A God for Emersyn

The ending of the story was already written. A carefully formed nest lay fallen from my redbud tree, beside it a shiny, turquoise egg. A frail, broken, newborn robin lay on the cold, rain-soaked ground, abandoned, apparently forgotten. Heartbeats pulsed visibly beneath translucent pink skin, slowing as the bird blindly twisted his body, hopelessly fighting for life. I held the bird in my hands, powerless to save it, yet comforted to know the truth as I placed it beneath the soft, green Lamb's Ear leaves. The God who created this bird sees every moment of its life. It is tenderly loved.

Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? - Matthew 6:2

A fragile, newborn Christian is entering a life of faith this week. I accidentally gave her a wrong phone number for my cell. I've been concerned because, while she can email me, I'm not as immediately available to her as I had hoped. She's a survivor of a cold, pain-soaked life and I feel powerless as I wait to hear from her. It comforts me as I realize she knows the truth. The God who created her sees every moment of her life. She is tenderly loved.

There is a God who sees and is available always. There is a God who is able to do more than we ask or imagine He can do. There is a God who loves with an everlasting love.


Emersyn was born into our family this week, and, after months of waiting, she has arrived wrapped in warmth, safe from the storms of life and cherished beyond measure. Her body was covered with prayer multiple times daily as God knit her together in my niece's womb. As her story unfolds, I know Emersyn will have disappointments, pain and losses. It comforts me as I realize she will know the truth. The God who created her sees every moment of her life. She is tenderly loved.

The ending of your story is not yet written. Pain and disappointment may have left you broken. You may feel abandoned, apparently forgotten. The God who sees you every moment of your life Is available to wrap you in warmth and hold you in His hands, safe from the storms of life. You are worth more than you realize, cherished beyond measure. You are tenderly loved.

I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have tenderly held you with compassion. -Jeremiah 31:3

The King Never Quits

"I feel like a train wreck," I told my friend Lynn. "I'm completely tired."

She smiled. She, also, is a soldier-princess and she has been walking alongside me for years. She encourages me as only a close friend can do. She sends meals and gives me flowers. She sends texts and prays diligently for me.

As she coached me through our Pilates workout, I gained the surge of energy that would carry me through the rest of my schedule. No soldier-princess would fail to fight for her comrade, and Lynn faithfully spurred me on so I could continue to show up for love and good works.

A soldier is trained to hear the voice of truth and to obey marching orders without questioning, without doubting what the King is able to do. She has her sword, the Word of God, at the ready, her shield of faith is lifted against enemy attack and she continues to do the next right thing over and over again. The mind of a soldier stays focused on God during battles and there is peace.

A soldier-princess never quits. She continues showing up to love alongside her King in enemy territory, in the trenches of the daily hard and in the unfamiliar dark wilderness where she feels afraid and inadequate. She keeps pouring herself out, laying her all on the altar of service to the King and she considers it an honor. A soldier-princess never quits.

When the energy gauge is on empty, when physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually she is poured out for the King, it is the King who recognizes the need for a soldier to rest.

When a soldier-princess "feels like a train wreck", defeated and exhausted, she learns to wait for the familiar voice of the King. She knows her King never quits. Though a soldier cannot always leave her battlefield, the King is able to lift her soul away for awhile. He carries His exhausted and broken princess in arms of love where only He can heal, sustain and pamper her.

After the whirlwind, a still, small Voice. "Come away to a quiet place."

Away from the noise and the fray, deep in the innermost being of the soldier-princess, pain and fatigue, brokenness and confusion, prisons and disappointments are left behind.

One fist lifted warns the enemy, "Back off. She's mine." One glance at the angel army and the battle is finished. One smoothing of His hand over her and the princess rests. He sings over her, a song no other will ever hear. He quiets her with His love, calls her by a special name only she will hear through all eternity.

"You look like you're running out of steam," a neighbor called as I was limping past her house. "Are you okay?" Most mornings I am happily jogging or running when she sees me. I call out and wave, but I am unwavering in my training and discipline. Today my heart and body were aching from the inside out so I stopped to visit a few minutes.

"You need to go to a movie or even take a vacation. Or do what I do. Shut the bathroom door and have a good wailing session. Then take a hot bath and read a good book. Sometimes we just have to crash."

She's not a soldier-princess and she wouldn't understand. I may feel like a train wreck, but I'm not. I am a child of the one true King and He would never let me crash. My name is engraved on the palm of His hand. I am the apple of His eye, His protected and treasured soldier-princess. I am my Beloved's and He is mine.

 A soldier-princess never quits, but neither does her King.

Hoarding and the Inmate

"There's so much to clean out of this house. Truckloads!" Shelby moaned. "I'm not exaggerating. How can we move? How will we ever get past the piles of...stuff?"

