Digging through the dust

I haven’t yet met a writer who didn’t have stacks of dusty stuff in the “office.” I plead: guilty, as charged. Thus, in attempts to get better organized, this week I bought a five-shelf bookcase to replace a rickety two-shelf one held up by stacks of books in front of it. As I dusted and re-stacked books on actual shelves, I discovered some I forgot I had.

Something similar happened this morning as I read to the end of Jeremiah. For a lot of people, Jeremiah is a dusty, obscure book. I understand! But little by little, it’s opening up for me.

Jeremiah’s long prophecy ends in a big swash of condemnation of nations near and far who didn’t follow God. It reminded me of the 1960s and 1970s when it seemed the continents took turns having “coup of the day.” But this was 597 B.C., and the stakes were huge, thanks to super-power Babylon and its ruthless ruler Nebuchadnezzar. He was eyeing a prize called Jerusalem and its young king, Jehoiachin.

Age 18 when he officially took over the throne, Jehoiachin wore the crown for a mere three months and ten days. The Bible’s analysis of his kingship: “He did evil in the eyes of the Lord” (2 Kings 24:9, 2 Chronicles 36:9). Not too great a job evaluation, huh? He’d barely warmed up the throne when the Babylonian king marched him off to captivity with the rest of the royal family (including the Queen Mother—imagine how she felt about his job performance!) and about 10,000 fellow Jews.

In this riches-to-rags story, Jehoiachin sat in a primitive prison for 37 years! Do the math: from age 18 (barely shaving) to age 55 (definitely sagging). He’d probably lost all hope. Then Babylon’s leadership changed. Power-hungry Nebuchadnezzar died and was replaced by Evil-Merodach (how’d you like that for a name?), who freed Jehoiachin from prison.

Then the Bible records an amazing event. You don’t expect it of a ruler whose nation is known for brutality: “He [Evil-Merodach] spoke kindly to him and gave him a seat of honor higher than those of the other kings who were with him in Babylon” (Jeremiah 52:32). Besides being removed from prison, Jehoiachin was given fresh clothes and invited to eat regularly at the king’s table the rest of his life.

There are several ways to look at this story. One is this: Jehoiachin got better than he deserved, though it took a while. However, he never returned to Jerusalem to resume his rule. Plus, the Bible never indicates if he softened his heart toward the things of God. The man who “did evil” in his short reign didn’t emerge from prison on fire for God. He was content to slum along in the royal dining room until he died.

Another way of looking at the passage is this. Sin and godless living can land any of us in desperate circumstances. But God, who unlike Babylon’s pagan king is absolute righteousness, sees us in the dark prison of our own making. Instead of some plebian guard, He sent His own Son to unlock the dank chamber where we rot. He bids us come with Him, gives us fresh garments, and leads us to the King’s banquet hall. There He wants to fellowship with us, forever. For me, it puts another face on that memorable verse: “I will come in and eat with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).

As we end one year and begin the next, Jehoiachin’s story presents us with some searching truths. Have you given up hope in your negative circumstances? Would you be ready if the King called you?

Gift-wrapped

Charlie Brown had his wimpy Christmas tree. In our house, the art of gift wrapping suffers greatly. I know and admire those who elevate gift-wrapping to an art form. Every corner of wrap on the box is folded as neat as sheets on a hospital bed. The tape is pressed on in perfect parallels to the top and bottom of the box. The ribbons color-coordinate and sport little mini-gifts in the bows. Generous poufs of tissue sprout from gift bags.

Let’s just say that protégées of Martha Stewart do not live at my house. I have an under-bed box of wrapping paper, about half of it saved and ironed to recycle, the other half from yard sales. A large box in the garage holds “gift boxes,” which could be anything from a former candy box to one that held an assortment of greeting cards.

Wrapping holiday gifts reminds me of the adage, “It’s not the wrappings, it’s the love inside.” And I remember that God’s one-of-a-kind gift to the world came in humble packaging. Luke 2:7 says Mary wrapped her just-born baby “in cloths and placed in him a manger." The world's most precious baby didn’t wear disposable diapers and cuddle up in a soft, sanitary blanket sleeper. He was bound in long swaddling rags, the custom among the poor.

Recycled cloths—I never thought about it before. But God doesn’t always do things the way we expect.

Merry Christmas! And as you gather up the gift wrappings for the recycling box (or carefully fold them to iron and re-use), make this your prayer: “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Cor. 9:15 NKJV).

Finding the perfect (sensible) gift

In the Middle Ages, children's gifts came in bundles of three. They got something rewarding, something useful, and something for discipline. You might call it the original sweet-and-sour. That heritage came down to my own childhood Christmases with candy bars in my stocking, gift-wrapped new underwear, and something strange or unneeded. The last gift involved the discipline of a prompt and gracious thank-you note.

“Dear Uncle Bob,” began the creative exercise. “How did you know that a Rudolph the Reindeer knitted red nose-warmer was a wardrobe urgency?”

I always wondered how people could so badly misjudge what a kid really wanted. Then I became an adult and the buyer of kid gifts. The minute you enter a store, your mind turns to pudding. You wonder as you wander...and wander...past bulging shelves. What do they need? What do they want? Yes, they offered a suggestion list, but it was coded with strange letters. CD--candied dates? DVD--dark velvet dungarees? Wii—women’s indigo ice-skates? Two hours later, unable to find those items, you emerge--exhausted and exhilarated. You have bought traditional gifts of discipline. They will require creative thank-yous.

A tie, to hone acting abilities. "How did you know I needed another tie? I really do need to switch my garment of choice from tee-shirts to collared shirts. This tie that lights up when you insert the batteries will become my favorite."

Perfume, to sharpen olfactory acuity. "What a splendid fragrance. It seems a mix of passion blossoms and spearmint. I've never sniffed just that combination. Maybe I'll take some to my chem teacher for help in analyzing its content."

A book on study skills, for the study-challenged. “What timing to get this book on academic excellence. In barely a month, I will face finals but with renewed confidence from this book’s wisdom.”

Pajamas, to reinforce healthy habits. "Mother dear, how did you know I needed new garments for the eight hours of sleep I will get every night? I have forsaken my habit of staying up until midnight. From now on, I will put them on promptly at 9:30, rise at 6:30 and neatly tuck them under my pillow upon making my bed."

Who says it's hard to buy the perfect gift?

Okay, end of teasing! I’m grateful that God doesn't get befuddled about his gift-choosing and bestowing. He knows exactly what we need. He may give a reward, something useful, or something to discipline us, but it will be His very best. Matthew 5:17 says even though we humans, inadequate that we are, “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

Too busy? Break a leg....

The usual too-busy Christmas season was underway that Saturday morning, Dec. 16, 2006. I had hurried to the shopping center with three items on my to-do list before returning home to wash and set my 86-year-old mom-in-law’s hair. I just needed to find a citrus peeler, buy some groceries, and mail a stack of holiday greetings.

I had checked off item number one and was carefully making my way down an ice-covered public stairway in the mall, gripping the handrails, when my life was changed. Somehow, between handholds, my feet gave way and I landed at the bottom with a broken ankle. I sat on compact snow and ice in pain as passers-by walked around me to take care of their errands. Finally, somebody stopped, saw I wasn’t getting up, and offered to call an ambulance.

Later that evening, as a nurse rolled me out of surgery recovery, she said, “Honey, you won’t be going very many places for six weeks, at least.”

This could not be! It was Christmas! Plus, I was a care-giver for my mother-in-law, whose Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where I was taking her meals, dispensing her pills, doing her laundry, and generally keeping her clean and healthy. Once the do-it-all person, now I had to sit back in a recliner, broken limb elevated, and learn a few lessons. Among them:
*The world will not stop even if I do.
*My family would survive.
*Care-giving my mom-in-law would happen with others pitching in.
*I had to accept help (meals, laundry, housework) because I just couldn’t do it.
*My family would find me to be a source of humor (pain pills do that to you).

I wouldn’t wish a broken ankle on anybody. I walk very carefully now when there’s ice about. I have wicked grippers for my snow boots. I’ve healed as best as possible, but those traumatized bones (the surgeon said, “You smushed it good”) let me know in advance that the weather is changing.

And when Christmas comes, I’m no longer the holiday tornado.

Yesterday morning before going to his afternoon substitute teaching job, my husband was listening to a Bill Gaither vocal band video featuring Larnell Harris. As I heated soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for his lunch, I listened…and was touched by these words Larnell sang: “Precious Lord, take my hand.”

This year, more than any other, that expresses my heart. I’ve learned to cut back on expectations at the holidays. I am seeking more quiet places to listen to God, to sense Him taking my hand.

And it won’t take breaking a leg (or an ankle) for that to happen.

Have yourself a merry lesser Christmas

A few years ago, a frugal living specialist mentioned she made cheap Christmas gifts by stitching pot-holders out of old jeans. To her surprise, hundreds of fans pressed her for step-by-step instructions.

I’ve not yet gone the jean pot-holder route, but I’m still dreaming of a recycled Christmas. I caught the vision a few years ago when my husband and I taught kindergarten Sunday school, a job whose perks included being invited to the annual Sunday school Christmas party. Requirements for attending: two dishes for the potluck and one “white elephant” gift (something humorous you don’t want any more).

