Category Archives: Uncategorized

May5

Spotlights and Hissy Fits

Posted on by
Standard
Spotlights and Hissy Fits

She was perched on my lap, knees digging into my thighs, peering over and around the head of the very tall gentleman in the row in front of us. She was literally quivering with delight as she watched the lights come up on group after group of dancers. Without fail, she clapped fervently then cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a whoop as each took a bow.

Periodically she turned a bit to face me, excitement lighting her face. “That was so good!” she exclaimed over and over. She could barely contain her joy.

She celebrated every performance including her own. This afternoon it was about her and her dance company and she was loving the costumes, the makeup and the spotlight.

After the final curtain we all loaded into the fifteen passenger van. In a matter of moments, she went from celebrated performer to big sister/little sister/six-year-old girl whose sparkly costume was suddenly itchy and whose blood sugar was crashing. She was near having a hissy fit, but Mommy assured her she could in fact endure the costume for the short ride home.

Once there, she slipped into something far less itchy and was given some quiet time in her room to unwind. In a bit she rejoined her six brothers and sisters in the kitchen for pizza and it occurred to me that her moment in the spotlight was short.

I thought of how I deal with my “fifteen minutes of fame” experiences. We all have them from time to time…. a short period of time when the spotlight and the attention turns to us and we feel special, important and celebrated.

But for most, those are short-lived and we climb back into the fifteen passenger van that is our daily life. To be honest, I sometimes throw a private hissy fit when the celebration is over.

Oh friend, I’m so thankful for GRACE that assures us that no matter how short-lived our moments of fame may be, we are valued and loved. 

GRACE even when I’m out of sorts because the current circumstance, maybe even the thing that just a day or so ago was beautiful and sparkly, is now irritating and I just want out.
If you find yourself just outside of the afterglow of a great experience, give yourself some grace, friend. Recharge with food for your soul and take a break. Then come join us at the table, where we will again celebrate the goodness of our Father and what He does for us and through us.

“Living then, as every one of you does, in pure grace.
It’s important that you not misinterpret yourselves as people
who are bringing this goodness to God. No, God brings it all to you.
The only accurate way to understand ourselves is by what God
is and by what he does for us, not by what we do for him.”
Romans 12:3  ~ The Message

 

Enjoying his grace in spite of my hissy fits,

lorraine

 

 

IMG_1637

My beautiful dancer, and her mother’s efforts to keep her flat on her feet when she’s not in the spotlight.

 

 

 

Jul29

Summer Time and the Living was Easy for Moms

Posted on by
Standard
Summer Time and the Living was Easy for Moms

It’s summer time. In May, moms can’t wait for it to arrive but right about now, they are all pining for the start of school. They are ready to be rid of send their little snowflakes back to the classroom. And you know why? They are worn out from entertaining them.

I keep humming the tune to Ella Fitzgerald’s hit, Summertime as I recall summer when I was a kid.

It was the 60’s. My mom (like all of the others) shoved sent us kids out the screen door early and locked closed it behind us. Don’t come back until lunch, she said.

The elementary school down the street offered summer recreation. In a big open room (that was not air-conditioned) kids of various aged played ping pong and board games. Outside, others circled around sandy places where marble championships were played out. On the adjacent sidewalk, girls bounced tiny rubber balls and scooped up jacks with proficiency; others jumped rope to rhymes like Cinderella Dressed in Yella and Three, Six, Nine.

Girls Playing Jacks_Photo Credit Required._State ARchives of Florida Memory

Girls playing jacks in Tallahassee. 1963. Black & white photonegative, 35 mm. State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory. <https://www.floridamemory.com

 

There was a sandy playground with a very tall slide. It was metal – by afternoon it was too hot for our bare legs to touch. It was fast, but not fast enough, so we managed to find squares of waxed paper to sit on as we pushed off. There was a sandy hole at the bottom of the slide and our butts landed hard. One time someone fell off that slide and broke her arm. There was no lawsuit so we got to play there all the days of my childhood.

playground slide-3857_1280

And who was watching over all of these vulnerable children? I’m pretty sure it was a couple of teenagers. Oh, there was probably an adult somewhere, but my bets are that she was in the air-conditioned teachers’ lounge smoking doing lesson plans for the following year.