Hoarders. We see them on the television and our eyes widen. How do they live like that? How can they not see their clutter is holding them back from a well lived life?

I have a neighbor who cleans out her garage about once a month. She says she is determined to live a better life. She pulls everything out of her garage, rearranges it, then returns nearly all of it to the garage. If something doesn't fit her new arrangement, she piles it by her front door or has a garage sale. Most of it slowly returns to the garage until the next time.

In prison you don't have a lot of stuff. There may be a few possessions you have collected during your stay, but, your job income of 75 cents an hour in the prison only allows for  necessities.

Hoarding is still a problem. Even in the prison. Not the hoarding of physical stuff, but the hoarding of sins.

Inmates do not have the luxury of ignoring their sins. They are offenders and their sins must be punished. A prisoner who longs for a better life must not only do the time, but redeem the time. Change that results from sorting through the clutter of sin is their only hope.

Many of us are in prisons of our own making. We make an effort to get rid of sins, to clean out the garage of the heart. But sin clutter mostly gets moved around, hidden behind walls or disguised with pretty words.  If we can laugh about the sin, we lessen its importance. In the end, like my neighbor in her garage ,most sins receive a little more time to continue cluttering our lives.

It's easier to consider sin by the truckload. "I'm just out of shape" is somehow acceptable clutter so that we don't have to exercise or take good care of the body, God's dwelling place. Hiding anger, pride or laziness behind words like "I'm just tired" or "All moms yell sometimes" somehow makes it easier to walk past the sins rather than removing them.

Some hoarders recognize the problem, but, like my neighbor, merely rearrange their possessions. The possessions look valuable, helpful. It makes them feel prepared for a future day.

Pride can seem valuable. Greed can seem helpful. Selfishness can make us feel prepared for a future day. The rich young ruler walked away sad because he had many possessions. His "stuff" kept him from living by faith not sight. He had much but did not live well because his choices kept him from giving God first place in his heart.

Less of me and my stuff opens up room for more of Him.

"Just tell me what to do and where to start," a young prisoner said to me. She has seven children and one on the way. She's a new Christian and ready to rid herself of piles of sin clutter. We start the same way I unload my own truckload of junk. One sin at a time.

Whatsoever Things Are Pretty

Of all the picture books in my antique wooden bread bowl, Maisy was paging through my dear, one-of-a-kind nature journal.

"I like this," Maisy declared, pointing to a painting of a tree. "It's pretty."

I live in a house full of antiques, flowers, china and pretty one-of-a-kind things. I also live in the atmosphere of rough and tumble children. It's a good mix.

Children need to play among lovely things, to be educated about wonders. As we walk alongside children, we can teach them lessons that point the way through the brokenness and confusion they encounter.

Guests for dinner, whether for Thanksgiving or a regular Sunday dinner, gather around a table set with china and crystal, cloth napkins and candles.

"Oh, my," a new guest will comment to me, "What if a child breaks something?" But we don't worry over what might be lost or broken. Children are eternal, things are not.

Very few precious things have ever been broken in my home, and almost always the brokenness has been at my own hands. Children learn to control their strength and handle things gently. They want the privilege of touching my lovely treasures.

Hundreds of broken people of all ages have eaten from my china and crystal. I want my guests to be among the pretty things, to enjoy things from my history, to hear the stories that surface from my life. We all need to live life noticing whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, to ponder what is excellent or praiseworthy.

The china and crystal that I use is what my mother used before me. There is a handle missing on the serving bowl. I broke it putting it into the china cabinet when I was a little girl. My mother glued it back together, but it has never been quite as pretty or serviceable.  I still use it, though. It's my favorite piece of china.

The china was important to my mother because my father gave it to her during the war years when they were apart. It was important to me, as a little girl, because it was pretty, delicately painted with beautiful pink roses. It is important to me now because it represents a mother who encouraged me to live among pretty things even in a house full of rough and tumble children. Broken does not mean useless or without value.

A china pot full of tea, a stack of fragile books, a tattered Raggedy Ann that might so easily tear....all pretty things from my childhood. I could store them away out of sight, out of reach. People often choose to put away their pretty things until the children are older.

I did, too. And then I realized one day that I never want my home to be an empty nest. I want my life to always be full of curious, rough and tumble children. If I put away my "pretties", they will never know my treasures, never learn to rein in their strength to be gentle, never know that broken doesn't mean useless or without value.

As I am writing, two year old Johnathan jumps from the sofa (inherited from my grandmother) to the rocking chair (inherited from my husband's grandmother). All the way he carries with him my precious one-of-a-kind nature journal which he is now pondering, gently tracing my simple sketch of a squirrel.

He looks over at me, "Skirl. Pretty. C'mon, Nana. See?"