One year I retrieved my party “elephant” from my daughter’s wastebasket, where she’d tossed a black plastic spider ring spit out by a grocery store trinkets machine. I tucked it in an old velvet jewelry box.

At party time, who would choose that anonymous gift but our church’s most eligible twenty-something miss, who taught public school music. Her scream of horror was the party highlight. But true to her gracious personality, she actually expressed delight in her creepy gift.

“I’ll wear this when I direct my children’s choir,” she said. “They’ll watch my hands for sure!”

Oh, the variety of gifts in that room. Like a bar of deodorant soap (what I unwrapped). A nine-inch golf bag. Old rock-and-roll record (actually, a secret Elvis fan got it).Of course, the highlight was waiting to see who got the party’s perennial joke gift. Its recipient was supposed to carefully store it during the year, then bring it back cleverly wrapped for the next year’s joke gift exchange. The gift? A crocheted duck filled with melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand candy, which it dispensed via an unmentionable place.

In contrast, I shake my head at the advertising that bombards us in this season. Who really parks in their driveway a luxury car topped with a bright red ribbon, just for Mom? Who really needs diamond necklaces or electronic gadgets? It makes more sense to me to honor the Gift-giver, and that’s why the check’s already gone to a carefully-chosen ministry.

No, I didn’t stitch gift potholders out of old jeans (though I did sew the annual pajamas for my sister’s grandkids). But I am thinking of how my family might revive the hilarity of the Sunday school teachers’ traveling gag gift. Let me dig around in the garage. There ought to be something. Maybe even a spider ring…..

Awry in the manger

I knew something was awry in the manger when the sputtering stopped. I was used to motor noises. I had a boy. Among his first toys were matchbox cars and trucks. They ran on, well, sputters. Little girls giggle. Boys sputter, especially when they’re three and haven’t yet learned words like “carburetor” or “horsepower.”

Advent had come, and we'd put out our child-friendly creche of fake moss on wood with plastic figurines. I sat little Zach down with his cloth Christmas book and related its profound plot of single words to the plastic figures. "Mary." Point to plastic mother. "Joseph." Point to plastic father. "Baby Jesus." Point to baby in animal feeding tray. Then on through the cows, shepherds, and wise men. I left him to review the lesson while I did housework.

All mothers of pre-schoolers worry when there is silence. Zach wasn't at the creche any more. All was okay--except the baby Jesus had a visitor. A four-inch motorcyclist had leaned his wheels against the corner by the cow.

"Zach," I said, calling my son to the scene of the personalized manger scene. "Doyou think Baby Jesus might wake up when the motorcycle goes vroom-vroom?” You don’t argue with a sputter specialist. The rider stayed in the no-parking zone.

Another year, when his younger sister Inga reached fashion doll age, the Holy Family had another unscheduled visit. She pushed the Wise Men to the side so that Barbie could pull up in her hot pink plastic Corvette for a social call. As I noticed Inga "walk" the doll over to the manger, I was just grateful Barbie, for a change, was modestly dressed.

We owe to St. Francis of Assisi the heritage of nativity re-creations. His outdoor manger scene helped tell local peasants the story of Christ's birth. But I doubt he imagined a set director like the one that emerged in our home. It was the year one child's personality bent became evident. As I passed by the creche in its traditional spot, I noticed something else awry in the manger. Sputter Boy had become Mr. Neatnik. My emerging perfectionist had lined up all the "people" on the right, and all the "animals" on the left.

I smiled at the sight, grateful he still left Jesus at the center of it all.

In praise of GIRRLL-friends

I’ve done some thinking about quality friendships as a result of speaking at the bridal shower for a special neighbor girl, uh, young woman. Where did the years go? When her parents moved across the street, she was a toothless baby grinning up at me from her crib.

During my shower talk, I referred to how even after marriage, you need women friends. Your husband can’t possibly meet all your needs. Researchers say the typical woman has 20,000 words a day that need to get out. A man can get through a day with about 7,000 words, and often less (unless he’s a salesman, of course). He's pressed to keep up with her three-times-greater need of conversation. And unmarried women have just as big a need for verbal connection.

That’s where women friends come in—more accurately, the sisterly connection that I’d call (with a southern drawl) girrll-friends.

At the shower I quoted from Pam Farrell’s book Fantastic After Forty (Harvest, 2007) about how we never outgrow (or marry out of) our need for true girlfriends. Afterward, I thought of things I’d add to the list in Farrell’s book, based on the blessing of a girrll-friendship in my life. A girrll-friend:

*Has a “history” with you from years of building a friendship.
*Gives you clothes you can really use when she cleans out her closet.
*Helps you hold a put-off but needed yard sale—and adds her stuff, too.
*Listens to you, helping nudge you toward godly perspective on issues (as in “such-and-such drives me nuts” mellowing to “God’s using that to build my character”).
*Doesn’t keep track of who hosted the last informal lunch together.
*Permanently loans you her house key (1) in case she locks herself out and (2) because she trusts you and knows you probably will use it to sneak a meal in her refrigerator when she comes home from a long trip.
*Anticipates and shares life’s pleasures, like buying a whole watermelon and bringing you half, because neither of you can eat a whole one up before it spoils (and letting you pay for your half because you grew up not wanting to be ‘beholden’ to someone).
*Calls when she spots a bargain you might be interested in.
*Doesn’t force you to agree with her.
*Shares tips for healthier living and encourages you follow through.
*Helps you in humble, practical ways. One of my five-star events was the morning she helped wash my scaly, withered broken-but-healing ankle on the first day out of the hard cast. This act reminded me of Jesus in the Upper room, and I cried over her gentleness).
*Shares good books and videos.
*Prays for your kids like a second mom.
*Comes up with the idea of visiting while running errands together—especially when you’re too busy for time together otherwise.
*Shares your idiosyncrasies, like a fondness for split pea soup.
*Feels free to just drop in, even if it’s for an emergency bathroom stop.
*Clips cartoons that hit home.
*Alerts you to other friends’ needs and sorrows, without gossiping.
*Doesn’t care how messy your house is, but will lend a hand for a quick cleanup.
*Prays for you—for things you’ve mentioned and things she’s just wise about.

I’m sure I could go on about the nurturing connection points of such friendships (and use up some more of my allotted daily words), but that’s a start. I’d love to hear some traits you recognize in girrll-friends!

White wake-up call

One of the advantages of living in a northern climate is Nature’s winter alarm clock for sleepy children and teens.It’s been a few years, but I still remember the routine. They’d go to bed begging for an extra afghan on top because it was so cold. When morning came, they’d remain cocooned under their multiple layers unless somebody whispered two words and opened the curtains to reveal the truth.

It snowed.

Plus, it happened on a no-school day. Can life get any better? Suddenly, they were awake, eager to rush through breakfast (mean Mom says, “No corn flakes, no snow flakes”) and dig out those snow pants, caps, gloves and mufflers. A white world meant snowballs, snowmen, heaping snow for your own three-foot sledding hill, and making a snow fort. Oh yes, maybe scraping a few sidewalks to be “helpful.”

The only downside was Mom, who kept an eye on the clock and temperature and called them in before they turned into snowmen. Then it was hot chocolate while the wet snow gear tossed in the dryer for another stint in that wonderful white world.

Our first significant snowfall of the winter came yesterday. But those kids who sprang from their blanketed cocoons to revel in its wet whiteness don’t live here any more. They’re grown up and on their own. Now, snow means getting a shovel out to clear their own walks before anything else. Then, if it’s not a work day, maybe a trip to the ski hill.

Yesterday, as I scraped the driveway and sidewalks, I wistfully remember seeing snow through a child’s eyes. I have a picture of my son and daughter all bundled up, faces toward the sky, tongues out, trying to catch a flake on their tongues. Learning each snow flake is unique, they also tried to examine them with a magnifying glass. But their breath melted the fragile flakes before that happened.

The only member of the family not too excited about snow was Aug the cat. He made no secret of disliking having to hop through cold, wet stuff to his favorite guard station under the bird feeder. Who knows the mind of an animal, but snow clearly impaired the smells along the route of his daily territorial policing.

Of the Bible’s 14 references to snow, one of my favorites is in Isaiah 1:18:
“Come now, let us reason together,” says the Lord.
Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.
When we ask God for forgiveness of our sins, a blizzard of mercy pours out from Heaven, covering the dirty stuff in our lives.

And even though most of the world doesn’t experience a “white Christmas,” there’s a lot of symbolism in those Currier-and-Ives snow-time scenes. For isn’t Christmas about the Divine storm of mercy? And of Jesus coming to a sin-polluted world, spreading the soft blanket of pure hope?

Book it!

When my children were in grade school, they participated in a program called “Book It!” which rewarded reading goals with personal pan pizzas. While they grew up enjoying reading and didn’t really need gastronomical incentives, we were grateful for the investment that local pizza parlors made!

Books are still big in our family’s life, but now that the kids are grown and on their own, Mom is the one who usually has a book in her hands. I’ve had the privilege of contributing to about thirty compilations over the years, including three recently published.