When we finally returned home we turned on the water spigot on the side of the house; it ran through the hose and we had to wait for it to cool. It was refreshing.

water hose-815475_1920

Mother didn’t have play dates arranged for our afternoon; she expected us to find a shady spot to play dolls. Later in the day we played kick ball in the front yard, or badminton, using the fence as a net. We jumped on the swing set and swung so high that the legs raised up off the ground. We sang those same jump rope rhymes to the rhythm of swinging legs, propelling ourselves higher and closer to the sky.

We knew better than to say we were bored. She would put a bucket and broom in our hands and we’d be scrubbing screens and cleaning windows before you could say “child abuse”.

If there were Vacation Bible Schools I didn’t know about them. We were Catholic and there is no way my mom was going to allow the protestants to influence us with their cookies and Kool-Aid.

Speaking of Kool Aid, it was a favorite. Sweetened with sugar, I’m pretty sure it kept me alive, like a glucose IV drip. I don’t really remember eating but I’m certain we were fed.

The Popsicle Man came around most afternoons. The sound of the recorded music announced his imminent arrival and we started asking for nickels as soon as we heard it. We didn’t always get one, but it was a treat that we loved. We all sat around inspecting the color of each other’s tongues. No one wiped our faces or hands with wet wipes.

There were those magical afternoons when we loaded up and headed to Lake Fairview for a swim. The water was warm, but it was wet. Not one sign warned of alligators or snakes; we knew they were around, but I never saw even one. They had lots of room to avoid contact with humans and I think they liked it that way.

When it was finally time to come in for the day, she cycled us through the tub in our one-bathroom home (did I mention there were six of us?). The residue from kids who had played hard was apparent in the ring left in the tub. The last one out scrubbed it with Comet cleanser and we all settled in to watch some Red Skelton or Gunsmoke or whatever we my parents wanted to watch.

Yes, my mom left us a lot to our own devices, but she knew more about what we were up to than we realized. The world was big and far away, and our life was simple.

Those tired kids never had a problem falling asleep. She was smarter than any of us knew.

Moms know that tired kids have no trouble sleeping

“Lady Wisdom builds a lovely home…” Proverbs 14:1 MSG

By his grace alone (I survived my childhood summers),

lorraine

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here.

And remember, it’s nice to share with your Facebook friends!  Thanks!

Jul22

I Wouldn’t Wait! Confessions of a Teen Bride…

Posted on by
Standard
I Wouldn’t Wait! Confessions of a Teen Bride…

We married on my 18th birthday.  I didn’t even have a driver’s license.  I’d known him for one year and he’s the only guy I ever went out with more than once or twice.  He was all of eight months older.

My parents were not thrilled about the wedding plans. There were threats that they wouldn’t come; I was their Catholic daughter marrying a Baptist boy in a Baptist church. I was too young and way too naïve. I was rocking their expectations, to say the least.

Our wedding was on a Friday night; there was a small reception at the church. A few of the ladies served cake, punch, nuts and mints.  I thought it was fabulous.  It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized just how plain and simple it really was, but I was in a beautiful dress that I had sewn with my own hands. I was ready to be a wife, HIS wife.

It’s interesting the things that you remember from such a significant life event. The pastor’s wife positioned my veil as my mom frantically hemmed dresses in the Sunday school room where the bridesmaids were getting ready for the ceremony. I was really glad my mother was there.

My brother Steve slipped his arm around me as I stood in the foyer and peeked through the back door into the sanctuary. In all of the hustle and bustle I remember him saying that I was beautiful. He waited with me for my dad to come and walk me down the aisle.

