Ordinary Moments

He Cares

2012-02-12T23:16:00.002-05:00

While having lunch Thursday, I received a call from my mother saying that Mr. Richardson had died. And though he is now free from the pain that racked his body for years, it was sad to know his wife of 50+ years would have to face tomorrow without him.

Shortly afterwards, I headed to a friend's house to spend some time with her. On the way, I stopped for a cup of coffee, and while there, inquired of the barista concerning his very pregnant wife. He proceeded to tell me that she had been manhandled by her father which precipitated quite the altercation between this young man and his father-in-law -- ending with some very serious threats.

As I made my way on down the road, my eye caught the sight of a woman wearing a leg brace placing flowers on 3 small crosses in the right-of-way. I couldn't help but wonder if she had been the only survivor.

I finally arrived at my friend's home, and whereas her spirit is free, a cyst on her brain stem and the subsequent surgeries has left her quite dependent upon a wheelchair.

I had not been home too long when my husband walked through the door and in his hands was a beautiful male cardinal he had found in the back yard. It appeared its right wing was broken.

In a split second, my mind replayed all the scenes above, and then it was as if the Holy Spirit winged His way into my own heart and lit with these words: I care. "I care about the widow. I care about the battered woman. I care about the grieving mother. I care about the crippled wife. And, yes, I even care about My winged creation."

Does Jesus care when my heart is pained

Too deeply for mirth or song,

As the burdens press,

And the cares distress,

And the way grows weary and long?

O yes, He cares, I know He cares,

His heart is touched with my grief;

When the days are weary,

The long night dreary,

I know my Savior cares.

Frank E. Graeff

Beloved, He cares.

Just an ordinary moment...

What is THAT?

2012-01-31T09:33:00.001-05:00

My husband pointed to the GPS screen sitting on the dash and said, "What is THAT?" It had been days since we had used the gadget; in fact, not since our daughter had borrowed it for a trip she and her husband had taken a week or so prior. And as is common to her sense of humor, she had changed us from a vehicle on the road to a huge bird soaring above it. Wings flapping...

I lay my head back against the head rest and with a huge grin on my face, whispered, "Manna!"

Interestingly enough, "What is it?" is the question Israel's descendants asked when the dew lifted on their empty bellies. That substance that appeared every morning (excluding Sabbaths) that the Hebrew children found themselves in the wilderness. That flake that nourished them physically whether it was boiled, baked, fried or eaten raw. That thing that reminded them that God was not only with them on their journey but providing for them every step of the way.

There are those scholars who believe that manna came out of nowhere, and for them to think anything else would discredit Scripture. And there are those equally reputable men of God who think He may have taken something from nature and reproduced it every morning, giving them something they would have otherwise never thought to eat. Which stirs my thinking. What makes something bread from heaven? Is it the thing itself or the One who sends it? I guess if we are looking for our manna to drop straight from the portals of heaven, then we just might go to bed hungry. But if we begin to look for it the common things God sends our way, our souls (and bellies) might become full.

... like sitting with a couple I love over an unexpected lunch last week

... like seeing my grandson's joy when he first sees my face pop up on video chat

... like taking the time to smell an apple before eating it

... like watching the sun rise

... like hearing the voice of a dearly missed friend on the phone

Quite frankly, there's no end to the manna in our lives -- if we're just willing to look for it.

Ironically, the day I began gathering manna was the very day I had been crying out ... complaining, if you will ... to the Lord concerning my own wilderness experience. Grumbling. The very thing the children were doing when God told Moses He would send provision.

So why did He do it? Exodus 16:12 tells us. I have heard the grumbling ... in the morning you will be filled with bread. Then you will know that I am the LORD your God.

So they might know Him. Could it be the same for us?

But here's the catch. We can choose to continue our grumbling ... or we can pick up that thing and eat.

Just an ordinary moment...

Friday's Volume: An Altar in the World

2012-01-27T14:25:00.001-05:00

Many years ago, I read a book by Mark Buchanan in which he proposed that things of life were not so much divided into religious and secular, but into sacred and profane. I think that was a beginning of my looking for the sacred in the ordinary, as my blog title insinuates. No doubt, that's why if I were to keep a Top 10 list of favorite books and another for authors, today's "Friday's Volume" would be high on both. May I introduce to you AN ALTAR IN THE WORLD by Barbara Brown Taylor.

Barbara Brown Taylor spent her formative years as an Episcopal priest in Atlanta and then in Clarksville, GA until she left full-time ministry to become a professor at Piedmont College, a decision that stretched her faith beyond the four walls of a church building. In today's book, she introduces us to her new discoveries of spiritual practices and the uncovering of new "altars." Unlike the common disciplines of fasting, prayer, and lectio divino (sacred readings), her disciplines are the far more barefoot-on-the-pavement kind. Just listen:

The practice of waking up to God
The practice of paying attention
The practice of wearing skin
The practice of walking on the earth
The practice of getting lost
The practice of encountering others
The practice of living with purpose
The practice of saying no
The practice of carrying water
The practice of feeling pain
The practice of being present to God
The practice of pronouncing blessings

The first time I picked up this particular book, it was a read-through. I'll even admit I began by approaching it cautiously, just as I do any author with whom I'm unfamiliar. But now it sits next to me at my reading station, the couch in my sun room. I pick it up often, and I linger over passages. I absorb them. I think over them. And very often, I pray over them. Whereas I'll be the first to admit that some parts are very interesting ... if not daring, I can turn to any page, and be blessed.

A friend with whom I shared a copy of this book gave this insight: "Barbara Brown Taylor models a transparency that enables people to see themselves." Indeed she does. I know for me, it has come in the form of a yearning to know God more and to experience His presence in a greater reality in day to day living. From walking barefoot in the backyard to being stuck in traffic, from going to the local grocery store to digging Yukon gold potatoes in the backyard, Mrs. Taylor reveals concrete ways to see in all we do the sacred in the ordinary -- the altars in the world, if you will -- if we'll just pay attention.

Who knows? The ground you're standing on just might be holy. Anybody care to take off their shoes with me?

Just an ordinary moment...

Friday's Volume: Sacred Space

2012-01-20T20:33:00.005-05:00

Confession: I am a bibliophile. I haven't always been one -- at least I don't think I have. But there were early symptoms as far back as 4th grade when I volunteered in the church library every Sunday afternoon.

According to my dictionary, a bibliophile [bib-lee-uh-fahyl] is "a person who loves or collects books, especially as examples of fine or unusual printing, binding, or the like." I can't say my taste in books is toward the "unusual" or expensive -- except for the fact I like purchasing them rather than checking them out from the library, as they, being the media specialists, seem to get ticked when you write in theirs or, even worse, commit the cardinal sin and turn down a page corner. But since "booklover" and "one who reads habitually" are also included in the definition, I think it's safe to confess, "Guilty."

It's not unusual for me to have several books going at one time. And it's also not uncommon to have a book mark stuck in assorted and various ones just waiting to be picked up again ... because I got interested in something else. Quite frankly, that's one of the reasons I keep a list of my books in the column of my blog. It makes me finish it, because I won't record the thing until I've read the last page and closed the back cover. But very often, I've wanted to comment about a book ... somewhat like a review, to let the reader know if I enjoyed it or not. Whether its worth the time. Thus "Friday's Volume." I won't be posting something every week because I don't read a book a week. Sometimes I linger over them. Others are meant to be read over long periods of time -- like today's choice. And quite honestly, I never took the Evelyn Woods Speed Reading course. I ... read ... every ... word.

So here's my first Friday's Volume.

Sacred Space: the prayer book 2012

I'm nowhere through with this one as it's, as you can see, a 2012 prayer book. But because of the true gem it is, I wanted to go ahead and share it with you -- just in case it peaked your interest. No author is listed except The Irish Jesuits, and entries are taken from their website at www.sacredspace.ie.

Sacred Space began the first Sunday of Advent, November 27, and will take me through Saturday, Dec. 1. Each day I am invited to make a "space" in my day, thereby making it a sacred space. It begins with something to think and pray about each day of the week. I then engage in recognizing the presence of God with me; breathing His life into me; sitting quietly and becoming aware.

This week I've also been encouraged to ask for the grace to be free of my own preoccupations and to be open to what God may be saying to me.

And then I turn to the day's passage. Sometimes it may be as lengthy as 10-11 verses. Or it could be only two. I read it several times -- normally out loud. I linger over it. I ask questions of the text. I place myself there. If need be, there are "helps" with the text that might move my thinking in a certain direction.

Today's reading was Mark 3:13-19; the account of Jesus going up the mountain and calling the 12 to follow Him -- and then appointing them apostles. I've read it a dozen times, if not a hundred, through my life. But today I recognized the sacredness of the moment. The solemness. The intimacy. And probably the cluelessness of the apostles as to what was really happening.

What is stirring in me as I pray?

Am I consoled, troubled, left cold?

Has it moved me to act in a new way?

I share my feelings with Him.

And each time ends with the doxology:

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,

World without end. Amen.

Sometimes I say it, but more often I sing it.

This might not be the kind of book one would expect to find in a person's first book review, but it's one that's really impacting my life right now. It's teaching me how to center down; how to pray; how to experience God and His presence on a daily basis.

If I knew how to include stars in this text, you'd see 5 of them.

Just an ordinary moment...

It's Just a Rock ... Or Is It an Altar?

2012-01-17T23:58:00.002-05:00

I stopped by to see my son and daughter-in-love this past weekend as they had just returned home from a mini vacation in the north Georgia mountains. My son excused himself for a moment and ran out to his truck. When he came back in, he held out his hand and said, "Here, I know how you like rocks, so I brought you one from the Lake Chatuga dam." I have to admit, it's one of the stranger souvenirs I've ever received; and yet one of the most special.

My son was correct; I do like rocks. In fact, I have a small collection. Here are a few of them.

I guess you could call many of them stones or gems. But some of them are just plain rocks. Every now and then, my husband will find one in the woods and toss it in the back of his truck. I've had friends bring me some. And others I've even handed over cash for.

But today, I made an interesting note in my journal. It began this way.

3 Things I Learned About Myself This Morning

1) I love rocks -- and maybe for a purpose. They form altars....

I've been at a weird place in life lately. Church-wise, that is. For years, I've proudly stated, "I'm a church girl!" And I am, but all of a sudden, I'm finding myself looking beyond the four walls of this thing we call a church building and that we go to every Sunday and where we sing songs of praise and we hear a sermon and then we leave to go "out" into the world.

But I was struck this morning by the story of Jacob in Genesis 28. You know the guy. The deceiver. The one who was not only a mama's boy, but who lied to his daddy and stole his brother's birthright. And now he was on the run, lest he lose his own head. And that's when he lays it down ... his head, that is, on a ROCK. And sometime between sunset and sunrise, Jacob has a vivid dream of this ladder reaching all the way up to heaven with angels "ascending and descending on it." When all of a sudden, God appears and reaffirms His covenant saying, "the land on which you lie I will give to you and your descendants." And then He promises not to leave Jacob until He has done everything He has said He will do. Wow. It's quite a dream for a scoundrel.

Jacob lays down with thoughts of Esau tracking him down like a hound dog. He wakes with quite another thing running through his mind: "Surely the Lord is in this place ... and I didn't even know it! How awesome is this place!" And he takes that stone -- that rock, if you will -- and sets it up as an altar unto the Lord.

So you know what occurred to me this morning? In those days, there were no designated areas for people to make their offerings to the Lord, so they just set up an altar anytime or anywhere they had an encounter with God. In other words, they saw the whole world as an altar. But somewhere along the way, altars began moving indoors. They started to become predictable. Certain. Safe.

I'd like to contend in the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins that "the world is charged with the grandeur of God." And in the words of Barbara Brown Taylor, "Earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shins on altars."

So I've got this rock collection. What am I to do with it? For one, I could have certainly used a rock last night when I saw the breath-taking orange and red sunset. I can set up a stone when I recognize God in the person I am with. Or when I rock my grandbaby. Or when I listen to music. Or when I watch the birds and the squirrels outside my window. Or when I stop long enough to see the moon and the millions of stars. Or when I have a hot cup of earl gray creme on my backporch on a cool winter day. Or when I walk barefoot to the swing my daddy made with his own hands. Or when I set the table for my dinner guests. When I make my husband's coffee each morning. Would you believe I could have even used a stone today while cooking a caramel icing? After all, who but God could come up with such molecular structure to turn milk and sugar into something so delicious?

And before I know it, just as in Jacob's case, the nowhere becomes a somewhere. In fact, it becomes the house of God.

So where can you set up a stone or two?

Just an ordinary moment...

A Convicting Tweet

2012-01-15T20:17:00.001-05:00

I got up early this morning with all intentions to "prepare" myself for worship. As a church pianist and one who participates in leading others in worship, I like to take a little extra time on Sunday mornings to do just that. But somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked. And as the 9:00 hour approached, I picked my phone up to check my twitter. And there it was coming in just in time for me to see it. Andy Stanley had twittered, "Ready for church this morning?" There was actually another line after that, but I was so convicted by that one question, it really didn't matter what came next. God had spoken.

Several months ago on another Sunday morning, Louie Giglio had twittered, "Some come to church to worship, but it's better to come worshiping to church." And what he meant by that is worship is a lifestyle ... not just a Sunday morning occurrence. But the fact remained, I was not ready for church this morning.

I confessed my "do-nothingness" and slothfulness in the few moments remaining and really tried to make up for the time wasted, but it was what it was, and the pressing need now was to prepare physically.

As I drove the short distance, I couldn't quite shake Andy or Louie's comments. And so I began to sing: A worshiping I go ... A worshiping I go ... Hi ho the dairy oh ... a worshiping I go.

I got tickled at my simplicity of mind, and even more so when I realized I was singing the children's song "The Farmer in the Dell." You might be glad to know that before I pulled into the parking lot, I had graduated from "hi ho the dairy oh" to "The Most High, Almighty One."

And you know what? When I swung open those doors to lead me into that sanctuary, my heart had also swung wide open. It was complete with joy and my mouth full of praise. In fact, I even led the chancel choir in a round!

Thanks, Andy, for the question. And thank You, Lord, for riding along side and putting a new song in my mouth.

A worshiping I go,

The Most High, Almighty One,

A worshiping I go.

Just an ordinary moment...

Did God Really Say...?

2012-01-13T13:23:00.002-05:00

Interestingly enough, the very first question posed in the Scriptures is not asked by God, but by satan -- disguised as a snake, of course.

"Did God really say...?"

Truth is satan can't make us do or not do anything, but he can place a seed of doubt and let us get tangled up in it. And that's exactly the seed he planted within me a couple of weeks ago. Doubt. In my quiet time that particular morning, I felt like the Lord gave me a word for someone. Literally, A word. One word. "Unleash." I toyed with it for awhile, trying to make something different out of it. I even rolled around the word "Release" on my tongue for awhile because "unleash" sounded so weird. But I couldn't seem to make it work. The word was what it was: "Unleash."

Words are important, you know. And they're powerful. Creatively powerful ... just like they were in the beginning of time when God stood there and said, "Light! Be!" And light was. But I allowed the age old question to take root: Did God really say?

And so through my first brief encounter that morning with the one to whom I felt I was to speak it, my mind became a battlefield. "Did God really say?" And the enemy's seed grew. A short while later, this one walked through again, and as he turned to leave, I stood there and looked at his back, wanting to call out his name, and that's when the seed went into full bloom. "Did God really say? Are you really, really sure you heard Him correctly? After all, do you know who this person is? And besides, who are YOU to be speaking a word to him?"

I watched him walk from the room.

For the next week, I saw what unfolded in this man's life ... and without one shadow of a doubt, I knew the word spoken to me in the depths of my heart that Friday morning were for him. "Unleash!" Sadly, I heard the word come forth from the mouth of a CNN commentator reporting "secular" news and not from one who had heard it in the quiet. I was also reminded that if we don't praise or glorify Him, the very rocks will cry out.

Did this one man lose anything from my silence due to my fear and doubt? Maybe a little encouragement for the days directly before him. Did I lose? You bet. Big time. I lost having the creative power of God flow through me to another human being. I lost being a source of blessing to a man going out on the battlefield. I lost being a flowing stream. Rather, I was nothing more than a waste pool that day.

Ironically, God's first recorded question is this: Where are you? Of course, He knew exactly where Adam and Eve were. But their answer is very revealing. At least to me.

"I heard You ... and I was afraid..."

Have I learned anything from this? Oh, yes. And that's one of things being a disciple of Jesus Christ is all about. Learning.

Oh, yes, and being Word conscious.

By this My Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit; so you will be My disciples.

John 15:8

Just an ordinary moment...

Bigger Than My Neighborhood

2012-01-06T23:58:00.001-05:00

Sometimes God pulls back the curtain a little bit from your own four walls and lets you be a part of the bigger picture ... the grander scheme ... the metanarrative. That happened to me this past week.

With a friend, I was given the opportunity to be a part of the Passion Conference in Atlanta by serving last weekend in the green room prior to Passion's opening session on Monday evening when 44,000 young people between the ages of 18 and 25 eagerly arrived and filled the massive Dome. What only two days prior had held a logo of a cow during the Chick-fil-a Bowl and the evening before a Falcon's game, became a place of worship where the rafters were blown off in holy praise. My small part had only been to be a cupbearer for two days to the musicians who were rehearsing for the event. I could have easily changed the words of Snow White's seven dwarves from "Whistle while you work" to "Worship while you work," for indeed, I did just that. At one point when there was a lull in my duties, I sat down on the wooden floor just behind the black curtain on the stage, positioning myself next to the drums. Placing my hands on the floor, all other instruments faded as I allowed myself to literally feel the worship as it coursed and beat its way through every fiber of my being. It was a powerful and holy moment unlike anything I had experienced before.

But when Monday rolled around and thousands upon thousands of high school seniors and college-age kids were heading downtown, I was heading to north Atlanta to keep my grandson for his mother to take 18 of her youth group girls to this massive event. And so for the next 4 days, I rocked and I played and I read and I fed and I did all those things a grandmother would do with her 10 month old, and when time allowed, I watched the live stream of what was happening downtown. And that's when I understood that what was taking place and what I had been and was being allowed to play a very minute roll in, was a lot bigger than my neighborhood. This was global with global impact!

Speakers such as Louie Giglio, Beth Moore, Francis Chan, John Piper and Christine Caine brought excellence in the way of teaching to the stage. Chris Tomlin, Matt Redman, David Crowder, Hillsong and the Passion band rocked the house in praise to God. And Falcon fans have never made as much noise as those young people did as they worshipped and danced and celebrated Jesus.

But excluding the Lord Himself and the worship of Him alone, the most powerful thing that took place in that dome was the beginning of the uprising of this generation against modern day slavery in which 27 MILLION people on this planet right now are enslaved. That's epidemic, my friends! And these young people are not willing to sit back and do nothing. They began emptying their pockets and gave ... not pledged, but GAVE ... over 3 million dollars to go to causes to end slavery around the world. But more than that, I believe they left with hearts that had been changed by the gospel to do justice and to love mercy as Micah 6:8 says. If you did not catch it, please see what CNN had to say about the event.

http://www.cnn.com/video/?%2Fvideo%2Fworld%2F2012%2F01%2F05%2Fcfp-clancy-do-something-now.cnn#/video/world/2012/01/05/cfp-clancy-do-something-now.cnn

Yes, something huge happened in Atlanta this week. Something much bigger than in just the neighborhood. And tonight I sit back in awe and while I do, I take note of my own heart's conviction "to do justice."

What about you?

Just an ordinary moment...

A New Year ... A New Journal

2012-01-01T21:55:00.003-05:00

When I was young girl, a diary stayed in a drawer by my bed ... with a lock on it. After all, I had three brothers (plus a mother), so precautions had to be taken. Of course, nothing REAL personal ever went on to those pages. At that time, entries dealt more with "what I did today" kind of things. As I got a little older, they surely contained names of boys.

After I married, my journal keeping unfortunately became more sporadic, but I do have a number of them sitting on the top of a bookshelf in my bedroom. They no doubt progressed from daily activities and youthful love in the small diaries to deeper workings of the heart in my spiral journals. From the more frivolous to the more complicated. And though the pages of my latest one were not completely filled, I felt it time with a new year setting in to get a new journal as well.

But before I did, I reminisced this morning through the old one. In a way, it's hard letting go. This particular journal has been my companion longer than most. It contains quotes, poems, prayers. Dreams, drawings and reflections. It is laced with pictures of companions and notes from friends. Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. Disappointments and successes, praises and complaints are scribbled in both pen and pencil. But this morning as I read, I heard a common theme: longing.

"Help me to understand my wounds..."

"Heal my broken heart."

"Release the child of wonder in me so that I may experience the kingdom of God that is around me."

"Come alive in me, Holy Spirit!"

"O God, give me an insatiable longing for You."

"Create in me NEW."

"Open my mind and heart to the great mystery of Your active presence in my life."

"Hear my tears this morning."

"Forgive me."

"Help me."

And most recently, "O Love, seize me!"

Yes, it's hard letting go, especially when much of it left me so raw. But I lay it aside and pick up another.

As with any new journal, I was ever so careful as to what was to go on that first clean slate. It's as if the initial page charts the course for what follows. But today, it wasn't difficult. I knew exactly what I wanted this new season to be about. I share it with you.

Teach Me to Stop and Listen by Ken Medema

Teach me to stop and listen,
Teach me to center down.
Teach me the use of silence,
Teach me where peace is found.

Teach me to hear Your calling,
Teach me to search Your Word.
Teach me to hear in silence
Things I have never heard.

Teach me to be collected,
Teach me to be in tune,
Teach me to be directed --
Silence will end so soon.

Then when it's time for moving,
Grant it that I may bring,
To every day and moment,
Peace from a silent spring.

And thus the journey begins.

Just an ordinary moment...

Christmas Eve Communion

2011-12-29T10:53:00.002-05:00

As I sat in the Christmas eve communion service this past Saturday evening, I watched people go down the aisle to receive the elements. There was the older woman pulling an oxygen tank behind her; the man with a debilitating disease who was being carefully monitored by his young wife; a sister-in-law who had managed to leave her ill mother long enough for this moment; and another woman, a friend, who reached out to offer a hug and who herself, within hours, would be the victim of a fatal heart attack.

I'm not sure if it was the brokenness of the body or the love for it that overcame me.

But I wept.

Just an ordinary moment....

Merry Christmas! Or is that Happy Holidays?

2011-12-14T21:21:00.001-05:00

A number of years ago, an "evil" establishment popped up in the town where I lived. Evil in that it sold BOTH hard liquor and pornography. A little known fact is that on several occasions, after dark, a petite spit-fire of a woman named Mrs. Mary would take a bottle of wine and walk around the building anointing it while praying -- cursing the evil therein. Is it any surprise that before too long, the place burned down and was never rebuilt? I have to admit, I applauded Mrs. Mary for her efforts and her boldness. Oh, to have such conviction ... and FAITH! But over the years, my thinking has developed a little bit as I have thought about this story. (And it's indeed a true one.)

Could it be as Dr. Leonard Sweet shares that too many Christians want to change the world, not because they love the world but because they hate it? That was a life-shaping thought for me. How many times had I ridden by establishments, palm readers, night clubs, stripped joints, etc, and "cursed" the place. Maybe I hadn't asked God to burn it down, but I had requested it be no more.

More recently I was touched by something Nancy Heche shared in her book, The Truth Comes Out. (You might recall that Nancy's daughter Ann had a highly publicized lesbian affair with actress Ellen DeGeneres.) Nancy related her hard and stubborn heart toward her daughter ... until the last verse of Acts 3 jumped out at her. When God raised up his servant [Jesus], he sent him first to you to bless you by turning each of you from your wicked ways. Did you hear that? God's blessing is what turns us from our ways to His ways.

The Greek lexicon says this about the word "blessing." "To bless is to ask God to interfere, to take action in one's life, to bring them to the desired relationship with Himself so that they are truly blessed and fully satisfied."

Instead of offering blessings, I'm afraid we get caught up in the lover's quarrel of which Dr. Sweet spoke. And it becomes more and more evident every year. If a particular store won't recognize Christmas, well, then we'll just take our business elsewhere. If they call their pines "holiday trees," then we get back in our cars and go to the next place that actually sells Christmas trees. Or worse yet, if an employee wishes us a happy holidays, we respond with a haughty, "Merry Christmas." At least I know I have.

