Him and Them

Not long ago, we visited a well-known church in a large town near our home. At first glance, all was quite impressive. The parkway leading to the church was flanked by established businesses with manicured hedges and large homes whose ample acreage was abundant with pools, trampolines and professionally engineered tree houses.

The curving ascent through posh suburbia was a slight yet noticeable climb. Just as we thought we had missed the church, we saw the bright orange cones that indicated lots of traffic. This had to be the place. Like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace—the changing of the crowd required much planning and coordination. There were so many coming and going that the local authorities had to lend a hand to make sure that all maneuvers were made without incident.

This was a smooth running operation. We were volleyed from one parking attendant to the next. The closer we came to the church the more articles of bright green the attendant wore; kind of a lime green status symbol. The same young man that motioned us to the first time visitor parking served as crossing guard when we made our trek up to the building. He must have also been doing some serious security duty that kept him from fraternizing with the patrons. His eyes were hidden under a safari hat and sunglasses. However, his lips, though appearing cemented together with epoxy made a slight noiseless motion as we crossed in front of him.

Every portion was straight-line architecture and “state of the state” of the art. You almost expected the huge waterfall in the clearly marked garden to morph into whatever the next “scene” required. Just as suspected, with the lift of a blind, it served well as a baptistery backdrop. This place was truly fabulous. A passionate, articulate pastor led the massive gatherings that faithfully switched places each Sunday morning. There were signs indicating that there was something for everyone.

The drone of activity just outside the sanctuary was vaguely familiar; much like the gathering of anxious shoppers waiting for the grand opening of a department store. Everyone pushes toward the door; engaging in casual chitchat, eyes miss connections at well-timed intervals, cell phone junkies make one more text before the spree begins. The ominous difference was that shoppers waiting for sales have a serious gleam of anticipation. Most of those in waiting looked worn under their perfectly styled facades. It appeared as though this gathering was just an item on the “to-do” list. If there was any anxiety at all—it was over swiftly reaching a seat in a sought after area. No, there were not any “bad” seats in the house…planning is everything, you know.

The well-delivered sermon was laced with drama to peak interest, scripture to pack inspiration and points to prove intention. The fabulous roster of foreign missions outreach read like the departure boards at a major airport. The youthful pastor reminded the parishioners that there were few slots available for the next adventure. Sadly, the fervor of his delivery winced with a hint of desperation as he boldly reminded the audience of people in need just outside the walls of the church, their Jerusalem (Acts 1:8).

What else could anyone wish to know about this splendidly organized operation? There was much coming and going…an impressive edifice…culturally sensitive musicians…challenging sermons…a well-dressed multitude…close and clearly marked visitor parking. Actually, If Jesus slipped in as a causal observer, he would probably be concerned with answers to two questions: “What happens Monday morning to Sunday’s challenge of reaching the needy with love and truth?” and “how does this well-oiled machine treat the maintenance man?”

Unfortunately, we are easily impressed with appearances and we often miss the truly important. The “stuff” we consider so valuable here on earth, we will walk on in Heaven. The wise among us address issues that touch the heart of God simply, Him and them: How we reverence Him and how we treat them.

The Champ

Basketball Camp would be a fabulous idea. His daddy had been a high school star and always learned a lot at ball camp. In keeping with tradition, Layton headed to camp, as excited as his stoic personality would allow.

Poppa would drop off and Nana would pick up. We enjoyed the detailed explanation of his drills and the games. Of course, countenance changes had to match the content of the story. When, the topic switched to one on one competition, it was very serious. “I was the one-on-one champ today—it was me and Scotty, again” his soft breaths were as deep as his contemplation. “Nana, it was hard and I hope we do not have to do the one-on-one, again.” The next afternoon brought an almost identical report. “Scotty” was fierce, a real nemesis, a bruiser and a tough competitor on the basketball court. It would be fun to meet this young man and watch the competition during the final ceremonies.

My welcome to the camp finale could not have been more pleasant. An eight-year-old blonde beanstalk gave me a tight hug and a warm smile. She was especially precious because for years, we had been privy to her journey: biological family in turmoil, lives out of control, no hope, twists and turns in and out of the system, volunteer parents, drug use, court proceedings, fearful times, questions, supervised visits, no hope. Space and confidentiality will not permit me to untangle her story. Only God could have directed us through that impossible maze of bureaucracy to her “forever” family (their story a miracle all its own).

It was a pleasant surprise to see my little friend and tell her that my grandson was also at ball camp. “You may know him….his name is Layton” as quickly as she asked his last name; she answered with a mock scowl, “Layton, Layton Dickson?” “I almost beat him in one on one” she snipped with a giggle. The Lord was probably covering his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. He was probably sharing the details with Heaven. How could he keep from telling this story? After all, God is concerned with the details. It was almost impossible for me to keep from looking straight Heavenward and yelling, “You are amazing!” I know that my children are afraid that one day I will do just that…and that is very possible. The Lord is amazing and when He lets us see a fraction of his plan, it is too much to contain.

Many stories must simply be cloaked and chronicled. Her family’s privacy is paramount and of course, Scotty’s story is safe with me. Besides, it would be a complete affront to my dear grandson, if he knew that his Nana had helped his chief opponent get to basketball camp.

A Few Boxes

“There’s only a few boxes; I only have a one bedroom apartment” should have been a red flag but it was not. How could my dear husband have gotten us into yet another job that was way over our heads and miles beyond our physical ability? Moving furniture, boxes and other unnecessary treasures from a second story apartment would have been difficult under the best of circumstances but when you throw in an elderly lady bound to a wheelchair and equally as bound to her stuff; there is certain to be a glitch or two.