I didn’t hear angels sing as we exchanged our traditional vows, but a guy I went to school with named Angel sang the love theme from Romeo and Juliet. What can I say? It was the 70’s!

wedding mementos

When it was over, we climbed into our ‘68 Impala and drove to a car wash. Well-meaning friends and family had written all over the car with shoe polish (again, the 70’s)). There was a peace sign on the top of that car until the day we traded it. Make love, not war, people.

We drove to our little home and closed the door on the world for a week. I was completely content.

Our first home was slightly larger than the tiny houses that have recently become popular. We had purchased a 600 square foot mobile home at a price of $3,995; it came fully furnished. The sofa was so lightweight I could powerlift it over my ninety-eight pound frame.

FullSizeRender

I felt like the queen of a castle. It was hardly majestic but it was our home. We were happy to start life together there. It was exactly what we wanted.

Over the next few years, we made a lot of decisions that we would later regret, but we have never regretted our choice to have our first child. We waited only six months to get pregnant – we were still getting to know each other, but we loved our growing family.

That simple ceremony was forty-four years ago. I suppose the odds were against us making it. We were too young, too poor, undereducated and naïve.

We started our marriage with less than one hundred dollars in cash, a fully mortgaged mobile home that began depreciating the day we signed the papers, and a car payment. Neither of us had a great job. It would be seven years before he earned an associate’s degree; thirty years to his bachelors. I never got around to college.

But we did make it and I’m convinced it is because of what we did have, mostly a legacy from our families, dysfunctional and imperfect as they were:

  • An example – Our parents were fully committed to keeping their families intact.
  • Lifestyle – Ours revolved around spending time rather than money.
  • Low expectations – We didn’t even once think that we should begin with what our parents managed to acquire in their twenty-five years of marriage.
  • Lots of siblings – We were used to sharing everything; we both came from large families and one bathroom houses.
  • Peer pressure – The couples around us were counting on us to remain a couple.
  • Hearts to serve – He did the laundry and ironing and cleaned the house after school and on weekends because his mother worked; when my sister was bed-ridden with a broken hip I got out of class early and walked two miles home every day so I could be with her when my dad left for work. Our parents taught us that families serve one another; we brought that gift into our new home.
  • Faith in God – Even when we lost faith in each other we knew that we were in his grip; that was enough when we couldn’t hold onto each other.
  • Inexperience – We didn’t bring a lot of comparisons to our bed or any other area of the house.
  • Refusing to keep score – We trusted each other enough to bring 100% most days; on the days one of us didn’t, the other picked up the slack.
  • Going to bed mad – Sometimes sleep and time are the best antidote to frustration and anger. So often the light of a new day brings clarity and peace. We learned to insert a pause and get some rest.

Everyone’s love story is different. I’m not advocating marrying right out of high school, skipping college or making babies in the first year of marriage. I guess what I’m really saying is that if two crazy, naïve and clueless kids could do it, maybe you can.

My simple prayer is that our story will encourage you to walk in his mercy, every new day and extend grace, first at home.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ~ Lamentations 3:22-23 ESV

By his grace alone,

lorraine

If you enjoyed this, check out another post on our crazy love.

 

 Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here.

And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

Jul13

Is the Clock Winding Down for Your God-Sized Dream?

Posted on by
Standard

clock-439147_1920

I’m excited to contribute over on God-Sized Dreams – follow the link and then follow your dream!

With His grace,

lorraine

http://godsizeddreams.com/a-dream-realized/#

 

Jun10

Do You Really Want to Know God?

Posted on by
Standard

Eric Liddell Baner.

Eric Liddell knew a thing or two about practice. By his own admission, it was God who made him fast, but it was up to him to nurture and preserve the gift of speed that afforded him two Olympic medals.

After reading a biography of his short life I’m convinced that he was much more committed to practicing knowing God than to practicing running. This guy was legit.

I was given a step counter earlier this year. Wearing it revealed solid evidence of my inactivity and I got moving. A lot. Once I connected with others in April for some friendly competition, the steps really began to add up. With my new commitment to walking I was feeling fit, had lots of energy and slept well. I had a heightened awareness of my body’s need to be active.

