Category Archives: Uncategorized

Nov30

Hoping for More

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Ya’ll, I am tired. It’s been really good, but I am done. Except I can’t be done. We’re only getting started.

It all began on Wednesday of last week. The cooking frenzy that produced our Thanksgiving feast commenced late in the afternoon. I was supposed to have “early release” from work, but I worked from home. That means I was sitting at my laptop long after the release time, conveniently jumping up on occasion to do a little something toward meal preparation…you know, like hoisting a twenty pound bird into the brine that would transform him into a culinary masterpiece. (Alton Brown is my hero.)

As we headed to bed, I grabbed my phone to double check turkey roasting times. Our feast was set for 1:00 and I never want to relive my heritage of Thanksgiving meals not yet served well into the evening because the huge bird was still in the oven. Back in the day when we celebrated Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, by 7:00 p.m. the obligatory relish tray had been devoured and it was always closer to 9 when we finally ate. When I realized that in order to cook and carve that bird and still have time to do the last minute meal preparation I would have to be up at 6 a.m., I was mad at the turkey.

Fortunately, I woke after a good sleep with a better attitude toward the dead bird that was soaking in a salty sweet bath in the fridge. It WAS Thanksgiving after all. And as it turns out, it was a day that I won’t soon forget.

Our family, like many, has experienced divorce. It is the hardest, most gut-wrenching experience of my life. I’ve buried my parents and three siblings. I’ve been bankrupt and lost my home. I’m not speaking from a soft life.

I’ve also, through this devastation (and don’t let anyone tell you there is not physical, emotional and spiritual fallout – they lie), experienced the grace of God in ways that I cannot explain.

Thanksgiving was simply awesome and I have no idea if the food was that great. They said it was, but they are after all, my family. The best part of the day, the part that made my heart the only muscle on my body that wasn’t aching at the end of it all, was the part where two of my children – the one born to me and the one who married into this family, filled our home with grace and peace.

ChristmasTreeWhile I would have loved to just pitch a tent and bask in the glow of that all weekend, I had to move along. On Saturday I returned home after running from event to event the entire day to find that my dear hubby had unpacked the brand new Christmas tree, a floor model purchased on clearance last year after Christmas…cause that’s how I roll. There it stood, naked and with a strand of lights refusing to shine. I spent the next hour “fluffing” the branches, changing bulbs and trying to get that dark strand to shine to no avail. I fought the tree and the tree won. I bought a strand of lights. And as I write, I’m staring at that naked tree, and wondering when I will find time to decorate it. If I’m not careful, I’m already over the holidays. I am mad at the tree.

It’s November 30th, my friends. Something is wrong with me. I’m already hopelessly behind; hopelessly worn out and hopelessly insufficient.

I close my eyes. Forget the pile of pumpkins just over my shoulder, waiting to be stored away until next year. Don’t mind the naked tree or the to do lists. It’s all distraction.  This is the beginning of Advent.

Advent. And the first candle of advent? Hope. Hope moves us forward. advent-551970_1920Hope comes over anxiety like a weighted blanket, soothing and reassuring as a hug. Yet hope seems lost in the news, in the doctor’s office waiting room, in the bank balance, in sorrow, in the demands of life.

In the quiet of my mind’s eye, I try to picture the first Christmas, the beginning of hope.

Mary and Joseph no doubt encountered heavy traffic and grumpy people as they walked the dusty road to Bethlehem. Mary rode part of the way on the back of a donkey, I suppose. I’m sure that was spiffy. It was so crowded that the teen mom gave birth in an animal stall (apparently Joseph failed to reserve the birthing suite at the local inn); she wrapped her infant son in cloths. I assume no one gave her a monogramed Aden and Anais blanket, either. As I think about that night, I imagine the smells and the sounds that surrounded the birth of our savior. We like to picture an angel choir and that is glorious. The black sky was filled with tiny stars, the air in that barn was filled with the pungent odor of animals, and there was a fire burning for light and warmth. Most likely people all around were cooking meals and managing the mundane as Mary pushed the savior king into the rugged hands of Joseph. That was the first Christmas. Unpretentious, natural and even gritty, yet the heavens were filled with the songs of angels as hope entered the scene.

I open my eyes and look around again. The lights on the unfinished tree cease to mock or accuse me. Instead they remind me of the Bethlehem sky that night when in the midst of the mundane and the routine, the keeping of mandated schedules and ordinary activity, heaven opened to announce the birth of Hope.

I have a three year old grandson who always wants to share in the good stuff, and trust me, nothing gets by him. Whenever anyone has a snack or a drink he chimes in “Me-ah Too-ah!” “Me have it!” This Christmas season, I’m going to take a lesson from him. In the midst of grumpy people, well-traveled roads and mandated schedules, I’m reaching up for my share of hope. Me-ah too-ah, Jesus, Me-ah too-ah.