Listen, I wish everyone understood and appreciated the meaning of Christmas, but the truth is we live in a society where that's no longer the case. And, yes, I'm aware that these same people are more than willing to receive our monies. But what would happen if we began blessing instead of cursing? If we began offering Christ in the person of our presence rather than avoiding altogether? What if we extended grace? What if we really loved the world instead of hated it ... and asked God to bring the heads of companies as well as their employees to a desired relationship with Him? What if?

Frank Laubach, a missionary to Muslims in the Philippines back in the 1930's, wrote in his book, Letters by a Modern Mystic, these words. "Clearly, clearly, my job here is not to go to the town plaza and make proselytes, it is to live wrapped in God, trembling to His thoughts, burning with His passion. And, my loved one, that is the best gift you can give to your own town."

Sounds like a wonderful Christmas gift to offer all those with whom we come in contact during this special holy-day season.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Voice in the Desert

2011-12-06T13:08:00.001-05:00

I've seen him more times than I can remember to count. For years now, he has carried a sign and shouted in a loud voice with a long drawl that winds its way through moss laden oaks and time worn squares of Savannah. Whether he's denouncing communism or predicting the end of the world, I truly cannot say, because like most who encounter this self-proclaimed prophet, I go out of my way to avoid him.

The 2nd week in Advent draws our attention to another somewhat like the man forementioned ... yet very different. His name? John the Baptist.

I have to admit I have an affinity for this one who is so unique ... so strange. I was first introduced to him when I was a child in Sunday school. After all, he was the one who baptized Jesus! The one who wasn't worthy to tie Jesus' sandals. The one who proclaimed, "Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! The one who had his head chopped off and served on a platter. (Okay, so that last one probably wasn't offered in my Sunday pre-school literature.) But more recently, I was re-introduced to this fiery character by a former pastor who was also magnetized by this unique individual.

Mark's gospel doesn't begin with an annunciation to Mary or with shepherds abiding in the fields. It doesn't have angels shouting in the heavens. It simply says, The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Song of God. As it is writen in the prophet Isaiah, "See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way." And, bam, John, the first real prophet in Israel in some 400 years shows up on the scene. And what an appearance he made! He was dressed in a camel's hair cloak tied with a leather belt around his waist. His hair and beard had never been cut, and living on a diet of wild honey and locusts, he must have been as skinny as a rail. This is the one the Lord had chosen to announce His coming? Surely he looked more like a cave man than a prophet. But indeed he was, and people flocked to him. And that's one of the differences right there in the street evangelist and the character in Mark.

Another way they were different is that street evangelists seem to plant themselves in your way and dare you to get out of it. Not John the Baptist. One had to GO to the DESERT to find him. And go they did. In droves. Through rocky crevices and down bandit infested trails, they traveled by foot and mule to see this one who seemed from another planet.

And that's what amazes me so about all of this; something of which I've never thought before now. The "beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ" did not have its inaugural in a church. Only those who were willing to enter the wilderness got to experience first the freedom of which John proclaimed. And for someone that's been living in some barren land lately, that's huge.

As one author put it, "The good news is always beginning somewhere in the world, for those with ears to hear and hearts to go wherever the way may lead."

Heard any voices lately?

Just an ordinary moment...

Gift Giving

2011-12-04T08:54:00.003-05:00

When I sat down with my list last night, I was feeling pretty smug. After all, here it was Dec. 3, and except for just a few gift cards, all my Christmas shopping was done. Three good weeks of just enjoying the season without all the distractions. And then it hit me: the real gift giving is not to be found coming from the purse at all -- but one that originates and comes from the heart.

And so my Christmas list grows.

Time ... given to the lonely and hurting.

Tolerance ... when I want to be angry and lash back.

Peace ... during moments of frustration.

Forgiveness ... when evil is done toward me.

Compassion ... for the less privileged.

Gratitude ... for each blessing that comes my way.

Grace ... for every negative comment or attitude.

Somehow I think this list might be the more costly.

May we all find joy in our gift-giving this season.

Just an ordinary moment...

We've Been Robbed!!!

2011-11-29T11:45:00.003-05:00

While out Saturday, I received a text from my husband asking if anyone had borrowed his gas-powered blower. He went to do a little yard cleaning and it was no where to be found. To my knowledge, no one had, but it's always best to ask the children. I found none guilty, and since such equipment usually doesn't walk off by itself, it was determined we had been invaded. The disconcerting part of this is that the thief had come in the daylight while I was home and walked right into my garage. The "what if" rang in my head. "What if I had walked out on him and startled him?" And the other troubling spot is that any such tools cannot be seen from the road. Therefore the officer who took the report said the perpetrator had probably been in the garage before and scoped things out before coming back.
So is it any wonder that my guard was up this morning when the fellow with the yellow hard hat carrying a box under his arm crossed my backyard? I was quick to call our electric provider and ask if they had workers in the area changing out boxes. And they did. But as I was looking out the front window to see if I saw a vehicle, I noticed an SUV in the driveway across the street and a man dressed in black trying to shimmy the front door open -- with a credit card!

Like I said, my guard was up. And so, within a 24 hour period, I made my 2nd 911 call. I was almost embarrassed when, again, the emergency operator quickly responded, "911. What's your emergency?"

"Well, it's not exactly an emergency, but there is someone trying to break down the front door to the vacant house across the street." What I didn't mention was that there were papers on the front door stating that anyone intering the premises would be arrested on the spot. I described what the fellow looked like, what he was wearing and what kind of car he was driving, and then she asked for a license plate number, at which time I had to confess to using binoculars. (Please let it be known these were bought for the sole purpose of bird watching.) Before I could get through with all the information, an unidentified vehicle zoomed up and blocked the driveway. I cautiously asked, "Have you dispatched a policeman, because a blue car just pulled up and two large men are getting out." I think she got a little concerned as well and asked me what kind of car it was. All I could say was, "Blue." What can I say? I'm a woman who doesn't know any make of car except the one she drives. At this point, a marked police car pulled in behind them, and my thought was, "Lord, what have I started?" Over and over, I kept apologizing, telling the dispatcher, "It's probably on the up and up, but I'm just very guarded right now."

And why not? I'd been robbed. And before that, my next door neighbors were burglarized when someone entered their home while they there, no less, and had stolen her jewelry ... heirloom pieces that could never be replaced. A thief has paid us both a visit. I think I had legitimate reason for caution and to make the call.

I don't know about you, but when I normally think of thieves, I imagine one dressed in a stocking cap pulled low with maybe a mask over his eyes -- as in the movies. One who sneaks and tiptoes and enters cautiously at night. One who is so quiet that we don't even know he's been there until we find a door open, a piece of jewelry missing ... or wake to find him standing over our bed. Really, all a thief has to do is watch us for awhile, and he will find a way in, because he's normally very good at what he does. He violates one of our most precious illusions: that our homes, that we, are safe.

A thief is scary, to say the least.

I guess that's why I have such trouble with passages of Scripture that allude to Christ coming like a thief in the night. Matthew, Luke, Peter. They all talk about it. And then Paul writes it out plainly in Rev. 16:15 when he quotes Jesus as saying, "Behold, I come like a thief! ..." Really?

I guess the question we need to ask ourselves is, "What is He after?"

May I encourage you this Advent season to let this Beloved Invader have His way with you. If we could get over the fear of His intrusion, I think we might find His desire is to empty His pockets and not fill them.

Just an ordinary moment...

And They're Off.....

2011-11-28T09:35:00.000-05:00

Thansgiving has come and gone and the Christmas season is officially here. Of course, the stores have been decorated for weeks now, and even a local church was decked out in its Christmas array before we could sing, "Come, ye thankful people, come...." But why not, I've been hearing It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas on the radio for 2 weeks now.  Yet before I get too judgmental, let it be known that even I hit the stores a little bit on Black Friday, though I really didn't purchase much ... just a lavender chamomile candle for my bathroom and a fuschia vest from Bass Pro.  The excursion was more for family fun than anything else. There was even a hope of seeing Santa Claus. But there were some serious shoppers out there. Bags not only in their hands and over their shoulders but under their eyes as well as many of the stores had opened on Thursday evening offering all night shopping for that perfect gift for those special ones on your list.

Yet this rainy Monday morning I woke with my own list. Not so much a shopping one but a "to do" one. All pointing toward Christmas. All getting ready for the big day that will be here before we know it. My mind is already going in a thousand directions. Do this. Do that. See to this. See to that. Pick up this. Order that. My lands, I have lists within lists.

But as I sat down for a few minutes and lit my Advent candle, a certain word kept coming up and up again. "Wait."

Excuse me?

"Wait."

Wait for what? Christmas is coming!

You see, I'd already fallen into the cultural trap. I had already begun to lose the joy of the present moment by getting ready for the "big event." I was already on the verge of missing Christmas because of the frantic to get there.  Seriously folks, how many times have we felt a deep anticlimax on Christmas day when that long-anticipated day didn't live up to our expectations? Could it have been because we had lived so in the future, that when the future became the present, we didn't know how to deal with it because we had lost the ability to be fully present, right now?

So what do we do with that? Do we do as in days past and wait to decorate our homes until Christmas eve? Do we wait to sing Christmas carols until that morning? Do we go on a crusade to have our neighborhood covenants read "No Christmas lights on houses are to be turned on until the evening of Dec. 24"? Of course not. That would not only be ludicrous but completely unattainable.

I ask again: what do we do? What is this Advent "waiting" all about?

For me, it means active waiting. Advent summons me to the present moment, to a still yet active, a tranquil yet steadfast commitment to the life I live right now. If I want to appreciate Advent fully and experience Christmas in its entirety, I need to relearn how to wait, to rediscover the art of savoring the future, of staying in the present and of finding meaning in this act of waiting.

My list of "to dos" has not changed.  The transformation has taken place in my heart.

Just an ordinary moment...

Stay Awake!

2011-11-27T08:50:00.000-05:00

I awoke early this morning. Call me strange, but there's some anticipation I experience when I know a new season is rolling in. And today is the first Sunday in Advent. A new candle was to be lit. And it was. But somewhere in the pre-dawn, I began to "slip." Okay, so it's not unusual for me to pull the blanket off the back of the couch, throw it over my feet and slide down within its warmth, and then wake to find myself late for whatever's next. In fact, after the activities of this past week, this morning would have been such an opportune time. I even thought about it as I felt my eyes getting droopy.

And then I remembered this morning's Scripture. It focused on staying alert. Keeping awake. Why? Because Jesus could be returning at any moment! Matthew 24:37 says it this way: Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. Truly, the most basic formulations of the Christian faith include this expectancy. You can hear it in the communion liturgy: "Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again." In our Apostle's creed: "... He will come again to judge the living and the dead..." There's no getting around it; Jesus will come again. And that's what we do this Advent. We wait. We expect.

Advent colors are not the hues we associate with this season of the year. They are not green and red, but purple, moody and dark. The music is not major, but minor. Its theme is not "deck the halls," but "Repent!" It is a season focused on the coming of Jesus -- not only to Bethlehem some 2000 years ago but futuristically on a white horse. Yet while we wait and while we anticipate, we also look. And as we do, we find Him in our midst right now. We see Him in our spouses, in our children and grandchildren, in our neighbors and bosses, in the girl behind the cash register, in the homeless and the weary and the tired. We begin to recognize Him in our daily chores, in our time spent with friends, in our pains, and in our sufferings. In fact, every moment of our lives can become an Advent. A time when the Lord is near ... present. But we must stay awake ... and look.

So my prayer for you this first morning is that you would be blessed with a spirit of Advent. That He would awaken your senses to His presence in the here and now, and that as He does, you would become a sign of love, hope, joy and peace in a world that seems chaotic and out of control and that desperately needs Him.

Blessings to each of you this Advent morning.

Just an ordinary moment....

The End of One Season ... Welcomes Another

2011-11-26T22:03:00.001-05:00

The last 24 weeks on the Christian calendar have been what is known at Pentecost ... or Ordinary Time. According to Sarah Arthur in her introduction to At the Still Point, "If Advent, Lent and Easter are the glitzy celebrities at the liturgical party, Ordinary Time is the plain auntie collecting dirty wine glasses afterward. We almost forget she's there." After all, Advent announces the coming of the Savior of the world with the scenes of a wild man dressed in camel hair. Christmas heralds "Joy to the World! The Lord is come!!!" Lent is marked with ashes and fasting ... and mortality. Easter, of course, is the highlight: He is risen! He is risen indeed! But except for the initial wind and fire falling upon the disciples in Jerusalem, Pentecost is marked by ... well, by ordinariness. As the longest season of the liturgical year, it really has no high points; it boasts no showy colors or costumes.

Pentecost provides a pause. But it's a pause worth taking.

As Enuma Okoro wrote:

This ordinary time is

gifted in its quiet, marked passing

Christ slips about

calling and baptizing,

sending and affirming,

pouring his Spirit like water

into broken cisterns,

sealing cracks and filtering our senses,

that we may savor the foolish

simplicity of his grace.

During this time, an E.B. Browning quote, ...Speak Thou, availing Christ! -- and fill this pause, stayed tucked inside the wreath surrounding my morning candle.

George Herbert's poem remains taped to a print on my bathroom wall.

Listen sweet Dove unto my song,

And spread thy golden wings in me;

Hatching my tender heart so long,

Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.

I've meditated upon Elizabeth B. Rooney's prose:

Must we use words

For everything?

Can there not be

A silent, flaming

Leap of heart

Toward Thee?

And what about the poetry of the Greek Synesius?

May my soul, her want perceiving,

Turn her gaze to where Thou art,

And in all Thy fullness find Thee

Food to satisfy the heart.

And lastly, "Love" by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

So I did sit and eat.

And thus I have.

But tonight marks the end of this journey ... this Ordinary Time ... this pause. It has been good. And it has been necessary. But now the Thanksgiving wreath and orange pumpkin candle have been replaced by purple and pink and white. Ordinary is replaced with anticipation.

Advent begins. The end of one season welcomes another.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Love Nest

2011-11-17T10:33:00.005-05:00

In the dark stillness of the morning, I find myself drawn into a love affair. I do not know his face -- only his voice. But each day finds me listening for and anticipating the rich melody of love. It's only 5 notes ... 3 tones to be exact. For the musical connoisseur, that would be D-C-A-A-A. Sometimes it's short and staccato-like; at other times boisterous and dramatic. Regardless, it's as if he sings for me. Calls to me. And when I hear it, my ears become receptors, my senses come alive and my spirit leaps.

And I answer ... with my own mimicking whistle.

Where or what he is, I do not know. I just recognize for this period of time, we are both hidden ... from the world and from each other -- in our own little gardens enclosed. But there is sweetness. There is connection. There is communion. And for today, the sound of his song is enough.

As light breaks and the day rises to meet the sun, there is a hushed reverence, and I find myself alone once again. Yet the melody remains within me ... and it is enough.

Desires are satisfied.

O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the cliff,

Let me see your face, let me hear your voice;

For your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.

Song of Songs 2:14

Just an ordinary moment...

Sacred Ground

2011-10-26T17:11:00.003-04:00

I've been walking on sacred ground lately. Not the kind that has ornate walls or stained glass windows. Nor have I visited any Indian mounds in recent past. This one has just been a basic home with rockers on the front porch and a fruit bearing pear tree in the back. It belonged to my daughter-in-love's mother who passed away on Sept. 10 at the age of 59. Far too young. So I've been helping do what one does when such happens. And in the process, finding the need to maybe take off my shoes.

We began the difficult task in the kitchen ... after all, it was "safe." The patterns may be different, but we all have dishes, basic pots and pans, and cooking utensils. The living room provided ample opportunity to find out what kind of movies she liked to watch; what kind of books she liked to read; and what kind of music she liked to listen to. The walls of the back room revealed her past love of horses. And turned down pages in the cookbooks revealed her favorite recipes. But it wasn't until we began dusting off boxes and opening closet doors did the need to remove my sandals become increasingly evident.

Dolls she had cradled as a child ... a brown paper bag full of letters written to her love when he was away ... a well loved lamb that dated back to her childhood ... a worn teddy bear, the kind with real button eyes ... a tiny song book compiled for US soldiers and sailors, with her grandfather's name, battalion, and station inscribed in it -- in his own handwriting -- which he carried while serving in WWI ... teachings on deliverance ... century old hymnbooks ... an unfinished baby blanket for a grandchild she will never hold ... poems from her own pen ... a poinsettia Christmas pin attached to a favorite coat ... a family picture album she had made for her mother so many years ago ... a well-used Bible that remained right next to her bed until the day she died. Quite frankly, I found moving that off its place on the nightstand the most holy act of all.

At times, my daughter-in-love and I have laughed so hard we have snorted. At others times, we've shed tears. We have sneezed. We have rolled our eyes. And yet sometimes, many times, silence has been the only appropriate response. But if the truth be known, I've learned more about this woman in the last 6 weeks than I knew in the previous 6 years. And I'm honored and grateful for the privilege.

Sacred ground. It comes in all shapes, forms, and fashion.

Just an ordinary moment...

Hi, Daddy!

2011-09-12T11:10:00.005-04:00

Her voice rang out amid the silence of a congregation full of worshipers. "Hi, Daddy!" It was the first time my 3-year-old niece had been in a worship service when her daddy was singing in the choir. When she saw him, she was thrilled. Again the voice rang out a little louder. "Hi, Daddy!" And again with a bit more shrill to it each time. "Hi, Daddy!!" Completely oblivious to the "reverence" and sobriety of the moment, this child gave way to the excitement of seeing her daddy.

"Abba" is the Greek term for daddy. It's the word Jesus Himself called His Father when He was praying in the garden before His crucifixion. It's a term of intimacy ... familiarity. Just as it was for my niece to her daddy this particular morning.

After the choir sang, the members dispersed into the congregation to sit with their families. My brother was no exception. He leaned over the first pew to where his little girl sat with her mother and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the nursery -- which is where 3-year-olds go during the sermon time. But she didn't care. She was in her father's strong arms, and she was delighted. One could tell by the tight grip she had around his neck and the wide smile on her face. After all, she worships her daddy.

Just an ordinary moment...

Ashes to Ashes

2011-08-22T20:54:00.004-04:00

What began as just a normal invitation to tea last week turned into a most spiritual moment for me Friday. It wasn't the first time I had been asked to such an engagement and it certainly wasn't the first time I had been in my friend's lovely home. Nor was it the first time we had talked about the beautiful blue and white tea canister sitting on her mantel -- and her father's remains that were encased within it. What was different this time is that she actually opened the container and pulled them out after making sure none of her 3 guests found it morbid.

There he was, at least 1/5 of him, as the other siblings each had a share, completely comprised in a plastic zip-lock bag no larger than my hand. I stood there just looking at the silvery gray ash before asking if I might hold it. When my friend said, "Of course," I reverently took it in both hands and studied the metallic "dust." It was much more dense than one would have thought for ashes, and much heavier than one would have suspected, even though it only weighed 1.8 lbs. (Yes, we actually weighed it later.)

But somehow I knew that I was standing on sacred ground, and no words seemed appropriate. It was indeed a moment to be embraced.

"Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust." I've heard them all my life and have even participated in the imposition of ashes to my forehead on Ash Wednesdays for more than a decade now. But not until that moment did I catch the magnitude of those words. From surely we come and to surely we will go. And in the meantime, God chooses to give us life -- His life, that we might know Him, so that when those ashes return to their former state, our spirits live on forever. With Him.

Who but God could think up such a plan?

Just an ordinary moment...

Wall Street Versus East Africa

2011-08-09T09:37:00.003-04:00

I was not shocked by today's headlines; after all, it had been all the over the news and internet last night. In fact, an entire page in this morning's paper was given to just such. Complete with pictures. Stocks fell 634 points in yesterday's trading.

What did catch me off guard however was when I turned the front page and saw the small 1 1/2- by 3-inch blurb concerning the famine in East Africa. In less that 70 words, we were told that "hundreds of thousands of kids could die in famine." The news wasn't new to me, but it jolted me as if lightning from last night's storm had hit its mark on my own heart.

And so I wondered: what stirs the heart of God more? A middle-aged man crouching behind a computer screen with his hands covering his face or a starving refugee child reduced to nothing but skin and bones looking through bulging eyes at his mama.

I know and I think you do as well. Now what are we going to do about it?

Honestly, with such an unstable economy, maybe we're thinking we can't afford to do anything. Beloved, we can't afford NOT to do anything.

Is this not the fast I have chosen: ...
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry ...?

THEN your light shall break forth like the morning,
your healing shall spring forth speedily,
and your righteousness shall go before you;
the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
You shall cry, and He will say, "Here I am."

(Isaiah 58:6-9)

http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/articles/food_crisis_in_kenya/

http://lifetoday.org/outreaches/mission-feeding/

Just an ordinary moment...

Wordy Girl

2011-08-05T13:23:00.005-04:00

I'm such a wordy girl. I probably should apologize for it; but it's who I am. I know some of my friends must roll their eyes when they receive letters or emails from me as I tend to fill my epistles with way too much information. Useless facts. Needless news. But if they only knew what I actually left out... And on more than one occasion, after a rather wordy flirtation, my husband has been known to say, "Yet another insignificant moment in the life of Nancy." Which is just another way of saying, "Much ado about nothing."

I also confess to being somewhat nerdy. After all, I receive a "word of the day" each morning -- and I'm not talking some rich devotional thought to inspire spiritual thinking. I'm talking about a word with its definition. For example, today's was "overslaugh." It means "to pass over or disregard (a person) by giving a promotion, position, etc., to another." Maybe you think that's useless. Maybe it will show up in a blog one day.

And is it asinine or peculiar to have a shortcut to thesaurus.com on one's desktop? If indeed it is, then call me so.

I also keep a game of "Words with Friends" going with both my son and his wife. Basically, it's just Scrabble played at one's leisure back and forth on our smart phones. It always thrills me when I can use all 8 letters -- like "pirating"! And a triple word square makes it even better! Today I was able to play "abba," "rotated," and "faux," which brought in some hefty points with the "X".

But what has me thinking is the weight words can and do carry. In fact, God's Word has a lot to say about words and their effects on you and on me.

Just listen:

Wise words satisfy like a good meal; the right words bring satisfaction (Prov. 18:20).

The words of the godly are a life-giving fountain; the words of the wicked conceal violent intentions (Prov. 10:11).

Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing. Prov. 12:18

A fool's mouth is his undoing, and his lips are a snare to his soul (Prov. 18:7).

And can I just add that the world itself was framed by the word protruding out of the mouth of God? It all began with, "Light!" And there was. Words hold creative power, my friends! Not to mention destructive as well. Whoever said, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," had his head in the sand. They can downright kill!

Yep, I'm a wordy girl. But I need to be careful. The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit (Prov. 18:21). Sounds like I have a choice to make every time I open my mouth or put pen to paper.

What about you?

Just an ordinary moment...

Mike's Jewel

2011-07-29T10:54:00.008-04:00

There is a song that needs to be sung -- but I find there are no words to equal the strength and beauty of the melody. Deeply soulful and sometimes restrained and delicate, the notes are being hammered out in the day to day. In some places, it rings of broken hearts and shattered dreams, yet the overlying theme resounds of a love stronger than death itself.

Thing is it's not even my song to sing, yet one that has found cadence on the strings of my own heart and harmony within my own life's orchestration. It's the psalm of Mike and Julie.

I have known Mike all of my life. In fact, he and I shared a table in the back far corner in Mrs. Barfield's first grade class. My most vivid memory of those days is when I felt the need to align our little table for two with the one next to ours and, in doing so, pinched Mike's already scabbed elbow that was sitting directly in the place of juncture, thus reopening the wound. If I recall correctly, the entire class came to a halt from the screech of pain and while Mrs. Barfield applied a bandage.

The next 12 years swept along and Mike and I found each other in and out of homerooms together. Our senior year came and went, and quite sadly, so did Mike and I as we did not see each other for another 34 years. That is until Tuesday evening.

Actually, our reconnection took place a couple of years ago when we "found" each other through facebook. Mike had recently remarried and I delighted in looking at pictures of his and Julie's "redneck wedding," as he calls it -- a simple but beautiful ceremony in their backyard by the lake. Shortly thereafter, posts began appearing about Julie's condition: a large cyst on her brain stem, surgery, crossed eyes, more surgery, therapy, a set back, more surgery, pneumonia, paralysis on her right side, 135 days of continuous hospital stay. An orchestration filled with highs and lows, faith and fear. But after 18 months and 13 surgeries, Julie is home and Mike is right by her side. A duet of grace.

After a few messages back and forth, I called Mike and asked if I could come by to see him and meet his bride; he was more than gracious to my offer. He told me the therapist was there, but he'd leave the door open and for me to come on in. Much to my delight, he was waiting at the door when I arrived, and our first moments together reminded me why I have always had such an affinity for this fellow. "A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good things," Matthew 12:35 says, and that's Mike.