Maybe I'll wait to scold him for jumping on the furniture. I'd rather ponder squirrels with him.

Train in the Trenches

The pitcher slid from my hands splashing a tidal wave of tea across the floor. Grabbing a towel with one hand and my ringing phone with the other, I glanced at the caller name and answered, "Hey, girl."

Melissa greeted me. "You sound, um...busy? I need to ask a question."

"Spilled tea. I'm not-so-peacefully mopping the kitchen," I explained. "I'm okay. Go for it."

She laughed at the timing of her question. "If the joy of the Lord is my strength, why am I so beaten down today?There is no joy and strength in Melissa-ville."

It's a humid 90 degrees before sunrise and the air conditioner stops working. The toddler drenches the crib, but has helpfully taken off his diaper to wash the walls. Your husband says the bills must be paid immediately. Once you juggle the budget, find the bills and prioritize them.

The kitchen is a soured mess because the older children didn't do their chores. The clean folded clothes from yesterday have been strung over the chairs by the preschooler who decided to play laundry woman... and all you really want is a shower so you don't smell worse than the crib...Was that the doorbell?

You glance at the clock, aware of your looming check-up appointment with the doctor, promising yourself to be on time for the half hour you will sit in the waiting room. The doctor will say you are fine. But, you don't feel fine. You feel tired of battling.

When the prophet Elijah was overwrought by battle fatigue, God's answer was simplistic: Eat some stew. Take a nap.

Sounds terrific, God, but I need groceries to make stew and taking a nap isn't on my schedule today.

The joy of the Lord is our strength. Even without the stew or nap.

In the trenches, we cannot discern who is winning a battle. The Commander holds the battle plans and gives marching orders. Success can look like failure. What seems hopeless can be a catapult to higher ground. Peace can rule even in the heat of battle.

A soldier-princess is not surprised to find herself in the midst of battle. She never gives up, never quits. Most of our training happens in the trenches, the shield of faith raised against Satan's artillery.

Raise your standards high. Gird your armor on. Stand firm, soldier-princess. We will win the war.

Soldier-Princess: Marching Orders

To my fellow soldier princesses, wherever you are, near or far:

Live an excellent life wherever God leads you.

Focus on your calling, going into the world to share the good news. Develop your special gifts, talents and character so you will change the world as you go where He sends you. Shine like the stars of the universe as God unfolds the way before you.

Whether we are an ocean apart or together in my kitchen does not dictate whether we are together in spirit. We are one body, one hope, one calling, one mind, one purpose. We are soldier-princesses chosen and united in this generation by the God who is able to do more than we ask or even imagine He can do.

We have been given favor, blessing and princess privileges not merely by believing, but by suffering for His sake, living excellently in every circumstance, the good and the bad, the easy and the difficult.

He will do what He says He will do through us, in us, for us and with us. He will give us the will, the power and the maturity to achieve His purposes. He is the Author and Finisher of our faith, the Commander who never fails, who always finishes what He starts, always creates excellence, always is mighty to save.

A grace-saturated life carries us even into enemy territory with Spirit power and competence.  A soldier-princess is never surprised to find herself in a battle with the enemy who seeks to devour her. Stay awake in the presence of God, alert and trained for battle.

This is the battle I fought and still fight as a soldier-princess - to walk alongside of Him always trusting, always bold and confident, always joyful. The battle is the Lord's and we are connected directly to the Commander of angel armies and to one another.

A soldier-princess never quits, never gives up, no matter where her marching orders take her.

The encouragement and reassuring love, the friendly company and compassion of Jesus makes my joy complete and will make your joy complete, too.

The God Who Whispers

"It's impossible to know for sure if there's a God, and even if there is, I'd be a fool to think I could figure out what he wanted me to do or to be," Kristin tells me.

She is serious, this dear friend. Dead wrong and dead serious.

People who doubt God's presence tend to be ones who want a shout of proof from God, bold evidence of his presence and purpose.

Living life in a whirlwind of activity and fray will produce weariness, even desperation, but not assurance of God's presence and will. God does not shout over the whirlwind. He whispers in the silence.

It's tempting to ask God to speak loudly from the heavens and make Himself known to doubters. Perhaps open up the sky and show the throne room or say again: This is My Beloved Son and I am pleased with Him. Or maybe send down a fireball to light up a water-logged altar. Shake people in their boots a bit.

Until the final day when the trumpets sound, the clouds part and Jesus returns victorious, there is nothing left to prove, nothing left for God to shout.

He has much that He wants to whisper.

Come, I will give you rest.  

My yoke is easy and My burdens are light.  

I know the plans I have for you, plans to give you a future and a hope.

He has much that He wants to say to us.

Call to Me. 

I will tell you wonderful things that you do not know.

He has much that He wants to sing.