Lucinda Secrest McDowell oversaw the assembling of 30 Ways to Embrace Life: Wise Women Share Their Secrets (Quiet Waters Publications). A broad assembling of women have shared what they learned in change points of their lives. My essay is about simplifying your life.

The editors of Guideposts are publishing a series titled “True Stories of Extraordinary Answers to Prayers,” and the volume Praying Together has my essay on persevering group prayer. I tell about praying for missionary colleagues during the 232 days they were captives of the Viet Cong, and how participating in this prayer season gave me new insight into Psalm 126.

Finally, a smile. When Pam Farrel and Dawn Wilson were writing LOL With God: Devotional Messages of Hope and Humor for Women (Tyndale), they put out a call for funny happenings to which women could relate. I told about my dear friend who, learning I faced a surgical biopsy, phoned and offered to bring my family dinner after my autopsy. Uh, huh. I lived to eat it. The Farrel-Wilson book has a good format for women of the electronic age: a short essay, a reaction point, pertinent scriptures, and then that release of laughter to wrap it up.

Each of these books offers bite-size spiritual nourishment—something like those personal pan pizzas that fed my kids years ago. I include such books in my reading diet in addition to more challenging “reading menu” items. If you see me browsing at a thrift store, you’ll probably find me with my head cocked to the side, reading the titles off the spines of used books in search of a classic spiritual treasure.

And yes, from time to time, I spot one of my books among the discards. It keeps me humble!

Grace places

Once in my life I did win a national contest. To help publicize a new book on mentoring, a Christian publisher had sponsored a contest seeking essays about “women of influence” in someone’s life. When I first saw the ad, I thought, “Oh, what’s the use.” But I was compelled to tell the story of an unusual woman of influence in my life, a retired nurse in my church who took this rookie newspaper reporter aka young chick under her devout wing. She loved on me and encouraged me in my growing faith through simple potluck meals in her very humble little home.

Just before the contest deadline in spring 2000, I sent off my article about “Grandma G,” my unlikely mentor. A few months later, as I sat writing fillers for my part-time job at the newspaper, I got a call from the sponsoring publisher. Out of hundreds of entries, they decided mine was the winner. My prize would be a weekend trip to Indianapolis to meet the book’s author and be honored at the large arena “Heritage Keepers” women’s event where she would speak. Oh yes, the weekend would include “the works” at a day spa. The trip was for two—for me and my “mentor.” One problem: she had died years ago. Could I take my daughter, then 16, in her stead?

And so Inga and I flew to Indianapolis and spent time with international Christian speaker Carol Kent, an author whose works I had read and enjoyed, and whose book Becoming a Woman of Influence prompted the contest. Carol and her husband were models of graciousness in helping Inga and me feel welcome. But I sensed something amiss as I watched her greet professional friends and share tears and emotional hugs. Finally, as we left, I dared to ask. I learned their son (and only child), a military academy graduate who wanted to honor Christ in his occupation, sat in prison on charges of murdering his wife’s ex-husband, who was suspected of abusing his little daughters.

Carol’s writing and speaking took a major turn after that heart-breaking event, which resulted in her son being sentenced to life without possibility of parole in a Florida prison. From this life-shattering sorrow came three books to uphold and encourage people who face unthinkable circumstances and are struggling to trust God to help them through it. They have included When I Lay My Isaac Down, A New Kind of Normal, and the just-released Between a Rock and a Grace Place. This newest book encourages those who suffer to look for the God-things that emerge from dark places—like faith, mercy, contentment, thanksgiving, favor, joy, freedom, and adventure. Though the book shares their journey with their son’s incarceration, it also includes stories of others who have found themselves on the dark and despairing side of life. It’s lived-through, cried-through, and trusted-through responses to the life circumstances you would have never chosen.

I’d encourage you to read this book. Request it from your public library so that it can be ordered and put on the shelves for others. Share it with those who may seem ready for its liberating message. I’d venture that many of us know someone with a desperate outcome from their choices. Some remote branches of my family tree, grafted in by marriage, include those who suffer greatly because of a family member’s crime. One man is serving his sentence for murder; another has recently been charged with the same crime.

If you know of someone who is incarcerated and don’t know what to do to help that person’s family, consider learning about a non-profit ministry Carol began to help inmates and their families: www.SpeakUp ForHope.org.

When I entered that essay contest a decade ago, I had no idea how it would expand my world. The manicure is long gone and I’d never had another massage since that contest win. But it touched my life in a good way. I pray regularly for Carol and her husband, who have not shrunk back from this sorrow, but embraced it to bring glory to God.

Cereal thriller

I was dumping a bowlful of heart-healthy oats into my bowl the other morning when the advertising on the box caught my eye. “You could win the ultimate chance to do what you love!” the box promised.

Can life get even more thrilling, suggests that bright yellow box? An innocent visit to the website (to divulge your E-mail) and Somebody Somewhere could be off to the Stuff of Dreams. Like a custom trip anywhere in the US. A VIP trip to the Grand Canyon. Getting up close with a celebrity chef, race car driver, or movie stars.

Okay, true confessions. Contests have lured me. Whenever one offered a free trip to Hawaii, I dropped my name in the box. The black hole box. The-live-volcano-on-Hawaii-must-have-incinerated-my-entry box.

Yes, somebody else does win such contests. Yet my family has had the thrill of some small-potatoes contest. Our daughter won a hula hoop contest at the local grocery store and brought home a large picnic cooler. Our son’s artwork got him a black jacket emblazoned with “Dusty’s In and Out” (a local burger place) that he wore for most of grade school. We visited a motel open house and won a night in the bridal suite another motel of the same chain. There were restrictions, of course, which is why mom, dad and two grade-school kids enjoyed the suite on New Year’s eve in the middle of Eastern Washington’s barren sage brush country. The in-room hot tub was nice since it was snowing and bitter cold outside.

I think God smiles when He drops those surprises in our laps. But as I gulped down my cereal heart-helpers, I got to thinking about what might be my “ultimate experience.” When you get right down to it, there’s only one “ultimate experience” for those who call themselves “Christians.” A fellow named Paul, reduced to sitting in a filthy Roman prison on trumped-up charges, said it best:
“I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” (Philippians 3:8)

Someday, seeing Him in all His glory in Heaven, will be the ultimate experience. I’m convinced of that!

10 Top Things About Having the Stomach Flu

10. You can break out the retro décor, like that red rubber hot water bottle.
9. It’s not morning sickness—and certainly not if you’re a post-menopausal woman or a man of any age (and if you’re a man, you can finally experience one thing pregnancy does to women).
8. You have new purpose for those fancy fragrant candles you got as generic gifts.
7. You can try new food combinations, like lemon-lime pop, Jello and custard with saltines.
6. You can head for bed long before bedtime.
5. You have a fresh excuse when a telemarketer calls.
4. Taking a long bath and burrowing under several blankets is part of the “cure.”
3. You can lose weight.
2. You find new things to be thankful for, like modern indoor plumbing.
And finally:
1. Even if your head is banging, your stomach rolling, and your lower quarters rumbling, you’re still alive.

The flu visited our home this week. It puts a new spin on “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:19). Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hankering for some saltines.….

Praying Without the Book

No time to pray? Maybe this will change your mind.....

Yes, you can pray without “the book”—the personal prayer notebook I’ve talked about the last few blogs.In fact, we must pray when something stirs our heart. God has no office hours. He hears whenever, wherever, however.

If you’ve never read anything by the 17th century monk Brother Lawrence or 20th century literacy advocate Frank Laubach, you should. Both wrote about practicing the presence of God, of being aware of Him and conversing with Him throughout the day. For Brother Lawrence (The Practice of the Presence of God), that could happen even as he went about his duties in the monastery kitchen. Laubach’s The Game with Minutes spoke of minute-by-minute awareness of God. Their books will move and challenge you.

But, for starters, consider these ideas for quick prayer:
*Waiting-time prayers. Instead of shifting your thinking into neutral when you’re on public transportation or in a waiting room, pray for the person sitting next to you or someone whose body language (tears, anxiety) points to a serious need.
*Siren prayers. Instead of saying, “Better move over to the side, or “I wonder where they’re going,” whenever you hear a siren from an emergency vehicle, pray. Ask for physical and emotional strength for the unknowns that police, fire or ambulance workers will face. Pray for the victims in their panic and confusion.
*Driving prayers. Pray for that sloppy or cell-phone chatting driver who doesn’t realize others on the road are being put at risk. Pray for businesses or government officials when you drive past stores or city hall. Thank God for stoplights, highway signs, and even good roads to drive on. Praise Him for the invention of vehicles to move people and products.
*Housework prayers. On laundry day, pray for the person whose clothes you’re folding or ironing. When cooking, praise God for your electric and gas “servants” (stove, refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher, etc.). Thank Him for safe water, farmers, a garden, and stores.
Don’t forget:
*Arrow prayers. When a crisis slams into your life, pray briefly. “Lord, help me.” “Holy God, control my tongue.” “Jesus, be with me through this.” “Help me be loving to this disagreeable person.”
*Breath prayers. A Christian practice that’s millennia old, it combines breathing and short petitions. When you inhale, you say a name or attribute of God. On exhaling, you add the petition. The classic breath prayer: “Jesus, Son of David…have mercy on me, a sinner.” The “A-Z” names section of your Personal Prayer Notebook will help you with more brief breath prayers. S-Shepherd: “Jesus, my Good Shepherd…lead me by the still waters.” “God of Truth…show me the way through this confusion.” “God of Peace…calm my troubled heart.”
****
I just finished reading The Hole in the Gospel by World Vision CEO Richard Stearns. Powerful book! In one of his chapters (“What Are You Going to Do About It?”), he lists more ideas for spontaneous prayer, focused on the hurting world. Some of his suggestions for prayer (from pp. 291-192):
Morning shower—pray for those without clean water.
Packing family lunches—for the billion chronically hungry in today’s world.
Job commute—those unable to support their families or the millions of children in harmful or exploitative labor.
Dropping kids off at school—children barred from an education because of poverty or discrimination.
Taking vitamins—those without adequate health care.
Coming home after work—the homeless.
Night-time tuck-in—the millions of AIDS orphans, many surviving without guardians.

