific and historical evidence that brought me to a belief in the God I've come to know and love.

Calling all scientists, philosophers and other thinking people: If you're at all interested in exploring whether Christianity might actually be based on something more substantial than emotional prejudice and blind faith, I'd like to introduce to you Ravi Zacharias, who produces a radio broadcast entitled, "Just Thinking." Dr. Zacharias travels from university to university defending the Christian faith with astounding answers to the most challenging questions. You can hear the recordings of these archived Q & A sessions on-line.

It's been said that if a person does not believe in the God of the Bible it's due to either a mind issue or a heart issue. For some, there's a willingness to believe, but a simple lack of information keeps the mind from embracing the Truth. For others, all the scientific and historical evidence in the world will not ever convince--for there is a heart that truly does not want to believe.

I hope someone decides to open his or her mind and/or heart (which ever is necessary) and take a listen to a Zacharias podcast: http://www.rzim.org/.

2008-02-09T22:30:00.000-05:00

I've had my fill of emerging church books for a while. They were delicious, but I have a truth ache. Time to put aside the king's delicacies and have some fruits and veggies for ten days. Please pass the Bible, with a sprinkling of Lewis, McDowell and Zacharias on the side.

I Kissed Christmas Good-bye

2007-12-06T19:25:00.000-05:00

I've always dreaded Christmas. I don't know if it's because I might be a distant relative of Ebenezer Scrooge, or if I just really find those dancing Santas so cheesy. But the fact is--there's something amiss in my mind about the whole holiday thing.

At least there was--until now. That's because I just kissed Christmas--as I've always known it--Good-bye. And I feel great--really great! So it must not be the Ebenezer Scrooge thing.

Oh we'll still celebrate Christmas. But we'll do it on my terms this year, and for every year hereafter. I have told my children that if they'd like the house to be decorated, they may decorate it. Boy did they have a blast setting up the fake tree. And it doesn't look half bad. I'll go rearrange the ornaments when they're not looking. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll finally get to sit and read a book instead. Ahhh--I love the holidays.

And gifts? That's the best part. I won't have to be herded through a mile-long checkout line in the wee hours of the morning to buy this year's presents. I took care of my kids' Christmas at one single garage sale last summer. Spent twenty bucks on all four kids, for something they'll love. Of course that box will be supplemented with the gift of my time--spent making Christmas crafts with them, watching the classics, and caroling at the local retirement home. I am now engaged in making memories--not in stresses over wrapping paper messes.

I felt like I'd lost a hundred pounds of anxiety the day I wrote to extended family members who live long distances away and said that I wouldn't be sending out packages this year. That's when I really knew I could enjoy the holidays for the first time. My December calendar is empty, and my joy is full.

For more see http://www.adventconspiracy.org/

Riches to Rags

2007-11-21T22:20:00.002-05:00

Five years ago I lived a comfortable lifestyle. We weren't wealthy by any means, but money was rarely an issue as we regularly enjoyed new things, trips and food. Our family of six ate dinner out once a week. We cruised the Caribbean. And I shopped. I'd take off one evening a week by myself and go get my mall fix, buying whatever jumped out at me claiming to be a good deal. I joked about having ongoing affairs with "the three other men in my life"--Micheal, TJ Max and Peter Harris.

But two years ago our lifestyle of the rich but not-so-famous came screeching to a halt. My husband closed down his business and went back to school full time. As our bank account dwindled, reality set in. I would have to kiss my shopping affairs good-bye. My last trip to the mall ended when I spotted a butterfly-shaped rhinestone ring on a clearance table for ten dollars. I tried it on, loved it, and impulsively headed for the checkout counter before it hit me that I could no longer afford such luxuries. I put it back, shocked at my new life.

I've been home ever since.

I've learned that clean rags make fine dinner napkins and toilet paper works just as well as Kleenex. And I always did wonder exactly what goes on in those restaurant kitchens. I can spot a potential ebay item at any garage sale and I've found that it really doesn't matter if little Rebecca's chunky shoes aren't exactly the right style for her frilly dress. Besides--who needs a new frilly dress?