My friend pointed me to the living area where Julie sat waiting in her wheelchair. Our introduction was an embrace. And for the next period of time, the 3 of us got acquainted and reacquainted, with lots of reminiscing and stories thrown in the mix. And as we did, my heart grew larger and fuller as this beautiful woman took her place within its posts.

Several times a week I seem to run into someone whose only response to life is to complain. It had happened the Saturday morning before and it happened immediately upon leaving Mike and Julie. Both from individuals I don't even know. But here sat a couple who have every right to curse and complain, yet choose to bless instead. Though Mike does not diminish his past, nor do he and Julie deny their situation, they attest to a God who is faithful to them in this present moment and speak nothing but life giving words.

Mike calls Julie "Jewels," and rightly so, for indeed she is his gem. He looks at her with an expression of love that would melt the hardest metal. And she responds in like manner. His voice is kind -- albeit stern like a father when she gets to going too fast in her wheelchair. And her face is playful when she cuts her eyes toward him and drops her jaw.

It has not come without cost, and yes, each day brings its own source of challenges, but these two are writing a melody that is eternal and one that resounds in the heavenlies. My heart is indeed blessed by its tune.

In the 9th grade, Mike and I once again shared homeroom in Mr. Kelly's class. But this time we're on the front row. I'm 3rd from left and he's far right.
Who would have ever guessed that 37 years later, he and I would once again be on our knees together -- this time with his beautiful Jewel and in the presence of a mighty God whose life pulses through her body to the tune of mercy and grace.
Oh, how I bless you two in the powerful name of Jesus! May the days ahead be filled with nothing short of love, wholeness, and miraculous wonders. Not to mention lots of music!

Just an ordinary moment...

From Where I Sit, There is Happy

2011-07-23T20:44:00.013-04:00

Last week I was showing a friend the potato vine I had rooting in a glass bottle that was sitting in my window here in my "garden enclosed." The green vine came out of the lip like it was springing into dance. I told my friend, "It makes me happy."

He then pointed out that I have a Christmas tree in my sunroom.

I told him that indeed I had used it on my front porch at Christmas last year and didn't have a place to store it after the season was over; and so I put it here. And then without thinking, those same words came out of my mouth: "It makes me happy."

Now my husband the forester will tell you that his whole life is geared to that one thing: to make me happy. But since making that statement myself twice within minutes of each other last week, I've been thinking about "happy."

I suspect happy often times gets a bad rap -- especially within the Christian community. For some reason, we think we are to be "joy-filled" and not "happy-filled." After all, "happy" is fleeting and joy is lasting, is it not? At least that's what we're told. But I beg to differ. I believe we're called to be happy Christians! In fact, I think the Scriptures give us license.

In James 5:13 we read, Is anyone happy? Let him sing songs of praise. That word happy means to be of good spirits, to be cheerful. In Psalms 68:3, David penned these words: But may the righteous be glad and rejoice before God; may they be happy AND joyful. The very first time we read of "happy" in the Scriptures is in Gen.30:13. And Leah said, "Happy am I! For women have called me happy." So she called his name Asher. Which means HAPPY! Later, in Psalms 84:5, one of sons of Korah used that same word, Asher, though many translators have rendered it "blessed." Blessed [Happy] is the man whose strenth is in You, whose heart is set on pilgrimage. We can be happy on this journey!

Quite frankly, I think we'd give the Christian community a big boost in the world's eye by not only being joyful, but adding a little happy to the mixture as well. Dare we take off our dour faces, put on such dancing shoes and take a hint from a potato vine -- and be happy?

Want you enjoy some of my "happy"? From where I sit each morning in my sunroom...

... a lone leaf waves in adoration
... an old blue bottle speaks revelation
... the morning sun rises on a wooden cross
... a grapevine reminds me of abiding
... a Pentecost candle burns on "ordinary days," begging God to "fill this pause"
... clasped hands remind me to pray for those I love
... wonder of hidden beauty is revealed
... a garden enclosed is my beloved
... portulaca blooms open to the sun
... Eucharist happens
... light rises with healing in its wings
... I commend the squirrels on their ability to reason
... I'm reminded me of His care
... I'm reminded of the sweet fragrance of dear friends
... St. Francis of Assisi calls me to holy living -- and peace
... my favorite devotionals beckon time spent in relationship and awareness
... light penetrates agatized coral
... beams make gold of citrine
... beauty is dispensedYes, from where I sit, there is happy. May I be faithful to take it into the world when I leave.

Just an ordinary moment...

Left to Wonder

2011-07-05T11:32:00.008-04:00

"I am amazed. I am absolutely amazed." These were the words I said over and over this morning at breakfast. The forester and I were discussing his new John Deere riding mower when he casually commented, "John Deere is what we used when I worked for the lawn service."

"When you did WHAT?" I queried.

"Worked for the lawn service."

"And exactly when did you do this?" After all, I've been married to the forester for over 32 years now and not one mention has ever been made of a lawn service.

"Back when I was in high school. The guy hired me because I could drive around the 15 year old kids who didn't have a license yet. How do you think I learned to back a trailer?" (I'm always telling him how impressed I am that he can maneuver and back a trailer with such ease and expertise.)

"I thought when you worked for Coca-Cola," I said. "So, when did you do this 'lawn service' bit?"

"Right before I went to work for Coke. Actually, it was right before I went to work for the grocery store." At least I knew about the whole grocery store stint; it had only lasted a day but was obviously worth mentioning.

"What was the name of this lawn service?"

"Albany Turf Masters." (That's pronounced "All-benny" for those of you not familiar with these parts.)

"Well, of course... But I'm still absolutely amazed. I knew about the grocery short-order, about delivering colas, and even the babysitting job for the colonel and his wife. But the lawn service? I'm just amazed." I wanted to ask, "What else have you got hidden up your sleeve that I don't know about?"

But that would ruin the element of surprise, would it not? Those moments of discovering something new about your spouse that you had never even imagined before. Good things. Worthy things. Things that leave some wonder in a marriage. Things as simple as a run-of-the-mill lawn service job.

But, you know, I believe that God has some "secrets" up His holy sleeve, too. After all, we're told in Ephesians that God can do anything -- in fact, far more than you and I could ever imagine or guess or request in our wildest dreams! That sounds like some divine mystery to me. Besides, if we knew everything about this One, would He be God? Hardly. Part of the wonder of it all is NOT knowing. Oh, but how amazing when He indeed does reveal something new of Himself. The exciting thing is that He is so huge, so large, so eternal, that we will never, no never, discover all there is to know about Him.

Honestly, when I discovered this new thing about my husband the forester, I got a kick out of it. In fact, it made me laugh out loud, but it also filled me with an amazement that I could live for so long with someone and not know that detail of his life, small as it was. May we be even more astounded, more astonished, more amazed as we discover the inexhaustible riches and wonder hidden in our magnificent God.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Strong Password

2011-07-04T08:19:00.003-04:00

I was reading an article this morning that I had clipped from yesterday's paper. It's entitled, "Strong password more important than ever." The title alone is a dead giveaway to the topic: the admonition to be careful with the passwords we choose involving our website accounts. The writer, Shan U, of the Los Angeles Times, suggests a number of tips to protect oneself online.

Use mnemonics, which really is nothing more than a catchword or clue. An example might be picking a personal sentence and then "paraphrasing" it by using the first letter in each word to create the password. For example, "I live at the corner of Main and 1st Street" would be "ilatcoMa1s." And while this is a great suggestion, I personally think the word "mnemonics" would be password enough.

Longer is better, but not always. It's better to use a short group of irregular numbers and characters such as "4%k#9!" than a phrase such as "numberonemommy."

He also suggests we change our passwords to banking institutions frequently -- every few months. Fortunately, my bank makes me do this anyway.

Write down the passwords on a list without user names and keep it in a safe place. Okay, so I'm at that age where it's hard enough just to retain in my mind where I put something after I've told myself, "Remember, you've placed this here." Now I have to recall where I put my user names AND my passwords? Besides, I figure if someone is going to break into my home, they are not after my user name and passwords to my blog or MyPanera member card account.

And a few "Nevers."

Never use simple phrases -- even if you spell them backward and add a number. (Honestly, hackers have WAY to much time on their hands...)

Never have the same password for every account. I think this has something to do with sites "storing your credit card information." Which is another whole reason for concern.

Never email passwords to yourself. That's a no-brainer.

Never use personal information such as your address, birthday, etc. Another no-brainer.

Never share your password with family or friends.

The author ended with the uplifting news to remember that, even after following all the "rules," no password is completely immune from being cracked.

I found myself sighing and breathing the prayer, "Lord, please protect my identity." And as quickly as my next breath, I heard, "I have. And your password is spelled C-h-r--i-s-t."

Ah, yes. Christ! Does this mean no one will ever hack into my accounts or steal my credit card number? No. In fact, it has happened before. But the interchange did bring me home to what really matters in the end: my identity and the One who secures it. I don't have to worry about changing this Password every few months, I need not be concerned about hiding it, and I certainly don't have to add anything to it to make it more secure. This Password works for every "account" I have, it contains all my personal data, and I can share it with whomever I please. It's completely immune from being cracked. And as for strength, I won't find a mightier one.

Indeed, a strong Password is more important than ever.

Just an ordinary moment...

Searching for Steeples

2011-06-05T21:36:00.011-04:00

I found myself riding shotgun this morning as my husband drove us home from a few days of babysitting our new grandson. My heart was a little heavy as our early departure didn't afford me the "sugar" I normally get before heading out. And so for distraction, and maybe a little comfort, I reached for a particular devotional book I had stashed in my bookbag and was sitting at my feet: Peace of Heart. Upon reading the day's selection, I sensed in my spirit to look up and take notice. As I did, we passed a church on my right, and before I could even begin to guess its particular affiliation, another one loomed on my left. It's huge size and close proximity to the interstate gave it an almost ostentatious look. But both were houses of worship, both standing high and mighty, erect and strong; both on the outskirts of town, and both waiting for their early morning parishioners to arrive in their "Sunday best." So I began to offer up prayers for the congregations, ministers and lay persons who would be gathering very shortly for worship. I prayed their hearts would be warmed and that God would reveal Himself fresh and new to them this morning. And as I did, I found myself earnestly searching for the next steeple to rise in the distance as we headed into the metropolis of Atlanta. But where there was spire after spire on numerous buildings, and although we did pass a church van from Beulah Missionary Baptist Church picking up its congregants, there were no "steeples" to be seen.

Oh, yes, I know that Atlanta is filled with churches. Small, medium, and mega ones. While searching with my eyes, I thought of places such as First Baptist, Mt. Paran, North Point Community, and Passion. But where were the churches here in the very heart of the city? Had all moved out and away? Or were they there and had just been consumed by all the towering buildings. And then, after miles of searching, there it was. Unable to take a shot with my camera, I captured the startling and unforeseen picture in my heart: a small, weathered church building tucked unpretentiously within the shadow of Grady Memorial Hospital -- smack-dab downtown.

Simply known as "Grady," it's the largest hospital in the state of Georgia and the public hospital for the city of Atlanta, serving a large number of her low-income patients. But it has also boasted a few more prominent subjects: Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With the Wind, died there after being hit by a drunk driver. The Godfather of Soul, James Brown, also saw his final days there. And supermodel Niki Taylor entered its level 1 trauma center after being in a car accident and underwent 50 surgeries. Grady also takes its place historically as the current facility was built as a segregated institution -- and remained that way for years.

So, how appropriate that this little worn, unassuming church would be resting in her wings. But more importantly, how befitting that hanging in bold blue letters -- (they may even have been neon!) -- high across the steeple, which was still midget to its surroundings, were the life giving words, "JESUS SAVES." How could I not be affected by the stark irony of it all?

My mind went back to my devotional some miles back now. I was reading of St. Francis of Assisi, a man who gave up incredible means and affluence to follow God in abject poverty. Who at one time found the sight of lepers so detestable that he would go miles out of his way to avoid them and then still hold his nose only to later embrace and kiss them. And these were the words I had read and the prayer I had prayed: "You alone can cut through the chorus of voices that threatens to deafen my soul with empty promises and false hopes. Your words alone can make my soul burn within me. Speak to me." Indeed, He had.

I bless you, little church, as you sit among the indigent and poverty-stricken and offer true hope. I am convicted and moved by your example.

Just an ordinary moment...

I Think God Laughed

2011-05-29T16:56:00.003-04:00

I got to the church early this morning to prepare my music for the upcoming service. The doors leading from the narthex into the worship center were still closed and the sanctuary itself was still dark. As is often my custom when the church is empty, I walked through the main doors down the center aisle. Because I can tend to be a might demonstrative in my worship, I usually throw open my arms and say something aloud to God upon my entrance. But for some reason this morning, I kept the words contained in my mind and my motions to a minimum as I thought, "Good morning, Lord. I acknowledge Your Presence here in this place." Almost without missing a beat, I heard this deep, rich voice come from the rafters overhead: "Good morning, Nancy."

Indeed, what we wait for all our lives: to hear the voice of God. To know for sure He exists. And He had spoken. To me! He had read my mind and even called me by name, for crying out loud. Audibly! It was a moment that I would cling to forever hoping upon hope for yet another word.

So very slowly, I twisted my body and lifted my head to see if I might get a glimpse of this One who puts us in a cleft and passes by. And there, sitting in the balcony, as I live and breathe ... was a deacon trying to learn how to use the sound system.

I think God laughed. I know I did.

Just an ordinary moment...

In the End.... (A Final Few American Idol Thoughts)

2011-05-27T09:16:00.005-04:00

I have a confession to make: I have an addiction. It's not a pretty one, but by all social standards, at least it is acceptable. However, of late, I've been finding myself sneaking around to indulge, and that's never a good sign. Sometimes I stay up very late; other times I'll take a morning "break." And last week during a short vacation with my husband, I "excused" myself for a moment -- several times. But this week I threw caution to the wind. On Wednesday night at 8:00, I pulled out a portable stadium cushion from the hall closet, filled up a styrofoam cup with iced tea, and planted myself in front of the small TV out in my "garden enclosed" -- a.k.a. sun room. Yes, I'm a full-fledged American Idol junky. It was the 2-hour 2011 finale and I was not going to miss it. After all, I had seen every single episode since mid January and knew every contestant by name. I had even voted on occasion! And so I planted myself in front of the tube for one last trip of the season.

Of course, to get to the actual culmination of the American Idol winner, I had to endure an hour and 55 minutes of preliminaries: preliminaries which consisted of an assortment of entertainers. From Aretha Franklin, Tony Bennett, and Tom Jones to Carrie Underwood and Tim McGraw to Jack Black, Beyonce, Lady Ga Ga and Judas Priest. How much more diverse can one get? I have to admit there were times when even this seasoned AI enthusiast had to turn her head due to some of the worldly sport being played out. It was just too much for me.

But this season of American Idol has not been completely lost. I would find myself often times praying not only for the contestants and their parents but also the judges. I was particularly drawn to Scotty McCreery's mother, Judy, as week after week, she and Scotty's dad, Mike, sat in the audience supporting their 17 year old son. Without their ever saying a word, I sensed an extremely strong faith in these two. I also found myself offering up prayers for the judges -- particularly Steven Tyler, probably the most crass of the 3, but the one I believe to have the most supple heart to respond to God's wooing. O Lord, may it be...

American Idol pulled out every stop to make Wednesday's finale the best and probably the most costly ever. Wind, fire, huge name entertainers and even a "spider" falling from the rafters. And, of course, the confetti. It seemed no stone was left unturned.

And so after numerous episodes -- sometimes as many as 3 a week -- the moment finally arrived for Ryan Seacrest to announce the 2011 American Idol. As only he can do, the seconds turned into an eternity as America waited for the "s" sound or "l" sound to denote "Scotty" or "Lauren." And this time, it was Scotty. A young man who's not even old enough to vote, join the draft, buy a drink or smoke a cigarette. A fellow from NC who walked 4 miles while in Hollywood just to buy a sweet tea. One who though inundated with the world remained grounded in his faith and humble in his walk. This one had taken America by storm.

When Seacrest asked him what he was thinking in this moment, this one who had responded with such grace to even Lady Ga Ga's brash comments several weeks earlier, remained faithful to who he was and said: "I just thank the Lord for getting me this far."

Yes! Even in all of our illusion and disillusion, America chose an Idol that knows his place. As both the confetti and tears fell and as throngs applauded, I was reminded of the Word that says, "That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father" (Phil. 2:10-11).

The truth is that in the end, ALL the nations will come together and bow down before the Lord and shall glorify His name (Ps. 86:9). And rest assured, He will not be just any idol voted on by the people. This One was chosen before the foundation of the would to be eternally beloved, adored, immortal, supreme, divine, holy, and very, very worthy of worship.

May we all be so addicted!

Just an ordinary moment...

An Ordinary Moment Kind of Day

2011-05-07T12:02:00.005-04:00

When I got up Thursday morning, I asked the Lord for an "ordinary moment" about which to write that day. At one point, I actually thought it might occur when the state patrolman bore down on my tail on the interstate between Atlanta and Forsyth. Thankfully, he was just getting a close-up view of the car next to me as moments later his blue lights went on (and my heart slowed down a pace) when he pulled the other fellow over.

Oh, but I had my holy moments indeed.

I got me lots of sugar.

I danced to Hillsong United.

I sang old familiar hymns.

I rocked... and rocked... and rocked...
Yes, some days are just ordinary moments made holy through and through.

The Death of One Man

2011-05-03T13:01:00.004-04:00

I remember sitting in a hotel dining room on St. Simon's Island June 11, 2001 watching the news of the Oklahoma City Bomber's execution. Timothy McVeigh had been put to death earlier that morning by lethal injection due to his setting the bomb which killed 168 people, 149 adults and 19 children, at a federal building some 6 years earlier. I was particularly struck by the interviews of some of the family members of those who had lost their lives. One woman said, "I thought this would bring some closure. But it doesn't."

Some of the same thoughts I had then I had yesterday while reading and watching the reports of Osama Bin Laden's assassination. The father of one of the many firemen who gave their lives that fateful day on Sept. 11, 2001 said basically the same thing on the evening news. "I was glad for a moment when I heard the news, but my mind quickly returned to my son." And with tears in his eyes, he said, "I still miss him so much... [pause] so, so much."

I certainly commend our military for a job well done. And I am fully aware it did not come without great cost to many. I have a friend whose son gave his life 2 years ago for just that moment. But what I do contend is that the death of one human-man can bring peace; for it cannot. It is only the God-man who can do that. And He did it.

And so today, my heart weeps for all those who while looking for closure found their wounds re-opened by Sunday's events. May they find solace and healing not because one man died, but because one Man gave His life. A Man who doesn't necessarily take away the pain, but who bends down and enters into it with them. The Man Christ Jesus.

Just an ordinary moment...

Collecting Treasures

2011-04-30T13:55:00.005-04:00

It's not unusual for me to provide music for funerals. I've done it for years; some have been for dear friends and others people I've never met. What is unusual is for me to come away so stirred by the life of the one lived and now passed. I've played for 2 funerals lately -- both ladies I really didn't know that well even though they both had been staples of this community for decades. But one thing is for sure: they both left legacies -- and a challenge for me.

After Mrs. Betty's funeral, I came away thinking, "I want the pastor to be able to say those kind of things at my funeral." And within days, I could feel parts of my life adjusting to those honorable areas of her life and her positive example.

Yesterday's service was no different. Once again, I came away challenged. The pastor spoke of how Mrs. Bonnie accumulated treasures -- but not the kind of which you and I would think. She collected twinkles in an eye, wrinkles in a smile, and inflections in a voice. She didn't invest her time in facebook, but rather entrusted her life book to "face-time." She was about joyful relationship and about encouraging the ones in her presence or on the other end of the line.

It's so easy to get caught up in "safe" relationships, isn't it. It's as quick as a text message, an email, or a post. But what are we giving up in lieu? What treasures, if any, are we collecting?

As I got to the middle of the 3rd paragraph of this post, my friend Phillip came to mind. But this time, instead of writing a note on his facebook page, I didn't wait but picked up my cell phone and dialed. It had been such a long time since we talked. To hear his voice brought a warmth that a cold page was incapable of producing. When I softly said, "How's my Texas friend?" he responded, "Not good; today's actually a dark day for me," as days often are after experiencing a severe loss of someone we love. I wouldn't give anything for the moments that transpired during our conversation. I now have a treasure tucked into the pocket of my heart that was not there earlier.

Chris, me, and Phillip -- 1995 My two Georgia buddies both gone Texan.

My Scripture this morning was from 2 Cor. 5:15 -- He died for everyone, that those who live might no longer live just for themselves... Oh, that He would open my heart and give me the gift of a generous spirit so that others might know life and live -- and so that I might have a few treasures to lay at His feet.

Just an ordinary moment...

American Idol Worshiper

2011-04-28T09:47:00.004-04:00

Well, I did it. I joined the 50+ million and cast my vote last night for the next American Idol. Embarrassed to admit it? Yea, a little. After all, my husband says I need to be careful to whom I admit my obsession, and then a dear friend virtually laughed in my face when I told him last week I watched it. But it is what it is -- and I'm hooked.

If you must know, all these final contestants are worthy winners and each one of these young people has found a little place in my heart; but I voted for James Durbin last night. I remember James' first audition with AI and was touched by his hard-knock story. He's a young father, just 22 years old, from Santa Cruz, CA, who grew up barely knowing his own bass-playing dad who was always on the road, and then was raised by his mother after his father died of a drug overdose. James was later diagnosed with both Tourette's and Asperger's Syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism, and found himself turning to music to help calm his rattled nerves. Subsequently, a job was hard to come by, and at the time of his audition, he and his wife and very young son were living in a tiny apartment with not even the means to buy diapers.

For those of you less informed, this year's competition has it all. Country, blues, gospel, jazz. But James is the rocker in the group, and last night's performance of "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" was over the top. The purity of his voice shined brightly as he began a cappella before going instrumental. There's no doubt this boy can sing as well as perform. And whether James realizes it or not, God's Spirit rests heavily on him and His plans for the boy are good.

Actually, this is not the way I meant for this particular entry to go. I had another whole direction planned. But I think I'll leave it at this and let James have his day. Take a look at the 3 links I've highlighted, and be blessed by a God who gives beauty for ashes, is called the Repairer of Broken Walls, and who turns our mourning into dancing.

Yes, James, may you become a TRUE worshiper of Him who gifted you so mightily and who calls forth the deep places in you so that you might lead your generation forward in praise of the One who is worthy of it all.

Just an ordinary moment...

Betrayal

2011-04-21T23:45:00.005-04:00

I called my pastor first thing this morning and exclaimed, "I learned something new just now, and I've just got to regurgitate it! And I choose you on whom to do it!" He was quick to point out that he has 3 small boys and therefore it wouldn't be the first time he had been vomited on and therefore gave me the go ahead to share.

Today is Maundy Thursday and I had been reading in my early morning devotion the gospels' accounts of the Last Supper. Up until then, I really had never noticed how many times the word "betray" was included in the text. I discovered it was too many times for my comfort anyway. Shortly afterwards, I picked up a book called "Facing the Wall" by Don Potter. Its subtitle reads, "A book for praise leaders and those who love to worship." In it he speaks of oil and its being a symbol of God's power manifested through the Holy Spirit. He also mentions that the oil that was used at the last supper was for dipping bread to soften it and "make it more palatable." (Don't you just love that word "palatable"? It even feels good on the tongue.) Of course, oil was used for other purposes as well including anointing for healing, for setting someone or some thing apart for holy service, and even embalming.

But in Matthew 26:23 Jesus said, "He who dipped his hand with Me in the dish will betray Me." Notice it does not say "bread" but "hand." You see, the oil was in a communal bowl that sat in the middle of the table in which all dipped. Therefore anyone who dipped his bread in the oil was to do so without letting his finger touch the oil else the oil become contaminated or defiled. But here's the interesting part. The Greek word translated "hand" in this particular verse is cheir, which means "literally or figuratively power .... grasping". It wasn't so much that Jesus' betrayer was going to dip, it was that he was going to defile the oil by putting his hand in it. In other words, he was going to grasp (or attempt to) the power of the anointing and make it his own. How dangerous can that be!