My everlasting love is deeper than the sea.

God is not going to shout over the whirlwind so that Kristin believes that He is real and has a plan for her. He is whispering to her, though.

Be still and know that I am God.

I ache in prayer for Kristin. God is there and He is not silent.

A lost lamb does not hear the voice of the shepherd over the noise of the storm, but in the devastating aftermath, exhausted and wounded, comforting words whisper into the silence

When all else fails we are more likely to look up, to see clearly, to listen. I pray it doesn't take a calamity for Kristin to be still and listen to the God who waits to rescue her.

I know My sheep and My sheep hear My voice and they follow Me.

Ben Sits Still

Ben scampers across the church aisle and scoots in next to me during the quiet communion time at church. With swinging legs, bouncing arms and alert eyes, he is trying his best to be quiet and still.

Like dozens of Sundays before, I put my arms around him, hug him close and kiss the top of his head.

"Nana loves you," I whisper. Since his newborn days, rubbing his back and cuddling him close has helped quiet him.

He knows the church routine and he's not a difficult child, but he's a little boy. Learning to be quiet and still, to know God, takes a lifetime of training.

Ben wants to play. He wants to run. He wants to talk. He wants to giggle.

Clasping his hands, bowing his head, Ben tries his best to be quiet and still. He wants to make good decisions. He wants to please God. He wants to delight in obedience.

He reaches for my hand and squeezes each of my fingers before resting our hands in my lap. He traces the veins on the top of my hand and draws numbers in my palm. Then he remembers. Once again he folds his hands and bows his head, squeezing his eyes closed.

Leaning back against me, he rests his head on my shoulder, trying his best to be quiet and still. With a weary sigh, his eyes pop back open and he examines each of my fingernails.

Be still and know that I am God, the Psalmist tells us. Be like a weaned child resting in a mother's arms. Sounds easy, doesn't it?

"Sit still!" a frustrated mother behind us urges her little one. Ben grins up at me and I lift him into my lap as his giggles escape.

"I love you, Nana," he tells me when I remind him to be still.

On the inside of my wiggly little bundle of joy, deep in the heart of him, the training has begun. The God who knit him together in his mother's womb, is still at work, answering our prayers for him, keeping his heart tender, peaceful and safe.

All discipline seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful, at times;yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness. (Hebrews 12:11)

Every morning I discipline myself to sit still, to be quiet, to know God. I seek to have a tender, peaceful and childlike heart.

I lose focus and find myself playing. Sometimes I find myself running from the discipline. I want to make good decisions. I want to please God. I want to delight in obedience.

"I love you," He tells me as I lean into Him, squeezing my eyes shut, folding my hands and bowing my head. I am, once again, for awhile anyway, focused and still, quieted by His love.

Learning to be quiet and still, to know God, takes a lifetime of training. We will reap a harvest of peaceful fruit, if we do not give up.

I love you, Father. Remind me to sit still.

Before the Close of Day

"He's having horrible nightmares," Jamie told me, concerned about her 6 year old. "We've taken away all of his dragons and soldiers, all his play guns, and all the movies that might be scary. The doctor thought it might help., but so far it hasn't. Then one night, John's daddy lay face down on the floor and prayed, sobbing like I've never heard him do before. John was wide-eyed, but hasn't had a bad dream since then."

Lorraine, an elderly friend in the nursing home, hadn't been sleeping much lately because of bad dreams. She was sure there was an unforgiven sin she had missed in her prayers. "I'm near worn out over it, but I just can't remember anything that ought to keep me from my bed. I've decided to just take that time and pray for other people and, you know, it's been a great help to me. It's relaxing."

"I'm really tired, just exhausted," a piano student explained to me. "I didn't sleep much last night and then I had an exam this morning at school. I fell asleep worried and tossed and turned all night long. I decided I would ask you to pray with me so I sleep better tonight."

"I'm not sure I've had a good night of sleep since I've been here," laughed Carol, one of the prisoners, after our weekly Bible study at the correctional center. "I sleep best when you've been here and prayed over us. You always pray for our hearts to be so close to God that even our dreams our peaceful."

Late one night when my son couldn't relax and sleep, I began to sing a simple, made up lullaby that has now soothed countless children. "Watch over my soul. It's little, You know. Oh, keep my heart tender toward Thee."

When my childhood friend, Sherry, and I had sleepovers we talked until one of us fell asleep. The other of us would be interrupted by the soft, regular breathing of our sleeping friend.

I pray myself to sleep each night. Others have questioned the wisdom of this, declaring it a disrespect for God, but I don't agree. God is never going to be the first one to go to sleep. As His child, He quiets me with His love, sings over me with joy, and I fall asleep, leaving Him to watch over me.