The story had probably replayed more often than we wish to believe. Her children had “taken her estate” and left her with a small pension to live on and no remarkable contact or assistance. She was truly all alone. The plan was that we would deliver the truck the evening before the move and two volunteers from a local church would load it. We would drive the loaded truck to the new apartment and maybe unload a box or two. However, the next morning plans changed. The relieved look on the faces that met us as we poked our heads around the door to see if help was needed, should have been adequate warning. A quick affirmative chorus started the adventure that would occupy us for the remainder of the day. Her helpers needed helpers and they were happy to see us.

Our journey home that evening would provide plenty of time to rehearse all that actually took place while we were moving furniture. Not only did we have time to compare what motivated us and kept us working that day (Her deceased husband had fought at Normandy, she was someone’s mother and Jesus would have helped this little lady if given the chance), but also, there was time to assess the not so obvious work that we were privileged to do. This was not an easy assignment but it would later become apparent that it was a divine one. The stifling heat and humidity seemed to place an explanation point to every action. Saturated hair and perspiration dripping in your eyes has a way of accentuating any experience. We were frayed mentally by our own agenda, physically stressed by all the “stuff” that had to go to the new apartment, emotionally squeezed by the sad circumstances, and spiritually cornered to do all that we were doing as unto the Lord (with the right heart attitude). We mustered a grateful chuckle as it occurred to us that Jesus had been “given a chance” and in the form of two unlikely moving people, He had helped.

We were there to listen to four different devastating scenarios. Apparently, some very heavyhearted people had come to help this little widow. The heartaches were passionately explained at different times during the day. The hope of God’s Word was shared amid boxes on the tailgate of the moving truck, while wrapping breakables in the middle of a dusty storage unit and while balancing bed frames and waiting for reinforcements. We just thought we were there to help a widow move her world from one side of town to another. God knew that we were there, more importantly, to move His message from one person to another.

One

We’ll call him Mason. He had stumbled over to the Care Fair out of curiosity and found people who would give him dignity. It was obvious he was surprised, almost stunned. He had not gotten the reception that he expected. Usually, people shied away from him especially people that were a different color. Honestly, everyone stayed away from Mason. Years of drug abuse and entertaining other demons had almost robbed him of his humanity.

My vantage point gave me the opportunity to watch the street traffic as well as the people coming and going during the Care Fair. It was interesting to me that *Mason had parked his bike across the street. The rule of the street is: If you want to keep it, keep it close. Mason had parked his bike and walked across to the Care Fair. He was undoubtedly a person of the street, he knew the rule—why wasn’t he following it? Mason fumbled with the buttons on his shirt like a youthful executive during his primary review. As if on cue, his steps shortened and his jaw tightened as he walked past the volunteer with the Care Fair information. Everything about him gave reason for concern. The prayer that slipped from my heart to the throne room of Heaven made more sense to me than trying to out step our latest Care Fair attendee. This disheveled man with the empty eyes and a severe scowl may have evil intent but he was not in charge. The God of the universe, the creator of Heaven and Earth is always listening; it is comforting to know that the control is His.

Care Fairs are a kaleidoscopic statement to the community that we are anxious to meet them, introduce them to the ONE who changed our lives totally and eventually serve their community alongside them. At Care Fairs there are games, food and give-a-ways in a festival atmosphere. During the look for a would-be disturbance, the not so proud owner of a skinned knee pulled at my shirt. After solving the crisis by applying some major first aid equipment, a band-aid, it was time to locate our troubled guest. By this time, there was a steady stream of people. They were meeting volunteers, reaching for the hands of their children and anticipating a fun Saturday morning that would not disturb their wallets.

Finding Mason would not be simple but with each person that joined us, finding this angry young man became more necessary. Much planning and hard work goes into the execution of a Care Fair. One of those strategic steps is prayer for provision and protection. The rapid wandering from point to point looking for the misplaced young man combined with meeting and greeting brought a renewed gratitude for that vital prayer covering. Everything was fine. The God of Heaven was certainly on the morning shift (Psalm 121) and my fretting was an exercise in futility. It seemed that Mason melted into the activity, he was nowhere to be found.

My apprehension over the tight jawed attendee was soon replaced with giving directions to the sno-cone stand and the clothing closet. This was the perfect day: beautiful weather, anxious volunteers, uplifting music, various activities and curious people. This was the combination we had prayed for and seeing it unfold was terrific. The familiar voice accompanied with a tap on the shoulder brought a surprise. Turning around abruptly placed my nose just a couple of feet away from the rumpled, soiled shirt that had been the object of my intense search. Simultaneously trying to extend my hand, produce a sincere greeting and camouflage the shock on my face took a little juggling.

Flanked by volunteers that could not have been more his opposite Mason reached his leathered, ashen, unkempt hand to mine. What happened next brought a heavy mixture of shame and joy. As the volunteers explained bits of the story he had shared with them, Mason ducked his head. It seems that he had almost passed the Care Fair, afraid that he would not be welcomed. There would be time to hear the details but for now, he wanted out of the hell that plagued him. Mason (said) he wanted a new life. His eyes that had seemed almost reptilian, an hour before, were brimming with tears. While nervously, pulling up his sleeve to show ravenous scarring from repeated self-mutilating episodes with a sharp blade, Mason kept begging, “I need help, Mam—I really need help.”

We would take him to a safe place for the night. He would get a hot shower, a good meal and a much-needed night’s sleep. We would begin making phone calls and Mason could be in an appropriate treatment facility within six weeks. If a person clears the waiting time, they have a good chance of successfully completing a program. Waiting for a slot in treatment is one of the most difficult parts of rehabilitation. One volunteer stood with him while he gave us random information. The other went to get hamburgers for our hungry friend. An updated wild man of Gadera (Mark 5) was standing before us. The words “cutting himself and sitting among the tombs” was exactly how he had spent the last 10 years of his existence. The same Jesus who restored sanity to the demoniac could heal Mason’s deep inward pain evidenced by the outward scars.