May your Christmas season be filled with the hope that is found in Christ alone.

canvachristmas!

 

Nov23

Earth, Wind and Fire Alarms

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alarm-304042__180The fire alarm sounded, horns blaring and strobes flashing. Thankfully I was in the ladies room when they tripped it, else I might have regretted that big mug of caramel colored yumminess I drank on my commute.

It was an alarm test – not even an evacuation drill, but it droned on forever. Just keep working. My brain knew it wasn’t an emergency, but in the instant that it sounded, the rest of my body reacted with adrenalin. There is no danger of anyone remaining unaware of an alarm in that building.

As I headed back to my seat, I noticed that everyone was at their desks, trying their best to endure the noise, going on with their work. Protect your hearing. Focus on the task at hand. It’s just noise – today it requires no response. Another day, we will quickly and efficiently exit the building and gather together, accounting for one another…but not today. Today we are aware of the alarm, we consider a response, and based on reliable information we stay the course.

Words. Everywhere. I’m being bombarded and I’m overwhelmed and I’m trying to work through and assimilate them but the assault never stops. They come at me so quickly I lose the current thought to the next and what in the world was I thinking ten minutes ago? I read them everywhere, words spoken by people I admire or at least respect. In the name of my Jesus there are at least two schools of thought on the everything. I see merit and truth in both, and then wonder what is wrong with a grown woman (me) who can’t take a stand?

I find myself responding to words just like I did to that siren. I’m in the middle of something perfectly normal,  when they come loud and insistent, startling and alarming me:

“Surgery is scheduled.”
“More tests are required.”
“Terrorists attacked Paris.”
“The teenager is in a funk.”
“You are clenching your jaw in your sleep.”
“Still no answer on that job interview.”
“The diagnosis is in – it’s cancer.”
“The deadline was just moved up.”
“Your application has been denied.”

Sometimes words are like that alarm test – loud and persistent, but no response is required other than coping with the noise. Other times, a response is not only warranted; it’s beneficial. Wisdom is knowing the difference.

Many days I drive the forty minute commute from the office to home in silence. It’s a chance to be still; it gives me time to think about and sort through the words; some that I’ve spoken and others that I’ve heard. It’s in those quiet moments that clarity and conviction come; I decide whether to respond, react or, in the words of a famous princess, let it go.

The noise has reached a crescendo recently, though. I feel like I’m surrounded by people who are zealous for the Lord. They are passionate and they are convinced that they know exactly what Jesus would do. They are often loud. And I love them. I just wish some days that they would stop talking.

Where are you in all of this, Jesus? In my earnest quest for quiet and calm, I welcome these words:

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord,
for the Lord is about to pass by.”
Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 12 After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”
(I Kings 19:11-13)

The law. It is a voice of terrible words – harsh and accusing, like earthquakes and fire to break the rocky hearts of sinful men. The Gospel is a still small voice, more like gentle whispering than roaring. Soft, easy and lyrical, it is a gentle voice of love, grace and mercy.

That is the voice I long to hear. That voice tells me to find a bench and sit with a widow or an overwhelmed mom. It’s the same voice that tells me to say no to the guy who approaches me for money in the parking lot but urges me to buy peanuts for the homeless man dozing against the wall by the produce market. It’s the voice that reassures me when I’m lonely. That whisper reminds me in the wee hours of the morning that his eye is on the sparrow, and that he records every tear.

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So, as I enter this week of Thanksgiving, I’m looking for a quiet place. 2015 has not been the best year for me; perhaps you’ve had your share of trials as well. Even so, when I find a quiet spot to listen and reflect, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for blessings that came as surely as the hard places, sometimes in the middle of those hard places. The only way this wounded heart can truly come to a place of gratitude is to look past the shaking earth, the heat of the flames and the ferocity of the wind to hear the still small voice of the One who is delighted with me, renewing me in his love. And there, in that place, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.

Zeph317

 

Nov16

Tangled Love

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Thankfully, I’m pretty good at untangling things, whether fine gold chains or shoelaces. I have a good eye for it, I suppose. Once everything is laid flat in good light, patiently and methodically I look over the whole of it. It’s the reverse of the tangling, you see. Backing out every twist and turn until it is free. It’s tedious but required.

Hearts1Recently I borrowed garland for a baby shower, pink and gold hearts perfectly sewn together in long strands. During cleanup I discovered one strand, bunched in a heap rather than carefully wrapped for return.

As I surveyed the tangled mess, the complexity was obvious. Fine threads wrapped and twisted around heart shaped paper were a significant challenge, but I got right to it. For almost an hour I stood over the bar in my kitchen, at times holding all of it up to the window to get a look in better light.

The work of caring for our souls is a bit like that; it’s difficult to unwind the tangled places. As I worked, I remembered a recent tangle in my soul.