I've gone from being known as "shopaholic" to "home-body." On the rare evenings when I do have to be out I miss the sacred quiet of having cheese and crackers with my hubby by candlelight, or the belly laughs coming from my kids as we watch a family comedy. I miss the home I've grown to love more than ever.

My husband has two short semesters left of school before we head back into what will hopefully be a more financially freeing lifestyle. But there are a few things I suspect I will do differently this time around. I will listen carefully when someone mentions they are struggling financially. I will give more and take less. I plan to stay home. And I hope to buy real dinner napkins--for when we have company.

Litmus Test for a Healthy House-Churcher

2007-11-11T22:20:00.001-05:00

I recently came across a house-church website whose mission is to " inspire those whose spiritual hungers cannot be met in the conventional expressions of Christianity."

Woah there, Betsy. Who ever said anyone's spiritual hungers can be met "in the conventional expressions of Christianity?" I certainly have always known mine cannot. It's by every word that comes from His mouth. It's through my daily walk with Him, feeding on His Word.

Greg Dawkins and Bill Hybels of Willow Creek Church in Chicago have been surveying America's churches to find out whether the needs of the congregations are really being met. They found that for seekers, and new and growing Christians, the local church is doing it's job. But seasoned, mature believers are giving a different report: they are increasingly becoming dissatisfied--even dissillusioned with the local church.

Dawkins and Hybels diagnosed this problem with the fact that church leaders are not helping their people to become "self-feeders." I would agree with that. I think house churchers recognize this too, but it seems their way of dealing with it is to leave the local church and continue self-feeding.

Here's an idea: What if we "self-feeders" stayed in the nest and started feeding the baby birds (teaching them how to become self-feeders)? Oh I know God wants us to get dangerously on the edge of conventional thinking and leave the comfort and safety of reliance upon a pastor and the "system...." but try this on for size: What if we became so much "like a little child"--so "poor in spirit"--that we saw an opportunity in the local church to roll up our sleeves and get working, forgetting about whether or not our needs are being met? Just what if we started showing up to serve? I can't help but wonder if Willow's statistics would change?

None-the-less, I'm just as embarrassed by many aspects of conventional Christianity as anyone. Some days I come close to throwing in the Church towel and becoming a spiritual hippie. I'm glad people like Hybels and Dawkins (Barna and the like) are waking us up to the fact that the local church is failing miserably in a lot of ways. And I respect my brothers and sisters who choose to leave it. As for me, I choose to stay in for now, speak up and affect change. Someone's gotta!

(Sep. 2008 update) I'm not against house church. There are a lot of healthy house churches whose members are in it for the right reasons. But unfortunately, statistics show that many house churches are made up of disgruntled or disillusioned church members. Here's my litmus test for a "healthy house churcher:" Can you visit a local church at any time and feel at home with the Body of Christ? Or has it been years since you've darkened the door of a church? Is your speech about the "organization" laced with cynicism or humility? Are your church-going friends uncomfortable bringing up the subject around you, fearing they'll be judged as being "still stuck in the institution?" Would your friends hesitate to invite you to hear a special speaker at their church--or do they shy away from the topic in order to keep peace?

On Excellence in Churches

2007-10-14T21:27:00.002-04:00

If my "Cheesy Church" post left a bad taste in your mouth, try a bite of this.

I've been having conversations with an individual on the subject of excellence. This person and I have in common that we appreciate excellence on all levels and in all areas of life. In a word, we both hate, well, cheesiness. Sloppiness. It bugs us both when things aren't carried out in a professional manner. And church is the place where we most desire to see things done right.

However my friend and I part company when it comes down to the extent that we value so-called excellence. He recently left his church in search for a place where the leadership has it all together. I wish him luck. Actually--I give him a year. My guess? The honeymoon will eventually be over and alas, he'll be on to greener grass.

(And don't get me wrong--he has good reason to move on. The things that drive him crazy in churches and among ministers annoy me to no end.)

As I've reflected on my friend's decision to go in search of church-done-his-way, I've been asking myself these questions: What am I really after in church? Why am I there? What is and should be my--our--sole purpose in going to church week in and week out?