According to Mason, he “stayed” a couple of blocks from the church. We were familiar with the house that he described and were not surprised that this was where he had landed. He would take the bike back; it did not belong to him. He would make a phone call to his grandmother; she would be so happy that he was going to get help. Mason would get some clothes together and be back in a few minutes. The volunteers that waited for Mason were very discouraged when, he did not return.

Since Mason’s explanation of his plans was all too familiar; my expectations were not as vulnerable. Our encounter with Mason was very successful. He did not leave the way that he came. Mason carried away intangibles that he will not escape. Mason will not be able to get “high” enough to erase the scripture that The Shepherd’s Staff volunteers shared with him. The streets of Montgomery seemed to have swallowed him up and he is once again hidden like he was at the Care Fair. However, the memory of our unexpected welcome and the kindness that he was shown will come to mind when he least expects it. A seed of hope was planted in hard soil that warm spring day. All the planning and preparation, all the hard work and tedious coordination, all the efforts of the volunteers and support of the church members may have been orchestrated in Heaven so that one hardened drug addicted “nobody” (society’s perspective) could come face to face with Truth. One is a huge number in Heaven.

The Roof Man

The roof had been leaking for quite some time and this was the third estimate; the other two though a little steep were comparable. The roof was not going to repair itself and my dear husband had done a whole lot of patching to no avail. After enduring the numerous buckets scattered across the kitchen, the idea was to hire a professional but the wiry, weathered option under the ragged cap was not my first choice. There was something very wrong with hiring a roofer that did not have a ladder. Besides, everyone knows that contractors drive trucks, not broken down old cars. However, Linnie was convinced this was the man he was to hire. There was not even a second guess when the roof man needed to “borrow” gas money to get home after giving his quote.

It would take more than a written estimate and a few technical roofing words thrown at me to convince me that we had made the right choice. My convincing would come when raindrops were no longer an inside issue and not until. My best skeptic face accompanied me during each encounter with the ragged roofer. However, there was no way to ignore the progress. The man on the roof was not only competent at his work but he was also a confident communicator. While we listened, he became an important person instead of a mistakenly chosen contractor. Life had pounded him soundly. Difficulty was woven throughout his humorous stories. His truck had been destroyed in a fire, his wife lived with a very serious illness and he had a colorful history. Interestingly, the sadder notes of the roofer’s song did not play as loudly as the happy part.

“Headed to work?” his question cheerfully bounced from the housetop. My explanation that this part of my day would be training prospective foster/adoptive parents brought a somber response and request. After his second sentence, my mind began jumping ahead of him filling in the blanks. It seemed that he had agreed to take in a friend’s child to help while the friend was serving time in prison. Having no idea what that agreement would require, the roof man and his ailing wife watched as this little person in their charge began destroying everything in sight, including setting fire to his work vehicle (Rewind: “Everyone knows that contractors drive trucks”).

Tears began to push the dust off his ruddy cheeks as he explained how he had not been able to care for the child but had suffered many sleepless nights wondering what had actually happened to him. “They (*DHR) had told me that I would be able to keep some contact with him but it never happened.” “He was so bad, I can’t imagine anyone being able to handle him. I should have tried harder but, my wife was so sick…Maybe you can help me, I just have to know what happened to him.”

This story was all too familiar. Thankfully, from his position on the roof he could not see my shock. Pretending to cover my eyes from the sun while nodding in his direction seemed to keep him from noticing the amazement that stamped itself from my forehead to my chin. My thought at that very moment: “God, You are awesome…amazing, fabulous…and everything in between”.

Two days later, the roof man left our house with a spring in his step; He had his answer. The child that he had tried to help was safe, well adjusted and living the life every little boy dreams about. He had in fact done the “right” thing by taking the little guy to the authorities so long ago. Relief replaced the heavy load of guilt that he was finally able to set aside. It was as if time rolled back a bit; the severe lines in his face gave way to a huge smile. The information he was given was enough to lighten the horrid load he had been carrying. We had already discussed the importance of confidentiality. The roof man knew that if we were able to get any information from DHR, it would be slight. He understood and the information he had been given was enough.

The job was finished in less than a week. The roof man left with a promise to stay in touch. We will pray for him. In Heaven, we will be able to tell him that we were the foster family and the child was never moved from home to home (a possibility that haunted him). It will be great to tell the incredible story of how God brought his adoptive family to us and how He (true to His Word) sets the solitary in families (Psalm 68:6). The picture of that young boy and the happy (adoptive) family is once again in its prominent place in our den, their story safe and lives undisturbed. The roof man is on to his next job and we are more convinced than ever that God will move Heaven and earth to heal the broken hearted. Occasionally, He lets us see a thread or two of the tapestry; when He does, it is simply fantastic.


Follow up note on this story: The roof man finished his work on our roof on Friday afternoon. The following Monday, Montgomery experienced what some meteorologists called a “500 year event” with torrential rain and flash flooding all over the city. It was the worst rain that many Montgomery residents can ever remember. Over 10 inches fell in Montgomery that day within a few hours – zero drops of rain fell into my kitchen. Thank you Mr. Roof Man and bless you Lord. You are good all the time!

*Department of Human Resources

Wake Up Call

Awakened by a replay of something that had happened more than a decade ago, I leaned over to find 2:46am staring back at me from the alarm clock. The next thought was a statement so clear it was almost audible, “I have always protected you.” This straight-forward statement seemed oddly out of place but was the answer to a heart’s cry mulled over two weeks before. While rehearsing a long list of relational fractures—I kept coming up with the same conclusion. “God could fix this.” It would be admirable to say that I sent my complaints heavenward. Instead, I just kept stirring and stewing the what-ifs. Whether our concerns take the form of prayers, complaints or feeble mumblings, the Lord knows, cares and desires to meet us at our point of need.

