Sad day, sad day. My oldest grandson, age 6, had lost his most-loved
stuffed animal, Gilbert the cat. He and his parents had checked the obvious
places, like under his bed, in the cars, the school and church lost-and-found, and
the toy piles at his home and ours. Nothing. Such a sad countenance this
six-year-old had as he searched the toy stash at our house—finding nothing.
Then one night he and his two younger siblings (2 and almost
5) came for care while their parents had a “date night reprieve.” It’s always a
circus of both cooperative and competitive play. He’d gotten tired of the train
toys so grabbed the little barn known for the “moo” when you open its doors. I
heard the “moo” and then the shout, “Gilbert!” Apparently, the last trip here
for care, he’d put Gilbert in the barn for safekeeping and forgot all about it.
In his “hunt” at our house, he didn’t try the barn. And his Nana had no reason
to play with the barn and find it!
I’ve had a few lost-and-found episodes myself, lately. I’ve
learned to assign “hot spots” for important things, but this time my “hot spot”
was cold. I did eventually find the item, but what a search. Two biblical parallels came to mind. One was Luke 15, which offers three “lost”
parables right in a row. First, the lost sheep, which represented the shepherd’s
livelihood. Second, the lost coin, which probably fell off a woman’s “money”-necklace,
representing her life’s emergency fund. Third, the lost (prodigal) son, for the
loss of relationship. All three speak to God’s love: He won’t let go, He
constantly provides, and He waits when we go off and make bad choices.
The second Biblical tie-in I sensed was the book of
Philippians. As a young adult, inspired by friends who were disciplined in
Bible memorization, I decided to memorize the book I’d heard called “the epistle
of joy.” In what had been some very difficult years of my young life, I was
seeking deeper joy. So, verse sections at time, written on 3x5 cards, I trudged
through the task. Today when I read Philippians, it is an old friend, its teachings
about deep-down God-focused joy returning to mind.
This seems to be its essential truth: that joy derives both
from a healthy relationship with God and with others. What a statement Paul
made when he wrote, “I thank my God in all my remembrance of you.” I hope
people say that of me! Sadly, though, we can’t say that of everyone we meet in
life. Toxic and unhappy people make the journey hard. But I cling to the truths
about “lost-ness” expressed in John 15: that our passionate, compassionate God keeps
giving second chances and more.
The “found-ness” of a well-loved (and needing-washed!) Gilbert-the-stuffed-cat
reminded me of that.
Little snow-covered towns, purchased one ornate building at
a time, have become a popular holiday decoration. I have such a little town
that I put on the piano. We no longer have space for our artificial tree
(grandchildren books now occupy that corner) so this and the kid-friendly,
hands-on crèche are the simple holiday touches to our décor.
The little grandboys enjoy turning on the switch for the
tiny lights inside each building. When the weather outside is “frightful,”
well, inside, it’s just delightful! Especially if their papa pulls a carton of
ice cream out of the freezer and they have a “guy treat”!
I spent part of my life in southern California where there’s no “white
Christmas.” Most of my life has been in central Washington, where there likely is. And when
those flakes do come, usually after several weeks of bone-chilling cold—there’s
a special sense of peace as they cover up all that is dead and ugly.
Maybe that’s the charm of the little pretend towns. They
invite us into a tiny world where there are no slums, crime, war, or sorrow….
It certainly doesn’t look like it did 2,000 years ago, but
photos and songs about Bethlehem
stir a similar yearning—to have been there when Jesus was born, to sense there
would be light in the darkness. That was something of the impression left on an
American minister named Philips Brooks. In
1865, as a young man, he visited Bethlehem’s
“Church of the Nativity” for a Christmas eve service, and never forgot it.
A few years later, back home in America—more specifically to
Holy Trinity Church in Philadelphia where his huge (6-foot-6, 300 pounds) body
filled the pulpit—this well-known pastor wanted a children’s hymn for the
Christmas Sunday school program. He came up with the lyrics and gave them to
his Sunday school superintendent, Lewis Redner, asking the man to come up with
a tune for them simple enough for children to sing. Nothing seemed “right” as
Redner struggled with music. Then the night before the program, Redner woke
with a tune in his mind. He wrote it down immediately, always later insisting
that Heaven gave him the tune. It’s been a favorite of children and adults
since.
Brooks was a lifelong bachelor who had a distinguished
career as a pastor in Philadelphia and Boston, then a short term
as Bishop of Massachusetts, before his death at 58. It’s said he loved children
and kept toys in his office so children would feel free to come and visit with
him. In this, his only known hymn, you hear his awe of the incarnation, and his
tender heart:
How silently, how
silently, the wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to
human hearts the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His
coming, but, in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will
receive Him still/ The dear Christ enters in.
“How silently”—an apt description of snow falling, and of
the certain though quiet way we often sense the love of God.
If Santa
was for real, what would be the most-requested item in his mailbox?
I wonder
how many millions of notes would ask for “Frozen” costumes and play gadgets. Or
toys connected to Spiderman or some other super-power character?
Back in the
really old days—like Bible times—kids
had pretty simple want-lists. I pick that up from Jesus’ teaching about children’s
gifts:
You parents—if your children ask for a loaf
of bread, do you give them a stone instead? Or if they ask for a fish, do you give
them a snake? Of course not! If you sinful people know how to give good gifts
to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to
those who ask him. (Matthew 7:9-10)
This teaching’s context is
Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount” in which He unlocked truths about a holy but
gracious and generous God. I think the point of this portion is sometimes we
are asking for symbolic stones and snakes, not realizing their worthlessness
and potential for harm. If human, fallible parents can make good judgment calls about children’s “wish lists,” so much more can our Heavenly Father do so.