These questions are answered loudly and clearly every time I see a watery-eyed, broken soul drinking in truth during the adult Sunday School class. Or light-bulbs coming on as I dramatize Bible stories for the children in Kids' Church. Every time someone makes the walk to the altar and reconnects with God I'm reminded of the answer: It's not about me. It's about them.

To the little old ladies that faithfully prepare a Sunday School lesson every week, to the young youth workers who exhaust their energies in planning outreaches, and to the busy mothers who invite visitors over for Sunday dinner--thank you. Thank you for placing people above professionalism in the things you value in church. It may never get better. Some things never change. The sermons may be dry, the stage may look tacky, and the restrooms may stink. But we're all just people trying our best to keep people a priority. I really think God is far more concerned about that than getting us to sharpen up our style.

If you want to talk professional--how about being professional in the way we love each other? Isn't it a rather sloppy love that says, "I love this church and this pastor until it no longer measures up to my standards of excellence?" Contrast that attitude with "professional agape": "I love this church and this pastor because they are God's people and He loves them too." And if you really want a PhD in God's kind of love, try repeating this to yourself until it gets in your heart: "I am no better." Now that's excellence.

Cheesy Church

2007-08-20T04:10:00.003-04:00

When I was eighteen I had a friend whose father was just starting his own church. I remember the tiny metal warehouse he rented in which to hold services. I attended one of the very first meetings and wondered where those humble and small beginnings might lead him. When I visited my hometown last summer (eighteen years later) I had a chance to find out.

Imagine my astonishment when a parking attendant led me in front of a multi-million dollar, several thousand member, state-of-the-art facility complete with a cafe, giant TV monitors and a Nickelodeon-like children's program.

As the service progressed and I took in the wonder of it all, I asked myself, What were the keys to success here? What is the difference between this and what I see so much of elsewhere--"cheesy church?"

Of course there are entire books devoted to the subject of how to grow a church, but if I might offer my puny opinion, here's what I came up with:

1. Progressive worship: If you sing modern worship choruses, keep them relatively current. For years I've seen churches take good songs and sing the life right out of them (I've gotten all I'm going to get out of "Come, Now is the Time to Worship"). And for the love of all that's holy, please don't ditch the hymns.

2. Relevant preaching: People that attend church on Sunday mornings have real life issues. If the message doesn't hit home, home is where they'll stay next time.

3. Excellence: It's a shame that secular entertainers outdo the church in this area. It seems that you have to look to the world for things like: a professional sound, an attractive website, and everything else on down to clean restrooms and floors. If we don't excel in these simple areas, why should people expect us to excel in the more important ones?

4. Authenticity: I've come to realize that authentic Christianity--not "Churchianity"--is what people, especially the younger generation, are craving. We need to ditch the fluff and stick with real stuff. Bake sales, attendance books, members-only mail boxes, floral arrangements, panty hose, offering plate pitches, and long announcements were nice back in the day. But there is a body emerging within the Body that is increasingly being turned off by such plethora. They're tired of Cheesy Church. (The pastor of one church I visited actually wore a suit that was yellow with three-inch wide brown stripes. No kidding.)

Speaking of authentic Church, I recently visited a church that I believe just may be in the beginning stages of what I described earlier. I hope they're looking for a bigger building....

Here's what I experienced at the Vineyard Church of Ithaca (http://www.ithacavineyard.org/): I walked into a gym bustling with a very diverse crowd of mostly college age kids. The service began with a half hour of coffee, donuts and mingling (they had me right there). The lead pastor then promptly began his teaching. I was expecting some kind of pre-show, so I had to scramble to get out my notebook and scarf down my french cruller. The message was relevant and applicable. I took notes for the first time in years. And then we worshipped for a while. The band was simple, but they sounded good. The songs were fresh.

We visitors were smiled at, greeted warmly and given a gift bag (picked up at a table) containing a professional music cd and the book The Case for Faith (perfect for college town intellects). We weren't forced to stand and tell our life story. We were allowed to simply enjoy. And enjoy it I did.

And the best part? Visitors were encouraged (in the bulletin) to fill out the church's on-line visitor survey. Wow! I've always felt every church should have a suggestion box.