"Oh, what peace we often forfeit," the old hymn says, "Oh, what needless pain we bear. All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer." (What a Friend We Have in Jesus, words by Jospeh Scrivener, Music by Charles Converse, 1868)

We all suffer from fears, aches, worries, disease and brokenness. Sleepless nights and bad dreams can attack anyone. Prayer can be our familiar resting place. Prayer keeps our hearts tenderly tuned in to the Father's song, His quieting love.

To Thee before the close of day,

Creator of the world, we pray

That, with Thy wonted favor,Thou
Wouldst be our Guard and Keeper now.

From all ill dreams defend our sight,

From fears and terrors of the night;

Withhold from us our ghostly foe,

That spot of sin we may not know.

O Father, that we ask be done,

Through Jesus Christ, Thine only Son,

Who, with the Holy Ghost and Thee,

Doth live and reign eternally.

(Unknown Author, 7th Century; 

translated from Latin, John M. Neale, 1852;

Music by William B. Bradbury, 1843)

Words to Live By

Not quite 3 years outside of 60 it surprises me, this joy in getting older. I feel not so much a survivor of life as a person who is on her way.

My granny said that would happen. She was 98 at the time, with nearly a half-decade yet to walk by faith.

"Loving flowers and gardens and children does that," Granny said."Don't just watch, really see what is growing." She was giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

A picture of Granny, my great-grandmother, is etched into my heart. She is standing in her garden out on the farm, her blue bonnet blowing in the morning breeze. Leaning on a hoe, resting, I'm certain she is watching her garden grow.

Cup of coffee in hand, just before sunrise, I visit my rose bushes, columbine, irises and daisies. I walk through the garden and notice significant changes in the vegetables growing.

A rabbit has bruised a flower in full bloom. A deer has chomped a vine. Soil has grown weary and parched. Blooms appear from buds never noticed. Soft, sage green Lamb's Ear sprouts in an impossible to grow area. Cilantro has sprouted among the garden rocks.

My grandma and I left the porch swing where we had been snapping green beans, and stretched in the sunshine. As we picked favorite zinnias for a bouquet, she talked about the boldness of colors, the varied petals. Wiping dust off tiny yellow tomatoes we popped them in our mouths one after the other. She talked about life.

She was teaching me to see what was growing around me. She was giving me words to live  by, watching me grow.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" my mother would chant in our garden. We would laugh and quote nursery rhymes and poems over and over again. Often she would point to our Guernsey cattle on the hillside. "Aren't they pretty?" she would say. We would sit on the front step drinking iced tea, deciding whether we wanted a bouquet of roses or peonies on the table.

She was teaching me to see what was growing around me. She was giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

Set up signposts to mark your trip home.
Get a good map.
Study the road conditions.
The road out is the road back.
Come back, dear virgin Israel,
come back to your hometowns.
How long will you flit here and there, indecisive?
How long before you make up your fickle mind?
God will create a new thing in this land:
A transformed woman will embrace the transforming God!

A Message from Israel’s God-of-the-Angel-Armies:
'When I’ve turned everything around and brought my people back,
the old expressions will be heard on the streets:
‘God bless you!’ . . . ‘O True Home!’ . . . ‘O Holy Mountain!’
All Judah’s people, whether in town or country,
will get along just fine with each other.

I’ll refresh tired bodies;
I’ll restore tired souls.

Just then I woke up and looked around—
what a pleasant and satisfying sleep! 

The Message, Jeremiah 31:21-26

God is teaching me to see what is growing around me. He is giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

I know the sun is not really waking up, stretching itself into view as I watch the sun rise. Mrs. Lee, my third grade teacher, explained the science of rotating planets around a stationary sun. I'm just not sure I ever believed her. Nearly every morning I watch the spring sun peep over the horizon and touch each flower head bringing it to full glory.

Time is coming. Time is not going.

Follow the old ways. Look around.

The Big Spring

The Big Spring, we called it. Without it our cistern would be empty.

A large tank was loaded into the back of Daddy's pick up truck out on the farm. All we had to do was drive to the Big Spring and connect to the pipe running out of the hillside. Cold, sweet water began from an unknown source, high on the hilltops.  It poured down through the pipe, there at the side of a gravel road, and splashed into our tank, filling it up. In a week or two my family would return for more life-giving water and I would once again be amazed at the miracle of the Big Spring.

After we grew up and moved to the city, we filled containers to take the water back to the city with us so we could enjoy it as long as possible. Our Charles, my sister's husband, once said it was the best water he ever had. Fresh spring water can be bought for a price in the market now, but back then, we had to find the wellspring source ourselves.