It started with a few words – exchanges via text. I have no reason to believe it was the intention behind them, but they landed hard, the wounds painful. Powerful emotion rose up in me and I felt as if my chest might burst from its incredible force. Even as I reread the words, I couldn’t put my finger on why the strong reaction.

strawberries-300913_1920The swell crested when hubby unknowingly added one more twig to the pile. Tears flowed. It was the sort of ugly cry that happens rarely, but when it does I bury my head in his chest and the words tumble out of me. (Followed by consumption of a quart of ice cream.) After all of that, I can begin to untangle the messiness of it.

My spirit was fragile because of a load of circumstances. The weeks leading up had been rough – with moments of helplessness, grief, anxiety, disappointment and exhaustion. As clarity came, I realized why rereading that conversation was fruitless; these words were not there:

“Daddy loves me more.”

A pronouncement I felt in my heart, “heard” in my mind, but it was never actually spoken. She never said that God, our father, loved her more than me.

It was days later, in Chapter 8 of Romans, that I began to understand why I bought the lie.

For weeks before the encounter, prayer was hard. There was nothing new to say, nothing that I hadn’t spoken through tears for weeks. But I had forgotten that when words won’t come, when I’m too tired and worn out from the waiting, the Holy Spirit of God takes my heavy sighs, my tears and my literal groans and He transforms them into prayers that He speaks on my behalf.

“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.” – Romans 8:26

There it was, the first bit untangled. It’s okay when I can’t come up with the right words; when I don’t even know what to ask anymore. He writes them for me and speaks them to “Daddy” on my behalf – just as if I had prayed them myself.

Near the end of the chapter there is an amazing promise. Check out these verses, quoted here from The Message translation:

“God knew what he was doing from the very beginning. He decided from the outset to shape the lives of those who love him along the same lines as the life of his Son. The Son stands first in the line of humanity he restored. We see the original and intended shape of our lives there in him. After God made that decision of what his children should be like, he followed it up by calling people by name. After he called them by name, he set them on a solid basis with himself. And then, after getting them established, he stayed with them to the end, gloriously completing what he had begun.” – Romans 8:29-30

He called me by name. He knows MY name, ya’ll! He has a plan and it is not random. The book goes on to say that he and I are SOLID, nothing can separate me from God’s love. What is true for me is true for all of his children. He’s on our side. Jesus is in the presence of God every minute, sticking up for us. Another tangle gone.

When I forget the truth (or don’t know it), I’m so vulnerable. But I remember now! He loves me, and he loves you. His capacity is not limited and he is working out a plan that is unique for each of us. Mine won’t look just like yours, but we can both be certain that He’s got us.

Believe in yo“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to

I have a visual of the Spirit of God blowing the cloud of sin and condemnation away like wind sending dark clouds out to sea. What a beautiful reminder that even in our imperfect bodies of flesh, the Spirit is always at work.

Jul20

It’s a beautiful day for a launch!

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Launches are exciting events.  I grew up in Central Florida in the years of President John F. Kennedy’s expansion of the U.S. space program.  I watched as the Friendship 7 carried John Glenn 162 miles away from the earth.  We could stand outside and see the trail of the huge rocket as it slipped away from the bonds of earth’s gravity!  We were all on pins and needles awaiting reentry. Nearly five hours later the country let out a collective sigh of relief as the capsule landed in the Atlantic Ocean.  At seven years old I had no idea where the space program would take us. There were skeptics, of course. I even heard that some didn’t believe it happened. But those dreamers…they took the first step and fifty years later there is a manned space station orbiting the earth.

For years, really since ninth grade, I’ve had a yearning to write.  A teacher expressed that I had talent, and it touched a deep place in my spirit. Fast forward many years when I began to put some words on paper.  It was challenging, yet cathartic, this process of writing. I wrote a few articles for a church-sponsored inspirational column in the local paper.  It’s a little embarrassing to admit that I read them over and over, even though I didn’t even get a byline.  Something that I wrote was good enough to publish! To be honest, it is more likely that I was willing and they needed 250 words to fill the space, but it was enough to rekindle the yearning.  Some of my favorite authors have blogs. The short posts are often humorous, inspirational or even instructional and I decided that is the arena for me to step into this venture.

Recently our small group at church studied the book The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson.  For the first time, I shared my dream publicly.  I began to pray and prepare to leave “Familiar” and begin the journey toward my “Big Dream”. The most profound realization was that God is the Dream Giver.  How foolish would I be to miss his gift to me?   With this post, I’m launching MY dream.

So, what to expect from this dreamer?  I’ll be writing from my heart about being a wife, a mother, a friend, all from the perspective of a woman seeking to know Christ in his fullness.  I’ll be sharing about my Tribe – the women who surround me with love, who allow me to speak into their lives and do the same for me.

I’m strapped into the seat and with this post, the engines have fired and I’m on the way!

Thanks for watching the sky, my friends.  I’m enjoying the ride!

“Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, the days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day.” Psalm 139:16 MSG