Two forty six in the morning, wide awake reliving a forced review of events that could have ended in tragedy. Ten years ago, a friend’s child ran into my utility room and grabbed my sleeping shepherd. We would learn later that the child had just come from her brother’s house and been playing with his Rottweiler. Startled from a dead sleep, my dog interpreted the child’s animal scented hug as an attack and snapped before he even opened his eyes. The results was two small puncture wounds that we would be told by the Emergency Room physician were 1/8 of an inch from the child’s carotid artery. While the child adamantly protested the treatment and the mother argued against my dog’s impound, I blasted gratitude to the throne.

It went without saying that this incident could have ended so differently. While, tracing the minuscule fissures in the ceiling of my aged abode and rewinding the words, “I have always protected you”; other forgotten scenes came forward. A near crash at a busy intersection on my 18th birthday, missed by an intoxicated driver whose demolished vehicle would later be on the evening’s new. A split second and a fourth of a mile separated our destinies. How had I so glibly taken this noteworthy protection for granted?

Next, the camera in my mind’s eye trained on the quivering hand of a young gangster as he screamed, pointed the handgun in my direction and began firing dead on from less than twenty feet away. The anguish in his eyes, a resolute combination of anger and fear, is bolted onto my brain. The “startled” reaction to unexpected noises faded within a few weeks but, the cold sad impression left by that young man’s eyes remains. Untouched, not even a bullet hole in my car…

Yes, Lord…You have always protected me. You are amazing and completely trustworthy. You are my fortress. Your very name is my strong tower (Proverbs 18:10), even during times when—I do not recognize your faithful watch care; you are there. Not one thing that happens here on this confused planet takes you off guard. Thank you for the times of loving protection I am able to recall and for the dozens that slip by without fanfare. You are far more than I deserve. It is a privilege to reside under the shadow of the Almighty (Psalm 91). You are my God, my shield, my protector and the author of amazing wake-up calls.

A slice of life

Life comes to us in slices. Often, the slices are welcomed and anticipated like the wispy layers of a warm flakey biscuit. Conversely, slices may come in the form of a cold look, a slamming door, or a stark pronouncement. There was no parking space available and my friend had to get into the Emergency Room. Her husband, her sweetheart had come by ambulance and the prognosis at least from an earthly mindset looked rather bleak. The chill of the cold rain seemed to race with the sadness that pelted away at my heart. There was no choice. Reluctantly, she stepped out of my car and headed toward the automatic door that seldom had an opportunity to fully close. It seemed like everyone was operating in slow motion and the drive across the parking lot was a tedious journey. Knowing that my friend needed me seemed to add to the suspended movement of the parking area. There was plenty of time to rehearse what had just taken place. In a matter of minutes (slices) several lives were drastically altered. Although, we did not have an official pronouncement—it was apparent that as surely as we had been on either side of her dear husband pleading with him to stay with us—the angels completed their mission and ushered him into the presence of God.

My jog across the parking lot took me past a discharge area where a hospital staff person in a happy colored smock cuddled a tiny baby while his parents maneuvered a plethora of flowers and stuffed animals into the back of their already overloaded vehicle; an elderly gentlemen balanced his lanky frame against the rough surface of the drive through column; a young man trapped in a contorted body gave a knowing smile and nodded his head as both answered my half hearted greeting. Neither man seemed to notice the traffic; the endless flow of people in need or the steady stream of emergency vehicles that ushered those in more dire situations.

My friend’s world is undergoing a heart wrenching alteration, a judge somewhere drops his gavel and changes the course of someone’s forever, a young couple says, “I do”; there are drug deals and car sales, uncontrolled laughter, inconsolable sobbing; while one young mother learns that her child has a disabling disease, another tries to convince her baby to allow her to pull a dangling tooth. Life flashes past in slices.

Life is simultaneously impenetrable and fragile. It is strong, ample, full of potential and as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. The same Monarch Butterfly that is capable of making a lengthy transatlantic flight can be permanently grounded by the chubby fingers of a curious three year old. Life is fleeting and precious. Life is exhausting and exhilarating; graciously, meted out by One that has our best interest in mind.

beach

Thanks to the generosity of friends, we are able to spend a few quiet days enjoying the unique beauty of Choctawhatchee Bay in northern Florida. We look forward to our time at the bay. This place is so much more than a vacation destination. The memories of laughter, fierce competition of during crab hunts and Frisbee football, failed attempts at meeting the sunrise or dealing with splinters offer an open armed welcome to the presenting moments. Life is savored at the bay house, anticipated—enjoyed. Time, as it is sure to do, raced past us without apology and this was our first visit back to the bay since Hurricane Katrina made her devastating swath. The shoreline had endured a radical change; yet it was just at beautiful if not more so than before.

Interestingly, the occupants that held their own during the storm were not the majestic pines that strikingly created a postcard picture upon approach to the beach house or the weathered palms that created a tropical atmosphere for anxious beachgoers. The amazing sentinels that held ground as Katrina’s surge waters pelted this part of the Gulf Coast were the wiry saw grasses, the sea oats and various other non descript forms of vegetation. They were unheralded guards captured in photographs because they happened to flank the front of the beach house. The grasses stood, unnoticed by a grand majority of the people walking on or past them everyday. Yet, if this faded, worn, faithful, tough old grass had not stood the storms life had thrown at them, I wouldn’t be enjoying this lovely gray morning from my seat here in the beach house.