For of his fullness, we all have received, and grace upon grace.  John 1:16

One of my favorite running trails circles a clear, sparkling lake. I sometimes rest at a graceful waterfall splashing over the large rocks.  Something about water restores body and soul, washes clear our minds and soothes our hearts. Water gives life and a thirsty runner is grateful for a few moments to drain a water bottle and catch her breath.

The water that splashes down is ever replenishing. It's always the same waterfall, but not the same water. It flows from a secret place, water upon water. Continually providing new water instead of the old, sweet instead of stale flows the spring of abundant, life-giving power.

For of his fullness, we all have received, and grace upon grace.

Water upon water. Grace upon grace. Grace instead of grace. Grace for grace. A perpetual hour by hour, year by year, replenishing of new for the old, fresh for the stagnant.

Grace-full water splashes down from a secret place in my life, a wellspring that never runs dry. It replenishes me continually. Living water upon Living Water. Grace upon grace. It's the same spring, the same waterfall, but not the same water. The water that flowed through me a few minutes ago has been replaced, replenished by a new in-pouring of Living Water. Water instead of water. Grace instead of grace. 

"For of his fullness, we all have received." We all can enjoy, depend on, be restored by his fullness. It's not a secret source, but a known source, this sweet, Living Water. Charles would tell you it's the best water you will ever taste. Like the lady at the well, you will never thirst again.

"Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life." It flows with a continual sweet spring that splashes down from heaven. Living Water upon Living Water. Grace upon grace. Love upon love. Joy upon joy.

For of his fullness, we all have received, and grace upon grace. 

His grace is sufficient for me. His love is everlasting. 

Johnathan's Marvelous Miracle

"Wook!" Johnathan shouted in the middle of our walk around the block, "Oh, otay! Wain!"

"It's not raining. That's the flower petals blowing from the tree," I laughed.

His pudgy toddler hands raised toward the sky as he blinked in wonderment at the hundreds of tiny white petals raining down and the thousands more piled at his feet.

"There shall be showers of blessings," I sang to him. "Showers of blessings we need. Mercy drops 'round us are falling! But for the showers we plead." (D.W. Whittle, 1883)

Johnathan began to laugh at this event too marvelous for words as we twirled and danced in the shower of soft petals.

He was delighted at the prospect of rain showers and mud puddles on our walk. He was prepared, dressed in rain boots and a jacket. But, this miracle of flowers in what looked like rain was too marvelous for words.

What if His mercy comes through raindrops? What if His blessings come through tears? What if our greatest disappointments are his blessings in disguise? ("Blessings", by Laura Story)

Perhaps the secret to seeing our disappointments as blessings lies in being prepared to splash in the mud, to having tucked into our jacket a faith in the God whose ways are too marvelous for words.

We danced through the flower shower then ran to the top of the hill laughing. Looking back down the street, knowing what we knew now, the petals falling were pretty, but not nearly as wondrous as when we were dancing and singing in the middle of it, watching the petals falling around us.

Some moments you cannot do over. You only get one chance to see the marvelous miracle unfolding around you. It may look like rain or it may look like flowers, but you have to be prepared for both, eyes wide awake to the possibilities on your walk with the God who makes all things glorious.

Katherynn and the Tangled Mess

"Why do you sort all of your hangers into colors?" Katherynn asked me. "All the blue. All the black. All the pink. All the green. All the white."

"I like knowing where to find things I need," I answered, tossing her some clothes to put in the washing machine.

"Most people don't do that," the six year old explained to me as she worked. "They just dump them in a big tangled mess."

"That's true," I agreed, searching my brain for a life lesson that surely was in the laundry room with us.

"Which way works better? If you need to grab a hanger quickly, is it better to be already organized or to sort through an overwhelming tangled heap of hangers?"

"Well. If I want a pink hanger today, I know where to get one!"

"Being organized helps me to be ready for a problem, like needing a hanger right away. If I'm in the habit of doing something, like putting the hangers in order, then that habit is very important when I am in a hurry."

"So you aren't supposed to hurry when you do the laundry, right?" Katherynn agreed, trying to grasp yet another life lesson I was trying to tuck into her mind.

"Sometimes you have to hurry," I told her. "Life gets busy. Problems just happen. But good habits train us to be ready even when there's no time to think about it. Quick, hand me a green hanger!"

Katherynn raced to pull it out and hand it to me. She was laughing, but she understood. If the hangers had been tangled it would not have been an easy task.

I don't care that much about the habit of sorting hangers by their colors.  But I do care about nurturing the habit of looking for life lessons in little things to teach the children.

Because of that habit, I gave Katherynn the gift of fun and laughter in a laundry room. I planted hope that she can find answers to problems if she plans ahead.

And I helped God to build a little woman.

All About with Blaine

"It would be a good idea for us to write a song together," I suggested to my five year old student as we finished up his piano lesson books for the day. "What could you write about?"