This got me to thinking. How often does the Lord anoint you or me with some special something? It could be a number of different ways. Teaching, preaching, ministering to the poor, sick or lonely, leading in worship, wise counseling, just to name a handful. But what happens is that when we take that anointing as our own -- grasp it as our own -- we attempt to take the power for ourselves, therefore becoming the betrayer. Just like Judas. The name Judas is a form of Judah which means, "He (God) shall be praised." Yes, it is possible to betray the Lord even when our intention is to praise Him. How does this happen? When we begin to think that because of our praise, we have earned the right to use Him.

You might says it begins when we dip our hand in the bowl. Betrayal. Anybody but me?

Just an ordinary moment...

Palm Sunday: A Wrenching Paradox

2011-04-17T20:20:00.007-04:00

Anyone who knows me, knows that I'm a church girl, and with that comes loving to celebrate certain days on the church calendar. One such day was today: Palm Sunday. Very often it is celebrated with the children walking down the aisles of the church waving their palms high in the air while the choir or congregation sings "Hosanna, Loud Hosanna." I remember one particular occasion when my small nephew passed close by the piano where I was playing, but out of the corner of my eye, I was able to catch his swift pop of the palm on the head of the little boy in front of him.

This morning was a sweet processional as 10 little preschoolers walked down the center aisle with small branches in their hands as my brother accompanied his oldest daughter while she sang in her sweet little voice, "Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest."

After the children processed down and placed their palms at the front of the altar table, they sang a couple of songs themselves.

Is there anything more precious than children worshiping? (When, pray tell, do we learn to be so "sophisticated" in our worship?)

But Palm Sunday processionals don't have to be for children only. I remember a former pastor gathering us outside on the steps and lawn, and after a Gospel reading, opening the doors for us ALL to enter singing and waving our branches. It was a joyous celebration. And being one who has the propensity to be somewhat "demonstrative" in worship, I tend to wave my palm high and hard. But what always compelled me to wonder were the half dozen or so people who refused to join in the pageantry but rather sat comfortably in their designated seats watching as the rest of us paraded by. After all, weren't we reenacting a glorious and momentous event?

Truth is how many of us really have a clue as to what Palm Sunday is all about? Some, of course. But my suspicion is that if a passerby saw such a crowd standing outside the church as we were that day, they'd wonder if the custodian had forgotten to unlock the doors. But even those of us who try to re-enact such an event fall horribly short. We sing "Hosanna!" and wave our palm branches and most of us even do it with joy, but what we fail to remember is that this One of whom we praise was not entering as just the King but as the approaching Sacrifice. This King who entered on the back of a donkey arrayed with fishermen's coats because there was no royal accoutrement. This King whose entourage consisted of street people, of the mentally deranged, of questionable women -- and the like. This King who entered in disgraceful poverty. No, it was no common parade that day. In fact, Matthew 21:10 tells us, "the whole city was shaken." Yet, Jesus entered and He did so in complete control -- which only makes the scene all the more scandalous, for He knew the end of this peculiar parade was the cross.

But isn't that what was stated just a few weeks ago when we began this journey of Lent? Did Jesus not steadfastly set His face to go to Jerusalem (Luke 9:51) ... to die?

And so, yes, I sang my hosanna's this morning as those precious sweet ones marched in with their palm branches. But this particular Palm Sunday found me not only in greater awareness of the day's activity but my heart shaken due to the wrenching paradox of this King who rode in to lay Himself down.

Just an ordinary moment...

Rocking

2011-04-16T20:44:00.004-04:00

Dusting and writing can wait 'til tomorrow,
For babies grow up -- we've learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; blogs, go to sleep,
I'm rocking my baby 'cause babies don't keep.

Just an ordinary moment... (NOT!)

The Gun Show

2011-04-09T14:25:00.004-04:00

Very rarely do I go somewhere that when I walk through the door I'm asked by an officer of the law wearing a side arm, "Do you have a weapon on you?" But that's where I found myself this morning. Normally, it is I who leads the pack when it comes to a shopping trip, but today I was trailing behind my husband at Eastman's Gun and Knife Show at the Ag Center. Somehow I've always managed to stay clear of this yearly event, but not this time. (Even now I'm sporting a reentry stamp on the back of my left hand of a pistol with an "explosion" coming out the end of it.) I somewhat jokingly asked the attendant if I had to pay the $8 if I promised not to look at any merchandise, but he told me that there was a lady in the back corner selling earrings, so he knew he had me. And indeed she was: earrings made out of recycled shotgun shells. She said it was a vision from the Lord she had received in church. Who would have thought?

It probably comes as no surprise that I was outnumbered. For every one female, there were at least 50 males. Men: all sizes, all shapes, all ages. I'd venture to say there was more testosterone in that one room than all the Bass Pro Shops and Home Depots this side of the Mississippi combined. Yep, it's what a man does. It's what he likes to do. And maybe, just maybe, it's what he was created to do. Protect and provide. And whereas I'm pretty decent when it comes to hitting a bull's eye, quite frankly, I prefer the difference in roles.

As I made my way up and down the aisles, lagging just behind my husband, my mind was drawn to a particular passage of the book, "Heaven is for Real," where little Colton tells of being given a glimpse of the battle of Armageddon during his short stay on "the other side. " Strangely enough, he says that the women and children stood back and watched while only the men fought. And while I'd never thought of such, somehow being in the setting in which I found myself, I could imagine it. At least it gave me some interesting food for thought.

So did my particular man leave the show having made any purchases? No. He never does-- though I'm sure he would have liked to have done so. But maybe coming away with a new sense of personal awareness of who he was created to be was all he was looking for anyway.

Just an ordinary moment...

Different Perspectives -- Same Answer

2011-04-04T19:36:00.002-04:00

One of the staples of Lent for me is John Piper's book The Passion of Jesus Christ. Previously, the book was entitled 50 Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die, and that is exactly what the book is about. (Mrs. Harrison, my high school English teacher would die that I just ended a sentence with a preposition, but it just didn't fit the correct way.) This book walks me through this season of reflection like none other as each day's reading begins, "Christ suffered and died..." and then offers 50 reasons why. Day 1's reason: To Absorb the Wrath of God. Day 19: To Give Eternal Life to All Who believe on Him. Day 22: To Bring Us to God. Day 41: To Secure Our Resurrection from the Dead. And thus each day offers another reason, with heavily supported Scripture. It is nothing short of rich reading. I love absorbing each day's "reason," thinking about it through the day and worshiping Christ for His absolute right to be worshiped.

This past weekend, I picked up yet another book to add to my collection: Heaven is for Real. I had heard about it via an email I had received the week prior that had an attachment of a news segment interviewing the author and its subject. The little boy's name is Colton Burpo, and he has been to heaven and back. It was a fascinating account and so when I saw the book, I picked it up. It probably took all of an hour and a half to read, but nothing has offered my mind such play about heaven since I read Randy Alcorn's book several years ago entitled just that: Heaven.

Colton's dad, Todd Burpo, along with Lynn Vincent, wrote this fascinating story after Colton suffered a severe case of appendicitis that left him quite literally at death's door. What is so absolutely warming about this story is the simple way Colton expresses incident after incident of his time in heaven. He tells of seeing his great-grandfather, who had died a quarter of century before Colton had even been born; of meeting a sister who had died in her mother's womb, again before Colton's birth; and even of sitting in Jesus' lap. While I always read such accounts with caution, I have no reason to disqualify any of what is written within these pages.

At one point in the book, Todd Burpo, a pastor himself, writes about a conversation he had with Colton and his older sister Cassie on a Good Friday. He simply asked the question, "Do you know what Good Friday is?" Colton said he didn't know, but his sister emphatically and excitedly answered, "That's the day Jesus died on the cross." Moving to the next question, he asked, "Do you know why Jesus died on the cross?" When Cassie couldn't come up with an answer, Colton nodded he knew. "Okay, why?" asked his father. "Well, Jesus told me he died on the cross so we could go see his Dad."

Here's how Todd Burpo relates the rest of the story. "In my mind's eye, I saw Jesus, with Colton on his lap, brushing past all the seminary degrees, knocking down theological treatises stacked high as skyscrapers, and boiling down fancy words like propitiation and soteriology to something a child could understand: 'I had to die on the cross so that people on earth could come see my Dad.' Colton's answer to my question was the simplest and sweetest declaration of the gospel I had ever heard. I thought again about the difference between grown-up and childlike faith."

And so, while each morning between now and Easter, I will continue to pick up Piper's book and read yet another reason Jesus came to die, and yes, even be blessed by it, the most profound reason has already been uttered -- by a 4 year old: "He died on the cross so we could go see His Dad."

Christ also suffered once for sins,
the righteous for the unrighteous, that He might bring us to God.
1 Peter 3:18

Hear the invitation ... and come.

Just an ordinary moment...

"The gospel of Christ is the good news that at the cost of His Son's life, God has done everything necessary to enthrall us with what will make us eternally and ever-increasingly happy, namely, Himself."
--John Piper

Dairy Queen Ministry

2011-03-10T12:48:00.007-05:00

For years, my husband and I have had a "Dairy Queen Ministry." What this means is that we want a blizzard (for him) and a hot fudge sundae (for me) but we tack on "ministry" to justify our cravings. The owners of the establishment are Hindu, and after all, a relationship must be developed before sharing Christ, right? And maybe some advances are being made as our daughter text me one evening and said, "Mom, you know you go to DQ way too often when the owner recognizes and speaks to you in Wal-Mart!" It also has that "Cheers" feel in that when they see us walk in the door, they just go ahead and start putting the Butterfinger pieces in the ice cream cup.

And so last night it was only natural that after our Ash Wednesday service we head to the Dairy Queen. This was a tradition begun when we use to attend the service in Savannah. We would stop by Krispey Kreme Donuts for a "last meal" so to speak. It was always a little awkward walking in with ashes on one's forehead, but we were quick to learn we weren't the only ones getting that last sweet in. But since there's no KK close by, we've opted for DQ and it has worked just fine.

But after making the casual conversation with the owner and while waiting on our treats, my husband and I both noticed the man who had walked up to the counter and tried to order. There was definitely a problem with his speech as he couldn't seem to articulate what he wanted. He left without ordering. My husband and I took our seats in a booth, and moments later the man walked back in the door and straight to my husband. He handed him a $20 bill and said, "Will you order for me?" At this point, all eyes had turned in our direction. We were both still very aware something was wrong, but my husband stood up and said, "What is it you would like?" After numerous attempts to get it out, I was finally able to interpret "Crispy" and said, "Chicken?" He nodded, and so my husband went to the counter while I sat alone eating my sundae with the man sitting down in the booth next to ours. I have to admit, even though almost every table was full, I was still somewhat uncomfortable and eager for my husband to return. When he finally did, he gave the man back his change and told the fellow his food would be ready shortly and that he would get it for him when it was. So as we waited, I continued to eat my sundae, but the man seemed eager to apologize to my husband for the inconvenience, and telling him how sorry he was, he stuck out his hand to shake my husband's in gratitude.

Upon receiving his food, the man was able to convey that he wanted an ice cream. And so after some careful interpretation, my husband was able to discern "blizzard." Upon ordering and handing him that, I watched the most beautiful moment take place as my husband placed his right hand on the man's left shoulder, looked him square in the eyes, talked to him as a friend talks to a friend, and then asked, "Where are you staying? Would you like for me to help you get home?" to which the man nodded yes. I don't think I've ever witnessed the hands and feet of Jesus more than in that moment as my husband gave the man such dignity and worth.

By this point, there was no doubt the man was extremely intoxicated, but the depth of hurt in his eyes and the look of humiliation and sorrow on his face erased for both of us any condemnation. My husband locked arms with him and off they went: one steady, the other staggering. I quickly asked, "But where are you going?" And he said, "Wherever he takes me." I got in the car and followed behind until they reached the motel two doors down the road. My husband saw him safely to his room, instructed him not to leave for the rest of the night, and returned to where I was waiting in the vehicle. Both of our hearts were heavy as we pulled out of the parking lot.

Only an hour earlier had we sat in our sanctuary and, before receiving the imposition of ashes, heard the words spoken by the pastor about dying to oneself. About the cost of discipleship. About walking this journey with Christ with intention. About sacrificing that we might become more like Christ in His sacrifice. Lent. It's the preparing of the heart for Easter.

"Where are you going?" "Wherever he takes me." Yes. Dairy Queen ministry. Through my husband, it all began to make sense.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Heart Overflowing

2011-03-05T16:45:00.011-05:00

Welcome to the World,

JUDE ROBERT McLENDON!
March 5, 2011
1:45 a.m.
6 lbs. 9 oz.

Our little Hoot

Mom and baby shortly after delivery.

A surreal moment for this mother: seeing her "baby" hold his.

Holding my grandson for the first time.

Getting acquainted with grandpa Geezer.

The new family. A cord of three.

3 hours of sleep and back to do it again.

It was difficult sharing -- but I did.

The proud grandmothers and love multiplied.

Indeed, our heart's overflow!

May He grant you according to your heart's desire,
and fulfill all your purpose.
Psalm 20:4

No ordinary moment....

"Welcome"

2011-02-15T22:19:00.005-05:00

Ladies' Bible study began a couple of weeks ago, and to bring to the table, so to speak, my own private practice of lighting a candle, I place a single candle on each of the tables every week to signify "this time is different." It's sacred. And for some reason, as I've begun each session, I've reminded the women that we do not invite God to join us, He invites us into His presence. It is He who initiates this whole thing, and we're there at His beckoning.

So can you imagine my delight and shock, after having prepared the room and tables the night before, walking in this morning to an empty building and finding this?
Yes, all the candles were lit!

And in the deep place of my heart, I heard one word. "Welcome."

Just an ordinary moment...

This Time is Different

2011-02-15T14:31:00.004-05:00

As I sat in my hotel room a few weeks ago with a balcony view overlooking two converging rivers on the eastern Carolina coast, I held my David study in my lap, and I thought, "I'm tired of doing Bible study just for the sake of doing Bible study." It was at that point that I determined to make it into something more. I decided to incorporate my study into something I have already been practicing for the last several months.

Since Thanksgiving, I've been getting up early and having tea with the Lord. For many mornings, this would include nothing more than just waiting on the sun to rise and then watching the birds as they came alive and fed at the feeders just outside my windows. It no doubt has been a time of sweet fellowship and presence.

It all started when I began celebrating Advent with my own private Advent wreath and candles. After Christmastide and with the beginning of Epiphany, I replaced the pine wreath and 4 candles with a colorful berry wreath, a carved "Jesus" cross my son brought back from Honduras, and one white candle -- for me, symbolizing Christ's presence. But as time developed, so did this sacred time; and now I light the candle each morning to say, "This time is different. This time is sacred."

And so as I sat in that hotel room, I raised my cup of tea to the heavens and belted a hearty "Cheers!" to the Lord and decided that I'm going to make this time of studying God's Word more than just a fill-in-in-the-blank experience. It's to be a place where friends meet. It's to be a sacred experience. After all, this is a sacred text -- not just an anthology of ancient writings; not just a tool to accomplish utilitarian purposes; not just to rein me in, tell me what to do, or coerce me into a way of thinking. It is to be a time to allow my heart and soul to be penetrated by an intimate word from God and to be captured by the Lover of my soul.

Maybe that's not such an ordinary moment after all....

A Good Soaking

2011-02-07T14:26:00.005-05:00

What the meteorologists predicted as a warm and dry winter in the south has proven to be a cold and wet one. In fact, it has been raining cats and dogs here. I even stepped in a poodle last week. (I'm so sorry for that one; it was incredibly corny -- and old! My mouth refrained, but the overload just swept out of my fingers to the keypad!) Anyway, it had been raining -- a lot. But true to their motto, the postal service continues to deliver. The problem lies in retrieving the mail. I wait until the rain has subsided and then I dash to the mailbox. But here's the problem. There's a huge oak tree that stands between me and the box. There won't be a drop falling from the sky, but as soon as I enter into the heavy drapes of those large branches, I might as well be in the next shower. The leaves are holding so much water that they are literally dripping with the latest rain. So I pick up speed to make it the mailbox and then scurry back through the rain forest. But the truth is, on such days I can't pick up the mail without getting a good soaking.

I mentioned in an earlier blog entry that I'm memorizing Scripture this year as one of my spiritual disciplines. To start the new year, I committed Psalm 65:11 to memory. It reads, You crown the year with Your good blessings, and You leave abundance in Your wake. The NIV reads, Your carts overflow with abundance. But today I'm reminded of the NKJV: You crown the year with good blessings, and Your paths drip with abundance. Indeed they do.

And so as funny as it may sound, a trip to the mailbox on these cold and rainy days reminds me of the lavishness of God. That where He trods, His bounty overflows; and that His paths literally drip with abundance.

Sort of makes me look forward to tomorrow's mail truck.

Just an ordinary moment...

The Composer's Presence

2011-02-06T22:25:00.002-05:00

What began as an ordinary moment in the church service this morning turned into an abnormal occasion before it was over. The choir was to sing "The Cup" by Jan McGuire. We had been practicing for months actually, just waiting for a communion Sunday when the piece would be most appropriate. Well, today was the day. We rehearsed as normal, and then before we headed out of the choir room, one of the altos said, "I emailed Jan McGuire and I think she is coming today." My first thought was, "How exciting!" My second: "Gee, I wished I had practiced more."

As is probably common with any musician playing another's work, one puts his or her own interpretation into it while still trying to remain true to the integrity of the artist. Notes are played as written and rhythms are left intact, but there's a certain amount of "heart" that is left to interpretation. But somehow knowing that Ms. McGuire might be sitting in the congregation, I became acutely aware of HER interpretation. As I played the lengthy introduction, I wondered if I was executing it according to the way she heard it when she first wrote it. Was the "give and take" of the rubato to her liking? Were the sixteenth notes played clearly? Regardless of whatever was happening in that moment, the awareness of the creator of the piece sitting and listening heightened my senses to the music.

My reaction to Ms. McGuire's potential presence surprised me and has left me thinking about it all day. Why would I be so concerned over the execution of a piece I had played dozens of times over the last months? What was it about having the composer in the room that all of a sudden changed the perspective for me? And then I got to thinking about all the other times I have played an anthem or an offertory. Or for that matter, all the times I have taught a Sunday School class or facilitated a woman's Bible study. Have I ever been as concerned about those executions? Why not? Was it because I truly wasn't aware of the watchful eye or listening ear of the Creator?

As it turns out, Ms. McGuire was indeed in the congregation, and when I spoke to her after the service, she was most gracious. Expressed through her tears, she was once again moved by the music and words that had shaken her soul so many years ago upon writing both.

The truth is that the great Creator of the cosmos is always present, too. And He is also most gracious. Yes, He desires excellence and that we play skillfully, and I believe He longs for our senses to be heightened to His presence. But He does not listen with a critical ear. He listens with a heart that loves His creation -- and is blessed by the offering.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Forgotten Art Remembered

2011-01-29T09:48:00.003-05:00

My husband took me to a new restaurant this week while we were on the Carolina coast. Persimmons overlooks the Trent River right at the point where the Neuse River dumps its waters into it. Persimmons prides itself on using local farmers and harvesters. It was somewhat upscale from our normal choice of establishments, but that doesn't mean I had any trouble finding something to eat. In fact, at the suggestion of my man, I ordered the Sauteed Carolina Black Grouper with Ginger and Green Onion Risotto, Sauteed Local Tatsoi and Soy Brown Butter Glaze. Oh, my goodness! I'm not sure when I'd had anything so delicious! To the horror of my husband, I snapped a shot before I completely consumed it. And, yes, my friends, that is seaweed on top!
For dessert, we shared the chef's creation of the evening: fried french toast with ice cream and maple syrup. I'm sorry to say I did not get a picture of that, because if I had put my spoon down to pick up my camera, I'm afraid it would have all been consumed by my partner in crime.

But food is really not the point of this particular blog entry. As we were sitting there waiting on our fare, I asked a simple question that any 5th grader would have known. In fact, it's too embarrassing to even publish. But when my husband was unsure of the answer himself, he suggested I look it up on my phone. Later, when our meal came out, we both were doubtful of what "tatsoi" was, and so, you guessed it, I pulled out my handy cell and Googled that.

No doubt the ability to access such information is a wonderful gift. If we want to know something, we can just Google it. If all we can remember is one line or even a few words of a favorite song, then we can just put those select words into a little rectangular box, and voila, we have the entire thing at our disposal. If we like a poem by a certain author or want to know who the Amalekites were, we type it in and have it in a heartbeat.

For thousands of years, committing things to memory was the foundation for religious, political and educational instruction. Memorization was known to have staying power. Stories and prayers known "by heart" were stored deep in the mind. And at any given time, they could pop up and amuse, comfort or educate. Somewhere along the line of printing presses and the World Wide Web, we have lost the discipline of memorization. Today, we simply pull out a phone or open up a laptop. And we're the less for it. Memorization provides us with a store of learning which can be accessed anywhere and anytime -- with or without cell phone or computer. It gives the mind somewhere to go when everything else is turned off. If there's nothing lodged there, then our soul is left at the mercy of the last mental image that took our fancy.

And so I've begun some intentional memorization. I've joined Beth Moore and about 9,000 other women across the globe as we memorize 2 Scriptures a month this year. I'm including verses that encourage, that exhort, that exalt. But I'm not limiting my discipline to just Bible passages. I've also pulled out an old hymn book and have found certain songs that I love and am committing them to memory. Great Is Thy Faithfulness was the first to be remembered. I'm also embarrassed to admit I no longer can say all the books of the Bible in order. I stumble when I get to the minor prophets; therefore, I'm committing the 66 books in the correct order.

Yes, I still might have to pull out my Ally to find out about tatsoi or to refresh my memory on all the oceans of the world. But hopefully, other more pertinent and important data will be stored not only in my mind but in my heart as I develop a habit of remembering that anchors my life in biblical truth.

I have hidden Your word in my heart
that I might not sin against you (Psalm 119.11).

Just an ordinary moment...

I Love You More

2011-01-09T19:02:00.004-05:00

My daughter and I have this thing that we do. We've done it for years, and it happened again as recently as this past week. Sometimes it's a verbal exchange, often times it's a text, but last week it was via facebook. For all our cyber friends to see, my 22-year-old baby merely wrote, "I love you, Mommy!" And my response was the same as before. "I love you more!" Yep. It's a simple and maybe silly little thing we do -- but it's our thing. And for as long as she tells me she loves me, my response will always be, "I love you more."

Sitting this morning in my "garden enclosed" (my sun room) watching the day rise up to meet the sun, I turned to Job 11:7-9. Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens -- what can you do? They are deeper than the depths of the grave -- what can you know? Their measure is longer than the earth and wider than the sea."

There is no limit to God's existence. He's infinite in all directions. He is boundless in every aspect of His character -- including His love. And so as I sat there, I thought of the message I had received from my daughter, and I breathed, "I love You, Lord." And in that voice that stretches to eternity past forward to eternity beyond, I heard that familiar response, "Oh, yes. But I love you more."

Just an ordinary moment...

Confessions of a Bibliophile

2011-01-01T01:13:00.003-05:00

I remember a few years ago when I first heard of a Kindle -- an electronic book. My response today has not changed from my response then: no thanks. There's just something about holding a book in one's hands, fingering its leaves, whether worn or new, and yes, to my mother's great horror and shame, even turning down corners on a favorite page. I really should be embarrassed at the number of periodicals that line my shelves; but I make no apologies. I love books.

A friend at the gym last week told me of a book that he thought I would enjoy and told me he had a couple of copies and would bring me one. I was really excited until he told me I would have to return it. I said, "Maybe I ought to get my own, because I love to underline and make notes in my books." To which he responded, "Oh, you can do that with this one; it's already marked up as it is." "But you want me to return it?" "Yea, but I'm in no rush to get it back." I swear I thought I was going to hyperventilate. I confess. I have a serious problem. I'm a bibliophile -- not in the sense of being an educated person but in that of being a book lover.

Of course, I do have standards. I don't read just anything and everything that comes along. I can't say I've read a lot of Oprah's Picks nor much on the New York Times Best Seller's List. But I most certainly have my most favorite authors and themes. I also have a Top 10 list, but if truth be known, there are probably more than 10 on my list. And lately, I've added 2 more.

The first was Jesus Manifesto by Leonard Sweet and Frank Viola. I don't think I've ever read a book (excluding the Bible) that exalts Christ more. In fact, the subtitle says just that: "Restoring the Supremacy and Sovereignty of Jesus Christ." Over and over, I found myself engaged in worship as I worked my way through it. And when I turned the last page, I found myself wanting to turn back to chapter 1 and read it again immediately. But more importantly, I was challenged to return to my first Love. Which was the perfect time to pick up my next book: Passion for Jesus.