What a picture of parenting. There’s a great possibility that most retreating to this wonderful place will never be grateful for the weathered vegetation posted between the water’s edge and the condo. It is highly unlikely that the visitors making the trek to the bay will be grateful for the tough tendrils that have to be navigated through or cut back to get to the water’s edge. However, it’s these unsung heroes that the Creator uses to hold the ground tightly during the storm. These bland, spindly, weathered watchmen are part of the grand scheme of divine intervention that keeps the bay house on solid ground.

Many times as a parent I feel like a faded, discarded nuisance, much like the grass around the bay house. Lord, thank you for this amazing illustration. Thank you for the opportunity to touch generations I will not know. Remind me to faithfully keep my place, fulfilling your call, perhaps buffering those who rarely (if ever) acknowledge my worth from certain ruin. Thank you for holding life in the palm of your hand—without fanfare and (unfortunately) much of the time without acknowledgment. Thank you for the salt air and a renewed sense of purpose and resolve.

laughter

It was one of those rare evenings. The “Kodak moment” kind of evening that you wish could last forever. Too bad there is not a way to suspend time and just stay in those moments. Gratefully, life's brevity has taught us that these moments are precious, few and are to be held close to our hearts so that they may be soundly imprinted for recall another day.

Without discussion, Linnie and I both recorded every split second. Our youngest son had taken a seat across the room and as if on cue had started to tell stories from his high school days (His rationale was that the statute of limitations were long gone and he could not be prosecuted). Laughter resonated throughout the house as he embellished past memories as if they had happened a century ago. Neither his dad nor I changed our expression when he silenced his cell phone. Any change may break the magic and we were not about to take a chance. When a twenty year old silences his phone it is a serious matter.

Lord, you must laugh a lot; laughter is music to earth. Universally, it is good and the way of expressing the overflow of humor's effect. No two people laugh the same; like a fingerprint or a snowflake; our laughter is unique to us and a pleasure to the ears of our Creator. Heaven's heartbeat simplified into a human expression. Bless you, Abba. Laughter is an amazing phenomenon. It has been proven to aid in healing, lower blood pressure and raise brain chemicals that ward off depression. The Bible says, “a merry heart doeth good like a medicine” Proverbs 17:22.

Sidelight: The next morning, an entire hour of programming on our Christian Radio Station, WLBF was dedicated to....Laughter. It would seem that Heaven was making a point.

steps

Months of pressing forward...just take the next step. God blesses small, faithful steps and big, fearful ones and those we take when we are pushed and we clumsily land a little dazed waiting for the next instruction. God is gracious and merciful and loving and kind and just. He is so different from us, so different from our earthly endeavors and yet, he understands. His word is clear that he cares and he has felt every feeling that we will ever experience. Since, the pressing forward is motivated by his sovereign plan—the pressing down can only be explained and patiently endured by his sovereign grace.

You are my deliverer and my strength. As you have faithfully held me in the past, I know that the trials of this moment are minute from your perspective. The onslaught of broken promises; the blood shot eyes that were so full of hope when they looked out the window of the rehabilitation center attempt to look any other direction than mine. How do I tell her little boy that she is going to jail? What else could have been done? Should I have just camped out on her front step? Oh Father, does your heart hurt when I break my promises to you? The numbing sound of a dial tone, confirmation that the conversation has been terminated without being completed. The rejection that was once a simple, questioned undercurrent is now a full blown tsunami. Do you feel an emptiness within your chest when I reject you by living for myself? Family member are supposed to love, forgive, understand and care. The members of your family are supposed to do the same, aren't we? We live so selfishly and choose our own way and your heart is broken—yet, you never give up. You never give up. Your mercies are new every morning. So, I am able to stand up and walk forward when, I would rather hide away—I am able to love when, the rejection has been so devastating that my emotions have been torn to shreds.

My heart is so sad. I know that I am not alone but, my feelings scream otherwise. You are my majority. Today, I want to “want” according to your will and your perfect plan. I want to live according to whatsoever things are lovely and walk as a luminary of the Holy Spirit reflecting the fruit of your Light: love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance (Galatians 5:22-23) You Father, speak light and life so whom shall I fear? What dark sadness can diminish your everlasting day? Your light is not kindled by earthly measures. Your light is not extinguished by earthly means. Your light forces away the darkness. Your peace resonates a beautiful melody to even the most remote cavern of my soul. You fill my life with light and song and power and the will to take the next step.

perspective

Thank you for the holly tree at my window. The red berries with the snow are absolutely beautiful. All of creation, softly screams, “You are God, Lord, Master, Creator, Savior, everlasting….the awesome I Am”. Thank you for leading me to choose to praise you for the beauty of the snow on the holly bush at my kitchen window instead of fussing over ruined belongings that were left on the patio table at the back door.

It goes without saying that two dozen different scenarios stomped around my brain. Their steps were so loud that it was easy to discount the rapid fire of apologies that came from each family member that had not only put my things on the table, but left them there after being asked to bring them in. Screaming would not change the fact that my notebooks were soaking wet. Angry tears threatened and then forced themselves to the edges of my eyelids. Why didn’t I check behind them? Why didn’t someone take care of me the way that I take care of them? No need to rehearse the whys; find something constructive to do.

Washing dishes is always a great diversion. You become invisible when you wash dishes. You can cry, pray, fuss (to yourself) and solve all of the world’s problems while standing in front of the sink. Dishes are a marvelous diversion and you can count on the fact that at my house there are always “diversions” lounging in the kitchen sink. As I began to depopulate the contents of the sink and review my losses something wonderful happened. My mind wandered from the insensitivity of my family to the majesty less than a yard from my nose. The frosty fluff just outside the kitchen scattered as a little wren attempted to land on a frozen limb. The crystal covering that remained on the berries served as a magnifying glass and as the timid sunlight brushed its surface—a simple holly bush became a work of art.