When my
children—now adults and parents—were small, they were allowed to open one gift
before breakfast and before opening the rest of their presents. They knew it would be rectangular and rattle
when shaken. Because I favored buying “healthy” breakfast cereal the rest of
the year, their joke gift would be the most sugar-laden, crazily-advertised
cereal I could find.
The rest of
the year, they had to eat healthier stuff, but oh the sugar rolled on Christmas
morning. I called the joke gifts “Flicky Flacky Flakes,” and thankfully the
package didn’t last the week. The normal breakfast around our house—something a
challenge with their lists of likes and dislikes—was usually a bit more
nutritious to keep them from fading halfway through the school day.
In my adult
world—my spiritual adult world—I try to guard against empty spiritual calories
in the morning. I don’t have a “Santa list,” but my first thought in the quietness
of an early morning devotional time is like this little song: “Good morning,
Lord, this is your day. I am your child. Show me your way.”
I don’t
need Santa. I don’t need stuff. But I do need God’s gracious provision of
wisdom to discern stones from the Bread of Life, and snakes from the miracle Sea-of-Galilee fishing nets, in the choices and problems I
face every day.
Years ago, when our now-adult children were, well, children,
part of the fun at Christmas was the nighttime drive to see homes and yards
where people went all-out decorating. Oh, the excesses we saw. Santa and his
reindeer-driven sleigh (yes, Rudolph had a blinking red nose) next to the Holy
Family in a shed. Then Frosty the Snowman close to the green Grinch. Sparkling
angels! Sound tracks! We wondered if some homes could be seen from space!
Then we came home to our simpler decorating: a string of
lights across the front, a modest tree with a hodgepodge of ornaments, a
kid-friendly crèche with plastic figures, and a few other family knickknacks.
Oh yes, the traditional poinsettia from the hardware store’s Thanksgiving
early-bird sale. By January it had lost most of its leaves. Blame my black
thumb.
I don’t think my kids were irreparably damaged because we
didn’t go “all out.” The best part was that after New Year’s, there wasn’t as
much a hassle for the stuff to go all-in, as “back in” storage boxes.
For that, blame their mother’s leaning toward simplicity. This
photo depicting simpler living, which I cut from a magazine
years ago, is framed and hangs in a bedroom. The lyrics around the edge are
from a 19th century Shaker song:
‘Tis a gift to be
simple, ‘tis a gift to be free,
‘Tis a gift to come
down where we ought to be.
And when we find
ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the
valley of love and delight.
I see this framed saying as I come into that bedroom to change a grandbaby's diaper. I spot it as I come around the
corner with a basket of laundry to fold on the same bed. Constantly it reminds
me that “love” and “delight” last lots longer than “stuff” (and certainly that
holiday poinsettia!).
Sometimes when I hear someone say they bought “themselves” a
Christmas gift, I have to smile inside. Maybe they indulged themselves by
self-giving, but only God can provide the true “Christmas gift”--and it was a
lavish one:
How great is the love
the Father has lavished on us, that
we should be called children of God! (1 John 3:1 NIV).
Nothing can compare.
I was a twenty-something in my first job when I first drove
a company car—a hilarious experience for my new co-workers. I’d just been hired
by a small daily newspaper, so fresh out of college that I didn’t even own a
car. When the editor assigned me a local story, he gave me the keys to the
newsroom car.
“You drive
a stick-shift, don’t you?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” I
admitted. I’d learned to drive on an automatic.
He grabbed
a piece of paper and drew a diagram of where to push the gear shift. “And be
sure to put in the clutch when you do,” he added. “Remember, easy out on the clutch.” The clutch
was on a second diagram.
First week
on the job, and I was sure I’d die in a traffic incident on my first
assignment.
“Easy out
on the clutch” wasn’t all that easy. As
I bucked out of the parking lot, I provided plenty of entertainment for those
gathered at the second story newsroom window.
I was
reminded of that young-adult nightmare by this row of empty “company car”
parking places I saw a few weeks ago. Whatever company was using those spaces, all were out “doing
business.”
At this
time of year when millions are out “doing business” at multiple businesses—that
is, shopping—maybe this photo is a reminder of priorities. If our first
commitment is to our heavenly Father’s business, we need to use the resources
He’s made available to us for His purposes. I think Jesus as a lad demonstrated that when
He stayed behind at the Temple after his
family’s caravan started back to Nazareth
after the Passover pilgrimage.
“Didn’t you
know I had to be in my Father’s house?” He told his anxious earthly parents
when they finally found Him (Luke 2:49). Even as a youth, He was focused on the
Father’s calling on His life.
The real “company
car” for Christmas isn’t Santa’s sleigh. It’s the powerful message from Heaven
that was temporarily parked in a Bethlehem
cattle feeding trough. It’s the one that reminds us, “Get out of the parking
lot and carry on with the Father’s business.”
It was once a dying railroad town, but today Leavenworth in Washington’s
Cascades swarms with tourists enjoying the vicarious experience of a Bavarian
shopping center. Nestled at the foot of forested mountain foothills, it’s a
picture-perfect place with an alpine-village ambience. Shop after shop on the
main streets sell souvenirs and food. One recent day we enjoyed the “food”
(thanks to a gift certificate). As I looked down at the main street from our
second-story eating perch, I thought of the vision (and sweat equity) that
turned a dying town around.