Blaine puckered his lips and frowned as he considered my suggestion. "Well, I think I could write a song about black and white because I'm all about black and white."

"That's a really creative and fun idea! Tell me about black and white."

"Penguins are black and white...and a panda. Oh! And piano keys are black and white!"

"Let's do this," he said, beginning to put his song into words and music. "All about black and white."

What are you all about?

When Jesus was twelve his parents, Mary and Joseph, discovered he had gone missing from the group of people traveling together. They back tracked until they found young Jesus in the temple talking to the elders and teachers.

When asked what he was doing, he replied, "Did you not know, I must be about my father's business?"

The phrase literally means, "Did you not know I must be all about my father?"

What are you all about? When people spend time with you, do they find that you are all about your job? Your worries and complaints? Maybe you're all about knitting, reading or football.

When people describe you, what would they say you're all about?

Blaine sighed with contentment as he played his finished composition. "It's wonderful. Can I play it at the recital? Nobody has ever heard it before. They don't know that I'm all about black and white yet. I'm the only one who is going to tell them."

You are unique and there will never be another life just like yours. The lifesong you choose is your legacy. Are you all about the Father?

Devil in the Toilet

"I don't get angry at people," Steve shared, "I get angry at things when they don't work. Like the car. Or the computer, or the toilet. And then other people suffer because I'm angry."

"The devil inhabits the toilet," my husband replied.

We laughed, but it's true, isn't it? The devil uses whatever circumstance he can as a tool for spiritual warfare.

The computer swallows an hour of work. The vacuum spreads dust everywhere. The car won't start. The toilet backs up.

"STUPID TOILET!"  The children scatter. A plunger hits the wall. A foot begins to throb from a well deserved, though unwise, kick against porcelain.

It's not true that the devil makes us do it, but he is always there, waiting for his opportunity.  He's not just concerned about where you spend your Sundays, or about how much time you spend on your knees.  He knows we are weakest when we think we're doing "non-spiritual" things.

Because in our minds we divide the spiritual from the physical, we allow him a foot in the door. We give him time and opportunity to set up his tanks on the battlefield of our lives.

To those who declare they are Jesus followers, the enemy is ruthless, tenacious, cruel and heartless. He sets up his heavy artillery aimed directly at our vulnerable spots. Waiting for a moment of exhaustion, disappointment or overstuffed schedule, he attacks with his unyielding force. Disappointment leads to discouragement.  Fears crash into depression.

We know he is a liar. We know he sits back and laughs at us.  But we get busy, direct our attentions elsewhere, become soldiers unaware. We forget that there is an unseen world that is active with the rage of demons. We set aside our mighty weapons of warfare. We cast off our spiritual armor.

We can choose instead to train ourselves to stay awake to the unseen world, even in the humdrum and ordinary parts of our lives.  By constantly walking alongside the Holy Spirit, we remain alert, prepared-for-action soldiers.

We call out to God for help and he helps - he's a good Father that way.  But don't forget, he's also a responsible Father, and won't let us get by with sloppy living.

Schemes or Dreams

"Is it okay to live together before we get married? You know, just for awhile to see if we're compatible and to share expenses."

"Why is it good for some to marry and not others? I don't want to land in a divorce with a broken heart. The odds are stacked against me."

"I'm scared to get married. Especially to the wrong guy. How can I ever find someone to trust?"

As dating online, gender confusion, active sexuality and divorce statistics rise, questions and fears are increasing in every age group from preteens to senior citizens.

A thousand years from now what legacy will you leave behind to the generations that follow? Will peace rule your heart if you seek after selfish gains? Are you serious about dying to self and living God's best dream for your life?

Set your mind on things above, not on earthly things. Run this life race keeping in step with the Spirit, training for the calling God has given you. Then look beside you to see who is running alongside, encouraging you, challenging you, prodding you toward faithfulness in finishing your race.

The only reason to marry or to stay single is because you are able to more efficiently and passionately take heed of your calling from God, to complete it.

So what is it you are called to do? What is the legacy you want to leave? Stop scheming to achieve self focused goals. You can begin today to achieve the adventure, freedom and God-focused calling given uniquely to you!

A Story Worth Reading

My home is familiar to Johnathan. He runs through the house from favorite spot to favorite spot almost every day. He is contented and secure here.

Favorite rocks, toys and gourds were scattered around the toddler as he played in front of the cozy fire. I was reading a book when he left his play, crawled into my lap and snuggled sleepily with his Pooh Bear.

Having already had his milk, evening snack and changed into pajamas, I said, "Time to go home. It's night-night for my happy boy."

Johnathan nodded and repeated, "Hap Boy. Nigh-Nigh."

As soon as I set him down on the threshold of his house next door, Johnathan ran toward the kitchen. "Mommy! Mommy!"