Would you care to share some of your ideas or experiences? Please feel free to add a comment in the space below.

Praying by the Book, Part 6: Jordan Stones

How do you record family history? Some of us have multiple charts of names with birth and date deaths. My husband has several notebooks of such charts plus old photos from his interest in family roots. I have some family history information that goes back to a great-great-something grandmother from Norway named Ingeborg, which means “hero’s daughter” or “refreshment.” (I named my daughter “Inga.") I also have a note, passed on by my mother, that somewhere in distant family lore a Viking ancestor eloped with a French nobleman’s daughter, probably a princess. Because she disgraced her family by running off with a wild man, her family expunged her name from local records. Whoa.

Let’s get serious. How do your record your spiritual history? In Bible times, rocks were often heaped in a pile to note a historical or sacred occasion. One of the most famous was on the west side of the Jordan River. It marked the end of forty years of wandering in the wilderness, the completion of an entire nation migrating from slavery in Egypt to a new homeland in Canaan. The book of Joshua tells about this monument, established about 1400 B.C. As the Israelites crossed over the Jordan River—its waters miraculously held back--Joshua relayed God’s command to have a leader from each of the twelve tribes choose a large riverbed stone. These they were to heap at Gilgal, just east of Jericho, as a monument for future generations to remember both miracles of water-crossing: the Red Sea and the Jordan (see Joshua 4).

The “Jordan Stones,” the final section of your Personal Prayer Notebook, is an ongoing list recounting what might be called the “God-times” in your life. There may be happenings prior to your faith decision where, looking back, you realize except for the protective hand of God you wouldn’t be where you are now. Perhaps there was serious health issue, a car wreck or a bad relationship you left. Your decision to follow Christ would be one “Jordan rock.” Maybe there was a financial provision that had to be a miracle. Births of children are definite “God-times”!

Take some time in compiling your “Jordan rocks.” Think through stages of your life (childhood, teens, early adulthood, marriage, children, career, and so on). Identify what might be the fingerprints of God on your life. Write them down as God-moments. For example, next to 1978, the year I turned 31 and both my parents died, I wrote: “God in the darkness of grief: ‘I will never leave you not forsake you.”

The use of this list? As you look through it, to praise God for His faithfulness to you. This is a time when it’s okay to dwell on the past, when you see it through the lens of how God is moving you forward in His purposes for your life—and for eternity. It’s an open-ended list because—as that old saying goes—God is not finished with you yet. The list might also be a tool to share your faith with others.

In the spirit of the Jordan monument, you remember… “so that all the peoples of the earth might know that the hand of the LORD is powerful and so that you might always fear the LORD your God” (Joshua 4:24).

Next week: Praying without the book

Praying by the Book, Part 5: A-Z praises

Ever thought how you’d like someone to describe you to another person? Think beyond age, height, body build, hair and eye color. If there was a hidden microphone and you were listening in, would you hope to hear positive, kind things said about you?

Imagine that you didn’t have a legal name, but you were called by some sort of attribute. Hopefully it would be positive! One of my dad’s pet names for me in childhood (and I hated it) was “Prune Juice.” I don’t know if that had something to do with a physical issue or a facial expression!

Now think of how you use God’s name when you talk with Him. Are you in a rut on the names you use? Do you ever dwell on Who He really is? His attributes? His great works? His character?
The “A-Z Praises” section of your personal prayer notebook is something you build, name by name, attribute by attribute, as you discover new ways to describe and honor God. Psalm 105:3 says, “Glory in his holy Name.” We do that when we speak back God’s Names to Him in praise and adoration. It also expands our vision of God’s infinite greatness and wisdom.

Designate separate pages for letters of the alphabet, perhaps combining P-Q, V-W-X, and Y-Z. As you become aware of a special name of God, write it down. Include a reference if you wish.

The A-Z Praises section will help you avoid the trap of letting your prayer notebook become a list-reading time. Pondering the meanings and promises of God’s names will help you worship in wonder and love at all God is. An example: “God is LIGHT.” Beside that word in my prayer notebook I have written three verses that I came across in my scripture reading times.
Isaiah 9:6: “On those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”
John 1:3-9: several verses that speak of Jesus as “the Light.”
John 8:12: Jesus’ own statement, “I am the Light of the World.”
Prayer: “Light of the World, I think of the problems, the dark places, that shadow the things I pray about. There is the darkness of bad choices. The darkness of living apart from You. The darkness of losing hope. Thank you, God of Light, that Your light of truth will never go out. I am so grateful that light dispels the darkness. Thank you for the physical light that comes with each sunrise, a promise of your infinite love and care. Thank you for bright hope. I praise you, Light of the World. Amen.”

There are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and 30 to 31 days in a typical month. As you build your “names” list, using a different letter per day, your understanding and love of God will grow.
If you need some starters, this website has hundreds of names: http://www.characterbuildingforfamilies.com/names.html
I also commend this list from The Navigators: http://www.navigators.org/us/resources/items/Thirty%20Days%20of%20Praying%20the%20Names%20and%20Attributes%20of%20God
One of several books I’ve read and appreciated on this topic:
Praying the Names of God by Ann Spangler

Next week’s blog: Prayers from your “Jordan Stones”

Praying by the Book, part 4: Praying for adult family members

When my friend’s daughter was in the foot-stompin’ twos, an important attitude change took place. That’s when her daughter quit saying “Mommy help?” and declared with a pouty voice, “Do SELF!” That stubborn streak of independence follows us way into adulthood. Rather than ask for prayer, we insist, “Do SELF! Me do it!”

That’s not quite like the Bible says to do it. Life is hard, seek support! Or, as the apostle Paul put it: “Be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints” (Eph. 6:18). “In everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Phil. 4:6). “Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful. And pray for us, too….” (Col. 4:2).

In reading through Paul's letters, I'm amazed by how he wasn’t shy about asking people to pray for him. Even though people might hear his letters read aloud months after he wrote them, he sought prayer—holy co-involvement—in his life and ministry. He would have loved the immediacy of E-mail to get the word out!

The other thing I noticed about Paul’s letters is how he prayed BIG for others. His letters to the churches are marked by bold requests for their growth in spiritual character. Check them out: Ephesians 1:16-19. Ephesians 3:16-19, Phil. 1:9-11, Col. 1:9-14, Philemon 4-7, 2 Thess. 1:11-12.

Among contemporary authors, I appreciate how Stormie Omartian has compiled scripture for bold, character prayers for loved ones. I’ve given copies of her “Power of a…” series as gifts.

If you want a simpler approach to praying for the adults in your life (parent, sibling, spouse), here are the character-based petitions that I drew out of one of my favorite prayers of Paul, from the first chapter of Colossians.Incorporate them into your Sunday-through-Saturday sections by writing them on the back side of the tab page for that day’s prayer section.

SUNDAY: To follow God’s will, for spiritual wisdom and understanding. Scripture: “Asking God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding” (Col. 1:9).
MONDAY: To live worthy of God and to bear spiritual fruit. Scripture: “to live a live worthy of the Lord and…[to]please him in every way, bearing fruit in every good work” (v. 10).
TUESDAY: To continue to grow spiritually and to love the Bible. Scripture: “growing in the knowledge of God” (v. 10b).
WEDNESDAY: To experience God’s strength for spiritual, emotional and physical challenges. Scripture: “being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might” (v. 11a).
THURSDAY: For endurance and patience in life’s hard places. Scripture: “so that you may have great endurance and patience” (v. 11b).
FRIDAY: To have gratitude for God’s gifts. Scripture: “joyfully giving thanks for the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the kingdom of light” (v. 12).
SATURDAY: To love God wholeheartedly. Scripture: “For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins” (vv. 13-14).

Are the adults for whom you pray not walking with God? All the more reason to pray for them. They may have few, if any, believers in their support network. Offer to pray for needs they express to you. And while you also pray for them to know God, pray that they’ll desire the hope and relationships expressed in Paul’s Colossians 1 prayer.

Right now, they may be saying, “Do SELF!” But they’ll find out it doesn’t really work out. We have a Savior who is waiting and watching, and who yearns to help them.