I read this particular book 9 years ago when a friend gave it to me for my birthday. I loved it then and just had a desire to read again. But since Mike Bickle had given it a face lift, updating and expanding it with new chapters, I purchased a new copy. Herein lies a book that will sweep you off your feet and leave you breathless as you discover your true passion. Jesus. There are 4 chapters devoted to The Song of Songs and another to "gazing upon the throne." Hardly a page is left without a pencil notation or a tear stain.

I can honestly say that both of these books left me loving Jesus even more.

So what's next? Actually, this time it is a New York Times Bestseller, and I've already purchased it. It's Radical by David Platt. Wess Stafford, president and CEO of Compassion International writes: "David Platt challenges Christians to wake up, trade in false values rooted in the American dream, and embrace the notion that each of us is blessed by God for a global purpose .... This is a much read for every believer!" When I told my husband my plans to wait until after Christmas to read Radical, because I was afraid it would ruin the "joy of shopping," he responded: "Or is it because it's too convicting?" Guilty. But Christmas is now over....

There are others that are waiting in the wings -- and some I've already begun. The publishers sent me Dale Cramer's newest release, Paradise Valley, and so I'm well into the pages of this Amish fiction. I've picked up Frederick Buechner's Secrets in the Dark, which is 37 of his sermons. (Wow, does he ever have a way with words.) A personal goal for 2011 is to work through some spiritual disciplines, so The Sacred Way is waiting patiently for me to begin the first one: the journey of solitude and silence. And lastly, Len Sweet's book, Nudge, is ordered and on it's way here.

That ought to keep my book bag filled for awhile -- and my mind moving forward. But really, all this is just fluff and for puff. There's only one Word worth reading. It's the one that became flesh. It's the one that separates bone from marrow. And it's the only one that can truly change a life.

Just an ordinary moment...

Community

2010-12-29T22:30:00.004-05:00

My husband questioned the grin playing across my lips. "I just love Starbucks," I replied. We were waiting on his tall decaf 3-shot Americano and my grande non-fat decaf latte with 1 Splenda and light foam, but moments earlier, while I was still waiting on the cashier to accept my gift card, I couldn't help but overhear the customer at the adjacent register ordering his drink. I noticed immediately that he was a novice. After all, he didn't know it was a "grande" and not a "grand." And I was just plum embarrassed for him as he tried to place his order. "Can you make that caramel ...." and then there was this long pause. I nearly slipped close and whispered in his ear, "Macchiato," in order to redeem him from any further humiliation. But after he stuttered "caramel" a few more times, the barista caught on and said it for me: "Caramel Macchiato." He wanted to know if she could make it decaf. Yes, a plebe.

Satisfied that the gentleman and his friend would be okay, I turned my attention to the people lining the walls like assorted toys tucked on a shelf after a long day's play. First there was a middle age couple enjoying an evening out. They spoke quietly, leaned in close, and even tasted one another's drinks. Definitely empty nesters rediscovering each other.

Next to them were 2 young girls sitting shoulder to shoulder and giggling while watching the screen on the laptop in front of them.

As my eyes progressed leftward, I witnessed 2 young college guys holding up the north wall. They were as different as night and day sitting there; one was large and black, the other small and white. And whereas their distance and lack of eye contact spoke one thing, their constant conversation said another.

Around the corner from that odd couple sat a mother and son. She was decked in a black overcoat and he was sporting his letter jacket. She seemed delighted to be sharing such a moment and was giving him her full attention across the table; he seemed almost embarrassed to be caught. Thinking about how I love to sit and talk in a coffee shop with my now adult boys -- and they with me, I wonder how long before that young man finds out it's really not so bad to have coffee with his mom.

My eyes made it on to the final group gathered in this java hut: 4 young men lining the window. Since my back was mostly to them during my wait, I didn't have quite the study advantage. But as the barista called my name and I jacketed my cup, I turned and got a quick peek as I headed for the door. Nothing really out of the norm for a coffee shop. Except maybe that male #4 was sitting there in a stocking cap and shorts and it was freezing outside. But I think what amazed me most were his .... shoes, for lack of a better work. They were more like metal slippers with casings for each toe -- like a glove. The texture reminded me of a knight's armor. Looked awfully painful to me and even more odd with the shorts. But I just smiled even larger, reiterated my original thought: "I just love Starbucks," gave a confident nod to the two original plebes, and exited this eclectic community of coffee drinkers.

Community. A science dictionary would define such as "a group of organisms or populations living and interacting with one another in a particular environment." The legal dictionary lists it as "people who live in a particular place or region and usually are linked by some common interests." We might use words such a society, association, kinship, league and even brotherhood to define this word community.

As I sat in church last week celebrating Christmas Eve communion with "my folks," I was struck by community. It was a sure place of kinship, association and brother/sisterhood. Common interest brought us together. The king's horses couldn't separate us. But that's really no surprise. After all, we had gathered to worship a God who is communal. He is a plurality of oneness. As is written in the introduction to Common Prayer, "God has lived in community from eternity as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God as Trinity is the core reality of the universe, and that means that the core of reality is community." We are made in the image of community: whether we experience it within the walls of our worship centers or in a coffee shop.

Just an ordinary moment...

The Spirit of Advent

2010-12-17T16:52:00.001-05:00

The meaning is in the waiting....

The Way

2010-11-29T19:10:00.009-05:00

My husband and I took a little road trip on Saturday. He had business which to attend and I had a mission. When one normally thinks of a business trip, one might imagine nice khakis and a dress shirt for the man and a cute sweater and nice slacks for the woman. But I'm married to a forester and this was my attire.

The walking stick was for picture purposes only. It was HIS stick.

He assured me the trip to the water was only about as far as our house to the neighbor's across the street. Which isn't far. What he forgot to mention was what we'd be walking through to get there.
Yes, that's my dear husband blazing the trail for me. And he kept assuring me there WAS a trail. Now tell me, do YOU see a trail???

He also gave me some pointers. Like "Try not to breathe." Why?
Meet Mr. Ragweed. And this was a smaller bush! The only reason I took this picture is because it was actually in a clearing and I thought it looked pretty. The rest of the journey, I was actually pushing it out of my way just to get through. (If you look closely in the previous snapshot, you can see its bounty.)

Another time he suggested I keep my eyes looking up because I might see a deer. A deer? I'm sorry, but I was going to have to wait and just hope one crossed the road while we were in the truck on the way out. At the present, I was too concerned with snakes and briars. Speaking of which, one should never wear expensive jeans to the woods -- nor new turtleneck sweaters. While he had donned Carharts, I had gone for "cute." And cute doesn't cut it in the thicket. Forgive me if I don't mention the blood. I had really hoped not to draw any, but those briars were unforgiving.

I'm a novice rock collector, and at one point in our trek, we came across these small boulders. I felt it best not to ask if I could take them home with me. If we had found a puppy, there wouldn't have been any question. He would have just followed us back to the truck. These babies would have had to be toted.

Finally, we came upon a clearing and our destination could be seen in the distance!
Yes! I had run the race! I had fought the good fight! I had won the prize! "But wait. Why are we turning? The water is in that direction and isn't the water our purpose and intent?"

"Yes, but we can't get down at that point. The hill is too steep. We have to go over there where the footing is better," he said, pointing in the distance. And thus, we continued our journey.

But finally, we made it, and Lord, have mercy, right there where we came out on the landing, my soul had found a resting place!
And so my husband did what he came to do ... survey;
and I did what I came to do ... find mussel shells.
We walked the shoreline filling my bag with shells and acorns, and all too quickly, it was time to go. The only difference now was that we'd be walking UP hill instead of down. And so we did.
My husband pointed out this tree to me saying, "If I didn't know better, I'd think that was one hellacious hog that did that."
HOG??? I've got to ward off snakes, briars, and now wild hogs? But noticing the bulge in my eyes, he quickly and wisely retorted, "Or just a massive deer."

I certainly didn't remember walking through this burn pile earlier...
It's because we didn't. We had taken a different route "home." And, yes, we walked right through it, being very careful because "the footing isn't sure."

And then, lo and behold, I saw it! Rising in the distance like a mirage in the desert...
The truck! This walk from "our house to the neighbor's" had taken almost 3o minutes, my "cute" had worn off and the very chilly weather had turned near hot under all those layers. But I had done it and the victory lap was ready to be taken.

As I was bending over unlacing my boots, my dear man of some 31+ years said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm taking off my boots and putting on my tennis shoes."

"But we're not through. This is just the first track. There's another one."

I slowly raised myself and turned around. Eye-balling him, I said, "You ARE kidding, aren't you?" No, I'm afraid he wasn't....

The truth of the story is this: while I was following my husband through that dense thicket, I thought how fortunate I was that I didn't have to be afraid. Yes, I kid about snakes and hogs, but the walking stick he carried was a ready-made weapon and he could and would wield it in a heartbeat to anything or anyone who he perceived as a threat. And maybe I watch too much NCIS, but I also was made acutely aware that day that I never need to be afraid when I'm in his presence in a desolate place, because he would never physically harm me or leave me. But I think what struck me the most on this particular morning turned early afternoon was the way we moved through the brush. Not once did I know where I was or in what direction I was moving. My husband was my only way in and he was my only way out. Without him, I would have been utterly and hopelessly lost. But I was completely confident in him.

For thousands of years, people searched for God, yet were never able to come close enough to truly know Him. And then one day, the Word of God -- His very thought -- became flesh. And in the midst of our searching and our doubts and our fears and our just plain "lost-ness," we hear Him say, "I am the Way." He didn't say, "I am a way." Nor did He say, "I'll show you the way." He didn't hand us a creed as a roadmap, nor did He did say He had the answer. No, He simply said, "I am the Way," and He meant it. In a world where so many ways beckon and so many voices clamor for our attention and allegiance, I'm grateful for a Savior who is THE Way; One who will never harm me nor lead me astray. And One who will get me safely home to my Father.

Just an ordinary moment...

Waiting...

2010-11-28T08:04:00.006-05:00

Before my sister-in-law and her family left this week to return home from their visit with us, they brought in presents for our family that would be opened on Christmas morning. As I took the gifts to an appropriate holding station, it was everything I could do not to shift the paper around in the bags and take a peek as to their contents. No doubt there was a conflicting twinge of frustration laced with eager anticipation.

Waiting. It's not something I do easily or that comes naturally to me, though I've had ample opportunity of late to hone my skills. I've been waiting on cakes to cook and cakes to cool. Waiting on family to arrive. Waiting on the phone to ring for a long anticipated call. And may I just say that waiting in line at the bank drive-in last week nearly put me over the edge. Of late, there have also been the true "waiting room" experiences -- in doctor's offices, in hospitals, and in labs. And of course, my most on-going waiting involves the upcoming birth of my first grandbaby. Waiting. It's a way of life. But I know I'm not alone in it. I read recently that people feel wronged if they have to wait for more than 24 hours to receive a reply from an email. No doubt, we have become accustomed to immediacy, and we just plain don't like to wait.

Having made the proper arrangements last night, I woke this morning to my Advent wreath and its 4 candles (3 purple and 1 pink) on my coffee table awaiting their first light of the season. Given to my inability to wait, it almost seems ludicrous that I would still engage in such an activity. But I find it necessary -- almost like waiting to open those gifts from my sister-in-law. If nothing else, Advent evokes anticipation. But in a world that demands for Christmas to come earlier and earlier every year, what do we do with such a season as Advent? Do we just abandon it altogether? Or do we relearn how to wait, finding meaning in the act?

I've discovered that pregnancy is a great teacher for waiting. For one thing, waiting is not just about passing time. Not only are there the necessary outward preparations of buying baby furniture and stocking the drawers with tiny items, but there are the more inward workings. Each week my sweet daughter-in-love sends not only a picture of her developing tummy but an update as to what's going on inside with our "Little Hoot." Every week, our little love is developing or growing something new that is absolutely essential for his/her life. outside the womb. And I don't care how impatient I am, the last thing I want is for that baby of ours to come early. The waiting is an absolutely invaluable part of the process. It is not passive like I've often assumed. It is a nurturing time, priceless in its own right. Advent does the same thing. You can surely agree that there's no busier season of the year than the one that stretches from Thanksgiving to Christmas. But Advent does not demand passivity but activity: a vigilant internal waiting that, as we wait, forms new life in us.

I'm convinced that Advent is not a cultural dinosaur. It is an event to be cherished and re-learned if necessary. And quite frankly, it is not so much a season as it is a way of life. Of stopping, of entering into a deeper place with God, of being present, and yes, of anticipating. Without it, our journey is impoverished.

And so this morning, as the rest of the congregation sings "Joy to the World," my heart will be crying out, "Come, Thou long expected Jesus. I'm anticipating ... and waiting."

Just an ordinary moment....

Just One Thing More....

2010-11-25T21:14:00.004-05:00

I never make it through a Thanksgiving Day without remembering a particular incident that occurred some 12 years ago. In fact, I pray I never forget it. Here is my journal entrance dated 7/10/98...

I glanced around the room and thought to myself, "How sad." Though she lives in a huge antebellum home, her world exists within the confines of this small, square space. I had already noticed that when I drove up to the side of the house and got out of my car that the black shudders were barely hanging on their hinges, weeds had all but overtaken the yard and the house and that the steps were rotting. When I knocked, she didn't approach and let me in. I just opened the door and called her name. She heard and gave me entrance. This particular day, the curtains were drawn, lights were off; just a few rays filtered through whatever slits in the drapes they could find. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Attached to her small room was an even smaller kitchen/porch that had been added for convenience, I'm sure. A caretaker comes once a day to cook a meal for her and see to her needs. A portable toilet sat directly next to her bed. Sitting slightly angled to one other, we occupied the only chairs available. Two little bowls of candy, one with peppermint and the other with chocolate, rested on the small, round table that separated us. She confessed that cheese straws were kept hidden under her chair for really special guests. Her television set with a Bible and a magnifying glass tucked up under its stand completed the circle and seemed to make up the 3rd guest at our little party.

And so we visited. To be 96 years old, her mind is really quite sharp. She reminded me much of my own grandfather with her ability to remember details. She said she was watching the Braves tonight, able to call many of their names, but that there were several shows on CNN she enjoyed, too.

Because her eyesight is now so poor, she admitted to me that she cheats when she reads her Bible. "Cheat? How do you cheat when you read your Bible?" I questioned. "Oh, that's easy," she said. "I just 'read' the passages I know by heart. " I asked which ones that might be and she named Psalms 1, 23, and 100.

She talked about her family -- past and present. Both her dad and her husband died when they were 51 years old and she has lived as a widow for 45 years now. She has also lived in this same house all of her 96 years -- except, of course, when she went to Wesleyan College some 80 years prior. And though a staunch Baptist, she was quite proud of the fact that she is a direct descendant of Susannah Ansley Wesley! Quite a heritage, I must admit.

Living right across the street from the local United Methodist Church, she loves hearing the carillon bells chiming. She told me that one particular day, "Count Your Many Blessings" rang through the air, and so she decided, "Well, I'll do just that. I'll count my blessings -- I'll name them 'one by one'." And then she added, "However, I have so many, that by the time I got to 87, I was tired and just quit counting."

What a humbling moment for me as I sat there with this nanogenarian (and, yes, that's a real word -- I looked it up). Here is a woman whose entire existence is all within a 20 foot radius; whose only contact with the world is through a house phone, who cannot even walk outside and get her morning paper, and SHE tells ME she had to quit counting her blessings when she got to 87 because she just had so many.

O God, have mercy and forgive me for my murmuring and my complaining. Forgive me for my ingratitude and thanklessness. You have indeed given me so much! I ask for just one thing more: a grateful heart.

Just an ordinary moment...

The Gift of Presence

2010-11-05T09:41:00.003-04:00

I found myself in an unusual place last week. All normal activity had stopped and I was temporarily deferred in a hospital waiting room while a loved one was having surgery. I've sat in such spaces on numerous occasions, but never in this role. I've been a daughter, a sister, a friend, even a Sunday School teacher; but last Friday, I was a wife. And what was suppose to be a two hour procedure ended up being more than five. Thankfully, the OR nurses were good about keeping me informed -- that "everything's going well but that it would be awhile yet."

In the meantime, family and friends came, sat, and waited with me. My own sweet daughter was there from the time they rolled her daddy out of the room until they rolled him back in almost eight hours later. But each person who came, regardless of how long they stayed, offered me what I knew in my head but not yet in experience: the gift of presence. Every last one of them had put aside all other activity of the morning, and just come to "be" with me. No one brought an agenda. All came empty handed. Their presence was enough.

And so on this dark and chilly November morning, I pull my warm legs from under the covers and place my feet on a cold floor. And with nothing more than a cup of hot Scotland black tea with a little cream and sugar warming my hands, I offer to Him my presence. Nothing more -- for the presence IS the gift.

Just an ordinary moment...

Linger and Listen

2010-10-31T17:33:00.003-04:00

I set the metronome to 88. The piece was in cut time (meaning there would be two beats per "click"). Immediately my student began trying to match the notes on the music to the beat of the small time-keeping device. I placed my hands on her hands to stop her, and said, "Listen for the beat." Once again, she jumped in; and once again, I stopped her mechanical approach of trying to make her hands align with the tick-tock of the metronome.

This time I said, "Don't play yet. Just listen to the beat. Let it become a part of you inside here," tapping my hand on my chest. I instructed her to let the music flow, not from her head to hands, but from her head to her hands through the beat inside." Thus she did. And thus was her success.

It's strange how God can use such a simple illustration to bring home a truth in my own life. For how many times have I done the same thing: just jumped into the hustle and bustle of the day, expecting full well to produce some kind of music in my life because I had the mechanics right? But the Lord says to me, "Linger in my Presence and hear My heartbeat." And so I rein in my impulses to jump into the day's activity, and I listen. And from there, when my beat melds with His, and the two become one, the true music begins.

For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do (Eph. 2:10).

Just an ordinary moment...

The Journey of Faith

2010-10-27T13:45:00.005-04:00

I took my mom and dad on a little road trip last week as they had yet to see my son and his wife's home up in Kennesaw nor my cousin's place in Cumming. Considering the temperament of Atlanta traffic, the trip up was quite uneventful -- for which I was very grateful. And though I had on my GPS, it really wasn't needed. I knew the roads and the exits about like the back of my hand.

We had a great visit with the "kids." After a tour of their home, some lunch, and a few "ahs" of delight over the new baby furniture, they took us on a little excursion which consisted of a trip to the top of Kennesaw Mountain, a visit to their church where she works, and a stop at their favorite coffee shop, The Daily Grind.

Mom finally found a chair that's her size! It was in the nursery!!!

By then, it was time to hit the road again heading northeast -- in Atlanta on a Friday at 4:00. Not smart. But I called my cousin and she gave me some "easier" directions than what my GPS was instructing -- ones that would keep me off the REALLY busy highways. I followed them precisely and delivered mom and dad to cousin Billy's front door. [One thing that helped to make this portion of the trip more palatable was my new smart phone. Just the day before, I had downloaded Pandora radio and was able to tune in to Glenn Miller radio. Mom knew every song!]

We had a grand time with Billy and Michele in their beautiful home. Not to mention a great place for the grandchildren, Billy also has quite the man cave -- complete with a HUGE screen TV and a pool table. Gracing the walls are pictures and plaques of Billy's wrestling career that his wife Michele insists be displayed -- much to Billy's opposition. I especially enjoyed seeing the pictures of him when he wrestled for GA Tech back in the 60's. More recently, there's a plaque recognizing his induction into the National Wrestlers Hall of Fame. But you won't find a more gentle, humble and Godly man on earth. That's why he's my "FC" (favorite cousin).

I failed to get a picture while we were there -- so here's one from a family wedding a few weeks ago.

After a lot of great eating due to Michele's talents, a relaxing evening with dear family, and a good night's sleep to top it all off, Mom and Dad and I headed south -- but not before setting the GPS to 77 West Paces Ferry Road. But this time, I had absolutely no clue as how to get from point A to point B, and if ever I was dependent upon my navigational device, it was then. Completely dependent. At one point, a red truck pulled in front of us which blocked my view of everything but his tailgate. My daddy made the comment, "That's bad. Now you can't see where you are going." Truth is, though I didn't tell him, it really didn't matter, because I didn't know where I was going. I knew the destination point, but how to get there? It was only by listening to that voice instructing me where and when to turn that I pulled into the parking lot of Whole Foods. And the way I was praising Jesus, one would have thought I'd just entered the gates of heaven itself.

It was Mom and Dad's first trip to Whole Foods, one I thought was important for them to experience -- for more reasons than one. And I was right. They loved it. Mom more the food; Dad the people. We weren't in Kansas anymore, for sure. We even had lunch there! (I do regret not getting pictures.) But before heading home, I set my GPS one more time and headed to Fort McPherson, the place where my dad spent his first year in the army before being shipped out to Japan during the Korean War. This time the trip was a little more taxing. Traffic kept us backed up for a good 30 minutes as we attempted to exit onto the ramp, and then when we got to the destination, we found the gate had been blockaded and we could find no other entry. And so I did what no male but every female would do, I stopped a gentleman walking home from the grocery store and asked him for help. He sent me back the way I came, and said, "You're only two minutes from there."

After a few minutes of sitting inside the gates of the fort with Dad reminiscing a little bit -- after all, it has been almost 60 years since his dad and my mom dropped him off at those gates ...

This is what he looked like. Handsome, huh!

... we headed south one more time; the trip returned to its uneventful status and by God's grace, we arrived home safe and sound.

I've thought several times since then how that little road trip parallels life's journey. On some portions of the stretch, I know exactly where I'm going; no road map is really needed. It's almost as if God lets me see what's ahead. At other times, I need a little help along the way -- someone to counsel and guide me. Another to point me in the right direction. But on the particular leg I find myself these days, it's more like that stretch of GA 400. I can't see what's ahead. All I can do is listen to the Voice that says, "This is the way; walk ye in it." And then trust.

As I was up in the guest bedroom getting ready to come home Saturday morning, a Michael Card song came on the radio and I quickly committed the chorus to memory. As we were traveling down 400, I asked my dad to jot down the words for me because they suddenly became very real.

To hear with my heart
To see with my soul
To be guided by a hand I cannot hold
To trust in a way that I cannot see
That's what faith must be

Just an ordinary moment...

A Fair Lesson in Evangelism

2010-10-18T13:35:00.011-04:00

I took my annual trip to the fair last week with 3 of my girlfriends. We've been doing this day for a good 8 or 9 years now, and it's become a priority for all of us. Just a day to which we look forward. Basically, it's more of a progressive meal down the midway, and our first stop is always the fried cheese.

Traci had not made it yet; obviously we didn't wait on her to eat.

For lunch, which took place about 20 minutes after the fried cheese, we had a fried pork tenderloin sandwich, fried vegetables, and a corndog. Split 3 ways, of course. Kim wanted to go ahead and get a cinnamon roll but we said that it might be a good idea to wait on that for the time being.

But amidst all the talking and catching up, we were able to take in some attractions, too. The petting zoo, for one.

And the Tams concert.

Here's Traci adding a little color to the Slide.

The original "Tam" who played at my college dance in the 1978 is now 75 years old. His son carries on the legacy.

It was an absolutely beautiful day to ride the ferris wheel.
And, of course, there was the Sea Lion show.

Yes, these are real sea lions. And they stunk.

Somewhere in there we also ate soft ice cream on a cone, and before leaving, shared a funnel cake while watching the water ski show.

So what about the "ordinary moment"? It actually happened while we were taking a "break." I had plopped myself down on a bench outside the facilities to guard the water bottles while the other girls were doing their "breaking." And there I saw it. I took a couple of pictures, but out of respect decided not to post them. Truly, what I saw should have blessed me; rather it turned my stomach. It was a tent turned tabernacle; and outside were a young man and a woman "enticing" young people to come in and hear a story -- "It only takes 5 minutes" -- and after doing so, receive a free gift. Of course, the story was the story of salvation given in 5 easy steps. The free gift was a sucker. Please don't get me wrong. I esteem highly all those whose desire was to see people come to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus. What disturbed me so was the tactic. That young man standing outside the doors was more like a hawker peddling his goods, yelling mainly to unsupervised children and teenagers as they passed by. In fact, it reminded me even more of the "carnies" on the midway enticing fair-goers to toss a ring over a bottle or shoot a basketball through an undersized hoop all for a worthless trinket. It just didn't set well with me.