One final and very important note: Don't assume I'm equating "success" with large numbers, talent or high tech equipment. There are plenty of churches that have all these and more, and yet are failing miserably in weightier matters such as preaching the truth and sincerely caring for the flock. By the same token, there are those small, humble gatherings that offer what I consider the finest in authentic Christianity. I belong to one such group--about eight of us who meet regularly to pray with and edify each other. We've become a family that bears each other's burdens. A replica of the early Church. Success!

Heavenly Wedding

2007-07-11T13:44:00.001-04:00

I just returned from the most dramatic and moving wedding ceremony I've ever seen in my life. My precious little sister Grace Hope married Steven Philip on 7-7-07 in the rolling hills and quiet farmland of Lancaster County, PA.

They wanted a wedding that would portray their deep devotion to our Heavenly Bridegroom, Jesus, and His love for us, His Bride. So to the song, "How Great is Our God" (Chris Tomlin) about 20 brothers, cousins and nephews (Steve comes from a huge Mennonite family) proceeded from a quaint little spring house, across the wide lawn to the end of a little red bridge crossing a swan-inhabited pond. Then about 20 sisters, cousins and nieces exited a farmhouse and paraded down a little hill accompanyed by dancers waiving banners. They waited at the other end of the bridge. Following the wedding party my parents escorted Grace halfway down the hill to the "Revelation Song" (CFNI's album Glorious). When the music started to build, they released her arms and she broke into a beautiful, worshipful dance all the way down the hill to the bridge where she stood, hands raised to God while everyone cheered and cried. Then the congregation (about 250) stood as Steve emerged from the spring house and walked across the lawn to where His bride awaited. When he got to her he picked her up and swung her around, right there on the bridge.

I am sure I'm not the only one who was overcome with the reality that Jesus--my Bridegroom--can't wait to spend eternity with me. It made me want to dance too.

The wedding party proceeded to the chuppa where Grace and Steve, along with the band, led worship. My dad gave a word about the Bride of Christ, and then followed various Jewish traditions (breaking a glass to symbolize crushing Satan's power over their marriage, etc.), communion, and spontaneous, original vows were said over the mic. At the end Grace and Steve sang a song to each other that she had written (Arise My Love--it was beautiful!). Then to a modern, Messianic version of "Come and Let us Go Up", the bride and groom danced together and then led the way "up" to the Springhouse, followed by the wedding party for the photo session.

It was beautiful.

Say No to Crack!

2007-05-15T13:36:00.001-04:00

I am about to become an instant prude—a totally uncool, narrow-minded, old-fashioned biddy. It’s been nice knowing you.

The fast-approaching hot weather compels me to finally say what I’ve always kept in the confines of my home and discussed with only my husband. To be blunt, I hate immodesty.

Oh brother, I hear you groan. She’s one of those.

Actually, I’m one of many who are hesitant to voice what we wives have been thinking and feeling about the issue. And that is this: Please cover your cleavage, loosen your shirts, lengthen your shorts, and say no to “crack.”

I know you’ve heard and been turned off by pleas like this before, but perhaps no one has ever explained why it is and should be an issue—especially for Christian women in the church. Simply put, our men—our husbands, sons, worship leaders, pastors, elders, nephews and brothers—are human. It’s not that they are perverts and need to redirect their eyes. And it’s not that we wives are insanely jealous and insecure about our own bodies. The fact of the matter is, normal--even Christian--men are visual. God made them that way. And he gave them wives to look at half naked--not you.

When my husband and I are in Christian circles, he's been known to mutter about scantily clad women, “Put on some clothes.” He’s speaking for all the guys. It’s hard enough when they’re out there during the week, constantly fighting the temptation to “look.” Church should be a safe haven for them. Women should respect their brothers in Christ in the way they dress. And they should respect their friends’ marriages. If you think my husband has “a problem,” read For Women Only, by Shauntie Feldhan. You might be surprised at how men are wired.

Yes, there are those men who do have a particularly serious problem in this area. Put yourself in the place of their wives. You come into church hoping your husband finds deliverance from his addiction to porn. Instead, there’s one more hindrance in the row in front of you—the lady who doesn’t respect you enough to dress decently. She worships God impressively, while she makes her brother stumble.