Next blog post: Alphabet praises

Praying by the book, Part 3: Special prayers for your children

Central Washington, where I live, is a high desert area with inspiring mountain views, irrigated and fruited valleys, and a moderate climate that gives us four seasons without too many extremes. We don’t have hurricanes (though sometimes a wild wind storm), tornadoes (just dust devils in the wheat fields), blizzards (though a few significant snowfalls), or major earthquakes.

But we do have fires. Whether lightning- or man-caused, they quickly churn through dry forest or brush lands toward homes and towns. Sometimes smoke settles on our valley like a dirty shroud, hard on those of us with asthma and other breathing issues. I remember a couple summers when our urban area of about 40,000 was put on notice for possible evacuation because the fires were rampaging our way. Thankfully, it never happened for us.

As a result, those who live in rural areas prone to wildfires have learned what not to do, like not planting trees near a home where they’ll just act like torches. Instead, they create firebreaks with cleared, bare land, often ringing homes with gravel.

This whole scary fire scene is a picture of the need to pray for our children. They’re out there in a fierce world where sudden gusts of opposition or trouble can put them at risk. Spiritual battles aren’t fought well with the garden hose of wimpy prayers on the order of “Bless Billy” or “Be with Jane.”

For years, I prayed with my kids at bedtime and privately when there were crises, like a health issue or a difficulty at school. But I wasn’t consistent in prayers for the “big picture” of their lives. When they got to high school, I realized that needed to change. Every time they entered that big, gray, almost windowless building, they were in a battlefield of standing for God in a culture that for the most part ignored or dishonored God in word, deed, and purpose.

That’s when I decided I would pray for character issues for my children on a daily basis, in addition to whatever immediate need they faced. I came up with seven big areas on which to focus their prayer, one per day of the week. These I wrote on the back of each divider page of my personal prayer notebook, as follows:

Sunday: growing faith, place of ministry.
Monday: to delight in God’s Word.
Tuesday: purity, future mate.
Wednesday: health and safety.
Thursday: careers, values
Friday: positive attitude, gratitude
Saturday: true, godly friends.

My son and daughter are now in their late twenties. They upheld purity and married Christians. They’re active in their churches. They survived hundreds of miles driving to and from a college four hours away. They prepared well for their careers. They value simple things, like growing a garden or enjoying a community park. They express gratitude to their parents and others. They’re helpful. They have chosen good friends. They are good friends.

As I write this, I thank God for His care as they navigated those turbulent teen years. Many of their peers got too close to the fires of bad choices and continue, as young adults, to grieve their parents.

I still pray for them daily, revising those big areas for the needs I’m aware of in their lives. For example, instead of “future mate,” I’m praying for the mate they now have.

A special note to those who have no children or may not be married: carry the prayer burden for the children or a relative or special friend. God will honor that. Just as dozens of fire fighters stave off destruction in a real fire, there’s lots of room for those who intercede for the next generation.

PRAYING BY THE BOOK—Setting up a prayer notebook, continued

In my Oct. 3 blog post about setting up a prayer notebook, I summarized the nuts-and-bolts of dividing prayer requests among days of the week, including missionaries or Christian workers you know. I promised to detail later more about praying for your children and for adult family members.

I forgot something! As you spread out your heart concerns among days of the week, consider adding some other prayer areas. Mark them on the back of each day's divider tab. Here are ones in my notebook:

Sunday: specific needs of my church. For example, mine had two extended pastor searches. Now, our church is being challenged to participate more in serving the local and global poor.
Monday: my own work and ministry. Even though praying happens in front of my computer when I really struggle with a piece, I also pray about the big picture of my writing/speaking ministry.
Tuesday: the 10/40 window (the greatest concentration of Islam between these latitudes on the globe) and a child in Haiti we sponsor in a compassion ministry.
Wednesday: government. This includes local and national leaders. How much we need to do this! Check this web site, sponsored by a non-profit group, for some specifics: www.presidentialprayerteam.com
Thursday: neighbors. While praying, I imagine walking around my block and stopping to pray for each household. Addictions, broken marriages, spiritual apathy—there’s lots to pray about.
Friday: the spiritually troubled, including specific prisoners I know of, others with addictions, and those family members and friends who don’t see their need of Christ.
Saturday: long-term special needs. My list includes friends and relatives with rebellious children and others struggling to “do life” in their Christian journey. Most are not aware that I am praying for them.

Next post: praying for your children. Is this helping you? Please forward the blog link to others: http://jeannezornes.blogspot.com

Praying by the book, Part 2: Setting up a Prayer Notebook

Ready to be more proactive in your prayer life? In this blog I’ll explain, as promised in last week’s blog, how to set up a personal prayer notebook.
You’ll need:
*A small ringed notebook and at least about 30 sheets of filler paper. I prefer a six-ring notebook that measures about 4 ½ by 7 inches, small enough to fit in the pocket of my Bible cover. Mine was second-hand; my local drug-etc. store sells them for $5 in the stationery aisle. For some reason, I haven’t found them in office supply stores in my town.
*Small photos of people you pray for regularly, such as missionaries
*Heavier paper, like card stock, to make dividers
*A paper punch
*Stick-on colored tab dividers. I cut them in half, which means several people could share one package for the 10 sections I suggest. Instead of the heavier plastic dividers, you could use self-adhesive blank address labels (the 1x3” size), folded over to make a tap on the outside of the paper.
*Sticky notes (like Post-it ®)
*Paste
*Scissors
To assemble the notebook:
1. Using the heavier paper, cut ten dividers the size of your filler paper.
2. With your filler paper as a guide, punch ring holes.
3. Prepare divider tabs: one for each day of the week plus one labeled “A-Z” and another “Jordan Stones.”
4. Attach tabs to divider pages. Your first divider will have no tab (it’s for daily prayer reminders). The second one will start with “Sunday.” Your last two dividers will be “A-Z” and “Jordan Stones.” [These last two involve praise reminders.]
5. Add filler paper behind each tabbed section.
6. Consider putting an address label on the front inside cover of the notebook, just in case if gets lost.
7. Place a sticky note on the front blank tab and write on it the names of those in difficult situations that you decide you will pray for daily. This may be people with serious or terminal diseases, the grieving, and those in troubled marriages. When someone I know loses a spouse or loved one, I tell them that I will commit to praying for them daily in the first year of being alone. I mark after their name the date of their loved one’s death, so I know when the year is up. At that time I write them a note of care.
8. Behind each divider for a day of the week, use separate pages for people you will focus prayers on. For example, on Sunday, I pray for my church and for a pastor. I divide missionaries and Christian workers among other days of the week. Each person or family has its own “page” with a photo, contact information, birthdays, and a sticky note for current prayer needs. (The sticky note enables me to make changes without re-doing the whole page.)

NEXT BLOG: Praying for children

Praying by the Book, Part 1--Persistent in Prayer

My husband had brought home a “fixer” bike that came with a four-number combination lock and security chain tightly looped through it. Enter his assistant, the Great Bike Chain Sleuth, aka me. I methodically went through all possible combinations of the six-number reels. You math whizzes, that’s six to the fourth power, or 1,296 possibilities. Actually, I did that three times. Somehow, I didn’t have the winning combination exactly lined up, and the chain stayed shut. Only on the third try—my “entertainment” as a passenger on a long road trip- did it fall apart at 6214.

I looked up, rested my bruised thumbs, and said, “Thank you!”

Diligence. Perseverance. We need them in life’s daily tasks. We also need them in our spiritual lives, particularly in the calling to pray.

I’d like to suggest that a little hand-size notebook that costs about five dollars (or less if you find a used one) may help you be more consistent and fervent in prayer. I started using a home-made “personal prayer notebook” sometime in the Eighties—yes, that era of fluffy hair, huge shoulder pads, and ankle-length skirts. Styles may change, but the need of purposed prayer doesn’t.

Even with the availability of today’s electronic personal calendar and reminder devices, there’s still nothing like the paper version.

Some of you may remember how the personal planner craze of a couple decades ago popularized notebooks that got as big as a book. Their binder rings captured everything from a comprehensive daily schedule to shopping lists, family sizes, wish lists, personal goals (like “get organized”), financial records, addresses and maybe a personal journal. Some included a calculator and ruler. As I browsed office supply stores, I thought a few seemed huge enough for the agenda for the National Security Council of the United Nations!

I never went for the donkey-cart size. I made my own with a palm-size six-ring notebook. Just the basics, ma’am, to survive life with a busy family, which meant a calendar, to-do list, and a place for coupons. I also had one back section for “prayer requests,” all lined up with columns for “date asked, date answered.” But after a few years, that approach to remembering who and what to pray for just wasn’t working for me.

It seemed, too, that my prayer life was dropping to the level of a snack machine. You know the type: insert money, pull a lever, enjoy-empty-calories-that-plunk-into-slot. Plus, to be honest, my lists were getting so long. I was rushing through just to “finish the list,” not genuinely speaking to God about the people and things that I cared about.