There was no welcoming smile on the dearest face he could see, no reassuring hug. Mommy was with the rest of the family attending a volley ball game. He ran back to me and, though a little bit disoriented and disappointed, there were no tears.

I cuddled him close, prayed over him and sang to him, our usual routine before I put him in the crib. He nestled happily under his quilt and was singing softly as I left his room.

I'm familiar and loved, but I am not Mommy, the center of his universe. My house is familiar and Johnathan loves it here, but it's not home.

I listened to Johnathan singing in his crib for several minutes. Even though he still mostly speaks baby talk and I couldn't understand the words, there was a sweetness in his singing, a peaceful security.

Almost daily I sit in front of a cozy fire and snuggle under a quilt with a cup of coffee in my familiar chair. I read my Bible, write in my journal, sing worship songs and pray.

It is my favorite spot in all the world, not because it's home, but because I'm with Jesus, the center of my universe.

This world is familiar, but it's not home. It is His welcoming smile I seek, the dearest face I could ever see.

Soldier-Princess Gratitude

For every lost dream that crushed my heart because You dreamed bigger for me, thank You.

For every broken road that brought confusion, anger, doubt and fear, thank You.

For every night I lay prostrate before the throne pleading and You silently waited, thank You.

For swinging a wrecking ball into my heart for noble purpose, thank You.

For allowing what You hate to accomplish what You love in my life, thank You.

For watching me choose a pit over shady green pastures and never leaving my side, thank You.

For hearing my mocking voice among the scoffers and enduring the cross anyway, thank You.

"This is who asks us to trust him when he calls on us to suffer." -Joni Eareckson Tada, When God Weeps"

Consider it all joy.  Consider it all grace. 

Maisy and the Ragamuffin

Luna, Maisy's doll, has bright blue eyes in a clean, polished face. She is sturdy and easy to hold, ready to travel through life with Maisy.

"Can I play with Rockitty Ann?" asks two year old Maisy.

Raggedy Ann has been with me since childhood. The decades have crippled her, left her with stains and scars. She is neither pretty to look at nor easy to hold. Printed over her heart are the words "I Love You" and to a little girl, this gives her great value.

Maisy is cautious and gentle when she plays with Raggedy Ann. A special name is given and Maisy sings over her with love and kisses the limp doll's boo-boos.

We are created by a loving, versatile God. He gives each of us a knapsack of gifts, prints "I Love You" on our hearts and sends us on our life journey.

Nobody but me can see the rough moments my ragamuffin doll has survived. I am the one who first saw her heart. I am the one who walked alongside her through the years. She was a gift in my knapsack and that gives her value.

Who are the ragamuffins in your life?

Raggedy Ann children with annoying habits. Raggedy Ann teenagers with rebellious attitudes. Raggedy Ann workers with boasts and complaints. Raggedy Ann elderly with urine smells and boring words.

You are poor if you do not spend time with ragamuffins. Find one and give her a special name. Sing over her with love and kiss away her boo-boos.

You may be the first one to read "I Love You" on her heart. God put it there for you to discover.

Seek and you will find.

Ethan's Treasure

The door opened and closed so quietly that I wasn't even certain someone had entered the house.

Eight year old Ethan sat on the couch mesmerized by something in his hand. I paused, surprised, not because he was on my couch, but because he usually comes to me in a run, with a bang and a shout.

Life is an ongoing party for Ethan and it's one of my favorite things about him, but this time he was very still. When he looked up, his eyes were full of joy and wonder.

"Oh, Nana," he tells me, opening his hand to reveal a shiny black arrowhead. "Look what Carolanne gave me!"

I am amazed by the magnitude of Carolanne's generosity, wondering if it really should be seen as a gift. Ethan immediately senses my question.

"Really. She gave it to me. She said I will keep it," he whispers. "I need to draw it."

Working methodically through the disappointment and pain of my life with rheumatoid arthritis, a new appreciation is unfolding. I find myself awestruck with wonder at this gift, this treasure, this opportunity held in my hands. God is listening to me just as I listened to Ethan.

"Oh, Father. Look what You have given me. You said I will keep it. I need to capture my gift on paper, study it from different angles, appreciate it with gratitude.

"You can have the drawing, Nana," Ethan said, hanging it on the refrigerator. "I don't need it. I have my treasure."

He tucked the arrowhead in his pocket and hugged me even tighter and faster than usual. "Bye, Nana! Thanks!" he yelled, leaving the door to bang loudly behind him.

And I have a treasure, too. I have been given an opportunity to live fully awake to God's presence in every moment, every circumstance, to discover grace even in disappointment, even in pain.

It makes my life an ongoing party. I have a treasure that makes me want to create something colorful to give away...and maybe hang on the world's refrigerator.