I sat and watched for quite awhile, even urging my girlfriends to sit a moment and take in what was happening. Most often what we saw were young people leaving the tent no different than when they went in; maybe just more eager to head to their next venture -- with sucker in hand. I made the comment to my friends that I wasn't sure this was the correct way to go about evangelism; however, if just one life was truly changed, then it was worth it. And so we moved on. And we came upon this:As we passed by this tent, an older gentle sitting just inside the awning and out of the sun said, "May I fill up that bottle for you with some ice water?" I thanked him and told him that would be nice. He filled it up just as he offered; we chatted a minute, and then in a very gentle voice he said, "I just have one question for you. Do you know the Living Water?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

As my friends and I departed the tent and headed toward the sea lions, I looked at them and said, "He got it right, girls." That was the Spirit of Jesus.

Just an ordinary moment...

Let's Do the Twist

2010-10-07T23:25:00.009-04:00

There are few events to which the people of Perry look more forward than the Georgia National Fair which is held right here in our beautiful little city. All year, the community sign on Sam Nunn Blvd. counts down the weeks -- and then the days, until if finally reads, "Have fun at the fair!" And tonight was Sneak-a-Peak when everybody from Perry shows up. Everybody.

Twenty-eight of us from my own family -- amidst the thousands of people -- seemed to find each other in the crowd.

For the first hour, we moved and grooved to a local group called The Grapevine. And finally, at 8:30, the main attraction took center stage: Chubby Checker.

The legend himself.

When I had originally heard that Checker was to play the Fair's Sneak-a-Peek, I was thrilled. When I shared with my 22 year old daughter that "Chubby Checker is going to be this year's Sneak-a-Peek performer," she just looked at me quizzically and said, "Who?" So just thinking she didn't hear me, I reiterated, "Chubby Checker." And then, Lord have mercy, she said, "Who is that?" "WHO IS CHUBBY CHECKER???" Where, oh, where did I go wrong? For a moment I seriously thought I had failed miserably as a parent and considered turning in my mother button; but when I said, "You know, the Twist," praise God, she at least said, "Oh, yeah."

And so Checker began his show -- and for the next hour and fifteen minutes, it was American Bandstand all over again.

Our special cousin Lynn loves 60's music -- and Chubby Checker. She came all the way from Jacksonville, FL.

Granddaddy and granddaughter snuggle and wait.

My brother and his granddaughter take it in. (And he can still shake a leg.)

Yet another brother and his boy who was actually "dancing" on his daddy's shoulders.

From the youngest to the oldest, people just couldn't stand still. Babies jumped in their granddaddy's arms, youngsters bounced on their daddy's shoulders, teenagers acted as if they themselves had lived the 60s, and the 60+ year-olds danced knowing they really had. Even the most reserved could be seen shaking a little knee or swaying a might in the hips. And our friend standing behind me who is a few years my senior sang every single word to every single song! After all, it was Chubby Checker, the originator of the Twist. The Twist: the only single to top the Billboard Hot 100 twice. The Twist: voted the number one song for the entire decade of the '60s. The Twist: the first rock song to ever win a Grammy. The Twist: named the biggest chart hit of all time by Billboard magazine. The Twist: the grandfather of all the other "solo" dances (such as the Jerk, the Pony, the Watusi, the Mashed Potato, the Monkey, the Funky Chicken).

The performance was non-stop with Checker moving from one song to another with hardly a breath -- certainly no break in the music, when there finally came a crescendo to the evening and the moment for which we had all been anticipating: "Come on, baby, let's do the twist...." And for the next 20 minutes, we did just that. I have to say that in all my 21 years now of attending the Georgia National Fair, this was the most exhilarating and exciting time I've ever known: actually Twisting with Chubby Checker himself. My husband, my brothers, their wives and children and their children; my parents, my cousins, friends from church and friends from the community and, yes, even the governor himself with his family -- we threw caution and certainly all cares to the wind -- and we danced.

Oh, yes, we Twisted!

As the final note waned and the crowd continued applauding and celebrating the legend before us, I experienced a very uncanny and mysterious moment -- a sacred moment, if you will. I realized the gift the Lord gave to the world through this man at a time when our nation was experiencing such turmoil some 50 years ago. And the same was true tonight. It was a moment of coming together as family -- as community ... of forgetting heartaches ... of laying aside fears ... and just dancing.

And so amidst the accolades and ovations of the crowd, and with the same sincerity of gratitude when experiencing a beautiful autumn sunset, I lifted my eyes and raised my hand to heaven and thanked God for Chubby Checker.

And then the fireworks began.

Just an ordinary moment...

Sunday School Appreciation

2010-10-03T20:32:00.004-04:00

Today on the way home from church, I witnessed a couple of children playing out in a neighbor's yard -- children I knew who had not been to church or Sunday School this morning (or any other time this week, for that matter). And it really broke my heart. It also reminded me of a question in my Bible study this week. The author put it this way: "Historically, have you seen God more as someone searching you out and eagerly awaiting an opportunity to give you a second chance or hiding from you?" And then, "What teachings or experiences have helped to shape your view in this regard?"

So what does that have to do with the children romping in the yard? Everything. I am who I am today because my parents thought it not only necessary but absolutely crucial to my spiritual upbringing that I be in Sunday School each week -- not for the attendance pin (my dad saw to it that I always missed at least one Sunday a year as not to receive it, because he didn't want a pin to be my goal) but because they knew the truths I learned there were foundational. And whereas I can't ever remember opposing that conviction, I'm so grateful they saw it as an important part of their parenting. Yes, I cut my teeth on the back of those little Sunday School chairs. I folded my hands in prayer and sang "Into my heart, into my heart, come into my heart, Lord Jesus..." each week. (And He did!) I learned that "Yes, Jesus loves me" as well as "all the little children of the world." Week after week, year after year, I viewed Jesus as a framed Shepherd -- a good Shepherd -- who seeks out that lost sheep and with joy brings him home resting over His shoulders. Experiences that helped me shape my view of a God who does not hide from me, but rather searches me out.

I am so thankful for those teachers who fed me the milk of His Word. "Little Nina," Mr. Boone (with his little bow-tie), Mrs. Hicks, and the list stretches on. If it weren't for them, and their saying "Yes" to serve in such a lowly but mighty way, I wonder where I would be today? Would I be struggling with issues of truth? Would I be questioning God's existence? Would I be following who knows what religion -- or just picking and choosing the part of each that works best for me?

Thanks also to you, Mom and Dad, for loving the four of us children enough to see that we were where we needed to be each Sunday morning. That you didn't take your parenting lightly when it came to that demand. That you knew Sunday School was an essential part of training us in righteousness. That we are who we are today because of the foundational truths that were implanted in us then.

The thing is this: if we needed it so desperately as children then -- some 50 years ago, how much more do children need it now in this generation? O Lord, have mercy.

Just an ordinary moment...

Poetic Worship

2010-10-01T09:35:00.006-04:00

Poetically challenged. That describes me perfectly. Unless it has the lilt of a nursery rhyme, I've never been able to read it well, understand it, or certainly not write it. But Wednesday morning, I came across two poems in my early morning reading that spoke to me in a way uncommon to my poetic ability -- or lack thereof. So much so, that I returned yesterday morning to it and then again this morning.

Both poems were written by Gerard Manley Hopkins who was born in 1844 in Essex into a High Anglican family but later converted to Roman Catholicism when in college. He became a member of the Society of Jesus -- known at the Jesuits, where he involved himself in a life of intense prayer and spiritual discipline. Much to the world's loss, Hopkins died at a young age in 1889 of typhoid, but not before, as my friend Len related to me, he "destroyed a lot of his writings as proof of his 'commitment' to the Catholic church." How sad.

Personally, I'm so grateful these two made the cut. Read them out loud ... and worship.

GOD'S GRANDEUR

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

PIED BEAUTY

Glory be to God for dappled things --
For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscapes plotted and pieced-fold, fallow, and plough;
All all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Now couple that with a heavy dose of Psalm 84 and it just doesn't get much better.

Just an ordinary moment...

Harvest Moon Blessing

2010-09-23T21:28:00.007-04:00

Last night marked something that hasn't occurred since Sept. 23, 1991 and won't happen again until 2029 -- a Super Harvest Moon. For the first time in almost 20 years, autumn began on the night of a full moon. As the sun sank in the west, bringing to close a very hot summer, the full Harvest Moon rose in the east, heralding the beginning of fall.

Just as it implies, the Harvest Moon is an agrarian term. Before electricity, farmers depended on the brightness of the moon to extend their workday beyond sunset. It also obviously gave lovers a chance to "spoon" a little longer as evidenced by the words to that old song -- the one which I've hummed all day:

Shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky.
I ain't had no lovin' since January, February, June or July.
Snow time ain't no time to stay out-doors and spoon,
So shine on, shine on harvest moon, for me and my gal.

But something about the moon has always wooed me. I can remember as a very small girl reciting with both my mother and grandmother as we sat in the swing on that extended front porch those words that still warm my heart today:

I see the moon; the moon sees me;
The moon sees the one that I want to see.
God bless the moon; God bless me;
God bless the one that I want to see.

Yes, that's it. The moon gives me connection. In some strange way, it ties me with those who have gone before me. That beacon that shines through my window even now as I sit here in my "garden enclosed" was the same source of light that surely gave comfort to my great-great-grandfather as he walked home from Virginia to Georgia when the Civil War finally ended. And no telling how many times my grandmother watched it rise as she sat in her rocker on that front porch of her farm house after a hard day of labor. But even long before that, this same moon lit Abraham's path as he walked from Ur to that land yet to be seen. It's the same moon which inspired the shepherd David to sing and the one which cast a glow upon a bather as an older David walked on his rooftop. And no doubt, it was this same moon that lit up the face of Jesus -- by, for and through whom it was created -- as He cried out to His Father, "Take this cup from Me."

But tonight I am drawn back to the present and to those upon whom its light is cast this warm September evening. I disengage the alarm system and walk out into the middle of the yard where this Harvest Moon slips its rays between the branches of the oak and the pine. But this time I don't sing. I just softly recite the prayerful wish:

I see the moon; the moon sees me;
The moon sees the one that I want to see.
God bless the moon; God bless me;
God bless the one that I want to see.

Receive your blessing, dear reader.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever ... who by His understanding made the heavens; His love endures forever .... the moon and stars to govern the night; His love endures forever... Psalm 136:1,5,9

Just an ordinary moment...

Early Morning Prayer

2010-09-23T07:22:00.008-04:00

I awoke early this morning and saw my husband off to work while it was still dark outside. Instead of turning on my little lamp in my "garden enclosed," I opened a window and sat in the dark with my Parisian Lights black tea warming my hands. It was a special time of just Him and me. No book was open on my lap; no music; not even any birds at this moment. Just the sound of a cicada yearning to free itself.

Somewhere in the process of just "being," I began to lift the names of those who had been brought to my attention lately -- those who needed or had asked for prayer. Debra and her mother ... Christi ... Ken ... Kathy .... Erin ... a little boy named Jay who has an inoperable brain tumor and his dad who is about to be deployed ... Dawn's mother ... Tonya ... Don ... Debbie ... Janice ... a particular couple ... Julie and Mike, and the list continued with an almost overwhelming length and need.

But as I sat there in the darkness, calling out names and pausing with each, I was reminded of something I asked the ladies in Bible study to do last week. As they sat around in their small groups, I had them share what their particular life-story was telling others about God. For example, one lady said that she hoped her life-story was reading, "God is faithful." But then a funny thing happened: other ladies at the table began sharing what THEY saw in way of God by that person's life. In other words, how the Lord was manifesting Himself through that woman. And without fail, every revealed characteristic of God resulted from a place where that person is being or had been broken. That every revelation proceeded from and was due to some type of hardship. How odd.

But you know, I'm so grateful I serve a God of redemption, and that He does not allow anything to come into our lives that cannot be redeemed for His glory. That He takes our mistakes, our losses, our sicknesses, our dysfunctions, our pain, yes, even our messes and turns them into something beautiful: bread by which a broken world can be fed. Indeed, it is in the breaking that we are given and that He is revealed.

So, yes, Lord. Come and minister to each of these whose names have been called out before Your throne this morning. Touch their source of need and answer as only You can. Do Your complete work. And in a way that is so far beyond our comprehension, shine Your everlasting light through their brokenness and reveal Your Son in and through their lives.

How appropriate that as I had finished my prayer, the room was no longer black and the earth was no longer silent. The sun had broken the darkness and the song of nature had begun. Praise the Son of Righteousness who awakens the dawn and rises with healing on His wings.

Just an ordinary moment...

Smitten

2010-09-19T14:45:00.003-04:00

As I mentioned in my last entry, I've been in somewhat of a writer's slump -- but not because of lack of things to write. In fact, I could have filled page upon page of the workings of both my inward and outward life happenings. But there is one particular occurrence that bears its worth on paper.

So, .... tap tap tap ... "Begin."

About 6 weeks ago, my son and his wife called to say they were coming for a short overnight visit. Kristin had just returned from her mission trip to Scotland -- the land of my husband's forefathers -- and she had brought home some special gifts to us. Our favors included wonderful Scottish candy, shortbread cookies, a book on the origins of the MacLennan clan and their place in Scotland's history, and a wonderful tartan plaid throw from the Lamont side. Yes, like I said, my husband is Scottish through and through.

Kristin then opened her laptop and began showing us pictures of her recent trip. She moved through them so swiftly, I thought, "She must have hundreds of them to be going so fast." I particularly remember the number of churches and steeples she was showing us. And then about the 20th picture in, this frame popped up.

In case you can't make this out, it's a picture of a sonogram which reads, "Your first grandbaby."

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I don't think I've ever been more shocked in my life. On more than one occasion when our married children have called us to meet them or just shown up with their spouses, I've thought, "I wonder if they've got some 'news' for us." But this time it had not even crossed my mind. Not once. And so here I stood looking at a picture of my first grandbaby; and let me just go on record as saying, I was smitten. Enamored. Besotted. Captivated. Crazy about. Completely undone by that raspberry size fetus growing within the confines of its mother's womb. That little thing that already had lips and a nose and eyelids. Legs and arms. A heart beat that was pumping fast and a brain that was developing at rapid speed. Yes, this was nothing short of our baby, a seed from God planted in the earth. And you can bet that before they left the next evening, I had placed my hands on that only slightly protruding belly and blessed that precious little thing growing inside of its mother.

Smitten. I'd never used that word before and suddenly it became everything to me. When I would tell someone, "I'm going to be a grandmother!" it was only natural for me to add, "And I'm already so smitten." And I am. Absolutely captivated by this new love in my life. One that I can hardly wait to meet face to face and cradle in my arms.

Up until now, the word "smite" has held negative connotations. We think of God smiting the enemy. Or as Webster's dictionary uses it: "His sword has smitten thousands." And I was actually beginning to wonder if I were using the word correctly. And then I read a passage from Leonard Sweet and Frank Viola's book entitled Jesus Manifesto that caused me to think differently. It read, "The need today is for the scales to fall from our eyes so that we may see the infinite greatness of our Lord ... This, of course, necessitates that those who have been smitten by Christ themselves impart that same sterling vision of Him to others."

Six weeks after learning the news, I'm still telling people, "I'm going to be a grandmother!" That news is not fading; it's not becoming old to me. My enthusiasm is only growing with the baby's development. And I have a feeling when the next one becomes pregnant, the news will be just as fresh and just as exciting -- and probably even more so as then I will know the full extent of the joy.

But here lies the conviction: "those who have been smitten by Christ..." Sweet and Viola go on to say, "Once our eyes are opened to see the incredible richness and captivating beauty of Jesus, either our other pursuits will take a backseat, or we will discover them anew and afresh 'in the light of His glory and grace.' Like Paul, we will be 'apprehended; -- ambushed and arrested by Christ."

Yes, I have been "ambushed" and "arrested" lately by our Little Hoot. But nothing should or can compare to the "spellbinding apprehension" that is ours when the Divine places His Seed in us and the mystery of the Gospel is revealed in us. Even becoming a grandmother should pale.

Just an ordinary moment...

"Little Hoot" at 12 weeks.

Two babies on the way. Robert and Chad are first cousins, the best of buds, and only 12 hours apart themselves. Kristin is due in March and Jadie in January.

Me and my girls -- a little weathered by the rain, but still smiling and celebrating new life. Yes, how appropriate: pink symbolizes a heart of flesh and childlike faith. O Lord, may it be...

Tap Tap

2010-09-15T13:16:00.004-04:00

Hello, my blogger friends. I think this has got to be the longest blogger silence period for me yet. There's so much going on in my life and in my head, but somehow nothing seems to make it to paper. I heard Sue Monk Kidd speak Monday night at Wesleyan College and she talked briefly about writer's slump, relating how a famous choreographer was having her own period of "nothing." Sue (as if I know her personally) said that the choreographer placed herself on a stage and then tapped her foot very lightly -- just one time. And then she tapped it harder. And then she tapped softly. Then hard again. And then as if her foot was a separate entity, she pointed at it and demanded, "Begin!" And thus she began "writing" again.

And so here I sit, not on a stage but in front of a keyboard and screen, trying to start anew. Tap .... TAP TAP ..... tap tap tap ..... "Begin!" [pause]

Tap tap tap .... TAP TAP TAP ... "BEGIN!!!" [lengthy pause]

Oh, well. Maybe soon. Please don't give up on me.

Just an ordinary moment...

Come to the Table

2010-08-25T13:36:00.005-04:00

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago if my husband and I still sit at the table to eat each evening now that all the kids are gone. My answer: "Yes, ma'am; and with placemats." You see, when my husband and I bought our current home some 11 years ago, one of the features I loved the most was the space it had to not only host my large breakfast room table left to me by my grandfather that spreads out to seat 10, but also the beautiful dining room table and chairs I inherited from my great aunt some 26 years ago -- not to mention the trestle table my brother built for us when we married and is now a focal point on my sun porch. No doubt, my love for entertaining and having people put their feet under my table was inherited from my mother. But I think that's only a portion of it. What is it about a table that brings us back again and again?

I think, for one, the table represents acceptance. That was never more evident than in the biblical account of David and Mephibosheth, the son of David's covenant friend Jonathan and the grandson of Saul. After King Saul died, the new king, David, summoned lame Mephibosheth to come and dine at his own kingly buffet -- to pull those lame feet under his royal dining table. Mephibosheth, one who should have been either killed or stripped of every royal right, was instead marked as "Accepted!" characterized by being invited to the table. When we invite people to place their feet under our table, we are virtually saying, "I accept you."

But the table also represents intimacy. The "breaking of bread" together extends much further than just sharing some food. The food, the drinks, the words, the stories -- are they not all intimate ways in which we give our lives to each other? I remember one occasion when I invited a widower -- a greeter at Wal-Mart -- to come and have supper with us. My husband, children and I sat around the table for hours as he told stories of when he served on a battleship in WWII. I've never seen one so emotionally distressed and lonely from a loss come so alive as he remembered and shared his life with us.

On another occasion, I invited a group of 6 brothers who were performing at the GA National Fair to come have a little southern lunch with me and my brothers. They came not only from somewhat of a different culture but also from a very different religious background. And before it was over, the feet under the tables totaled 32, but a better time had never been had.
The guests have been as diversified as the stories. Church folks, family members, revival speakers, out of town visitors, hurricane evacuees, and like I said, even a Wal-Mart greeter. At one time or another, we've used all the tables -- even a card table draped with lace and set for 4, placed in front of a warm fire on a cold winter night.

You see, when we eat together, we become vulnerable to one another. Weapons are not worn at the table. It is a place of unity and peace. Or should be. The supper meal can also be the most dreaded part of the day because of the silence that so starkly contrasts the intimacy of the table. It can be almost unbearable; the silence deafening. But a really peaceful and joyful meal? Ah, now that belongs to the greatest moments of life. And I've shared many of them.

While I know it's not the correct response, I now understand why a person's decline to a dinner invitation has often wounded me. It's more than just a meal at stake. It's more than just a desire to eat together. Whether it's two or twenty-two, sharing a meal, putting one's feet under the table with another, is the most intimate expression of our deepest desire to give ourselves to each other and to BE the bread, not just break it.

Just an ordinary moment...

Wasp Spray in the Hand of a Pastor

2010-08-12T10:40:00.006-04:00

As I walked into the sanctuary this past Sunday to prepare the piano and myself for worship, I noticed a small wasp nest up in the corner of the portico, and with it, its inhabitants buzzing around their home. I quickly opened and closed the door and went in. There I found the pastor standing at his pulpit chatting with one of his parishioners. I excused my interruption and said, "Before I forget it, I wanted to let you know that there's a wasp nest just outside the door." The pastor asked for the exact whereabouts and then proceeded to the designated area. A moment later, while I was going over some of my pieces at the keyboard, he came back through the worship area with a can in his hand headed again to the covered porch. He was gone for just a moment, but as he re-entered and made his way to his study for some last minute preparation and prayer, I wondered if he truly knew the spiritual significance of what he had just done.

In the physical sense, this pastor had, in a way, just fought to protect the well-being of his people -- especially the young children who would be running in and out. Quite literally, those wasps were nasty little creatures that could become very easily provoked when messed with. But the unassuming and meek manner with which the pastor walked back through the sanctuary revealed to me a depth of servitude that spoke about more than just a routine spraying to rid the doors of the sanctuary from pests.

I thought about all the times this man has bowed to pray for a parishioner who is in the pit of despair. Or the accounts he has bent over a hospital bed and taken the hand of someone who's dying, offering to them a prayer and a word of hope. Or of the times he has fallen to his knees and begged God to intercede in a loved one's life. I wondered of the moments he has pointed a can of spray at the enemy of someone's soul and said, "You will not have this one!" I speculated of the countless times he has gathered the people within his charge in his spiritual arms and asked God to protect them.

Yes, as he casually walked back to his office with his can of wasp spray, I saw a man mighty in the Lord who attends to this particular community of faith and goes to battle daily to protect those in his care.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Little Trim

2010-08-03T07:07:00.004-04:00

I went out on my deck last week with my kitchen scissors in hand to cut some dry branches off a few of my potted tomato plants. On more than one occasion, a vine from the Confederate Jasmine that sweeps around the outside of the deck had poked its way through the trellis and wrapped itself around the neck of one my little budding greeneries. I would carefully remove the creeper and then with a quick snip of the wrist, dissect that particular spike from its source. One by one ... snip, snip, snip -- until I had made my way down the row of my vegetable "garden." But for some strange reason, I couldn't stop. I moved on around to the outside of the deck and kept "trimming" until I had cut the entire length of the Jasmine -- WITH MY SCISSORS! My right hand was not only bloody from rubbing places raw, it cramped for days.

Now what you must understand here, if you have not already deduced from the first paragraph, is that I am not a natural when it comes to gardening and have even less skills when it comes to landscaping. That is my husband's job. He does, has always done, and will always do the keeping and pruning of the yard. And he does it very well. I esteem him so highly in that. So, when I stepped back and looked at what I had done in this moment of insanity, all I could think was, "He's going to kill me." It wasn't like buying a new pair of shoes and bringing them home and sticking them in the closet so he won't know. I had "manicured" the shrubbery for crying out loud! And may I say it again? WITH MY SCISSORS! He was going to notice.

So after my morning of horticulture, I cleaned up a bit and went to pick my husband up for lunch. We had a delightful time at my friend's new restaurant that's just opened up in town. And rightly so, knowing it could quite possibly be my last meal. So on the way home, I casually asked, "Have you ever had a bad haircut?" He quickly remembered back to a time when we lived in Vidalia and he went to the barbershop downtown. He put on his cap to come home and the thing came way down over his ears. Seems the barber got to talking and forgot to quit cutting until the associate next to him leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Yes, we laughed about it again and both agreed that bad haircuts have a way of growing out, thus there's really no use to get upset over them.

I paused a moment in the conversation and then I said, "I trimmed the jasmine today." No other words or comments were needed. He would know the rest of the story.

A box of multiple sized Band-Aids -- $2.89
A pair of kitchen shears -- $9.99
A trip to the chiropractor -- $40.00
A word fitly spoken (Prov. 25:11) -- PRICELESS

Just an ordinary moment ...

Two Missionaries -- One Mission

2010-07-19T15:11:00.006-04:00

Missionary #1: Kristin

Kristin is married to my son Robert. In fact, the way they were introduced was by the Rev. Bill Strickland, her pastor at the time, as he pointed at Robert and said, "There's your man." Of course, he was speaking of the male chaperon she needed to accompany her and her youth group to Costa Rica that year and not the man she would marry. However, as God would have it, Bill was more prophetic than he knew and my son ended up fulfilling both of those positions.