For me, the solution came in separating it from the other “organizing” stuff of life. I started another small six-ring notebook, just big enough to fit in the pocket of my Bible cover. With stick-on labels, I divided it into daily sections, Sunday through Saturday, assigning prayer commitments to certain days. In the next few blogs I’ll explain just how it’s set up.

In recent years I’ve been sharing the specifics of this “personal prayer notebook” concept when I speak at women’s weekend events. Many find it helpful and buy up all the little notebooks I’ve created for them. My handouts disappear. What works for me seems to be what other women want, too.

Okay, I’m old-fashioned, still using paper. But it never fails me. It never needs recharging. And I don’t wear out my thumb knuckles looking for elusive information.

Over the next few blogs I’ll cover:
*Setting up a notebook
*Special prayers for your children
*Special prayers for adult family members
*A-Z praises
*Jordan Stones (got you curious on that?)
I’ll try to post them every Monday. Hope after visiting, you’ll forward the link to others.

(Did I say “link”—as in chain?)

DEVO your Bible

You’ve probably heard this saying about Bible reading: “A chapter a day keeps the devil away.”

Well, if you tried that and got stuck in the Old Testament genealogies with all their “begats,” you know that’s not true. Not that you can’t find some fascinating truths in those lists! One of my former Bible school profs, Bruce Wilkinson, became famous for a book on the “begat” that produced “Jabez,” a poor fellow whose name means “pain.”

But if you’re trying to read the Bible and it sometimes seems like you’re checking off a list of what you ought to do, but it’s not getting through to you, take heart.

It was in Bruce Wilkinson’s class on Bible study methods long ago (1977, if you really want to know) that I did a paper advocating a devotional methodology with the acrostic DEVO (the first four letters of “devotions,” if you didn’t notice). I still have the paper I did on it. (Yes, he gave me an A+.) Since then, I’ve had articles based on DEVO published in about a dozen magazines.

Though I didn’t know it then (hey, I’m slow), the Bible reading approach that worked for me is much like that from ancient church history, called Lectio Divina (“divine reading”). Basically, that involves reading a passage aloud several times and thinking it through (lectio), reflecting on the text (meditatio), praying a response back to God (oratio), and resting in God’s presence (contemplatio).

Here’s the DEVO approach—preceded by prayer that God will open your heart to understand:
DELIGHT in it. The passage you choose from scripture need not be long. Savor it as you read it, as you might stretch out a bowl of your favorite ice cream with tiny spoonfuls. The famed preacher Charles Spurgeon once remarked, “I would rather lay my soul asoak in half a dozen verses [of the Bible] all day than rinse my hand in several chapters.” You might feel “fed” in a chapter, or a paragraph or even a verse or two.

ENGRAVE it. Long ago before computers there were clay tablets in which scribes twisted sticks to make crude letters. Zoom into 21st century with pens and pencils and highlighters. Interact with something you write down. You may choose to write insights in a journal or write right in your Bible. As a kid, influenced by grade school rules that said NO WRITING IN TEXTBOOKS, I had the cleanest Bible around. Then my life intersected with a godly older woman who personalized her Bible by starring verses, writing dates by them, circling key words, drawing lines between similar words or passages, adding notes from sermons….you get the idea. She wasn’t checking off a reading schedule. She was interacting with the passage.

VERSE it. Go back and choose a key verse of that day’s passage. Decide how it spoke to you. Did it encourage you? Chastise you? Remind you of something to do? Do you need to put it in a bank? (The memory bank, that is.) Keep a supply of 3x5 cards in the back of your Bible to write out those special-to-you verses. Start reading them repeatedly until they become part of your memory.

OBEY it. Close your Bible-reading time with prayer. If the passage prompted a prayer for yourself regarding an area of your life which hasn’t been on board with God, confess it, and ask for help to change. If it reminded you of another person’s need, pray about that. The other morning I was in Isaiah 40. Oh my! That chapter is PACKED with good things. When I read it, it’s like the days we have storms blowing through. There’s sunlight, and then storm, then the sun peeks through again. Here, there’s judgment and hope, hardness and tenderness. I stopped at verse 11:
He tends his flock like a shepherd, He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

A lot of things came to mind—for one, how that passage inspired a magnificent solo in Handel’s Messiah. I thought of the Shepherd Psalm (Psalm 23) and Jesus’ declaration that HE is the good shepherd (John 10). One of my read-again-and-again Christian books is Phillip Keller’s A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23. As a shepherd he brought wonderful insights into each verse.
But mostly I thought of a mom with three college-age kids, left alone after a divorce. I closed my eyes and pictured Jesus picking her up in her trials and sadness, and then scooping up her lambs (yes, as teens/young adults they’re still “lambs”) in one big, comforting hug. I prayed that she would know how close to His heart she really is.

Does that make sense for you? Does it help you? I’ve often shared DEVO when speaking at women’s retreats, where my feedback is always positive. Feel free to give me some feedback, too. Below these blogs there’s always a place to do so.

P.S. I’ve noticed some “followers” from Malaysia. Welcome! At Wheaton Graduate School about 1980 I had a roommate from Malaysia. I still have the “Star of David” pin she bought for me on a Holy Land tour and I’ve wondered through the years what she is doing. I believe her name was Jeanette.

Some burning questions

Hi! I usually aim for something light and hopeful in this column, but this subject weighed on my heart even before the recent news about a Florida church's controversial plan to burn the holy book of another religion. For comment on that, I commend a column by Christian author and pastor James Watkins: http://www.jameswatkins.com/toptentopten.htm#5.
Now, my thoughts....

The magazine’s cover photo is compelling: a woman in Laos cradling her charred Bible. The accompanying story in the September 2010 Voice of the Martyrs explained how villagers who opposed her faith ransacked her home for Christian materials and burned them.

This is not a feel-good magazine. It’s full of reports of people paying dearly for being Christians. This woman is from the Khmu tribe, considered the original inhabitants of Laos but called by other Laotians the khu, a condescending term that means “slave.”

Even though the world looks down on slaves, the Bible exalts slavery as symbolic of living for Christ. The Greek word doulos, which means “slave,” is found more than a hundred times in the most authoritative Greek manuscripts, many times referring to Christians.

Hold on with me. This will get a little technical, but you’ll be glad you did. Translation is a complicated science. Even within language families, the variations and rules are diverse. For example, we might look at the sky and say, “See the bird.” But go a few more layers. What is its specie? How is it flying? Is it male or female and in a certain cycle of life? Would you need the specific word, for example, that names a male red-winged blackbird that soars in mid-sky but is now chirping in the cattails for a female to mate with? Some languages can get that picky.

While serving with another mission group years ago, I remember hearing of a well-meaning but naive elderly woman who wanted to help Bible translation efforts among tribal groups. She said if they’d just send her the dictionary for a language, she’d sit down and translate from her beloved English-language Bible. It just doesn’t work that way. Languages have different grammar rules and layers of words for concepts.

That’s especially true in translating New Testament Greek into English. The King James Version, for example, uses only one word, “servant,” for several very different Greek words, depriving us of a deeper understanding of the text. Some words it translates “servant”:
*diakonos--one who serves or ministers (like the helpers who drew water in John 2’s water-to-wine miracle).
*therapon—derived from therapeuo (“to serve, to heal”—origin of our word “therapy”) and considered a term of dignity and freedom, used only once of Moses, faithful as a servant of God (Hebrew 3:5).
*huperetes—an “under-rower, underling” (like the high priest’s guards in Mark 14).
*oiketes—a “house-servant” (“a servant can’t serve two masters”--Luke 16:13).
*doulos—one who serves under bondage, a slave. Doulos comes from the verb deo, which means “to bind, be in bounds, knit, tie or wind,” and used of those bought for a price. The closest words in English are “slave,” “bondman,” or “bondservant,” all used in newer translations. The First Century doulos held a lowly position, serving completely at the will of the master. Its frequent use in the New Testament reflects how slaves comprised half the population of the Roman world.
The Voice of the Martyrs article suggested that the first translators of the New Testament (from Greek to Latin) toned down the shocking term “slave” for the more socially acceptable “servant." Even today, servant is a more pleasant term, making us think of Fifi the laundress, Helen the cook, or Jeeves the chauffeur.

But doulos-servanthood is more intense, costly, even darker, a difference you won’t catch unless you read a Greek New Testament or do a word study. It’s also the role believers assume in love for Christ, who paid the price for them on Calvary. In the Upper Room before His crucifixion, Jesus told the disciples to expect persecution, as no servant (doulos, or slave) is greater than his Master (John 15:20). In many of his letters, the apostle Paul referred to himself as “Paul, a doulos of Christ Jesus.”

For the Khmus, persecution is losing homes, being beaten, having Bibles burned. Asked how they felt about that, they said their persecution is just what Jesus said would happen in the Bible, and their suffering proves He is God.

What more can I say, except ask if my faith hears the call to be a doulos for Christ?

Vaporized

It happened here in my kitchen--a reminder that life is brief.

A few Saturday mornings ago, I opened my E-mail and discovered a writing friend from long ago was coming through the middle of the state. Could they swing by, about noon that day, so she could see me? We’d met at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers conference the year she was honored as its outstanding new writer. She has several books behind her now plus speaking here and abroad.