Not that there aren’t problems. Housing is expensive, as
you’d expect in a tourist-oriented location. Traffic? Yes. Sometimes smoke hangs in the air from Central Washington fires. But it
still embraces the “dream escape” to a European village that most will never be
able to visit overseas. As a member of the “Sound of Music” generation, I have enjoyed
the ambience of this Bavarian-ish town just a half-hour drive from ours. And
yes, it capitalizes on that classic film musical with an annual production on
an outdoor stage with a breathtaking mountain
view. It’s almost magical as
the star playing “Maria” twirls and sings “The hills are alive” with Washington’s almost-alps
in the background!
In many ways, it’s a parable of how God takes us—dying,
neglected, unwanted—and gives us a new and vibrant life. Sometimes I’ve shared
these verses with discouraged people who need something to hang on in their
hopes for something better:
Forget the former
things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs
up, do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the
wasteland. (Isaiah 43:18-19)
This comes from a passage of reprimand (for the people abandoning God) and hope (that He can and will restore the now-sin-ragged nation).
Some day, God says, things will get turned around for “the people I formed for
myself that they may proclaim my praise” (v. 21).
The late Bill Bright, a beacon among recent Christian leaders,
blanketed the world with his condensation of the Gospel message, known as “The
Four Spiritual Laws.” The first: “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for
your life.” The other “laws” trace how we have failed to love God, and His plan
for reconciliation through Jesus Christ. Without Him, we’re like rundown, dying
villages, cloaked in a dark cloud of grumbling
and discouragement. His perfect plan for us is so much better than anything we
could concoct. His “rehab” program is not a cultural reproduction, but a spiritually
transformed life that makes “renewal” a reality.
A treetop chorus greeted me one day when I went out to get
the mail. The row of tall evergreens behind our house provided the perches for
a whole choir of “tweeters,” cheerfully expressing their happiness (I assume!).
My “to-do” list that day included grocery shopping. I thought how the birds
don’t need to bother with such errands. Though they have to hunt for food, God
supplies. That includes the local crows, who grab walnuts from a nearby tree
and drop them on the street to break them open!
The internet has opened up a whole new way to communicate
instantly. The birds, naturally, reminded me of the “Twitter” and “tweets”
phenomenon. Also called “micro-blogging,” it’s a social network service that
allows you to express yourself in 280 characters or less. The White House
“tweets”! But don’t try to “tweet” me. I’m not in that “system.” Plus, I favor
thinking through my words and asking if they will hurt or harm. Proverbs 25:9
adds: “He who loves a pure heart and whose speech is gracious will have the king
for his friend.”
Several years ago I was emotionally wounded by someone who
felt they should “speak their mind” and sent me pages-long communications
(definitely not “tweets”) that distorted events and words from long years
earlier. Eventually, that person admitted to having a problem with a bitter
spirit. I think that was after I shared the acrostic guideline “THINK” for
God-honoring communication. Before writing or speaking, ask, is it...
TRUE?
HELPFUL?
INSPIRATIONAL?
NECESSARY?
KIND?
I wonder if some of our problems with the tongue (or the
keyboarding/’twittering’ fingers) go back to violating this principle. We
forget Who we represent and just speak our minds. We forget our dependence on
the Creator, of Whom those singing birds regularly remind us:
Look at the birds of
the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly
Father feeds them. Are you much more valuable than they? (Matthew 6:26)
Those feathered friends “twittering” in the treetops behind
my home spoke a language I can’t understand. But I can accept the truth that they depend on the Creator for their very
next meal. And although I don’t talk “bird language” (which is another area of
scientific exploration by itself) I do understand the need to train myself to
speak (or write) as though God was listening in.
Because He is.
Diligence. That
word came to mind when I saw this iron sculpture of spear-fishing in a park
near the Columbia River in Washington. In days of long-ago, those who didn’t
fish, didn’t eat. Fish was an important part of their diets! Actually, the apostle
Paul said that, too: “If a man will not work, he shall not eat” (2 Thess.
3:10). There’s both truth and common misinterpretation in that quote.
First, the “way off” stuff. Paul was writing a church that
could hardly wait for Jesus to come back and start the new world order. Some were so sure He was coming soon that
they had quit their jobs or suspended their businesses to just “wait.” They’d become “busybodies” with not enough
Christ-worthy things to occupy their time and energy. They’d become a burden to
the church, which felt it needed to support them—at least to feed them.
Their inactivity was depleting the church
resources, to no good. So Paul wrote, “Keep away from every brother who is idle
and does not live according to the teaching you received from us” (2 Thess.
3:6). In other words, quit mooching.
He held himself, Silas and Timothy as examples. Even though
they were traveling evangelists, when they landed somewhere for a while, they
paid for their own food. They found what work they could—Paul likely in tent
manufacturing. They didn’t want to
burden the church community with their support. More important, Paul said, “We
did this, not because we do not have the right to such help, but in order to
make ourselves a model for you to follow. For even when we were with you, we
gave you this rule: ‘If a man will not work, he shall not eat’” (vv. 9-10).
My husband helps deliver donated potatoes to ministries that
help the needy. They come from a generous grower about 40 miles away who
donates multiple 50-pound sacks of spuds. When my husband pulls his loaded truck up to
a ministry office, he’s very thankful
when they send out people to help unload. It’s a big job for somebody who’s in
his mid-seventies. In some cases, the unloading crew is people who are being
helped by that ministry, like a shelter for homeless men. They may not be able
to hold a for-wage job yet, but they
are working as helpers for the
shelter. The shelter’s ultimate goal is to move them out as responsible
community members who can support themselves. Work has dignity and purpose.