But missions had been on Kristin's heart way before Robert entered the picture. As a youth pastor, she has ministered on numerous occasions with sometimes lengthy stays in Costa Rica and has led teams to Guatemala, Honduras, and Mississippi post Katrina, just to name a few. And today as I write, she and a team from her church in Marietta, GA are in Scotland holding a youth camp. They are not only spending long hours of the days and evenings with these teens through worship, fun and fellowship, they are praying mightily that these young men and women would encounter Jesus and grow in their love for Him; that they would be awakened and revival would come to their very spiritually dark land. Just this morning, I was able to tune into their midst through a live feed and actually watch Kristin on the other side of the world share her personal testimony with these campers and beckon them to a love relationship with Jesus that is real. A relationship she knows only too well herself; one that defines her as His beloved and He as hers. How proud I was and am of this little tiger who doesn't even stand five feet tall except when she's wearing her "big girl shoes" (meaning high heals). God knows that she's huge in the kingdom.

Missionary #2: Adrianne

Adrianne is married to our oldest child Charles. I was just plum tickled when they started dating because I was sure Charles would never get a woman after I witnessed him making her pay for her own cappuccino at a local coffee shop. He kept assuring me it wasn't a date. And she did confide later that she was still "attached" to another and that this was a just a "ministry" meeting. Yeah, right. Let's just say I couldn't enjoy my own non-fat decaf 2 pump sugar free caramel macchiato for the less than intelligent move on my son's part. But all's well that ends well, and here we are 3 years into a marriage. And what a treasure she is.

As far as I know, Adrianne has never left the country; but her role as missionary is not defined by acquired air miles or passport stamps. She ministers daily as an administrative assistant to the pastor of a vibrant church in Macon, GA. Nights often find her hosting a ladies' Bible study or holding a girls' small group in her home when she's not attending her husband's youth group meetings -- generally just filling the role of a young youth pastor's wife.

But lately Adrianne has added yet another role to her resume: that of caring for her mother who was diagnosed earlier this year with stage 4 cancer. Being an only child and her mother's only caretaker during this time, Adrianne has stepped in with a vigor and call that equals the work and duty of any missionary on any foreign soil. Each day after work, she drives the 20 miles home and then another 15 to cook and take care of her mom, seeing her in bed and settled before she returns home to her own chores and bed. To me she exemplifies John 15:13 which says, "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friend."

I could not be more proud of my two daughters-in-love. Servants in the Lord's eyes and champions in mine. Two missionaries. Yet one mission: to be the hands, the feet and the heart of Jesus. He and I sure do love these girls.

Now tell me, where is God performing His miracle mission with you?

Just an ordinary moment...

Second Chances

2010-07-09T09:38:00.002-04:00

Like anybody else, I have pockets of remembrances. Vivid images that remain planted in my brain of past childhood experiences. Some good; some not so good. One such "not so good" memory is that of my standing in the hall in grammar school and laughing at a classmate. But I wasn't the only one. The entire class had joined in on this particular occasion. Laughing. Making fun of someone who was totally humiliated and embarrassed by a situation that was common to him yet beyond his control. I don't know why that particular image has stuck with me, but in the last couple of years, it has not only planted itself there, it has haunted me. And so I began conversing with the Lord about it. I begged Him to forgive me for such disgusting and insensitive behavior and asked Him to heal in this man now in his early 50's any wounds that may still be causing him pain or discomfort. And then I added, "And, Lord, if You should see fit for this individual and my paths to cross again, I promise You I will make a personal apology to him." Seeing that I had not even seen nor heard of this classmate in over 40 years, I really didn't expect that last portion of my prayer to materialize. In fact, I assumed it was quite a safe prayer to pray. I thought God would surely take care of the situation in an "internal" manner. So you can imagine my surprise when some time later, this man's name popped up in my facebook sidebar as someone I might know. I think my first thought was, "Well, darn it."

And so I sent a friend request thinking he probably wouldn't even remember who I was. It didn't take long to receive the acceptance of friendship, and there I sat. What in heaven's name do I do now? Well, I figured if God had fulfilled His part, I ought to own up to mine. And so I wrote one of the strangest letters I think I've ever scripted and asked for forgiveness from this one whom I had surely offended some four decades ago with my heartless behavior. I prayed for mercy -- both for me and him, hoping I wasn't opening any old wounds -- and I hit the "send" button.

Time passed to the point that I actually forgot I had even written the note, until about 2 weeks later when I received a very gracious response from this one whom I had abused. His reply was evidence that God had surely done the work in this classmate's life way before He did the work in mine. The Lord not only gave my friend a second chance, He gave me one as well. I could not have been more grateful.

Why all this about second chances? Because I need another one.

Present day. Last week my husband and I took a little day trip and ended up visiting a Farmer's Market in a small community on a square. While most farmers and artisans were beginning to take down their tents and pack up to go home, one remained with all his wares in place. As I was looking at his goods, he engaged me in conversation about his material. When I looked up at him, I became immediately aware that this man was very different from me. Without going into detail, just know that my mind was racing and turning a thousand different ways, not knowing exactly what to make of the situation nor how to respond. And so I carried on politely before walking away.

What makes me so stinking mad about all of this is the later realization of my own depravity. God revealed to me my heart; and it was ugly. I walked away having labeled this man a freak, because I looked upon the outward, when what he really is on the inside is a precious child of God crying out for identity -- "Who am I?" This was indeed one of those moments that Bruce Wilkinson writes about in You Were Born for This. I had prayed "Send me, Lord" and then walked away from the very miracle mission He had for me. And by doing so, I missed out on being a conduit of God's incredible grace and magnificent love.

So here's the deal. In our short exchange under that tent, I discovered that this talented and creative craftsman is moving within 2 miles of my own home. So I'm asking God for a second chance. For if He can orchestrate and bridge a 40 year lapse, certainly He can arrange yet another divine appointment within a much shorter period of both time and space. And until then, you can bet my eyes will be wide open in anticipation and expectation.

O God, give me a second chance to be a living link between heaven and earth!

Just an ordinary moment...

Ambassadors

2010-07-04T19:09:00.011-04:00

Normally when I travel to North Carolina with my husband on his business trips, I take lots of books, and except for the occasional midday walk to town for lunch, I stay cloistered in my hotel room overlooking the marina doing what I love doing -- reading and watching the boats come and go. And so once again, my man loaded my portable "book case" into the back of his truck and we were off. And the first day, I did just that.

This particular trip, I took such as Francine Rivers' The Atonement Child, Bruce Wilkinson's You Were Born for This, and Sybil MacBeth's Praying in Color ... to name a few. I also had my new sketchbook and a host of magazines for journaling.

It's what I love doing. I also love eating. And so on my first day alone, off I went for lunch; but on this particular outing, I was in for a greater blessing than reading or eating. God was about to treat me with His own flesh and blood.

Meet Russell and Dorry. Russell is one of the first people I ever met -- literally -- when I went to New Bern, NC some 5 years ago. At the time, he was the bellman at the Sheraton (now Hilton) when we checked in. He's a retired accountant who never meets a stranger and can even be found walking the neighbor's dog at night on the grounds of the hotel. He's also the one who suggested I try Stanly Hall Cafe this particular trip and their chocolate grits. (I'm forever indebted for that one, Russell!)

He and Dorry own Bear Essentials down on Middle Street, which, yes, runs smack dab through the middle of downtown. I never miss the opportunity to visit the shop. One knows right away upon entering that it's a special place. Herbal teas and organic chocolates are just the beginning of this sensory experience as the smell of essential oils from the candles and natural bath products send the olfactory nerve into a heaven all its own. But it's Doree's calming countenance and soft voice that puts it over the edge and makes anyone's day slow down and cause them to experience the moment. And whether I leave empty handed or with a bag slung over my arm, I always leave feeling refreshed after having visited with this woman.

Meet Emily.
Carved into the building just behind Bear Essentials is Etched in Time Designs. Having just located to their new location downtown, this was my first visit with this vivacious lady and her joy-filled husband Joe. After looking at a few of their items, I commented, "Y'all must be Methodist!" It was then that Joe popped his head around the door from the back room and looked to see who would make such a brash statement. Sure enough, he's a retired United Methodist minister now serving the community at Bridgeton UMC just across the river.

What an absolute delight it was spending time with this precious couple and hearing their stories. No doubt, there was a kindred spirit an immediate bond that can come only from the indwelling Holy Spirit who binds us together. I just love that about the Body and I'm always so grateful for such opportunities to meet siblings in Christ -- and this was no exception. When I went back the following morning for a picture, Joe was unavailable. He was teaching Bible study. But Emily and I had a few more good laughs, and I'm already looking forward to my next trip back and throwing my arms around both of them.

Meet Patti.
Every time I've been to New Bern, I've wanted to check out The Next Chapter Bookstore, but always hit at an inopportune time -- until now. And what a treat it was. I was the only customer in this used bookstore for a period, and so I just pulled up a stool and made myself at home. But as much as I enjoyed looking through the mass assortment of books, the thrill was meeting this beautiful northern transplant and just chatting -- for an hour and a half! We determined quite quickly that the War of Northern Aggression was over and I was able to admit my gratitude that my side actually lost. Patti and I share a love for learning and for books. She told me about the ones she was reading right now and I told her of mine -- and we each wrote the other's down. I found a sweet spirit in this lady and am looking forward to more hours of communion.

Yes, it was a delightful day of new relationships founded and old ones renewed. It was an afternoon of restoration and joy. It was a day when the Lord brought His children across each others paths to nourish and sustain and, quite frankly, to bring healing to a weary traveler.

And so I bless each of you: Russell, Dorry, Joe, Emily and Patti. Each of you in your own right is an ambassador and you greeted well this stranger to your land. I pray that the Lord's favor would be upon you and that everything that you put your hand to He would establish and cause to succeed. May you know His great love for you and may you walk in a greater awareness of His presence with you, for each of you is the apple of His eye and His desire is for you. Thank you for welcoming this sojourner into your life on such a hot and muggy June afternoon and allowing the Lord to use you to bring restoration to this body, soul and spirit.

And to the rest of my readers, you, too, are ambassadors, and I exhort you to pay attention to the people who come across your path this week. After all, it just might be a God-thing. In fact, I have every suspicion it will be nothing less.

Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel,
for which I am an ambassador...
(Eph. 6:19-20)

Just an ordinary moment...

Pleasures Forevermore

2010-06-23T13:40:00.007-04:00

You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore (Psalm 16:11).

This was a portion of my morning devotional as I sat overlooking the Trent River and Neuse River basin before heading out for a morning walk around town and a subsequent lunch at Stanly Hall Cafe. As I had meditated on the "pleasures forevermore," I thought of some of the more "spiritual" pleasures and joys. But just let me say that the Lord had chocolate grits in His right hand this day. Yes, you read that correctly.

As I live and breathe, chocolate grits with a dollop of chocolate mascarpone topped with real whipped cream and sprinkled with cocoa! Oh, indeed, as verse 9 of the same chapter reads, "my heart was glad and my tongue rejoiced!" In fact, that little muscle just about slapped me silly it was so happy.

And if this is just the temporary pleasures He doles out, can we even begin to imagine the "forevermores"?

Oh, the joy of living with God! May you, too, be so blessed!!!

Just an ordinary moment...

Seasons of Refreshing

2010-06-14T09:36:00.007-04:00

I have a friend who for as long as I have known him has enjoyed jogging. Me? There's just a little too much tissue on my bones for me to glide gracefully down the street while pounding the pavement. But walking, now that's a pretty sport. Unless, of course, it's 90 degrees outside -- such as today, and sweat is literally pouring off one's being. But after an earlier blog entry, I decided once I put on my shoes, I'd best head out the door. And I did.

The first stint around the block was actually quite enjoyable. On the first leg, I caught up with 3 older adults out taking a morning stroll -- though it was way too hot for them to be doing so. Approaching from the rear, one reminded me so much of my grandfather: same shape, wearing a long sleeve shirt, a hat, and carrying a cane. It was so refreshing to slow my pace for a moment and chat until we came to the place where I was to turn off in another direction.

It didn't take long for the heat to become pretty nasty and I began wondering if I had done the right thing by not bringing my bottle of water. But not to give up, I rounded the corner for a second lap. That's when I saw it. Water! Yes, one of the neighbors had turned on his sprinkler system since I had passed the first time! My mind went back to my runner friend who use to tell me that in order to cool off he would sometimes run through sprinklers as people watered their lawns. Fortunately, the system was right at the curb and I didn't really have to get off my track. I just stopped, bent down, and bathed in the thing right from where it came out of the ground! I finished the job by washing my face and neck! Oh, the refreshment of it all!!! When I stepped back in the street, it was as if I had just stopped for a cold lemonade. My pores were surely screaming, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" And my pace quickened.

As I rounded the next corner, I saw where another had turned on their sprinkler. This time it was more of a fine mist, but it was also off the beaten path. It was tucked up close to their house. So I swallowed my pride. I left the road, strode up to the flower bed and just stood in the mist with my arms outstretched as I turned circles. How rejuvenating!!!

When I left this yard, I couldn't help but to begin to praise God for the refreshing moments and seasons He brings into my life. Yes, sometimes they are no more than just some friends who come along beside who offer companionship and camaraderie. Others moments are merely things that He places directly in my path that offer encouragement, such as the bird's feather I found in the yard yesterday. But other times, He allows us to step aside for periods of rejuvenation and restoration before putting us back on the course.

And I'm so grateful for all of them, for it is in these periods that we find the journey bearable. It is in these seasons when we are given more strength and greater endurance to finish the course. And it is in these spaces when rest happens and our thirst is quenched.

Thank You, Father, for refreshing moments such as these.

And there shall be seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord (Acts 3:19).

Just an ordinary moment...

Which Bank?

2010-06-12T17:04:00.008-04:00

My husband got a little suspicious this week when he couldn't access our credit card information on line. After numerous tries, he went the old-fashioned route: he telephoned the credit card company. Yes, not only did we have numerous charges on our account which we did not make, but all of our personal information had been compromised as well: password, telephone number, email, address. Even his mother's maiden name had been changed. The only way the woman on the line could determine if it were indeed my husband to whom she was talking was to ask him one question: To which bank was your last payment made? Because he answered that question correctly, she was able to not only cover every false charge and restore what was lost, but also re-establish our identity and bring us back into a positive credit standing.

Truth is there is only one question we have to answer correctly: To which bank was your last payment made? Praise God, the bank was at Calvary and the payment was the blood. And when we accept this costly transaction, every false charge is erased, all that is lost is restored, all our debits are turned to credits, our identity is restored and we are brought into right standing.

It might be old-fashioned, but it's still just as relevant today as it was the day the payment was made.

So what's the name of your bank?

Just an ordinary moment...

Putting on My Walking Shoes

2010-06-10T20:29:00.005-04:00

I got up this morning and put on my exercise clothes: Umbros, bicycle shorts, and a sleeveless tee. Then I fixed my husband a little breakfast and sent him out the door. Shortly thereafter I slipped on my walking shoes. It was not a gym day, so I opted for a couple of laps around the block in my neighborhood. But somehow I never made it. I got busy with other ... "stuff." A little stint on the computer, preparation to bake a cake, a little reading, etc. And before I knew it, the time allotted for my walk had disappeared. And so as quickly as I had slipped them on, I removed the shoes; not once taking the opportunity to put them to use.

I couldn't help but remember what my friend Vicki's mother told her when she purchased one of Richard Simmons' exercise videos so many years ago now. "I've watched that thing 3 times and I still haven't a lost a pound!" We still laugh about that today, but I could just about say the same thing concerning my walking shoes. "I've put those things on every day for a week now and still haven't lost a pound!"

And then I got to thinking about all those books on prayer that line my bookshelves. There must be 50 of them. From the mystics to modern day. E.M. Bounds. Andrew Murray. Phillip Yancey. Stormie Omartian. Watchman Nee. Henri Nouwen. And the list goes on. And I've even read many of them. In fact, that's the easy part. But what good does it do if I read every last one of them from cover to cover but never pray? Could I not just as easily say with my friend's mother, "I've read every book on prayer and I'm still not getting any results"? Just reading about it. The truth is the work begins when we start doing it. I remember someone telling me one time that prayer not only works, it IS the work. How true. But yet I tend to just put it on like an old walking shoe and do a few things around the house. I never get to the real purpose of why I put them on in the first place.

Sure, I got a few things done while wearing my pumps. I emptied the dishwasher, made the bed, and I might have even read from a prayer book that I'm particularly enjoying right now. And you've got to admit that a walk around the block, twice, can be so ... boring. At least at home I'm accomplishing some things. But the truth is that the real purpose of the shoes is to do an inner work. The aim is to get the heart pumping and make it stronger.

Ah, yes. There it is. Could it be that the real purpose of prayer is to do an inner work as well? That when I pray, my spiritual heart becomes stronger?

Maybe I ought to put my shoes on in the morning and head straight out the door for a little cardio. And maybe, too, I should lay the book down and do the real work.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Note of Thanks

2010-06-06T17:33:00.004-04:00

A few of weeks ago while in Barnes and Noble, I picked up a book that has been on the shelves for several years -- but one that just took a little time to find its way to the New York Times Bestseller List. Maybe you've read it: Same Kind of Different As Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. The true story is told by the two writers who the book's sub-title touts as "a modern day slave" and "an international art dealer." I must admit it is one of the most touching books I've read in a long time -- until I picked up its sequel last week, What Difference Do it Make? As the book jacket reads, "You'll have your heart touched by one of the most incredible odd-couple stories of the twentieth century." It goes on to say, "And if you've ever wondered whether one life really can make a difference in the world, you'll finish this book with an unshakable conviction the answer is yes."

The truth is not a day has gone by since closing the last page that I haven't thought of this powerful story told by two men of such differing backgrounds -- and just wondering: what difference might I make? And then I had the strangest thought that came so out of left field that I actually turned my head and looked.

"Thank the trash collectors."
"Sir?"
"How many years have they been stopping by your house on a weekly basis?"
"Eleven."
"Have they ever NOT picked up your trash when it was at the curb?"
"No, Sir."
"How many times have you thanked them?"
"I've waved. Does that count?"
"No."

I guess it would be of no surprise that trash day was the next morning. So I took out my Sharpie and inscribed a note of appreciation:
And then I ran it out to the bin with Scotch tape in hand.

Okay, so I was a little embarrassed about the whole scene, feeling ridiculous should someone ride by while I was actually posting the note. But it got worse: I ran back out and took a picture at the precise moment a car did turn the corner. Who in their right mind takes a picture of their trash can sitting on the street???

But I left it and went back inside. Later that afternoon, I noticed that the truck had come by and so I walked to the end of the driveway to retrieve the trash cart, all the while wondering if my very small sentiment had made any difference at all. And you know what I found? While I noticed that all the other carts lining the road had been haphazardly pushed up in the yards or even left in the street, mine sat perfectly placed at the end of the driveway as if the worker was responding, "Thanks."

I don't know. Maybe I'm making way too big a deal out of this. No, I didn't go to the local shelter and volunteer last week. And, no, I didn't consider adopting a baby from a foreign country. But this I do know. God calls us to make a difference. And sometimes it's just a matter of telling somebody you appreciate them.

What difference did it make? I don't have a clue how it made those guys feel. But for me, it felt good enough to try it next week with the mail lady. Maybe I'll even include cookies.

Just an ordinary moment...

Learning a New Language

2010-05-20T09:33:00.006-04:00

I was given a prescription a couple of weeks ago. No, not the kind the physician writes and you take to the pharmacist. This one was administered by a close friend. She had already spoken a word of "rest" over me -- telling me I needed to take a season. And then she said, "And here's what I want you to do. I want you to get yourself one of those journal/sketchbooks and begin putting color on a page. You'll be surprised how much being creative will release the stress in your life." I immediately went into complete left-brain mode. My breathing got shallow and I broke into a full fledged sweat. "Do something artsy? Me? I wouldn't even know how to begin!" She told me to go to Wal-Mart and buy some paints. My breathing became even more shallow? "But what kind of paint?" "I'll go with you," she replied.

Three days later I found myself standing in front of the journal/sketchbooks section at Barnes and Noble. "O God, help me here! Can't You just let me cruise the Christian Inspiration aisle? It's a lot safer for both of us over there!" But alas, my eyes fell on a journal that shouted, "Pick me! Pick me!" And so with a deep breath, I reached for it.
For the first week, it remained right where I put it when I brought it home: on my dressing table bench. At first I totally ignored it, thinking it might go away. And then when I would give it consideration, I could feel my stress level rising, and so I'd push it to the back of the pill cabinet. Each morning as I put on my make-up, there it sat right next to me. I swear it was smiling at me. And finally, by the end of last week, I moved it to my sunroom. At least if I did decide to take this "pill," it would be within reach.

When I told my friend the stress it was causing me, she suggested I take a magazine and just begin flipping through it until something jumped out at me. Then I was to tear it out and PASTE it in the journal. Wow, I could do that. There's no "sketching" involved. And so yesterday it finally happened. The Lord had already placed a word on my heart last week when I was with my son. "Soak." And so here's what transpired.
Yes, that's where I am right now in this season -- or am suppose to be. Soaking. Not sure what all that entails, but in time, He will reveal that to me as well. For now I'm just saying it slowly, letting it find its place in me until I understand the truth in it.

When I finished, I took a quick picture and sent it to my friend. She responded, "That is awesome, girl. How did it feel?"

Feel? I'm left brained! I didn't know "it" was suppose to feel anything! She was quick to respond, "Don't analyze it. Just run show it to Daddy. He LOVES it."

And so I did. Just like a child. And, yes, He seemed delighted.

And you know what? I was delighted, too. I really did "feel" something. Joy would be a good place to start. There truly was a release of stress as I pasted those letters on the page -- once I got past having to line them up perfectly, of course. But more than anything, what I've come to realize is that this isn't just my journal. It's "our" journal. Mine and the Lord's. We're working on this thing together. And who knows? By the time we get to the last page, maybe He and I will have been somewhere together. But for now, I am an infant -- a left-brain girl in a right-brain world even -- and this is a new language.

Just an ordinary moment...

Yet Another Milestone

2010-05-16T22:00:00.008-04:00

I sat down here to check some of the blogs I follow and found that Mel's Coffee Break had a new post. Only 10 minutes old, in fact. Seems a milestone occurred tonight: her "baby" lost his first tooth. She said she had no idea why she would do such, but when he ran down to tell her, she cried. Oh, sweet Melanie, may I suggest that you go ahead and invest in your favorite brand of tissues.

I've shed my own supply of tears this week. Our middle child took a monumental walk himself. Along with his wife, dad, older brother and in-laws, I watched him receive his college diploma from Kennesaw State University on Thursday. Yes, there's something about a graduation processional that makes my eyes water each time I experience it. Thursday's graduates marched in to the long standing tradition at KSU of the bagpiper leading the way piping out Beethoven's Ode to Joy. But it has been 3 days now, and I'm still crying. Maybe it's the hard work I know he had to perform to get to this place, or maybe it's just knowing what a major milestone this is in any young person's life. But it probably has more to do with the fact that I'm just so stinkin' proud of him for hanging in there and doing the hard thing. And for doing it well.

But, Melanie, I remember when he, too, lost his first tooth. And it wasn't so long ago when he graduated from pre-school. And, yes, he really did accept his diploma with his little neck tie bound around his head like Rambo. Those years from that graduation to his high school graduation and now his college were full and fun, but they went by like a flash. And so maybe that's yet another reason for the tears. And as much as a mother wants to hang on to them, they come and go very swiftly, and she's left standing with a full heart but an empty nest.

But truly, would I want it any other way but this? Is this not God's purpose for parents and their children? To do anything less than let them grow up is to deny God's plan for their lives. To do anything less is to deny the command given in Genesis to multiply and subdue the earth.

And so, Robert, we bless you tonight as you stand at this door open before you; for beyond the liminal is a country that is as bountiful as it is plentiful. It is the land of More. More revelation, more authority, more kingdom power. More victory, more vision, and more territory. It is in this place that God calls you to know more of His passion, His love, His grace. To experience more of Himself.

Yes, your father and I bless you. Go and subdue the land.

Now would somebody please pass those tissues.

Just an ordinary moment...

Color: the Sound of His Voice

2010-05-07T14:12:00.009-04:00

I've become acutely aware of color lately. Maybe it began with the brilliant red male cardinals outside my window or the indigo bunting that made a quick stop at my bird feeder a few weeks ago. Or maybe it has just been the incredible green resulting from all the winter rains. I do know that I adopted a prayer by Henri Nouwen earlier this year that simply says, "Open my senses to Your presence, Lord." But whatever has brought on this new spark of interest, color is everywhere.