It never ceases to amaze and sadden me that, while we'd never think of offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic, we don't think twice about tempting men with something infinitely more difficult to resist--a glance at our boobs, butt, thighs and belly.

On behalf of all of my brothers in Christ, let’s dress to help—not hinder them. I’ve been guilty too. I hate throwing out that cute red halter top. But I’ve got a responsibility to our men—and to please God.

You can be sure I'll take a lot of flack for this post--from Christians.

Oh, and check out what the guys have to say at http://www.crosswalk.com/11537027/page2/.

( For those freedom-flaunting individuals who embrace an "all-that-matters-is-love" philosophy, I challenge you with this: Look your best friend in the eye and tell her you're playing by the Golden Rule when you knowingly lure her husbands eyes to your skimpy-clothed body. I dare ya.)

Rules for the Christian Game of Life

2007-04-19T22:53:00.008-04:00

For the Beginner:

If offended, do not react.

Player may craft a brilliantly sarcastic email, but may not click "send."

Player may not use masterful verbiage to put the offender in his place. To do so will immediately disqualify the player.

Player must be genuinely kind to the offender, behaving as though the offense never occured.

Intermediate Level:

Player may not casually mention the offense to team members.

Player must be willing to take the initiative in seeking restoration.

Player may not require confession or owning of the mistake before forgiveness occurs.

Player must be willing to appear foolish enough to believe excuses and accept denials, and dumb enough to remain mute.

Player must pray fervently and sincerely for a blessing on the head of the offender.

Advanced Play:

Player must esteem the offender as better than herself.

Player must actively seek out opportunities to bless the offender.

Player must love and cherish the offender as one of her own team members.

Player must let the offender win.

(I wished I'd read the rules before I bought the game.)

If anyone competes,...he is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules. II Tim. 2:5

Inside the Mind of a Controlling Woman

2007-04-19T22:52:00.004-04:00

Sunday, November 20, 2005 at 2:31 PM EST

So I'm at this wedding reception and I go to get a drink, only to realize they've run out of beverages. "Why do I always find myself in these situations?" I mutter. "Am I the only organized person on the face of the earth?" I look around and see that no one is rushing to remedy the problem at hand and decide it's once again time to get involved.

I hate this! Part of me chides, "Let it go, Mary. The world won't end and you won't die if this party goes on without anything to drink." Then I notice the bride sipping from the bottom of her wine glass. I look at my watch. Three hours left--to dance, socialize, and get thirsty. I can't let this happen. I suck it up and casually stride over to her mother, the hostess. I kindly offer to "help" replenish the beverage station. She gives me the you're-only-a-guest-here stare and I flit away red-faced. For a moment I'm tempted to become part of the fresh floral arrangments and keep my mouth shut. But then, I wouldn't get watered.

My reputation is again superceded by the needs of others and I march with determination toward my son. Not only is he well respected (unlike us "controllers") but he's got connections. I explain the problem only to hear him say he'd rather not be bothered with it at the moment. This time I perservere; he knows what I'm all about. And I know he's my son and I'm his mother. In a few moments I'm giving orders to the attendants. They scurry about without question as guests look on, including the hostess, wondering who I think I am. I don't care. We need drinks.

Long story short, the bridegroom was quoted in the Cana Times for serving the best wine in Galilee at his wedding. My name was never mentioned, nor did anyone ever thank me for saving the day and the wedding. Do I care? Never! It was my Son's doings, anyway. He did tell me later that they needed me. That was enough. But I do hate to control....REALLY!

(This story adapted from the Gospel of John, chapter two.)

My Final Word on the House Church

2007-04-19T22:52:00.002-04:00

Friday, March 30, 2007 at 9:56 AM EDT

I have several friends who house church and I know would love to see me leave the man-made, "non-New Testament" institution called the local church. They figure, as I do, that my personality would better fit into the more intimate, freestyle setting of a house church. They're right--it would. I love authenticity, tend to rebel against tradition, and am a sucker for letting down one's hair and getting real.