But May brought thunderstorms, hot temperatures, and a trip to the dermatologist which resulted in a bunch of biopsies for skin cancer. There were many distractions and I lost my focus. My step count plunged.

I walked up the stairs yesterday, winded by the time I reached the third landing. By three and half my legs were screaming and I wasn’t sure I could make it to four. Three weeks ago those stairs were not easy, but I could hit that fifth landing without slowing down. I am again surprised by how quickly a body loses strength with inactivity.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve noticed that a lot like that climb up the stairs, my spiritual legs are weak where they had been strong. Once toned muscles have atrophied from lack of use.

I had a great plan to read and journal from the Psalms this summer, but I’ve not been consistent. Life has brought storms and other distractions; I’ve lost focus. Here I am again, shaking my head over something so elemental to spiritual growth.

I’ll never walk in the power of God outside of the presence of God.

power of god

As I struggled up those stairs and stopped to rest on the landing, I heard that quiet voice of the Spirit:

For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things,
holding promise for both the present life and the life to come. This is a trustworthy
saying that deserves full acceptance. That is why we labor and strive, because we have
put our hope in the living God, who is the Savior of all people,
and especially of those who believe. – 1 Timothy 4:8-10

 I need to get back on the walking trail and get some steps in. I love feeling strong and exercise is good for mind, body and soul.

Even greater, I want to know more of God at the end of the summer than I do now.  He knows I need some practice. And I’m desperate to know Him, my only HOPE.

By his grace alone,

lorraine

 

 Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

Jun3

A Total Reboot of my Heart

Posted on by
Standard

bullying-679274_1920

It’s been a harsh week on social media. I have literally seen so many hateful things in my newsfeed and even on my own wall that I am struggling with depression.

Apparently everyone is an expert in parenting, zoology and public safety. It’s also possible that people mindlessly troll feeds on Facebook and comment on the comments without reading the actual story. They spew hateful, even vulgar comments without conscience.

We are beginning a new month. Summer is right around the corner.My coworker just had the most difficult four months of her life. She announced that today is a reboot – she’s doing a hard restart of this year. I think she may be on to something.

I make my living doing software support. It’s astonishing the number of times that my only solution to a frustrated client has been a system reboot. None of the suggested solutions was working and there was nothing in the Knowledge Base specific to the “stuck” application. Remarkably, rebooting clears up most of those problems.

I find myself in a similar stuck place emotionally and spiritually today – tired, depressed and a little disillusioned by life. I don’t know of any fixes specific to this feeling of hopeless fatigue.

In spite of that, I’m embarking on a study of the Psalms for the summer. I’ve got a plan to read, write out and commit some verses to memory.

Psalm 1, verse 1 – literally at the very start, of the very day that I ask God for a reboot, he reveals his plan for restoring my sad heart. It’s right there in the  Knowledge Base:

Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or
stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers,
but whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on his law day and night.
That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither — whatever they do prospers.
Psalm 1:1-3 – NIV

Blessed is a stronger word than happy; it means enjoying God’s grace and favor. The blessed person avoids the natural progression to spiritual burnout spelled out in the very first verse of this very first psalm.

Don’t walk, stand or sit with the foolish. Those are the people who spout words with feigned authority and disregard God and his sovereignty. Sound familiar?

The blessed person finds delight in God’s word. While it can also be cutting, its purpose is always for good:

Everything in the Scriptures is God’s Word. All of it is useful for teaching and helping people and for correcting them and showing them how to live. – 2 Timothy 3:6 (CEV)

I love the image in the third verse of Psalm 1 of a tree planted near water. It is naturally provided all that it needs to flourish, grow and produce fruit.

landscape-829771_1920 (2)

When a computer is rebooted, all current processes are shut down. Programs relinquish cached memory; it is basically dumping all of the junk and starting fresh.