I find the last chapter of 2 Thessalonians instructional,
yet disturbing. It’s very sad that Paul
had to deal with lazy Christians. But it’s a reminder that every day should
count for God. Or, as Jesus expressed it
in the Parable of the Ten Minas, don’t slough off in using the abilities God
has given you. “Occupy till I come”
(Luke 19:13 KJV).
Fall’s first frost came early this year, leaving us with way
too many green tomatoes. I felt like some sort of grim reaper when I tore into
our wilted line of tomatoes and removed the whole shebang. Some years I rinse
the green tomatoes that show more “potential” in a weak bleach solution to ward
off mold. Those with a hint of yellow go in a sunny windowsill to ripen
nature’s way. The others I layer in a box between newspapers to awaken slowly.
Of both methods, eventually some ripen, but some developed mold and had to
be tossed.
We’re “city-slicker” gardeners who buy fledgling tomato
plants every spring from the hardware store. Bravo to the more farm-hearted souls
who harvest tomato seeds and know how
to bring the pinhead-size seeds to new life as “starter” plants. Think: seed
pods made out of empty toilet paper rolls, stuffed with nutritious/sterilized
potting soil, and nurtured with lots of green-thumb know-how. I watched the
You-Tube! I could do it—if I wanted!
GIVING BACK
Imagine: claiming the abundance for more abundance! That spiritual principle was Paul’s focus in
nurturing the church in Corinth.
Known as a worldly and perhaps selfish city, it was a good incubator for the
concept of giving generously. As Paul emphasized the practical and spiritual
rewards of giving, he urged them to give generously and graciously. The end
result (for impoverished recipients in Jerusalem)
would be the “overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God” (2 Cor. 9:14).
That passage came to mind a few weeks ago during the annual
all-city "Make a Difference" volunteer day. Our newspaper ran a full page of project
descriptions to help people figure out how they could spend a few hours
improving our community. It poured rain that day, so some of the outdoor
projects probably had to reschedule. But many folks got free haircuts, dental
care, food, diapers, repaired bikes, property repair and other “helps.” And...the
do-gooders undoubtedly got “feel-good” endorphins for giving of themselves.
The dynamics weren’t any different in the First Century.
Those who give in the name of Christ, Paul said, receive back what can’t be
weighed or measured: the surpassing grace of God (9:14). That concept should
blow your mind. It did Paul’s, as he followed up with this exclamation: “Thanks
be to God for his indescribable gift!” (v. 15).
The Gift beyond all gifts, of course, is Jesus. With the
annual celebration of His birth coming at us (with all its materialism and
greed), we need the reminder that the seeds of Christ-motivated giving are
within us. Even if tinier than a tomato seed, they have potential for harvest.
I’d just finished sewing a little music-themed dress for my
granddaughter (her mother teaches violin), but something seemed missing: a
fluffy petticoat for its full skirt. She’s
turning 3, which is that “princess ballerina” age. On one recent visit, her
parents put on a classical tape and helped her pull on a little girl’s play
tutu. Oh, the imaginative moves she made in her “dance show” for grandparents. In her mind, she was the prima ballerina in the tutu that looks like a mushroom. I could make her a fluffier one, I
thought. Then I thought I heard a
whisper, “I will provide.” The “I,” of
course, is God, who knows I try to stretch every dollar.
Right away I thought of checking the sewing supplies area at
a local large thrift store, one so overwhelmed by donations that finding things
can be an adventure. I went to its
crafts corner where there was a huge tub of random scraps and larger pieces
with a sign that said, “Don’t leave a mess.”
About six inches down into the bin I found about three yards of what was
probably netting for a wedding veil. Yes,
that will work, Lord, I said, finding myself smiling. The checkout clerk
said, “How about fifty cents?” I gladly
put my two quarters (plus tax) on the counter, wondering how much it cost in
the first place off the bolt in the fabric store. A couple days later, I’d
stitched what would pass for a little girl’s tutu/petticoat.
When I get to heaven, I’ll have a lot of “how did you know,
Lord?” questions for how He supplied not only our needs (over and over and
over!) but our special, unique “wants.” I’m grateful that the Bible includes stories
of miracles of supply—like Jesus telling Peter to go fish to get the temple tax
that the local authorities said they’d better pay. Not land a fish, sell it, and use the money.
But this:
Go to the lake and
throw out your line. Take the first fish
you catch; open its mouth and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and
give it to them for my tax and yours. (Matthew 17:27)
Philippians 4:19 has long been a special verse for me: “And
my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ
Jesus.” Next to this in my Bible I wrote (probably a note from a long-ago sermon):
“Jamestown went from 500 to 7 because they didn’t appropriate the riches of the
land.” Yes, even thrift stores can hide the “riches of the land” as
answers to our desires and needs.
Along the same line, here’s another gifting,
sewn up the same day. These three shirts
for my grandsons (ages 2, almost 5 and 6) resulted from a large bag of unwanted
fabric I was given. When I went to cut
them out, I realized that whoever pre-washed the fabric had included something dark
in the load that stained portions of the fabric. But by cutting carefully, I was
able to squeeze the three shirts out of it.