But I'm still stuck behind the four walls, putting up with nonsense like membership, offering plates, annual business meetings, heirarchy, nylon stockings, the telling clock on the back wall, dirty politics, endless pleas for giving more of my time, the programs and agendas...on and on it goes. And let's not forget those dear individuals Christ has placed in the Body to constantly test and try our character. Honestly sometimes House Church looks real good.

But there's just one problem. I'm in love.

No, not with one of the elders--I'm in love with the Body of Christ. I can't get enough of it. For some reason, every single time I come away from a church meeting I feel pumped, charged, and ready to go face my world again. Just from being with them. Granted, it's not the ideal setting condusive to the "koinonia" house churchers celebrate. There's a lot I'd like to change. But somehow just being present and looking out of the corner of my eye at people so different from me sincerely worshipping the same God is enough to keep me coming back. It energizes me. I'm just not ready to trade that in for the luxury of sitting in a cozy living room surrounded by like-minded people, feeling smug because we do church right. I left a "group think" long ago. I'll never go back.

I guess I see my relationship with the local church as being kind of like a healthy marriage. There will always be the little things (and big things) that drive me crazy. But the fact of the matter is, I'm in it for love. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. The organized church of today is sick in a lot of ways. I happen to believe that I have something to offer. If Jesus could go to the synagogue (talk about man-made tradition!) day after day because He knew He had something to offer, I figure I should follow His example. Funny--He never house churched. He must have decided, as I have, "if you can't fight 'em, join 'em."

Don't badger me with quibbles about the greek meaning of "ekklesia." I'm too busy getting myself ready for Sunday morning. There are lots of needy people there, and someone just may need a word of encouragement.

Hello, Halloween!

2007-04-19T22:51:00.019-04:00

I love living in the country most of the time. There's one day of the year, however, that I always regret the rural seclusion. It's Halloween. If ever I want to be in a residential neighborhood full of traffic and people, it's on October 31.

Yet year after year I observe the same strange phenomenon among evangelicals: The people who travel across oceans to reach the lost are the same ones who shut themselves behind closed curtains on the one night of the year that scores of unsaved walk by their darkened doorway. The people who preach on city corners and pass out tracts are the same ones who lock their doors to a spiritually hungry multitude that knocks, literally holding their hands open for whatever we might give them--if only we were available.

Would somebody please tell me why Christians would rather turn off their lights and hole up in the basement during the greatest ministry opportunity to ever come to their neighborhood? While you're coming up with the answer, I'm getting ready to go trick-or-treating. Yep. Taking my kids and going to collect gobs of sugary junk. If they won't come to me, I'm going to them. For me, it's good-bye country, hello city. Good-bye selfishness and legalism, hello love and liberty. I've got my costume on, including feet that are shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace. One never knows what conversations might ensue; if I can touch one life with a word in season to the weary, it's worth every cavity and potential pass of judgment from my non-celebrating friends.

Besides all that (for those that would label me an opportunist), I just want to be where the people are. I once read of a young carpenter who felt the same way. This is the main reason I take my family trick-or-treating.

If you want to join me, I'll be walking around Elmira's West side with Cleopatra, Pocahontas, a ladybug and Snow White.

(It is with fear and trembling that I have written this post. One of my pet peeves is when Christian's offend others with their so-called "freedom in Christ." Jesus said that it would be better for me if a millstone were tied around my neck than to make a little one stumble. So listen up, you young'uns still living under your parents' roof: Don't even think about using this post to con Mom and Dad into letting you do the Halloween thing. In a few years, you'll have your own family and will be able to make that decision yourself. For now, if you go against your parents' authority, you go against God. Be afraid. Be very afraaaaaaaaaid!) ;)

The Visitor

2007-04-19T22:49:00.004-04:00

Sunday, October 02, 2005 at 2:04 PM EDT

Church goers at Southside Alliance were not expecting to see a homeless woman in the parking lot that Sunday in September. Charlotte Frazier herself wondered how she ended up in such dire straits. She hadn't eaten for a whole day. She stunk. Her feet were wet and cold from wandering through rain puddles. But this was a church. Surely she and charity would meet here....

The first vehicle arrived for Sunday school. It was Jack in his slick SUV. Charlotte responded to his hearty, "Good Mornin!" with, "You got a dollah? I wanna get me a Egg McMuffin. I ain't eat since yesterdee." Jack instantly produced a five dollar bill and slapped it into Charlotte's hand.