Reboot it is. I need to free up some space on my calendar and in my heart; I need to dump some junk to make time for a dip into living water. It’s my only hope for survival this hot summer.

Haters gonna hate. But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. I call out to the Lord, and he answers me from his holy mountain. (Psalm 3:3-4)

lorraine

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

facebook_like_logo_1

 

 

 

May27

Memorial Day….WOW!

Posted on by
Standard

FullSizeRender (1).jpg

I woke the other night after a short nap, the television still playing in our bedroom. There was a continuously streaming commercial of the most annoying man on earth, screaming about cheap appliances. It was literally a series of the same five minute clip on repeat…and I heard that man say “Appliance Direct Memorial Event – WOW!” far too many times in thirty minutes.

As I lay there trying to tune him out and fall back to sleep (don’t judge, the remote was on the other side of my sleeping husband) I thought about the real meaning of Memorial Day.

While we tend to mark the long weekend as the beginning of summer (those last few days of school are a waste, I tell you. Just call it on Friday afternoon, or better yet, let’s get the party started on Thursday!), I am very aware that the day was set aside for remembering.

The day was begun to honor the Civil War dead, and it was not a federally mandated Monday holiday until 1971. Until then, the day was always observed on May 30th, known as Decoration Day in parts of the South even to today, because of the practice of decorating graves. Special memorial services are held along with parades in some areas, but many of us have lost sight of the solemn reason for the day despite the continuing sacrifices of many.

I knew that my father was awarded the Purple Heart – an award established by General George Washington in 1782. I recall seeing it as a young child when one of us (I’m sure it was my naughty younger sister, not me!) found it in a desk drawer and thought it was a beautiful treasure. We had no real appreciation for its meaning.

1-img-160526155205-001

Daddy in his winter uniform, holding our cousin, Tom.

After my Dad passed away, we didn’t find it in his possessions. Perhaps one of my siblings wanted to keep it. I can’t begrudge them if they did.

Several years ago I shared the story of missing medal and the mystery of its disappearance with my sweet Uncle Ralph, himself a Navy veteran. He knew my dad’s service well and encouraged me to petition the Army for all of my dad’s military honors. One day not long after, I embarked on a journey of forms and letters and a peek into my dad’s service to this great country.

Unfortunately there was a fire in the National Personnel Records Center on July 12, 1973. Some of the service records for my father were lost; in particular, his award of the Purple Heart. I was devastated, but I provided the appropriate officials a few documents and waited and hoped.

On September 7, 2005 Daddy was awarded (again) the Purple Heart, this time posthumously, for wounds received in action on 15 October 1944 in the European Theater. That’s it. That is literally all that I know, but it is enough.

While the Purple Heart is truly special, he was awarded these as well:

  • Bronze Star – awarded for heroic or meritorious achievement or service
  • Good Conduct Medal – awarded for exemplary behavior, efficiency and fidelity in active Federal Military service
  • European African Middle East Campaign Medal – for military service in the European Theater
  • American Campaign Medal– for military service in the American Theater of Operations during World War II
1-img-160526155019-001

This is Daddy in his summer uniform.

All of them are honorable and wonderful reminders of the impact of his service.

My heart can’t fathom his experiences. Those were the days of foot soldiers hitting the ground, running into the battle. Honestly, I can’t even think about; it’s too intense and violent. And yet he ran into it; he was missing in action. I read the telegraph sent to his dear mother from the Department of War…my heart can’t comprehend it.

He survived with scars, both physical and emotional but he carefully shielded them. I never will be able to comprehend the horror of war or the absolute joy and relief of coming home.

The only story my dad ever told me about his service was many years after I was married and away from home. I was leaving the country, something he never understood. He saw no reason to ever leave the greatest country on earth. As we talked about Europe, he shared an incident that occurred in France. He was sent to a bakery to buy bread for his squad.