Is there a bigger lesson here? I think so. When God supplies
my needs or even wants, He doesn’t always deliver in the way I anticipated. But
every good and perfect gift—the little daily surprises as well as the
incomprehensible truth that God loves and cares intimately for me--comes from
Him (James 1:17).
Our street got a fire hydrant transplant a few weeks ago. I
suppose it’s routine maintenance—you don’t want your house to have a fire and a
neighborhood hydrant that only sputters.
The night before, city workers went door-to-door explaining the water
main would be cut off, so fill the tub for flushing water and set aside enough drinking
and cooking water for the day. The next morning, huge trucks and excavation
machines rumbled down the street. If I’d been caring for my grandboys that day,
they would have been easily entertained by the excavation parade!
The inconvenience took me back to the few times I’ve been in
another country and pure, available water isn’t a given. Certainly that was
true thousands of years ago when Isaiah lived in the Holy Land. Though
considered to have an arid climate, the desert areas of the Holy Land at times
experience cloudbursts that fill and flood creek beds or wadis, leading to
dangerous flooding. That probably was in the back of Isaiah’s mind when he
wrote of spiritual floods:
When you pass through
the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will
not sweep over you. (Isaiah 43:2)
Reading that reminds me of the desperate scenes reported in
news media of victims of hurricanes, tidal waves, and floods. But that is not
the focus on this passage. It’s when life’s problems overwhelm us, we’re to
remember that God will be with us.
There are a lot of things about adversity that I don’t
understand. But because of my faith in God’s promise to be with me in and
through it, I persevere and hope.
Those who don’t, are prone to blame. Like a runaway flash
flood, they harm anyone. I was reminded of that recently in reading Safe People by Drs. Henry Cloud and John
Townsend. The book was first published in 1995 (Zondervan), but its principles still ring
true. In a chapter about traits of “unsafe” people, the authors acknowledge
that we all at some time or another will experience problems that aren’t our
fault. If we’re injured, we need to seek medical help. If we are bereaved, we
need to grieve. If the person who wounds us emotionally or physically doesn’t care,
and never changes their behavior, we need to work through positional forgiveness.
It’s all hard work, and “unsafe people” don’t want to do all
that. “They stay angry, stuck and bitter, sometimes for life,” the authors
wrote (p. 37). “When they feel upset, they see others as the cause, and others
as the ones who have to do all the changing. When they are abused, they hold on
to it with a vengeance and spew hatred for the rest of their lives. When they
are hurt, they wear it like a badge. And worst of all, when they are wrong,
they blame it on others.”
How much better the faith walk that allows God to change our
character, from blamers to blessers. From those who complain about the floods
of life, to those who grab onto the life ring of hope. Later in the same
chapter, Isaiah wrote:
Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! (vv. 18-19)
Far wiser than my town’s street department, God knows when I
need some spiritual “maintenance.” When I
allow Him to dig out the corroded parts of my personality, a better life is
ahead.
“It’s just splendid!” I told my husband as I craned my neck
to see the rainbow that appeared as we were driving home. “Brilliant colors,
and a second one is trying to emerge!”
He was a bit disappointed because, as the driver, he couldn’t
turn around and see what I was seeing. Finally, he was able to turn off to a
side street and pull over long enough for me to snap a photo of the quickly disappearing rainbow. He accommodates my crazy “photo op” moments.
I wonder how Noah felt as he emerged from the ark--dirty,
tired, wondering just how they’d start over in a world that was probably little
more than a landscape of mud. Imagining
this, artists have some vegetation growing through the muck of a worldwide
flood—enough, of course, that the “scout” dove came back when some greenery in
his beak. As the once-swollen black clouds, relieved of their water burden,
dissipated, Noah caught sight of the first rainbow. The God-sign of
regeneration, it must have been stunning in its brilliant blending of the
spectrum’s colors. I cannot imagine it.
Here was hope in an arched palette, and every time it re-appeared, a reminder
of the Creator who went way beyond a black and white world.
One passage that always reminds me to hang in there with
life’s difficulties is Romans 15:4:
For everything that
was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and
the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope.
Noah didn’t have the scriptures, just stories passed down
through generations that Moses would later put into written form. But still, he believed...and obeyed.
Sometimes I yearn for Noah’s grit in starting over in regard
to seemingly impossible things I pray about. Some people I care about (and pray for) are
stuck in the false belief that their miserable lives will continue to be
miserable. If only they’d get out of the dark, manure-thick pens of the old
life in the ark, and have courage to step on the gangplank to a new life with
Jesus! If only they’d look up—and see the rainbow!
An old poem I quoted recently says, “God has not promised skies always blue.”
But every so often He hangs a sky-wide reminder that out of the storms,
something splendid can emerge. So, yes, I get excited about a rainbow. It's fleeting, just a few minutes while
the sun and drizzle are just right to refract the sun’s rays. But it’s reminder
enough to hold onto hope.
My husband had decided to bring home the bacon, for real.
Our local store had a bargain if you bought two packages, and he couldn’t
resist. BLTs (bacon-lettuce-tomato-sandwiches) are high in his love language.
Yes, we know bacon isn’t on the same health level as kale and bean sprouts, but
sometimes we sin against nutritional guidelines. I cook it up, drain it, and
stack the pieces between paper towels in a container headed for the
freezer. Besides adding crunch to BLTs,
bacon turns scrambled eggs into gourmet delights.
OUT OF THE FRY PAN....
As I stood watch guard over the sizzling fry pan, I had a
nudge that there might be a spiritual lesson here. (You’re probably thinking,
this lady fried her brain, too!).