The kitchen was quiet. My family shared their condolences regarding my disparaged paperwork and moved on quickly so as not to be drawn into the dish detail. Oh, they usually help but, they know that there are times when the dishes serve as therapy and none of them would want to interfere with the therapeutic process. The warm sudsy water and the flight of a perky feathered friend had diverted my attention to a grander scheme.

It’s snowing on my little green hill, it’s snowing. All of a sudden the same destructive force that ruined my papers was welcomed and wonderful. With my daughter and husband as willing recruits, we went out to construct the perfect snowman (snowwoman), complete with Spanish moss hair and scaly arms compliments of the stately long leaf pine that cover this part of the country. My grandsons joined us later making snow angels and throwing snowballs. My world for this small block of time was pristine and perfect.

Thank you, Lord for providing the sense and self control to run to the dishes instead of into a tirade. Thank you for dusting the south with snow. It was short-lived but just fantastic. You did a lovely job with the holly bush by the way. Thank you for not allowing my hurt feelings to become weapons of mass destruction to be used against my precious family. Certainly, changing a human heart is a bigger miracle than designing a lovely tree with crimson berries or pushing crystals of frozen fluff from of the edge of Heaven.

We all know that snowmen or snowwomen must have smiles. We considered our options and then my daughter headed to the holly bush. The red berries would be just the thing to bring a smile to this frozen face. Well of course, the holly berries, they had already done a remarkable job of warming a very cold heart.

Alicia

The words were so clear they woke me from a sound sleep, “Thank you, Lord for this another day of life” and I recognized the voice. It was my Pappaw Campbell’s voice, strong and gentle. That was the way he began every meal time prayer. It was not a ritual, it was a heartfelt sentiment that he had found words to express and he humbly reminded the Lord of his gratitude at every opportunity.

The clock on the bedside table mocked 2:35am and something told me that fluffing and flipping the pillow would not be enough to coerce my exhausted body back to la-la land. I could read that would mean turning on the light and possibly waking my sleeping daughter, who had decided to join me since Daddy was out of town. I could write but that would mean getting out from under the warm blankets and that did not seem too appealing. There’s just something about lying awake in a quiet house that gives way to soul searching.

Where was this deep sadness coming from? There is so much to be happy about, so much to be grateful for and yet, it seemed the tide of desperation was coming in rapidly. The feeling of being alone, far from home, from my calling, from the joy that used to reign in my life; wounded from the rejection of family members and the calloused criticism of acquaintances was pouring over me like wet concrete. It has been said and rightly so that time waits for no one and proven again, the alarm clock slipped its unforgiving crow bar into my domain and was demanding a response.

Up, floor is cold; down, bed is warm…I can’t believe I did not sleep last night, up with smile on face, Oh Lord help me just get through this one and by the way who is this person in my mirror? Maybe, if I sneak to the coffee pot—I will be able to have a moment of solitude. Nope, those snap tops for freshness that appear so amazing in TV ads make a monstrous noise when the kitchen is as silent as a morgue. As if rehearsed, feet begin to hit the floor from every corner of my humble abode. The day is here darling—deal with it.

Fast forward….needed to attend a funeral, had car trouble, husband out of town so decided to make a furniture delivery, instead. The lady had been calling for a couple of weeks so anxious to have her table and chairs. Since, the funeral was out. There was plenty to be done to take care of the living. First on the agenda was delivering a dining room table and chairs. For me, it was just a matter of coordinating help for the loading and the unloading. It quickly became apparent that this trip was about so much more than furniture. The lady of the house was reviewing an insurance policy with her agent but, she left him sitting. Through tears, she told me that she was facing major surgery to have her eye removed. Her other eye, severely damaged by a stroke, would not be much good and she was just not sure what she was going to do. Oh God, thank you for the car trouble that sent me on this errand. This dear soul needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen and help her sort out all that was before her and she was still able to see the table; a few more days and that may not have been the case. Your timing is perfect. Your agenda is superior and your purpose for us is far greater than we see. I was checking a job off a list. You were loving the unloved. I was delivering a bit of furniture. You were bringing light to a rapidly darkening world.

Carpool, counseling, cooking, calls…full day, good day, homework. Fifteen folks for dinner, thankfully they came in shifts and gratefully everyone was in a jovial frame of mind. Ringing phone…probably a telemarketer—they usually call at dinner time. Not a telemarketer but a social worker from a local agency in need of a favor. A mutual client had called in need of diapers. Her water had been cut off. She had gone to her grandmother’s for help. The grandmother had no money. I took the diapers and met her in a safer part of town because by this time it was dark.

This young mother had all seven children in her van with no gas…followed her to the station, pumped the gas and filled her dry radiator (van overheating). Her children were sitting in the van like little soldiers, quiet. The eldest daughter reminded me of the baby’s name as I played the name game with them while their mother checked the oil. They loved the fact that I could remember their names. I not only loved it, I was totally amazed because there are times when I have difficulty remembering my own name.

“It’s my birthday, Mrs. Debbie” said the sickly, timid little seven year old. A birthday and no celebration only a bumper car ride from a home with no water to a Granny’s that had more problems than could be numbered in one sitting. No cake, no candles. I could run into the convenience store, borrow a match and stick it in a purchased Twinkie. We could have a cake and a song. That was not to be. I had just put my last dime into the van so that this mom could get these children back to Granny’s and off the street.

It was easy to make judgments. Unfortunately, dozens of them came to mind as I made the journey across town. My heart broke as I thought of a little boy with no fanfare on his birthday and the lady (from the furniture run) weeping over the loss of her eyesight. Tonight, I returned home knowing that neither family is in a perfect situation. I have been working in heartbreak long enough to know that there are not easy solutions or pat answers. It is easy to complain about people’s choices and reactions without considering all the variables. It is also easy to talk about a quick fix without thinking of all the repercussions.