At the bakery, he purchased the last of the bread when he noticed a young girl. She begged him for the bread he had purchased; he offered her chocolate. (It’s no surprise to me, nor will it be to my family as they read this, that Daddy managed to find some chocolate on his mission!) He returned to his squad without bread and to certain discipline. It’s a wonder he got that award for good conduct, but I knew before he told me that he gave the bread to the child. 

The final medal in the package that arrived from the Army is the Victory, World War II – United States of America.  It was awarded to all of America’s veterans who served during World War II. The back is inscribed with these words:

Freedom from Fear and Want
Freedom of Speech and Religion

1-IMG_0875

I am awestruck. He worked a blue collar job and taught me the importance of commitment. I knew that my father was a private in the United States Army but it wasn’t until now that I realized that my dad was a hero of World War II. I read these words from Norman Schwarzkopf that truly give perspective:

“It doesn’t take a hero to order men into battle. It takes a hero to be one of those men who goes into battle.”

This Memorial Day I will remember and honor the sacrifices of prior generations. I will honor the sacrifices of all who have served or continue to serve our country.

1-img-160526154926-001

My parents, young lovebirds after the war was over.

When I place a flag at my parent’s grave this weekend, it will be in solemn remembrance of all who have defended my freedom from fear and want; my freedom of speech and religion, with a fresh new appreciation for my Daddy, the war hero.

 May we never forget.

1-img-160526155109-001

My oldest brother, Jim Bell, served in the US Navy.


1-img-160526154904-001

My brother, Steve Bell, also served in the US Navy. Fair winds and following seas, dear brother.

 

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

 

May20

Your Life is a Crock

Posted on by
Standard

 

Untitled design (1)My daughter has a big family by some standards. There are six children. Three of them are in diapers and are considered “special needs”. In addition there is a sassy five year old girl, a sensitive eight year old boy and an almost twelve year old boy who is introducing his parents to the joys of living with a tween.

They are a foster and adoptive family; they have opened their hearts and home and doubled their family in the past three years. As with any acquisition and development endeavor there have been hurdles and a few obstacles but they’ve managed this like they are the boss of it. And yet, they have repeatedly insisted that they are the boss of nothing (well, maybe that sassy five year old!).

Fostering fosters uncertainty. I’m an observer, albeit a much invested observer. I love every one of these children; I’m their grandma, after all. Even from my perspective, it is very difficult to know that our future with some of them is literally in the hands of case workers and ultimately a judge. We pray and wait for adoptions, holding our breath at times because nothing is certain. I can only imagine the reality of that to my daughter and son-in-law. However, they would be quick to tell you that they signed up for this.

When my husband and I get together with friends, everyone pulls out their cell phones to share pictures of their latest grandchild. Last weekend, I was excited to share a picture of two children who recently joined my daughter’s family, pushing the count to eight.

One of our friends asked a fair question. “Really?  Isn’t that a lot, maybe too many? How do they manage all of that?

I have to admit that when I got the text that they were adding to the headcount short term, I thought about how much work they were adding to their load. I considered logistics.  I wondered how these children would fit into the daily ebb and flow of life for this family.

Then I tried putting myself in the place of the two children. After living in one foster home for months, they were now moving to yet another strange place, with strange people. Uncertainty was thrust upon them. They, along with garbage bags stuffed with their belongings, were loaded up by a case worker and brought to their new home.

They must have had questions. Where will I sleep? Will they be kind? Are there other kids to play with? Will they understand that I need to sleep with a light on? What if they make me eat broccoli?

The best news is that these children will be reunited with mom soon. When?  The exact date is to be determined.  There are so many factors and dependencies; the only thing that is certain is today. But they are doing well, all things considered. Uncertainty has been their way of life for a while.

For now they will wake up every morning in a comfy bed and be fed and dressed in clean clothes. Whether they are put on a bus or driven to school, they know that they will return to a home that houses a loving family.  They will eat a home-cooked dinner and they will go to bed clean with prayers spoken over them. That is certain.