The heat that releases the fat from the meat is like adversity releasing the
spiritual fat from our lives. This takes
me back to James 1:2-4, which became front and center in my life when I jumped
out of the frying pan into the fire—I mean, graduated college and went into the
“real world” for my first job. On this
bigger stage, I faced many more testings of my faith:
Consider it pure joy,
my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the
testing of your faith develops perseverance.
Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete,
not lacking anything.
In college, I hopped through curriculum hoops for ten weeks
each, wrote papers and took tests. Then, on to the next class. In the School of Life, those lessons and
tests just keep coming and I never really know how well I am doing. My only
hints of a “passing grade” are experiencing the closeness of the Lord and
discerning tiny changes in my character. Said another way, the “fat” of fleshly
entitlement slowly melts away in the heat of life’s hard places.
Am I “fully cooked”? Well, no. How would you answer that for
yourself? Actually, James wrote the answer in the verse above. This spiritual “cooking” goes on until we’re
mature and complete. To me, that is spelled H-E-A-V-E-N. James alludes to that
a few verses later:
Blessed is the man who
perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the
crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. (v. 12)
If I stirred up your taste buds for a BLT, well, glad to
know there’s a kindred spirit out there.
This is the time of year when zucchini grow to the size of
footballs and tomatoes engage in population explosions. We don’t grow zucchini.
(I got zucchini-ed out in childhood by my frugal mother’s zucchini creations.) However,
my husband has a favorite sunny spot by the garage for his yearly “farm” of
tomatoes. By September they shout “pick me, pick me!” We try to share, but find ourselves gifted by
other tomato-growers whose plants went into overdrive and don’t realize we have
our own stash.
I’ve been reading John 15 in different translations in
preparation for a speaking opportunity in October. It’s about grape vines, of
course, but in some ways the truths fit tomatoes, especially if we were real
savvy tomato-vine-keepers. These three words seem to summarize the passage:
PRUNED: Our heavenly Father is the vine dresser. He knows what to snip off so that more
nourishment goes into the fruit-producing branches. If there’s a sucker vine,
off it goes. Have to admit grapes and
tomatoes differ here. Tomatoes need “cages” or supports. Lesson: life’s
unpleasant experiences can leave us better or bitter. “Better” if we see them as
God’s pruning wisdom. “Bitter” if we think God doesn’t have our best interests
in mind when hard, “life-pruning” things happen.
NOURISHED: The
passage talks about “remaining” in the vine. Staying attached to the main vine
is the only way the auxiliary vines can get the nourishment to grow grapes.
When we go off and do our thing, goodbye healthy fruit. Without a “cage” to
support its wimpy branches, the tomato would similarly have problems, flopping
all over with the fruit in contact with the ground where they’d be most likely
to decay (or feed the local mice and rats). When I “lift up” my Bible off the
table by my rocker to read it, or “lift up” my prayer concerns to Him, I am nourished and
encouraged.
FRUITFUL: Finally comes harvest, and off come the
grapes. And what’s their purpose? To
nourish! To provide fruit that will last (v. 16). Jesus said, “This is my command: Love each
other” (v. 17). Let’s hear it for tomatoes in salads, as sauces, and as lumps
of red goodness in kabobs or cooked dishes. Oh yes, tomato juice, if you want
to recruit a blender. God is not limited by what He can accomplish through our
personalities and abilities. He never intended for us to sit on a platter and
be admired at length!
Maybe I’ve been a bit light-hearted about our bumper crop of
tomatoes. I remember that when Jesus taught, He used simple object lessons.
Many of His listeners were farmers or had a small garden for their family. You
don’t leave a crop (or a garden) to itself. It needs care, or you’ll just have
what Proverbs described of Mr. Sluggard’s farm: full of thorns and weeds, and
its stone wall in ruins (Proverbs 24:30-34).
I wonder if Mr. Sluggard intended to grow tomatoes. Or zucchini....
A few blocks away from us is an old house that was
“flipped,” re-done inside and out, and quickly resold. Revamping properties is
“big” these days as an investment, but it takes people with energy (and money)
to make it happen. As we drove past it over the months of remodeling, it was
fun to see a tired structure with a weedy lot turned into an asset to the
neighborhood.
I thought of that when I saw this décor sign at a store:
Home is where our story
begins.
Before investors came in to that house, it saw many
“stories.” But today’s trend is “update”—an idea that is supporting numerous
“this old house”-type programs on television.
When I try to connect the dots of this saying to scripture,
I’m struck by this truth: a “home” is not just a place to eat and sleep. It’s
connections of caring people. The Greek word for “home” is oikos which is also translated “family.” Paul used that term in his
letter to his protégé Timothy, saying that children or grandchildren whose
mother or grandmother is a widow (and, in those times, likely without financial
resources) should “show piety at home and repay their parents” (1 Timothy 5:4
NKJV).
Said another way, if aging and difficult circumstances have
left one’s parent in need, the children need to step up, if possible, to where
their story began. I honor my husband for the sacrifices he made for his
parents as they aged. His dad declined rapidly in his early seventies. His
mother, who had never learned to drive, was nearly stranded at their rural home
a twenty-minute drive away.
When a small rental house next to ours came up for sale, we
scrimped for a down payment and moved them next to us. We also insisted his
mother take driving lessons and paid for those.
She fussed and fumed, but survived learning. And when she received her
driver’s license in her late 60s, we held a “graduation ceremony” for her, complete with a
congratulatory cake and “graduation gown” (one I’d saved after having had to
buy it for one of my degrees).