The one thing I do know is this: we were able to make the immediate circumstance palatable by giving a hand and not a judgment. There will be a time to work on the blaring problems but for now, it’s enough to breathe a sigh of gratitude as we hang the “closed” sign up on this 24 hour gift. No doubt, it should sound something like this, “Thank you, Lord for this another day of life”.

our chickens return

My house guest held two pieces of a plastic ladle in his hand and timidly said, “I did not mean to break this”. “Oh no” I lamented, that was special piece from a museum in Poland and there is no way that it can be replaced. Why I wouldn’t even try? Honestly from the look on his bewildered face I don’t think he heard anything after my “oh no”. Realizing that he had not caught the humor in my voice—I quickly told him that nothing in my home was worth worrying over…just things…things, not people. The transformation was incredible; he went from very concerned to laughing with me. What could have made this once successful minister fearful over a broken ladle? People.

People that had at one time worn the title, “friend”; people that had worshipped and worked alongside of him; people that had betrayed, backstabbed and belittled in the name of climbing the proverbial ladder; people—like my friend and like me made in the image of God. How did we (people) stray so far from the original?

Since our creator made us people and not puppets, we choose. Life is a continual choice—moment by moment: Obedience or disobedience, selfishness or sacrifice, comfort or comforted, loving or unloving, blessing or blight. Our words are powerful and our actions paramount. My Christian perspective says that I have the power within to reflect the ONE that I belong to and an obligation to my fellow man to give a proper estimation of Jesus Christ.

However, even without belief in a deity there are just some (unspoken) laws that govern (or used to govern) humanity. It seems (and my battered friend is proof) that we are getting farther and farther from respect and civility. It is important for me to remember that I am a reflection but—I am also a receiver. My great grandmother used to say “chickens always come home to roost.” It is beneficial for me to consider the “chickens” to which I am giving flight because—they will be back.

Cheyenne

God always answers prayer. Not always in the way we plan, usually not within our time frame but, He always answers. A few days ago, I was privileged to spend the day with my precious granddaughter while her Mom was attending discipleship and her daddy was working.

Grandchildren are tagged that (grand) for a reason. They are born with the capacity to love you just the way you are, trust you without a valid reason, welcome your presence without notice and believe that you are an amazing part of the universe. We as grandparents have a wonderful opportunity/obligation to keep up this image by investing our lives in them.

As I opened the bedroom door my tiny tumbled down princess peeped her head out from her rosebud blanket and said with great excitement, “Hi, Nana” and the adventure began. We had a tea party, read all about the “Silly Monkey” and built a fabulous tent out of blankets—all before breakfast.

When it was finally time for a snack, Cheyenne climbed into her high chair and I took a seat across the table from her. To my left and right were empty spots at the small round table. The chair just to my right was pulled from the table; left askew from the night before when everything else had been put back in its place. As I looked around the apartment, noticing every detail and thinking back to where this little family had been both physically and spiritually just a year ago, I was totally overwhelmed by the gracious hand of God. As a result, I just started to pray aloud, thanking the Lord and watching one of those “reasons” for gratitude munch on her breakfast. My prayer was a simple, joy filled conversation and Chey didn’t even seem to notice until I said, “and Lord Jesus thank you so much for”.

Immediately, Cheyenne looked up from her breakfast, shot a puzzled look my way and then to the “empty” chair to my right. She quizzically looked at me and then back to the empty chair. Without even the slightest hesitation, she cocked her little head, pointing toward the empty chair she said, “He’s wight day-uh” as if to say, why are you looking at me if you are talking to him?

Needless to say, my chill bumps had chill bumps (as they do now and have every time I have shared this story). There is no doubt in my mind that Cheyenne saw Jesus. Her vision, unlike mine has not been tainted by the world, life experience and rationale. Even though my vision is marred, the eyes of my heart can see perfectly and just as He has promised, He is with me always even unto the end of world. God used a tiny piece of Heaven seated in a highchair to remind me.

holding me

Are you a poor leader or am I a pathetic follower? Well, that goes without explanation. Every miniscule fragment of history indicates that you are an impeccable leader. The perfect, sovereign, awesome leader of Daniel in the den of lions and Moses in the midst of the unforgiving crowd of future Israelis; the matchless leader of the stars of the millionth galaxy as they line up in perfect order to be tagged and tossed purposefully into the velvet atmosphere. Your majesty and leadership again and again are proven perfect.

Obviously, the flaw is not with the leader but with the designated follower: me. Oh, I do great for a second or so then the wearisome details of the journey get me completely side tracked. Sadly the good that I do along the way in a feeble attempt to “feel” close to you only brings distance that is almost more than I can bear.

When I look up from my completed task, beaten and exhausted, starved for a tender nod of approval, I find that you are so far away that you are almost unrecognizable. How did I lag so far behind? How could you leave me? Don’t you love me? Can’t you see I am trying so hard to please you? Why did you keep walking away from me? I was doing fine for awhile, you saw didn’t you? You knew, yet you allowed me to slowly step back, you could have stopped me. Why do I keep lagging behind? Every weary, leaded, fractured step depletes me.

Standing, extending to the greatest height I can muster (like a little girl tip-toeing to see something wonderful), I see you are a vague shadow, distant, far away; but as my posture changes from head strong and tall to kneeling then falling on my face, I find that you are no longer the vague figure on the nebulous horizon. You are present, a touchable, tangible Savior and a gentle, caring Master. You are anxious to lift me to my feet, ready to set me aright, forgiven, new and on my way. I however want to stay at your feet, clinging to you, like a little child grasping her mother’s ankles, holding tightly; partially out of humility and gratitude; mostly convinced that if I let go it is easy to once again lose my perspective. Oh precious Master, could that have been the reason Mary brilliantly chose to anoint your feet, to be near you, to honor you, to take her rightful place?