A new dimension was added this week to my latest pursuit by my friend Vicki: that of allowing God to speak through color. Who says He can? Who says He can't? After all, isn't He always speaking? Maybe sometimes we just need to listen with our eyes.

My journey began by looking up the meanings of colors.

For example, blue symbolizes the heavenly realm; the revelation of God and His revelational knowledge.

Among the symbols for green is eternal life, prosperity, health, new beginning and harvest.

Plum symbolizes richness, abundance, and an infilling of the Holy Spirit. Pink: child-like faith.

And yellow/gold symbolizes the glory of God, among other things.

Brown: man as we are on earth -- the ordinary day-to-day. Cream: healing.

And so I began to allow color to be a tool to hear God. How? Let me share a couple of examples.

This morning I was praying for my children; each one individually. As I prayed for my daughter-in-love Adrianne, I sensed a pause, not knowing exactly how I should continue. So I sent a quick text that read, "What color are you wearing today?" She immediately responded, "Brown and blue." My prayer resumed. I pray You would open the heavenlies today to Adrianne and she would see -- and recognize -- You throughout its course. Reveal Yourself to her in the "daily," the ordinary. Open her mind and heart to the great mystery of Your active presence in her life.

As I thought of my daughter Marynan, I remembered the orange purse she had slung over her shoulder yesterday as she got out of the car from our lunch date. Thank You for calling this one out and making her Yours. May she dwell in Your tent in deep intimacy with You... You see, orange is the color of passion.

I've even added color to my journal. Earlier this week I wrote out Eph. 4:23-24 as my Scripture memory. "Be renewed in the spirit of your mind and put on the new man which was created according to God, in true righteousness and holiness." This morning I took out a colored pencil and shaded the entire space green, because the verse speaks of "new beginning."

What an exciting journey I'm on: allowing God speak to me through color. And not only that, He's allowing me to speak into people as a result. Keep your eyes open, dear readers. He's talking to you, too.

Oh, and have you ever smelled green? That's another blog.

Just an ordinary moment...

Angels Unaware?

2010-04-25T17:13:00.005-04:00

So, it happened like this. I awoke Friday morning with an anticipation of the day ahead. After all, I had planned it for months: a trip to Atlanta with the destination being Beth Moore's "So Long, Insecurity" conference on Saturday. I opened my Scripture tea, and as I've grown accustom, anticipated the Word for the day. It simply read, "For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. Psalm 91:11." I couldn't resist wondering how that might play out during the day.

It was an event-filled 27 hours to say the least with the first being a near "mishap" on the interstate. I was attempting to pass an 18-wheeler on my right when the car on my left decided to enter my lane leaving me with no escape. Think Psalm 91:11.

The ladies with me and I checked into our hotel, grabbed some supper, and headed for coffee and dessert at The Daily Grind where my son works.

A quick shot during his break

As we readied to leave, I switched the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. Even less of nothing. Thank goodness, my husband had signed us up for AAA a couple of months ago, and they were about to get their first phone call from us.

It was a congenial 2-hour wait even though no one had thought to bring cards or a board game. We laughed a lot and my daughter continued to amaze us with all the wealth of information she had gleaned from the morning paper. And we got a huge kick out of the fact that when I pressed the horn on the steering wheel, there was no sound, but the light on my phone lit up.

Marynan and Adrianne made the most of it all by folding down the back seat and making a bed.

At precisely 12 midnight and just as the first raindrops began to fall, the much awaited tow truck pulled up into the deserted parking lot. The attendant wore a cap pulled down on his head, but even as "frumpy" as he was, I made mention to the girls what a sweet face he had. As is often the case, I took a few pictures to "capture the moment." The driver of the truck even struck a muscle pose for me.

Yep, that's the tow truck driver in both shots. I'll leave you to your own conclusion as to why he only showed up as light.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Grace-filled Moment

2010-04-16T14:25:00.007-04:00

In my devotional readings for the last week and a half, I've been reflecting on "looking for God." At the end of the day, I question myself, "Where did I see Him?" "Where did I meet Him?" Well yesterday's evidence of His presence left me in wonder.

I made the dreaded trip to Wal-Mart for a few grocery items. I whisked my way through the aisles, loading my buggy while I checked off my list and preceded to the check-out. With such a few items, I opted as I always do for the self-service, but for some reason, changed my mind right at the last and swung my cart toward the "20 or less" lane.

I noticed right away the girl behind the counter was singing softly as she scanned the items, and because I like to interact in some way with the cashiers, I said, "Oh, you've got a song in your heart this morning! What are you singing?" She responded, "I don't know; I don't understand the words. It's the Holy Spirit singing in me." And so I said, "Well don't let me stop Him." And so for those few moments -- standing in line at Wal-Mart, of all places -- I let the singing wash over me. Finally, as I was putting the bags in my buggy, I think she felt compelled to share with me, "People ask me all the time why I'm so happy, and I just tell them it's the Holy Spirit. He's the One who gives me my joy. Normally, they don't understand." I asked this sweet smiling thing, "What's your name?" And she responded, "Annie." Yes, that would make sense. Her name means "Grace."

As I pushed my cart to the car, I felt a huge smile playing across my lips, maybe even a skip in my step, and most certainly an unexpected joy in my heart. And why not? I had just experienced a Grace-filled moment. Yes, I met God at Wal-Mart.

Just an ordinary moment....

Red Healers, Tea Bags and a little Foster

2010-04-12T17:38:00.007-04:00

At precisely 5:07 this morning, our sweet little but somewhat overweight red healer, Rusti, started barking. She rarely ever barks -- especially at night! What was so special about this one, for crying out loud? Must have been an armadillo or some other kind of creature invading her space. I lay there for a few moments wishing myself to sleep, and then I had the strangest thought: does God's voice ever sound like a dog? Was He urging me to deny the flesh this particular morning? I can't say for sure, but after listening to that eerie "wake-up call" for a few moments longer, it was all I needed to make me swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I put the kettle on for some hot tea -- as a bit of caffeine was needed for such an early start. A sweet sister had given me some Scripture tea for my birthday -- chai green tea to be exact. One of my absolute favorites. As I opened the bag, I sensed in my spirit, "this verse is for you." My heart rate accelerated a smite as I anticipated maybe a word. And there it was in black and white:"Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans 12:21 NIV." Wow!

Ever been at a formal event where everyone's dressed in black and someone walks in wearing a red gown? No doubt, the Scripture on the tea bag stood out just as vividly. But it didn't just stand there, it jumped off that tea bag straight into my heart.

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and found my way to the spot on the worn couch out in my "garden enclosed." I had yet to read my morning devotional. Since Easter, I've been using Richard Foster's A Year With God: Living Out the Spiritual Disciplines. Each selection offers a Bible passage along with comments pertinent to the week's discipline, with this week being "The With-G0d Life." After just having the tea bag experience, my senses were heightened a bit, and correctly so, for right there in black and white I read, "We are called today not to repay evil for evil or to return abuse for abuse, but to repay evil with blessings" (ref. 1 Peter 3:9). Another red dress moment.

Yes, I know that God loves me and desires an intimate relationship with me -- one where we converse back and forth. I talk to Him and He talks to me. But why am I always so shocked when I actually hear Him speak? Indeed, Hebrews 4:12 says, "The word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." And not only that, but God's Word is so relevant. It's always a "now" word. A "today" word. It speaks to my current situations, and never more so than this morning.

God knew the exact word I needed to hear. But the thing is it didn't come from the sky or a billboard or a megaphone pointed at my ear. He got me up early through the sound of a dog's bark, and met me right where I was in my daily activity in a way that simply could not be ignored.

And quite frankly, tea has never been so good -- or so sweet.

Just an ordinary moment...

Glory Hallelujah! He's Alive!

2010-04-08T11:30:00.004-04:00

Sometimes life just plain surprises me. I had one of those moments Sunday morning, Easter Sunday morning, which should have been a clue in itself that God is into surprises. I had the added favor of attending worship with my oldest son and his wife -- and what a blessing it was. When I got to the church, I noticed immediately before even entering the portals of the sanctuary that it was still dark. Not only were the lights off but everything remained dressed in black from the previous Good Friday service. Yes, I knew I would not be disappointed this morning. Charles had saved me a seat on the 3rd row -- center aisle, no doubt. Whether he did that because those were the only seats available or because he knows his mom loves being in the center of the worship activity, I don't know. But I was thrilled.

After the chiming of the 11th hour, soft piano music began. And then it happened. While it was still dark, the lit Paschal candle lifted high above the bearer's head was carried in from the back of the sanctuary. After it was placed in its stand, one by one, the paraments were transported and put in place -- along with a pulpit Bible, the offering plates, and Easter lilies. As the pastor walked down the aisle, passing on my left, something registered with me as "different" or not completely right, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Not until he began removing his suit coat anyway. Ah, yes, that was it. He wasn't wearing a robe. But a woman approached him with his vestment and assisted him in putting it on. He then dropped to one knee and bowed his head as she placed the ornate stole around his collar. The pastor arose, removed his shoes, and then received from the last attendant, his personal Bible -- the Word of God. The symbolism almost sent me over the top! But that wasn't the highlight for me.

The service progressed with shouts of "He is risen! He is risen indeed!!!" throughout the hour. Children were confirmed as almost every parishioner stood around with their hands laid upon them as the pastor prayed and anointed the young with oil. Hymns were sung, affirmations pronounced, praises and concerns lifted and prayers offered. It was during the pastoral prayer that I felt the need to look up. When I did, I almost came undone. There at the altar kneeled a shoeless shepherd interceding for his beloved sheep. Oh, my goodness. My heart nearly exploded at this point as I saw being played out before my eyes what we were celebrating: Jesus interceding for humanity. A Shepherd for His sheep.

The sermon was all I expected and more as the pastor not only captivated his listeners but was himself engaged in the story of the resurrection. Someone had asked him earlier how he could do 4 sermons in one morning. His response: "Because they won't let me do 15!" But even as powerful as the sermon was and as strong as the given imperative mandate, that was still not the highlight for me.

As the offering was being received, the small choir of 11 members stood to sing. Almost immediately, the sound began lifting the rafters as the exuberant voices sang, "Glory Hallelujah! He's Alive!" Not only was the news coming from their mouths, it was shining through each face. But what did it for me was the solo by one of the elderly ladies in the group. Her voice rang above the others as she sang counterpoint to the rest of the choir. "Glory hallelujah! He's alive!!!" Was her voice what it was 30 or 40 years ago? I highly doubt it. In fact, probably much of what she had is gone. But over and over she sang it, and with each repetition, I found myself whispering louder and louder, "Praise You, Lord. Praise You, Lord." For crying out loud, less than 36 hours before I had spent worshiping with the likes of Chris Tomlin and Matt Redman, but none of it compared to this moment on Easter Sunday.

Yes, Jesus died and bore the sin of the world. Hallelujah. But He didn't stop there. He sanctioned life by rising again. And that's what blew me away this particular morning. You see, so often the elderly are cast aside as not important, as if they have nothing to offer. We see this so much in our culture. And sadly we're seeing it more and more in our churches as well. But this peculiar morning, I witnessed the validation of a life of one who obviously loves Jesus and was willing to shout it to the rooftops in a voice that spoke more than just her age. It spoke her heart. "Glory hallelujah! He's alive!"

Just an ordinary moment...

A Passionate Good Friday

2010-04-03T22:24:00.008-04:00

I'm not one to normally to pick up and go, but the opportunity presented itself Thursday evening at dinner, and so I took care of some necessary commitments, threw a few things in a bag, and headed out the door the next morning to Atlanta. The occasion was a friend's extra ticket allowing me to enter the gates of the Verizon Amphitheater for Passion's Good Friday service. The Easter weekend/summer break traffic was horrific, but good company and a heart full of joy over such trivial matters made the trip easy and short. (And now I can say I've actually been through the metropolis of Locust Grove.)

I have to admit I've never stood in line to get into a church service. Not until now anyway.
Fortunately, Julie and I didn't have to fight for our seats. (If anyone knows me well, they know I'm serious when I say that.) It's all who you know -- and we knew the right person this time.
They don't start until Julie's son Jonathan says "Okay."

Okay, so he does have a boss who gives the final word: Shelley Giglio. A beautiful woman who glows with Christ. (L-R) Me, Jonathan, Julie and Shelley

The grassy knoll was covered with souls eager to worship. I wonder if this in any way resembled the mount when Jesus taught the multitudes.
It was an amazing evening to say the least. I normally don't take pictures in worship services, but for the sake of the blog, I did manage to snap a few shots during the 4 hour service.

Chris Tomlin

Matt Redman

Kristian Stanfield

These 3 guys, along with their worship teams, ushered us into the Presence. As Louie calls it, they were the "door holders."

Louie Giglio

And Louie led us to the cross. Rejoice with me for the lives that were exchanged this night.

It was a night filled with singing, with dancing, with shouting, with bowing, with offerings, with tears, with joy. It was a moment of looking back as well as forward, of knowing I no longer have to "do" because it has been done. It was a powerful evening ending with a huge exclamation mark as all the stops were pulled and the noise resounded far into the night skies toward the heavenlies. It was a night of worship, the kind where every vibration was felt and every emotion experienced.

And yet, in these last moments before the Easter shout is heard, I take one more look upon God's Son, His broken body, His bruised face, His bleeding head, His open side, and His hands and feet split open with nails -- and there is no response but silence. Anything else would be inadequate.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven ... a time to be silent ... (Eccl. 3:1, 7b)

Just an ordinary moment...

Wounds

2010-04-01T12:43:00.003-04:00

A number of years ago, our middle child was playing football in our neighbor's backyard when he stepped in an ash pile. Coals from the trash heap were still simmering from the burning that had taken place earlier that week when Robert went after the ball and inadvertently (so he says) jumped in the middle of the mound. Quite surprisingly, one of the hot coals lodged in the top of his shoe under the tongue and began searing into his foot. Even today, he carries a nice pretty scar from the wound he received that summer morning. I'm sure he remembers the pain of the burn each time he looks at it, as well as the fact that he couldn't wear a shoe for months. And surely we all recall the numerous washings and bandaging and doctor visits in Savannah. But we also remember gathering around him as a family and speaking "life" into that dead place so he wouldn't have need of a skin graft, and then witnessing to a stunned specialist about the power of prayer and of a faithful God as the doctor looked in awe at the new bud of flesh breaking through that which was so dead.

We all have our wounds. I have them; you have them. Some are worse than others, but the fact remains: wounds happen and when they do, they hurt.

I have been carrying around a wound now for a year; one that goes deep, but not physically so. In fact, as the Psalmist says, it was "a man like myself, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship as we walked together in the house of God." Yes, I think those are some of the toughest wounds because they are so relational. I've considered the pain of this wound. It manifests itself in a number of ways: anger, resentment, a desire for revenge. And no doubt, it steals even my peace. Yes, wounds are painful. They rob the inflicted of wholeness.

But I'm reminded this Maundy Thursday that by His stripes, His wounds, I am healed. And as I approach resurrection morning, I also bring to mind that those wounds were not removed when He arose in His glorious state. In fact, they became part of His glory; even the way He made Himself known to His disciples when He showed them His hands and His feet. So could it be that my own places of injury are destined not as roadblocks, but to become glorified -- and just as Jesus was identified by His, so will I be identified by mine in my eternal life in God?

Yes, only an all-knowing, loving, compassionate God can take such woundedness, such pain, such brokenness -- whether it be a foot or a heart -- and bring glory. That's enough to make me want to shout an early, "Hallelujah!"

Just an ordinary moment...

Unexpected Palm Sunday Devotional

2010-03-28T21:42:00.004-04:00

My Lenten reading was not what I thought it would be as I sat down this morning for my devotion time. I assumed I'd be waving palm branches and shouting "Hosanna!" as this Holy Week began. Rather I was provoked to generous living -- generous as in Mary anointing the feet of Jesus with very costly ointment and then drying them with her hair. Which leads me to question: what is my very costly ointment? With what am I to be generous?

Truth is I find myself less like Mary and more like Judas. Yes, I pretend a noble heart and I desire a benevolent spirit but in reality my heart is stingy. Even in my "quiet time," it is more for me and less for Him. It is more about what I can receive than what I can give. And so during this Holy Week, I'm focusing on a generous spirit. I'm asking the Lord to make me generous with my time with Him. That this week I will listen quietly and watch intently as He walks again the road to Golgotha for me and accomplishes that which He came to do. That maybe this week I could be the one who sits before Him and wipes the tears with my hair.

O, Lord, open my heart to be generous this week in my love for and my time with You; and for just once, help me forget about myself.

Just an ordinary moment...

Bonding

2010-03-24T13:19:00.003-04:00

"Jesus came to create bonds, and living in , with and through Jesus means discovering these bonds in myself and revealing them to others." These were the early morning words I read last week as I sat on the balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I have to admit I wasn't sure exactly what was being said; and so I just sat. But as I watched the waves lap the ocean floor and the foam tickle its shore, I began to understand a little bit of Henri Nouwen's thoughts. We experience bonds in all types of arenas. Bonds between a husband and wife; between friends; between other Christians. But this particular morning, I experienced a different kind of bonding. Maybe it was the vastness of the ocean or the constant-ness of the waves that drew me to the One who is even more vast and more constant. But bonding occurred. And with it came unity, healing and restoration.

I think that's the nature of a bond. Don't you?

Just an ordinary moment...

Tug-of-War

2010-03-08T12:57:00.008-05:00

I sit here in my "garden enclosed" watching the cardinals and yellow finches along with a loud woodpecker vie for the numerous feeders just beyond the deck. (A pair of white doves just flew by to their nesting place high in the pine at the edge of the yard.) Their song lets me know they're happy. Their number lets me know that they enjoy community. And of course, my feathered friends also signal Spring -- as do the shifting shadows and the feel of warmth on my skin.

This morning I had on woolly slippers and flannel pj's; this afternoon I wear flip flops and crops. This time last week, we were canceling Bible study due to wintry and icy conditions; today, I have my windows raised enjoying 70 degree temperatures. It's certainly a contest of strength when it comes to the prevailing season; and the one being asked to leave is just as stubborn as the one pushing its way in.

As I continue my journey deeper and deeper into Lent, focusing on the passion of the Lord Jesus, I am finding that during this season of tug-of-war when winter and spring struggle with each for dominance, that I also have my own inner battles -- my own conflicts and clashes between self and submission, trust and fear, faith and hopelessness, turmoil and peace, doing or being. And just like the seasons, I am finding both to be willful.

Surely, Spring will reign soon.

Just an ordinary moment...

Making Room

2010-02-25T08:53:00.002-05:00

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return." Those were the solemn words spoken over me and others last week at the Ash Wednesday service as gray ashes were applied in cross form to each one's forehead. How somber. How bleak. How depressive to be reminded of one's mortality. But as I shared with the women in Bible study this week, we cannot fully experience the power and hope of Resurrection morning without first entering into the death of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Ash Wednesday, which can be traced back to the 3rd Century, is the beginning of Lent, a period of 40 days (excluding Sundays) that lead up to Easter. When I was younger, I remember those days as a time for spring cleaning -- or at least the time when I could look forward to throwing off my shoes and going barefoot. And for my grandfather, Gra, it signaled the time for preparing the soil for his huge and yielding garden. But as I've grown older and more in tune with the cycle of life, I've come to realize that Lent is more than just a house cleaning or a preparation of soil, it's more about a spiritual spring-cleaning and the preparation of a different kind of soil; that of the heart. Oh, yes, I've been told, "Well, we ought to be doing that every day." And I couldn't agree more. But I also admit, that while I do a daily house cleaning, more often known as keeping things "picked up," there are those "seasons" when I really get in those closets and drawers and do a thorough purging and reorganization. When those baseboards and floors get a heavy duty mopping and not just a sweeping. So I look at Lent like that. A time for "intentionality." A time for renewal and recommitment; for throwing out the old which needs to be discarded, and for growing in new directions.

And so each morning, during these days, often before the sun comes up, I'm finding my way in the dark -- with a cup of coffee in my hand, of course -- to the back bedroom of the house to a very old rocking chair. I switch on the little lamp on the side table and there I enter into a time of prayer and devotion and silence with the One who entered into a time of passion for me. It's an uncommon practice for me because not only is the place of meeting new, but because, and I'm ashamed to say this, the computer was my normal routine for the morning. So I guess one could say I'm fasting the computer and all those "important" emails that surely came in while I was sleeping.

But here's the truth. This "fasting" has opened a new space for God in me. Yes, for the first few days, I was distracted by my hunger pains. And why shouldn't I have been? I was so very accustomed to satisfying that craving first thing each morning. But what I'm finding out is that it was a false appetite and the Lord's sweetness and presence is what truly brings fulfillment.

O God, create in me more room for Thee.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Holy Heartbeat

2010-02-21T08:07:00.003-05:00

I have a particular music student who has a little trouble with rhythm. She knows in her mind there's a difference between an eighth note and a quarter note, but she's had difficulty working that out on the keys. I always explain to my students that the beat of music is likened to a steady heart beat. If we're sitting and reading a book, the beat might be slow; if we're jogging around the block, then the beat will be fast. But either way, it will be consistent. There's no irregularity to the beat, or else there's a serious problem.

Well, Katie just couldn't seem to get it. Not that there's no rhythm within her, it's just she hadn't been able to tap into it. And so I set my metronome (the little instrument that keeps a beat) and had her try to follow along with that. No good. Still didn't work. I tapped the piano and counted out loud myself along with the metronome. Still no results. So I asked her to count along with the metronome. Well, in her mind, she was. But still no luck. Until I asked her to count OUT LOUD with the metronome. And somehow, almost without fail, when her own voice began penetrating her own ears, she was able to respond to the correct beat and rhythm. And now, after some time, the rhythm that is naturally in her has begun to respond to the beat of the music.

As I was thinking earlier about the upcoming worship service, I was dwelling on some of the congregational responses we will be using this morning. I've heard people say on occasions that they don't care for such because people just say them and really don't mean it. Take the Apostle's Creed or Lord's Prayer for examples. Have both not the potential for such? That we can so easily let both roll off our tongues and never mean a word of it? Sure they can. But at the same time, it is a scientific fact that when we hear the sound of our own voice, a biological occurrence takes place within us that responds to that voice. And things within us change. Just like Katie's counting out loud to find the rhythm within herself, something happens when we hear ourselves say, "I believe in the God the Father, the Maker of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ His only Son..."

Yes, there are times I pray prayers where the words have not yet come from my heart. Words as simple as, "Not my will, but Yours." But it's also my prayer, like Katy, that what I understand with my mind will descend one day into my heart and give me a beat that is in rhythm with my Father's.

Just an ordinary moment...

Pure Opulence

2010-02-11T22:06:00.006-05:00

"Lord, in case You can't find me, I'm at The Cloister on Sea Island."

Yes, that's correct; I felt the need to clue the Maker of the universe in as to my whereabouts. Never have I experienced such opulence in my life. Never have I felt so out of place. Completely out of my league! Totally out of my element. I could not have been more bug-eyed if I had been on the Titanic. But I wasn't about to waste this opportunity; so while my husband was in his meeting, I decided to take a self-guided tour. I opened doors and walked in empty rooms begging for occupancy. I took pictures of the chair in which Pres. George W. Bush sat as he gathered with other world leaders around the round table at the G-8 Summit in 2004. I touched the maple doors and marvelled at the oil paintings and gorgeous draperies. I imagined playing the grand piano on the stage in the small ballroom, and I envisioned dancing under the gigantic crystal chandelier in the larger one. I lingered in the library and fingered more than one of the books. And the business center was more like a bank president's office complete with leather chairs! And I thought I had quite literally died and gone to heaven when I entered the lobby.

At first, I kept my camera hidden and just brought it out for quick moments to snap a shot. But then I lost all sense of propriety and wrapped the strap around my wrist and became a tourist. (At least at this point, I didn't have my nametag hanging around my neck!) I finally settled on the soft couch in the large solarium with a huge arrangment of numerous orchids behind me. And to the sound of water spilling in the fountain and the live colorful birds in their cages chattering, I pulled out my book and read this: "Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words will never pass away."

Yep, folks. As grand as all this is, it will not last. It will all pass away. But in its place will be something far more grand: a city whose foundation will be adorned with all kinds of precious stones. Jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth, and amethyst. The doors will be made of pearl, and the streets will be pure gold. And in the middle will sit One whose robe is dipped in blood and whose name is called the Word of God -- and He will never pass away.

Now that, my friends, will not be an ordinary moment. Hallelujah, praise the Lamb!