So, back to the question that begs to be answered: “How?”  I also marvel at how some people seem to have the capacity for so much. I asked the question. How is it that the same person who was once a fully extended new mom of one can now successfully mother eight children?

Her answer was so simple that I have continued to think about it weeks later.  “We always perceive that we are currently ‘at capacity’. The truth is that when we live with open arms, we not only receive more opportunities to serve; our capacity increases.”

There was a widow whose husband left her with a mountain of debt and two sons. She had no means; she lacked the capacity to repay the creditors who would soon seize her sons as slaves. Her only asset was a small bottle of olive oil.

This widow was a realist. She knew her limited capacity and certainly her circumstances. She cried out to the prophet Elisha and he gave her instructions to begin pouring oil into every container she could get her hands on. “Ask your neighbors and don’t ask for just a few.” (2 Kings 4:1-7)

Once she and her sons gathered the containers, she began to pour into each of the containers, one by one, from her small jar. Miraculously, the tiny crock of oil didn’t run dry until there were no more containers to pour into.

Limited Supply

My heart quickens as the Holy Spirit reveals to my heart what my ears have been hearing from the mouth of my petite but oh so wise daughter.  My life is a tiny crock of oil.

If I hoard it, I will never have any more than what that petite bottle will hold. It is when I open my arms, when I begin to find people to pour into, that I see the true capacity of my life. As it is poured into others, the capacity increases.

To be sure, there are some difficult choices to be made.  People who live with open arms have their arms full.  They have often had to let go of something in order to have the freedom to turn toward a call to serve and fully embrace it.

That tiny jar of oil had amazing, even miraculous supply. The resource was there all along, but it was only when she began to pour from it that she could truly know its capacity.

Where is God calling us to trust Him to reveal and release His capacity in our lives?

 

 

 

 

May13

Don’t Tell Me to Put My Big Girl Panties On!

Posted on by
Standard

trousers-362781_1920

We stopped to chat after small group. She started with a few words of encouragement for me, but tears began to fall. She said, “I’m sorry; it’s just so hard: working and being a wife and a mom. It’s a lot.” In that moment, this beautiful young mom dropped the forced smile and the pretense of having it all together. It was a risk and even as she heard herself speaking the words she was immediately apologizing. I knew it was a sacred moment; she was allowing me a glimpse into her heart.

I don’t take such trust lightly. Honesty and vulnerability can be relational suicide in Christian circles. There is an expectation that because of our faith and confidence in God we will forever see and proclaim the silver lining in every cloud; that we will have a solid expectation for the blessings that are sure to come to us, his followers.

In some circles, you can clear a room with an honest confession.

Have you met Naomi? Her story is one of God’s grace and provision, but she faced some very hard years. In the midst of famine, she and her husband moved away from all that was familiar and dear to a land occupied by pagans. In fact, both sons married pagan women. As if that wasn’t enough, her husband died, leaving her a widow in a foreign land. Ten years later, both sons died.

Broken, old and without a provider, she decided to return to the land of her people, her tribe – back to Bethlehem. When she arrived with her daughter in law in tow she was barely recognized. “Is it really Naomi?” the women asked.

old-woman-574278_1280

 

Imagine this bitter and broken woman returning to your tribe. She was grumpy. The whole town was buzzing because of her arrival, but the welcoming committee must have taken a step back when she spewed:

“Don’t call me Naomi! Instead call me Mara (Bitter) for the Almighty has made my life bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty…the Lord has afflicted me; the Almighty has brought misfortune upon me.”

Note the holy canon of Scripture does not record one person disputing her decree. They barely recognized the broken woman in front of them. They could not and would not refute her sad but honest proclamation. She was a different woman than the one who left all those years ago.

Have you ever opened your mouth with an honest report about your life and immediately regretted it?

I have. I’ve learned that there are people who prefer to avoid my raw and unfinished places. Perhaps they are finally in a good place themselves, or maybe they just “don’t need that kind of negativity” in their life. They cut and run, as if in danger of being infected when exposed to honest emotion.