Noon…that calls for lunch. I decided chef’s salad would be a good choice, especially since we were having a mini-yard sale. I put four eggs on to boil and set the timer for twenty minutes, taking it with me to my writing corner.

About fifteen minutes later I smelled something bad and followed my hunch to the kitchen. While the eggs were happily rolling in boiling water, the red-hot burner had melted a hole in a plastic container of Stevia, a natural sugar substitute, sitting about six inches away. Stevia had poured out of a half-inch hole and headed right to the burner.

While I pulled away the mess with a damp cloth, I realized I was feeling very, very sick. After opening windows and turning on fans, I went outside for fresh air. Soon, my husband came in and discovered my mess and me sick. He called the Poison Control Center and they researched Stevia. It’s a plant sugar, so shouldn’t be toxic. But I took to bed by an open window like a lady of old on her fainting couch.

I was still pretty puny by the time my friend and her husband arrived. They’d gotten plenty of fresh air en route…on his motorcycle. As they pulled off chaps and got alerted to my “incident” (which really seemed insignificant...burnt sugar?) she graciously came in the kitchen and helped me pull together a salad. By then the odors had dissipated.

Later, I mentioned my feeling so silly about my cooking incident to my daughter…who mentioned it to her husband…who asked, “Was it odors from the melted plastic?” That seemed far-fetched until I did a little search on the ‘net and came across dire warnings about a toxic substance called dioxin released by burning plastic. So maybe there was a real reason I got so sick….

But the bigger perspective? I have it above my sink, just an arm’s length away from the stove, There I hung some calligraphy done years ago for me by the husband of my girlhood Camp Fire leader. (We’re talking ancient history.) Using a translation he especially appreciated, he chose an old-style alphabet for this from Psalm 90: “Our lives are over in a breath; Teach us to count how few days we have and so grain wisdom of heart. Let us wake in the morning filled with Your love and sing and be happy all our days.”

Tonight I speak to convicted drunk drivers, something I do every month as part of my “giving back” after surviving being hit by a drinking driver in 1997. That night, my life could have been over in a breath. I also realize how few days we have in eternity’s perspective. None of us can presume to live to old age. The time to love God and others is now.

How can I put a sweet ending on this? Well, it did involve “sugar,” or at least a sugar substitute! And trust me, it no longer sits on the stove where it was so handy to add to a cup of java. One time of being a dizzy graying brunette is enough. And by the way, my friend’s signature book and speaking topic is rising above your fears. Is that a funny coincidence, or what!

Hen-ce forth and never more

Sunday morning, en route to a bran muffin, I heard clucking outside the kitchen window and was shocked to see a reddish brown chicken strutting around the fenced back yard.

We do not live in the country. We’re surrounded by houses, except for a vacant lot behind us where a tree removal service dumps wood to cure and later sell for firewood.

Our cat was hugging the back door, desperate to get in and afraid of this beast that outweighed and could outpeck him.

I thought of that ancient Chinese proverb: “You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.” In our case, we couldn’t prevent a chicken from strutting through the open gate to our back yard—or so I assumed, because our fence is five feet tall. I couldn’t imagine this plump lump flying any higher than a foot.

I put some wild bird seed in a cup, make sure it had water, and realized that other than visiting some nearby urban farms, there wasn’t much I could do until Monday. Urban Farm #1 had a burro and goats, but no chickens. Urban Farm #2 boasted a horse, goats and chickens, but not reddish brown ones.

On Monday I entered an ad in Craigslist, and immediately got scam Emails inviting me to amazing business opportunities (I forgot to disable the Email reply feature). I sent another ad with photo to our local newspaper, but it wouldn’t run until Tuesday. Then I called the Humane Society with a “found animal” report. After causing the officer to laugh hysterically, I got the report filed.

In the meantime, Henny Penny (as I was now calling the chicken) was wearing trails into our back yard as it paced back and forth. And our cat was the one jumping the fence as soon as we let it out—to get as far away as possible from this intruder on his territory.

On Tuesday morning, as I hung up laundry, Henny Penny kept coming near me. Finally (as an experienced petter of cats) I leaned over and stroked its back. Immediately it squatted as though wanting more. I realized this had to be a pet—but whose?

My husband took a call from a man whose friend had told him about the ad. He asked if he could have the hen, since he lost four chickens to a dog attack. When he arrived, we realized he lived just around the corner, beyond the tangle of blackberry bushes and underbrush. This hen had survived the massacre of its family and managed to get over the fence to our yard.

Lured by chicken mash, Henny Penny (real name “Kibbles,” because it likes dog food) was grabbed and taken home.

Well, the sky didn’t fall while Henny Penny paced our back yard, and I’m glad the story had a happy ending. I never thought I’d foster-care a chicken, but I was reminded of the observation of Proverbs 12:10: “A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.” It makes me think of Eden and the perfect relationship and sweet companionship that Adam and Eve had with all of God’s creation.

Will there be animals in Heaven? As scripture speaks of the new heavens and the new earth, I ask why not? If they were in His original, perfect plan, why not again? By the way, Henny Penny didn’t leave an egg—or at least I didn’t find one in places where it nested. But who knows, next spring, when I’m cleaning out winter yard debris….

Defense mode

One piece of enduring advice from ancient King Solomon is to go on fox-watch. I don’t mean watching Fox News, nor the whole fox-and-hound thing like British monarchs. Instead, we’re warned, “Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes, that ruin the vineyard, our vineyards that are in bloom” (Song of Solomon 2:15).

For a long time, I thought that verse a bit strange. Then I learned it comes from the realities of farming grapes. In spring, fox and jackals sneak into the vineyards to burrow under the roots of the grapes, undermining the plant root system.

The context is Solomon’s love poem for this little maiden who has the king loopy-in-love with her. The common interpretation is this: don’t let anything undermine your marriage. Like, is the foot of the bed a magnet for his dirty laundry? Trap the complaint fox! Does she have enough shoes to open a store? Trap the gripe fox!

May I be so bold as to offer an alternative to the fox analogy? Drum roll: Bait the ants.

Unwelcomed, a gazillion sugar ants have moved in to taunt us. At first there were just a few, like the 12-man search party Moses sent to check out Canaan. Surely, like the Israelite spies, our ants saw giants (people) roaming around the kitchen. But this was a land of milk and honey. Or at least honey. Dried fruits in bags of trail mix. Friskies left in the cat’s dish. And breakfast cereal, which, even though supposedly oat-healthy, in small print admits to sugar in the manufacturing process. Cheers.

As soon as a few hundred more invaded, I battened down the hatches. Anything with a remote hint of sugar went in a canning jar. Plastic pour bins containing cereal got an extra seal with plastic wrap.

The kitchen started looking like a mine field with those little black disk ant baits. We loaded up on ant antidotes. My husband sprayed, powdered, and spread nuggets of disgusting stuff touted to send ants back to Ant-arctica. (Cue card: laugh.)

Every morning, we thumbed dozens of ants to smudged oblivion on the kitchen counters. The dried fruit armored against attack in canning jars seemed to be holding defense….until the morning my husband decided to go for a handful of his favorite trail mix.

Let’s just say as many ants as people at Chelsea’s wedding reception were having a gala among the nuts and dried fruits. I checked the lid. It was a one-inch turn from “tight.” Advance spies apparently figured out that they could crawl along the screw lines of the jar and enter the forbidden territory. Overnight, they were in full attack.

Well, I just dumped half a canning jar of trail mix into the garbage. It wasn’t worth trying to pick the ants out, no matter how much that stuff costs.
There’s got to be a lesson here, right? I think I found it in some notes I wrote in my Bible next to Solomon’s little-foxes verse. The great Bible teacher H.A. Ironside identified some spiritual foxes as:
*Carelessness
*Neglect of the Bible
*Neglect of prayer
*Neglect of fellowship with people of God
*Vanity, pride, envy, evil thinking, impurity
Each time we engage in one of those negative activities, it may seem a little thing. But like the ants in my kitchen, they’ll multiply until they make life miserable—for you and the ones you love.The defense mode? Each one’s opposite.

So, look to the ant (another Solomon saying, Proverbs 6:6). Better yet, I say, look forward to winter when they fade away for a long winter’s nap!

For crying in the sink!

My late father never used foul language, but he did have a few expressions of frustrations. One was “Horse feathers!” and the other was “For crying in the sink!”

Well, Dad, the other day I was crying in the sink. Copious tears. And I hadn’t broken a dish or cooked a wretched dinner.
My husband had just sold a bike he fixed up, and in the door along with payment came two large onions. A tip from the buyer? Sometimes, I just don’t ask. Because I don’t use onions much in cooking, I chop them up and freeze them in egg-size portions to use as needed.

As so, weep, bawl, buckets of face-dribblers, I was rendering those big white tear-jerkers to freezable portions.

If you really care to know, we cry when chopping onions because they produce the chemical irritant known as syn-propanethial-S-oxide, which stimulates the eyes' lachrymal glands so they release tears.( For you avid chemists, learn more at: http://www.loc.gov/rr/scitech/mysteries/onion.html.)