"Thank you very much," the astonished beggar whispered.

More church members arrived. Charlotte casually made her way over to anyone who she suspected might show some compassion. Peter, a teenager, invited her in and gave her a dollar. Sue, a classy, professional looking woman took the time to welcome her. Bill asked her so many questions she began to feel nervous. She wondered if there was a catch. No one had ever showed that much interest in her pitiful existence. Then there was Mike. He had a preschooler in tow. Charlotte let him off the hook and walked the other way. But to her amazement there he was, offering her a hand to cross the street. What was with this place?

Eventually she heard the sound of music--the worship service had begun. Dared she accept the invitations to go in? Knowing she had nothing to lose and the hope that the unconditional love she met in the parking lot would be found inside, Charlotte stepped into the foyer of the church. She made a bold stride down the center aisle and sat on the front row. A woman behind her leaned forward and squeezed her arm reassuringly.

The worship progressed and the congregation sang these words:

King of all days you stepped down into darkness,
Opened my eyes, let me see
Beauty that made this heart adore you
Hope of a life spent with you

Charlotte inched her way to the altar and knelt with her face in her hands. "Here I am to worship," she sang softly. Immediately she felt an arm around her. "Did you know you're beautiful?" the kind woman asked.

When Bette and Charlotte were seated the pastor choked out a sermon on loving the unlovely. Then he closed with an announcement. "I'd like to introduce a regular member of our congregation to you. Her name is Faith Bogdan. Faith, will you come to the front please?"

And I, Faith--Charlotte Frazier--walked sheepishly to the microphone as an astonished and befuddled congregation looked on.

I tearfully thanked them for reaching out. They had not played church; they had been the church. The New Testament writer warns us to entertain strangers, because they could be angels in disguise. I'll be the first to admit I'm no angel. But if you see Charlotte Frazier in your church parking lot next Sunday, be the church. I assure you that Charlotte--real or disguised--will be comforted and encouraged.

Lessons from Narnia

2007-04-19T22:47:00.001-04:00

Monday, September 12, 2005 at 7:19 PM EDT

Today the main floor of my log cabin is suffering from housekeeper's neglect. The carpet is coated with Polly Pockets and cracker crumbs. Dirty sheets make the air stale. A mother's work never ends....

The messy rooms beckon, but I choose to stick to the afternoon reading routine. Anna, Sarah and I sink into the couch along with last night's popcorn kernels. I thumb through The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to find the chapter in which Aslan is killed.

I like this classic because it takes all the work out of teaching the gospel to my kids. The parallels are obvious . We are falling in love with Jesus all over again through Lewis' portrayal of the lion that's "not safe--but good."

Understanding dawns in my girls' eyes as I read about Aslan and the White Witch striking up a bargain to let punishment-deserving Edmund go free. I sense their sorrow as Susan and Lucy follow their beloved lion friend through the midnight forest to the Stone Table. There his devilish enemies bind and shear him, mocking and jeering at how lamb-like the once fierce King of Beasts has become. I hold back tears and read that Aslan could have easily bitten off a wolves's head while they muzzled him....how with one great roar he could have sent his torturers running...And about the damage that might have been done with one blow from his giant paw.

But he didn't rescue Himself.

I ask the girls why Aslan would allow such a thing. They understand he is giving himself over to the death that Edmund was due, according to the Law of the Deep Magic. Blood must be shed for the traitor to go free.

I close the book momentarily and look into the faces of my young daughters. "Girls, we are Edmund."

Little Anna gasps and proclaims with sudden revelation, "How Jesus must love me!"

She rests her head on my shoulder, reflecting. I notice the sunbeams streaming through the window and think about gardening chores lost to yet another afternoon indoors. My mind drifts back to the dirty bedrooms I could be transforming. The achievements I won't soon realize, the careers I may never enjoy.

I turn again to watch my girls' watery, sober eyes as they consider Aslan...Jesus. How He loves them.

Quiet, you dusty shelves. Hush, you lofty ambitions. I am content in this moment. And most fulfilled.