After her husband's death, she remained in that home under our watch-care
(and increasing care) until her last year of life, when Alzheimer’s left her so
disabled that I could not longer care for her by myself.
My husband parents lived many places during their lives,
especially as my husband's dad's main career as a pastor meant moves between parsonages. Thus, my husband had many "homes" in his personal history until the family settled in this town, leaving full-time ministry to take over the aging maternal grandparents' orchard. But for more than
half of his life, “home” has been our current house, which he bought with his teacher's salary, and to which he brought me as a
bride.
This is where we began our “story” of marriage and family,
and where our two children began their “story.” It’s getting old and frayed in
places. We’re on our third kitchen floor and the rug has obvious trails of use,
plus milk and pet accidents that soaked to the padding. But if walls (and rugs)
could talk, oh—they’d talk.
The babies we brought home from the hospital are now grown
and have homes of their own. But there’s a special charm in being able to talk
to their children about “Nana and Papa’s home.” After all, it’s where their parents’ story began.
When a friend brought us a sack of peas from his garden, I
smiled the whole time I popped open the pods and peeled out the tasty little
seeds. Yes, I ate a few raw. What a plan
of God to put such tasty morsels in a zip-open (or pop-open) container! Out of
one little seed came so many more. So many sweet green blessings!
For some
reason during this mindless task, some hymn lyrics came to mind:
His love has no limit, His grace has no
measure,
His power has no boundary known unto
men.
For out of His infinite riches in
Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth
again.
The words are the chorus to “He Giveth More Grace” by Annie
Johnson Flint (1866-1932). How many times have I sung that encouraging hymn
without realizing the discouraging circumstances
out of which it rose?
Annie
Johnson was born into a humble family in New
Jersey. Three years later, her mother died while
giving birth to her sister. Her father, who had an incurable disease, willed
his precious daughters to another family, the Flints (thus her new last name), knowing
they’d bring the girls up in a home of faith. Annie accepted Christ at age 8
during revival meetings.
CHEERFUL OUTLOOK
Annie was
said to have a cheerful, optimistic outlook, even as arthritis took over her
body, making her an invalid eventually confined to a wheelchair. When her
adoptive parents died just months apart, Annie had to find some way to support
herself and her sister. With a pen in her twisted fingers, she made cards and
gift books of her poetry. One of those better-known poems was “God hath not
promised skies always blue.”
Oh, the
power packed into poetry and hymns, even years after their composition During
World War 2, a missionary named Darelene Deibler Rose found herself in horrific
circumstances as a prisoner of the Japanese. Her husband had died and she
expected the same fate as she trudged day by day through the hardships of
prison camp.
Just two
weeks before brought to this prison, she’d felt led to memorize the lyrics of
“He Giveth More Grace.” One day, returned to her cell after a hearing by her
captors, her grief was almost unbearable. She cried until there were no more
tears, then the words of this song came back to her. She sat up and sang:
He giveth more grace when the burdens grow
greater.
He sendeth more strength when the
labors increase.
To added affliction, He added his
mercy,
To multiplied trials, His multiplied
peace.
Eventually she would be released, and spoke and wrote widely
of her experience.
I don’t
intend to diminish the power of this amazing truth by comparing it to a bowl of
peas. But I think the Lord spoke to me through that humble kitchen task of
shelling pods of bounty. He specializes in multiplying the good things of His
character: His grace, His strength, His mercy, His peace.
In our most
difficult trials, they are waiting for us to discover and claim.
I happened to hit the fabric store on just the right day.
Their bonus for shoppers was a big reusable shopping bag with a fun
saying. My one cone of serger thread and
a small notion, both bought on a half-off coupon, rattled embarrassingly on the
bottom. But I liked the saying, a takeoff on “Carpe diem” (“seize the day”)
attributed to the Roman poet Horace. His idea as that one should enjoy life
while one can. Well, to me that sounds almost narcissistic, and I’ve seen
enough of that negative character quality in people who think life is all about
them. But “squeeze the day”—as in squeeze the tangy goodness out of the sourest
of fruits--for me implies finding the best in even the negatives and pressure
points.
I’m glad my Bible checks me on the other meaning of “enjoy
life while you can.” Yes, that seems to be the message of Ecclesiastes until
you get to the end of that book, and the author admits there’s a better, God-perspective
to the days we’re allotted to live.
Scripture has a phrase, “make the most of every opportunity,” and I
think this gives the more God-pleasing approach to making the day count. Among
verses that use it:
“Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity” (Colossians
4:5). I call that “propriety,” acting
wisely and kindly to others. Mud-slingers make enemies, not friends.
“Be very careful, then, how you live-not as unwise but as
wise, making the most of every
opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but
understand what the LORD's will is” (Ephesians 5:15-17). This one teaches me to
keep my eyes open to God-opportunities so that even in negative experiences I
can grow and glorify Him. No griping!
“Therefore, as we have
opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong
to the family of believers” (Galatians 6:10). This is my reminder to be Jesus
to the people around me. No mean or demeaning words—and if I experience those
from someone else, to resist reacting in the same negative way, instead looking
to Jesus, who understands.
As I write this in early August, we are reeling over
back-to-back mass gun violence in Texas and Ohio. An ordinary day ended in
horror not only for those killed but those injured or left behind. For some of
the deceased, stories of Christian faith will emerge. For others, sadly, the nightmare will never
end. I know I was changed by my tiny experience of another’s reckless decision
to drink and drive. But we lived, even the drinking driver in the other
vehicle.