I’d been thinking about crying lately, anyway, as I mull over writing something on the blessing of tears. Revelation 21:4 has lodged in my heart in recent weeks: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” The scene is Heaven. No more death, mourning, crying or pain, “for the old order of things has passed away.”

My prayer notebook has a few tear splotches on it. I’m going to more funerals where tears leak unashamedly. Some early mornings when I rise to hear the birds and listen to God, tears come. I think of the perfect place, the “abode” (the accurate meaning of the Greek mone in John 14:6, not “mansions”) that God is planning.

I dug a little deeper into the verse and looked up the Greek word we translate as "wipe away," exaleipho. It comes from two words, "out" and "to anoint," and means "to wipe out or away." This is the picture it provides me: Yahweh, the Sovereign of all time and place, comes to me. With the fingers that created a universe, He cups my face and thumbs away the earth-stains of tears. He whispers, “No more tears. Come to My joy and peace.” Every tear, gone.

And once the vision blurred by pained tears is cleared, I will stand amazed at what I never knew.

In the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, there’s a conversation that always made me think of arriving in Heaven. Lewis had the talking unicorn in The Last Battle declare, “I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.”

For crying in the sink? Not at all. For crying for joy? Maybe.

And here’s my trivia question: Will there be onions in Heaven?

Birthday Babe

Hear ye, hear ye. I declare the truth, that I am turning 63 this week.

Sixty three!

In childhood you never consider yourself getting old, gray, and wrinkled. Or having a droopy anatomy (including wobbly upper arms--cluck, cluck). Enjoying your daily prunes. Having to say, “Just a minute until I get my glasses on.” Realizing you’re saying “huh?” a lot more than you used to. (My hearing loss began when my kids participated in puberty’s art of mumbling.)

Yup, I’m there. But I also realized I’ve now outlived my mother (she died of cancer just after her 59th birthday) and soon will outlive my father (he died of a heart attack at 63 years, 3 months).

I take comfort in knowing I’m not the oldest chick working out at a women’s gym. (It doesn’t have mirrors, dahling….)

This past year, as I’ve transitioned out of years of care-giving, I’ve been asking what the Lords wants of the rest of my earthly life.

I certainly have some role models. Noah, boat-building and zoo-keeping at 600. (Alas, maintaining a 15-pound cat doesn’t compare.) Abraham and Sarah, outfitting a nursery at 90 (let’s skip that one, though I am collecting classic kid books for future grandkids). Moses, going on an extended wilderness trek at 80. Caleb, homesteading at 80. Not to forget Anna, still serving in the temple at 84. John, in his 90s, writing in his spare time in a hard-labor prison.

Right now, the word “continue” comes to mind. As in: continue enjoying my “senior discount” at the thrift stores (some kick it in at 55, others at 60).
But even more important: to “continue in your faith, established and firm, not moved from the hope held out in the gospel” (Colossians 1:23).

By my bed I’ve hung a framed copy of the words to my favorite hymn, “Be Thou My Vision”:
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save what Thou art—
Thou my best thought by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

I need that reminder on the days I look in a mirror and the face looking back has more lines than notebook paper and those once dramatic black eyebrows are more like a weed patch. (I won’t even start in on the chin thistles.) My neck has a backup crew and everything south of there has gone south.

But the curtain hasn’t fallen yet. Moses, who knew plenty about “the best is yet to come” (his most significant ministry happened between 80 and 120), wrote, “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad for all our days” (Psalm 90:14).

That’s my birthday song, friends. Each morning, glad for a fresh start.

Seven Habits of Highly Distracted People

Just for fun, a reprint of my humorous essay first published in the Seattle Times, June 28, 1998. Can you relate? Leave a comment!

People like me, who read best-sellers long after their prime, are waiting with breathless procrastination for the Seven Habits of Highly Distracted People. I borrowed its antithesis from a highly-effective friend, got to page 9 of 352 during car pool stops, then lost the book.

It surfaced a week later at my mother-in-law’s, where I’d dropped it before hauling out her garbage. That’s when I came up with seven habits that every distracted person can practice with pride.

1. Be reactive. Plan not to plan. Be spontaneous and mysterious. Posting the week’s nutritious and color-balanced menu may work for effective people. But after a long, disorganized day I’d rather play “What’s My Menu” with leftovers. I rationalize that I’m passing on the heritage of my Scandinavian ancestors, who gave the fancy name “smorgasbord” to refrigerator potluck.

2. End with the beginning in mind. Every project is worth starting. The other day I opened my sewing box to mend socks and encountered scraps to cut for my next quilt. That required clearing dirty dishes off the table for a cutting space. The soaking dishes reminded me to treat a grass stain on my son’s jeans. Opening his closet, I decided to sort out the clothes he outgrew six inches ago. Someday, I’ll sew that quilt.

3. Put last things first. Effective people ruthlessly sort their junk mail over the wastebasket. They miss reading about the joys of vinyl siding and easy credit They never find, as I did, a sample copy of a “life planner,” which promised to reduce my chaos to charts and disarray to discipline. Right away I wrote in my first and last priorities of the day: get up with the chickens and go to bed with the teenagers. I achieved both. The items between those didn’t fare as well, but there’s always tomorrow.

4. Think win-a-few/lose-a-few. One day it was just me and one of my young teens in the car. Realizing my offspring was staring at me soulfully, I jumped at this golden moment of parent-child bonding. “What’s on your mind, my dear?” I gushed. “Hey, Mom,” the child replied, “How come you have whiskers?” In true lose-lose form, I told the rude child that I was interviewing for a job as a circus bearded lady.

5. Understand that you never will. My graduate degree in communications doesn’t count a whit at 5:30 p.m. when a child is in distress over algebra homework sprawled all over the kitchen table. My suggestion that we re-attack homework after dinner reveals my ignorance of the intellectual process. “You never understand,” wails the child, who uses the same phrase on shopping trips when I choke over mini-skirts and platform shoes.

6. Syncopate. Highly distracted people are one-person bands who do it all with off-beat style. We all need those days that we discover—at noon—that our jeans are unzipped and the turtleneck is on backwards (no wonder it felt like a noose). Who cares? At least I pried a family out of bed, plunked a chicken in the crock pot, tossed a load in the washer, and delivered kids to the right schools before I showed up at the hardware store with my apron still on.

7. Grow wizened and wise. Distracted women may buy “Oil of Delay” by the Costco gallon and rub nasty stuff into their hair to cover up the silver. But we don’t believe that life after forty means a brain shrunk to the size and texture of a walnut. Every day holds wonderful learning experiences—if we can find where we scheduled them in our daily planners.

I once thought I wanted to be abnormally perfect. But now I’m content to be perfectly normal. I take courage from my great-great-something grandmother, whose perfect day included milking the cow, getting pecked gathering eggs, pumping the water to boil for laundry, knitting Pop’s socks, and plucking the feathers off the candidate for chicken dinner. Then when every last pot was scrubbed, she sat down at her little pump organ and sang, “The End of a Perfect Day.”

Well, it was almost perfect. She was supposed to ride the buckboard to town, but forgot to write it down in her planner.

That's, uh, some baby!

One of my former pastors had a fail-safe way of admiring wrinkled newborns who were far from “cute.” “That’s some baby,” he’d say with a smile as a new mom or dad peeled back the swaddling blanket. The proud parents usually didn’t catch the double meaning.

At times, people come to show me their writing “babies.” I could say, “That’s some article/story/devotional,” and wish them well. But if they want to be published, they need an honest critique. The fine art of critiquing was never easy for me, even after working several years as a teacher for a national writer correspondence course. I’d rather have people like me than disappoint them by saying their writing needs better organization or its passive verbs and mixed metaphors weeded out.

Thus I have great respect for those who both succeed as writers themselves and in mentoring other writers. One such person is Cecil Murphey, a former pastor who is probably best known as the second byline on Don Piper’s best-selling book, 90 Minutes in Heaven.

Several years ago I saw Cecil across the room at a writer’s conference, but I don’t think I ever introduced myself. Perhaps I was in awe of this unimposing man with a mop of curly gray hair. After all, he was the author of more than a hundred books, most of them on Christian living, care-giving and Heaven. He also weathered tragedy when a fire destroyed his home (including his office) and took the life of his son-in-law.

Yet Cecil has steadily invested his writing earnings to help other Christian writers. He has funded scholarships for writers’ conferences and backed other help for communicators. I benefited when Cecil paid for a professional makeover of publicity flyers for a selected group of Christian women speakers. Let’s just say mine went from a dented old jalopy to a gleaming sedan.

Proverbs 22:9 says, “A generous man will himself be blessed.” This month, those touched by Cecil’s generosity have been encouraged to commend his behind-the-scenes efforts in the Christian writing world.

For a window into his mentor’s expertise, visit his blog about the writing life: http://cecmurpheyswritertowriter.blogspot.com/ . Its entries are a reminder that writing is plain hard work. A just-born literary offspring might be, well, ugly. It needs to mature to usefulness.

To characterize Cecil’s legacy, I want to torque Proverbs 22:29 just a bit: “Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings, he will not serve before obscure men.” Cecil serves both the King of Kings and the more obscure men and women serving the same King.

He’s some author—and we’ve been blessed.