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.

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

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.

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.

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.

lessons from a teapot.....

“We are having a three course tea, whatever that is, like they have in England. Do you have a teapot that I can take? My teacher said for anyone that could to bring a teapot.” After dragging my very weary, out of shape, poor example of a body out of bed, I made the trek to the dining room where four prized possessions kept watch. The only pot that would serve the purpose for a room full of eighth graders was Mammaw Campbell’s canning kettle. It almost seemed a sacrilege to call it Mammaw’s because—it was my dear Pappaw that always retrieved it from the stove in the basement whenever it was needed. It was Pappaw that always handled the steaming liquid that would be poured over the jars in the canning process. My mind’s eye had no trouble vividly conjuring up a picture in full color of Pappaw meting out just the right amount of water into the precious commodities that he and Mammaw were storing away. It would be Pappaw that would dry the well used pot and return it to its rightful place until the next time it would be called to duty.

Pappaw never called it a teapot; it was always “the kettle”. Every now and then his strong Irish descent would pop to the surface of a conversation like the tender sprouts of corn in his garden. This was one of those occasions. My cousins and I loved to hear Pappaw Campbell say, kettle because the initial e, in kettle, ran like a frightened rabbit and was replaced by a snappy “i”, He proudly pronounced it, “kittle”. We would giggle and try to get him to say “kittle” again and again. Pappaw would laugh with us and then tell us that he didn’t have time for such foolishness (“go on you fellars—I have work to do” ) and he would be on to the next project….one or all of us following like ducks to a pond would trail behind him. Pappaw’s plans may take us from the kitchen but never far because, when there was canning to be done, He always had to stay within earshot so when Mammaw called he would only be a few steps away.

The journey back to that little green hill and Mammaw’s kitchen took just milliseconds. When my heart goes to Mammaw’s house, there’s always a patchwork sample of lives well lived, not rushed through—not endured, invested--lived intentionally. As I placed the kettle into a Wal-Mart bag, I reminded Dallas of the treasure that she was taking to school. “Please take care of this baby, it was your great grandmother’s”, I cautioned. A kiss on the cheek, a quick, “I will Mom” and my sweet daughter was out the door. As I walked from the kitchen to the living room mulling over—my memories and sipping my lukewarm coffee….the trailing words of my plea, “…it was your great grandmother’s” repeatedly trickled from my mind to my heart “…it was your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s.”

The word “your” began to wrap itself around me like a toasty blanket on a frosty morning. Our lovely, vivacious daughter was a gift to our family when she was just a little girl. She had not been born to us. She has truly been an undeserved blessing. By the same token, her adoption into our family gave her rights to all that we as a family possess. The stroke of a judge’s pen gave our Dallas a lady from Birmingham England for a grandmother, all the stories from the West Virginia Mountains and the right to claim the Tarheel ancestry of those born in North Carolina from my side of the family tree. Every family story, every tear, every side splitting story (like Aunt Senia’s horse ride or Mammaw putting linament in Pappaw’s nose), every recipe, all the joy, each uphill journey, all the unique pieces of our puzzle became hers. All Dallas did was just be, just exist, just be. Wow, what an incredible transaction. As the Holy Spirit smoothed the canvas of my mind’s eye—the picture of God’s grace in the gift of His only son, Jesus vividly came to life.

The Creator of the Universe gently painted a clear picture of His eternal plan and in His grace and mercy chose this morning to remind me of His love. “That is what I have done for you, Debbie—Adoption is a beautiful thing. My grace has made it possible for you to have all the riches of my glorious heritage. You are my beautiful adopted daughter. All those children that my Father brings to me are absolutely gorgeous in my sight. Their beauty in my sight is not because of what they are able to accomplish. Every son and daughter is beautiful, in my sight, because they look like my Son. That is what adoption does, Debbie, passes to you all the riches of glory and you just get to “be”. “I love you my daughter— I love you, died for you, chose you, adopted you.

Prayerfully, the teapot will return from English class. It will be returned to its place on the shelf in the dining room but—I doubt that I will every look at that or any other teapot quite the same.

Christmas carols

It was a typical Saturday morning, if there is anything typical about spending the morning with grandchildren. The boys helped Poppa cook breakfast, disturbed the slumber of two dozen rolly-pollys (who thought that they were safe wintering in the border around my flower bed) and then they assisted me with making beds. They make beds the way I attempt life by climbing right into the middle of it. That’s a story for another day.

The younger of the two loves to see how things work. It was not unusual for him to be drawn to a small music box sitting in the windowsill. In his usual un-methodical manner, he began twisting the fragile stem to make the music begin. Thinking that I was rescuing the music box from him so that one day, I would one day be able to “leave” it to him brought a chuckle. Would these energetic promises that shared our last name remember this morning? Would the thought of Saturday mornings at Nana-Pop’s house bring a chuckle to their hearts 20 years from now?

While they listened to a Reader’s Digest version of the box’s history, I gently wound and released the key. As expected the clearest tinned melody began spilling out of the tiny box. The song was clear and familiar to me. The two angels crowded closer to me than space permitted, listening intently. “That is a beautiful song” commented the eight year old. His four year old brother agreed wholeheartedly telling me to make it play again. In the midst of placing our order for a replay of that lovely Christmas hymn—I asked the boys to tell me the name of the tune. Neither of them knew. How had this happened?

Fast forward to Sunday Morning; waiting for Bible Study to begin, a friend shares with the teacher how she feels lead to purchase Bibles for her nieces explaining their “sad” circumstances, “they don’t even recognize the Christmas Carols.” Anytime there is a common theme, especially if that theme seems a little out of place, I know that it is a “board out of Heaven with a message written on it” moment and I have learned to pay close attention.

Monday, heading home, I flipped on the radio and was not surprised to hear a regularly scheduled radio host. What was surprising was his topic. The Garlow Perspective was discussing, of all thing, Christmas Carols. A radio show, on the 9th day of February, talking about Christmas Carols; does that seem a bit odd to you?

I am not sure what all of this means. Honestly, regrettably, I have not taken the time to get before the Lord and ask. My time with Him has been primarily requesting wisdom for handling other situations that screamed loudly and demanded immediate attention.

Three days, one apparently misplaced theme, two precious grandchildren who may not always be so attentive to what I have to say and a newly acquired interest in Christmas songs has me thinking. You know, in ten years, it will not matter if every item on my “to do” list from this past week was crossed off. However, I believe with all my being that Heaven has a word for me neatly woven into the melody of a familiar Christmas Carol. That message has eternal value.

Needless to say, I am listening—I will be seeking God’s heart on this topic. I will be researching the history of Silent Night and my grandchildren will hear Joy To The World playing at Nana’s in the Spring.