The truth is hard to hear; when He has dealt a hard blow there is no way to make it pretty. Your spouse lost his job, or worse, you lost your spouse. Naomi didn’t hold back but no one dared challenge, or worse, correct her.

Naomi didn’t sugar coat her broken heart, but she also never stopped expecting God. When she realized that Ruth was gleaning from the field of a relative, she remembered her Provider.

Those women, the ones who stood slack-jawed at her name change announcement?  They were there as Naomi took her grandson in her lap and cared for him. Jehovah-Jireh truly had turned her mourning to joy. These friends, the ones who were silent but present when she declared her bitterness, now spoke.

“Praise be to the Lord, who this day has not left you without a guardian-redeemer. May he become famous throughout Israel! He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age. For your daughter-in-law, who loves you and who is better to you than seven sons, has given him birth!”

When she could not see past her bitter circumstances, her tribe allowed her the grace and space to speak honestly. Naomi never knew that the larger purpose of her suffering was preparation for the birth of David and ultimately Jesus.

Even so, God’s word paints a beautiful picture of God’s grace extended to woman bitter in spirit. Perhaps it’s time for us to do the same.

Words in italics are from the book of Ruth, Holy Bible, New International Version

lorraine

Does your Tribe

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

facebook_like_logo_1

 

May5

Momma Told Me Not to Lie

Posted on by
Standard

hospital cover 2

I told a white lie. I was on a mission and no one would suffer harm. I claimed grace.

She had been admitted earlier in the day and it was after visiting hours. It was the only way to get past the guarded receptionist in the emergency room. So without any hesitation, I lied through my teeth. “I’m her daughter.”

Up the elevators we went, my hubby and I. Her actual daughter, my friend, was three thousand miles away and this was a reconnaissance operation. We were going to be her eyes and ears on the ground, in the zone. Her momma was in the hospital and I was gathering information in order to give my report.

Knowing that sweet Agnes suffered memory loss, we were a little apprehensive as we quietly approached her room. I was also a little anxious because, you know, I lied. Someone was bound to be on to my little charade, and I was sure that the truth would be exposed and someone would stop us at any moment and proclaim “You are NOT the daughter!”

Her eyelids fluttered open as we entered her quiet darkened room. Her beautiful white hair framed her face; her skin was like peaches and cream; she literally glowed with a joy I can’t explain –it was an innocence and sweetness that was childlike. She was lovely even with a hospital blanket tucked under her chin.

In the dim light she recognized us immediately. I’m sure it helped that my hubby “that one that smells good” smelled good as always. She was delighted to see us, and seemed a bit confused as to why she was in that place and not with her precious Tom.

We spoke briefly, assuring her that her beloved would return in the morning; I confessed my lie to her and we giggled. She honored me with the proclamation that she would happily claim me as one of her girls.

With her lovely southern charm, she thanked us for our visit and we were gone. It was August 4th, my daddy’s birthday.  It was a sweet coincidence; and it was the last time I got to love on her.

On August 13th the message I didn’t expect arrived with a jolt. “Mom passed away this morning.”

Suddenly, the August 4th mission, that quick pop-in at the hospital was promoted. Every sight and sound of that evening rushed back and I held them close. It was as if I turned each over in my hand like a gem, examining and memorizing the details. They were precious.

Certainly her story belongs first to her family; her husband, her daughters, her grandchildren and great grandchildren. I am only one of many who loved this beautiful woman. But these memories are mine.

The glorious truth is that almost every day we are handed golden tickets…opportunities to be cast in the stories of life unfolding all around. The casting call is open and we are invited to fill roles in the epic stories written by God himself.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send?
And who will go for us? “And I said, “Here am I. Send me!” Isaiah 6:8 NIV

lorraine

In loving memory of Agnes

I love this picture, head back and laughing. It was taken at my 60th birthday party just before our dear Agnes went to meet Jesus. The handsome man is her dear husband.

 

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

facebook_like_logo_1