If I cling to you just at the hem of your garment, I will know when we are to move, I cannot make a misstep and I will not stray from the One who should be the grandest object of my affection. If I hold on tightly all is well, always, forever. It is then that I realize You, lovingly, are with Your very thought, holding me.

war

What could cause a mild mannered thirteen year old to turn into a ball of fury—screaming threats, slamming doors and continually disrupting the harmony of her typical suburban church going (three times a week) Christian family? What would turn an up and coming executive into a mass murderer? How could a mommy become her child’s murderer? What is this dark epidemic that seems to be taking our nation systematically one situation at a time?

There does not seem to be a safe place. When our sons and daughters learn about phone sex and homosexuality through acquaintances in their youth groups and parents do not allow their daughters to go to football games, unchaperoned because they are being stalked by other girls. Does this smack of Sodom and Gomorrah…or worse?

What do we do? Complain, keep our children at home or confront the culprit? If we choose to confront, which situation should it be? Where do we begin? We may physically inhibit unacceptable activity (at least around our child) but the problem; like an anxious, active volcano, continually erupts. Its contents spew up from the “sewer” of our society and its vomit of degradation is oozing its way across our pristine landscape.

Not one of us is immune. Even the creamy complexioned, brace-faced, purposely polished teen fortunate enough to be homeschooled and sequestered from the plague that continually bombards the average teenager cannot be kept from the germ of sin. Yesterday, monitoring friends and media consumption was a pretty sound method of protecting the minds and hearts of our Treasures. Today, powerful corporations use sex to sell everything from cars to candy. Familiar cartoons that used to be entertaining and innocent promote many amoral conditions. If a specific lewd behavior is not promoted outright — then wrong is portrayed in such a light as to be entertaining and those who oppose the “wrong” are pictured as out of touch, narrow minded morons. Observe.

How did this happen in our clean, crisp, conscientious country? Those of us who were supposed to hold the standard have been unfaithful. Our post has been overrun. The Church (not the building) has been referred to as a sleeping giant. Unfortunately, that is not true; we are wide awake and apathetic. We see the problems; we have fought them for years. What began as a slow, low, under the radar crawl of the enemy Satan, has mushroomed, exploded and is raining it’s hideous debris into our lives while we that lodge under the name of Christ, wring our hands, talk about the problems and go on with business as usual. We act as though our children will grow out of this stage and morph into responsible adults, take on responsible roles and become “good” church goers and community leaders.

Hey—we weren’t perfect little saints and we turned out pretty good, right? No, we did not. We have swallowed what our parents would not tolerate. We embrace the things that would have given our grandparents nightmares. We have fallen much farther than our parents into the abyss. We have tolerated the “gray” so long that the dismal pitch of darkness doesn’t alarm us.

It is easy to be saddened yet, basically unaffected when I learn that a friend’s daughter has been exposed to a new level of filth through a casual friendship; but I’m left speechless when my adult son casually announces that he plays pool at a local restaurant/bar that gained its reputation by using buxom females as wait staff. Now, I am not naïve enough to think that this is the worst that he has been exposed to while living here in the first notch of the Bible belt. However, the stinging reality for me was that my child did not flinch when we discussed the reputation of the establishment. “What is wrong with going to ------ to play pool?” he shot. “The only other places are bars.” What does he think this restaurant is, Sesame Street? My son - loved, protected, brought up with morals, values and as much as our flawed frames could muster, was taught a Christian World View. If he thinks meeting his buddies for a game of pool and three dozen glances at scantily clad female bodies is not an issue, then I have missed a step somewhere and I honestly believe I know where.

All “good” parents pray for their children, right? Let’s say that we have read a lot of books on prayer, have attended seminars on prayer, have gone to Bible Studies on the “how to” and the “whys” of prayer. After all, we should talk to God shouldn’t we? God is the focus of our faith and our means of communicating with Him is prayer. Then why are those prayers so few, so sporadic and so impotent?

We are quick to toss a “God is great…” onto the list of things that are most important to teach our toddler. Yet, we give equal value to “Green Eggs and Ham” or “Goodnight Moon”. We (may) bow together before bedtime and rush through—“now I lay me down to sleep” but the evening news is priority. There are things that must be done before our racing minds attempt to rest.

Our world is in chaos, we wield the TV remote coasting from one disaster to the next. We watch stunned as the dominoes of financial misconduct, political confusion and feigned integrity tumble leaving circumstances too great for man to correct. We cast some words heavenward but they ricochet back like a shot from a BB gun set off in a steel room. We wrestle not against flesh and blood and we cannot “fight” as though we do. (Ephesians 6)

Is the problem in my mirror? Psalm 66:18 says, “If I regard (cherish, hold on to) iniquity (lawlessness, sin, unrighteous thought or behavior) in my heart, the Lord will not hear me”. When we face difficulties, we (may) race to God. We know that He has the answers but we are not familiar with talking to Him and we certainly feel uncomfortable listening to Him. We have access to the Creator of the Universe yet, we throw Him off like a cartoon character because we do not really believe.

My prayer today is that the troubles of the world, the apathy of our sons and daughters and the tragedies that we see will crush us to the heart of God. Only His intervention can redeem the past, repair the present and the rescue the future. He, alone is God. It would be foolish to miss an opportunity to know him intimately. One day, we will stand before him.

Let’s fight from a kneeling position. Satan despises a bowed heart. Our enemy loves for us to learn about prayer. He doesn’t care if we “talk” about prayer, attend dozens of prayer conferences and are familiar with all the conventional thought on the subject of prayer BUT, The gates of Hell quake when the simplest among us begins to earnestly seek the attention of Heaven.

Let’s commune (continually) with the One who can renovate us or our circumstances.

Let us pray.