Squeeze the day....opportunity waits to turn sour into
sweet.
White, purity, innocence—roses of this hue convey many quiet
messages. Appropriately, they’re often carried by brides. But for me, the bush of white
roses in our yard communicate life. In
1998, in the foothills of Oregon’s snow-capped Mt. Hood, my family of four was
almost killed by a drinking driver. Our car was demolished; we were injured,
but lived. Not long after, we needed to replace an ailing rose. My husband chose
this one whose name is—appropriately—“Mt. Hood.” Its first bloom is full of clusters of white beauty, and it
often reminds me of scripture that speak to purity, like these—among the first
I memorized as a young adult in a Bible memory program.
How can a young man
keep his way pure? By living according to your word. I seek you with all my
heart; do not let me stray from your commands. I have hidden your word in my heart
that I might not sin against you. (Psalm 119:9-11 NIV)
DARK AND LIGHT
That verse sits in the back of my mind as I try to be understand people and situations that seem just "not right." One thing that's helped is a daily diet of Proverbs--reading the chapter that corresponds to the day of the month--in addition to other scriptures. Over and over, as I read and think through its aphorisms, I absorb its truths and gain God's perspective. Yesterday, as I noticed the pen-dots I'd previously put by certain verses in Proverbs 29 (which says much about anger and scoffing), I realized God was reminding me again that behaviors I was enduring from a troubled person were just not right in His sight. "Whoever trusts in the Lord," said the end of verse 25, "is kept safe." And that's what I took into my day.
Recently I was researching the story behind the
hymn “Take Time to Be Holy,” whose lyrics were written by William Longstaff, a 19th
century businessman who gave generously to God’s work. Among the evangelists he befriended were Salvation Army-founder
William Booth and evangelist Dwight Moody. Longstaff was inspired by this Bible
verse: “Be ye holy, for I am holy” (1 Peter 1:16, related to Leviticus 11:44).
His poem based on that verse eventually found a tune match in 1882, and became
a favorite through Moody crusades.
There’s some good stuff in that hymn about growing closer to
God: Speak oft with thy Lord. Care for
God’s children. Let Jesus be your Guide. Let people see Jesus in your conduct. Be
led in love by God’s spirit.
But don’t take my word for it. Find a hymnal and read the lyrics. Then think
of a man in the sometimes rough rounds of business seeking to make a difference
for Christ. Trying to be the white rose against the darkness of a world that’s
lost its Jesus-perspective. Doing what’s
right (which, by the way, rhymes with “white”).
Ever give a second thought to the number “3”? Through the
Bible’s lenses, it’s more than the third real number in our counting system
(provided you don’t “count” zero). It’s considered the number of
“completion.” Think:
The trinity of
the Godhood: Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
Noah had three
sons (Shem, Ham, Japheth) who survived the flood to begin the world’s
repopulation (Genesis 7-10)
Three angels
visited Abraham to tell him and his barren wife to prepare a nursery (Genesis
18).
Joseph, now a VIP in Egypt, let his hungry brothers sit in
prison for three days when they came
for food during the famine (Genesis 42)
Jonah sloshed in whale digestive juices for three days and nights (Jonah 1:17).
Matthew 2 reports that the baby Jesus received three gifts from the wise men.
After Jesus fasted for 40 days and night in the desert,
Satan tried three times—unsuccessfully--
to tempt him. (Matthew 4:4-10).
The Bible tells of three
people whom Jesus raised from the dead: the widow’s son (Luke 7:11-14), Jairus’
daughter (Mark 5), and Lazarus (John
11).
The man beaten almost to death by robbers on the way to
Jericho had three people see his
plight. Two (priest and Levite) wouldn’t dirty their hands to help. But a Samaritan
did, and went the extra mile (literally!) to help him.
The third day after His crucifixion,
just as predicted (and the way Jews figured time), Jesus rose from the dead.
Don’t forget the trio
of “faith, hope and love”—the greatest of these is love (1 Corinthians 13).
Perhaps Reginald Heber (1783-1826) had some of these
“threes” in mind when he wrote the hymn “Holy, holy, holy.” Find a hymnal and
read through it. Pause at the triad phrase, “which wert and art and evermore
shall be.” Yes, it’s old English but it’s
timeless truth. Past, present, future. God is unlimited by time.
The church my family attended in my early childhood
highlighted that hymn. Every service
opened with the robed choir processing down the aisle, singing it. Once in the
choir loft, they paused, then sang a cappella this verse from Habakkuk 2:20:
The Lord is in His
holy temple (2x), let all the earth keep silence. Let all the earth keep
silence before Him. Amen.
The Trinity. The conjoining of so many threes in scripture.
Such things give me holy pause, wanting to say as Habakkuk did two verses
later: “I stand in awe of your deeds, O Lord” (Habakkuk 3:2b).
This loom on display at an Amish bakery in Idaho fascinated
me—not that I’d never seen a loom before, but that the “work in progress”
prompted me to wonder what the weaver’s design would be. The “warp” are the
threads that run lengthwise, and the “woof” run crosswise. The weaver decides
what colors will run each way, and as the shuttle for the woof goes in and out
of selected threads, a design emerges. But this part is important: the slamming
tight of the crosswise threads to make a taut, strong fabric.
Weaving is hard, and noisy!
Like life, sometimes. We have a choice: to yield to the God-appointed
hard “slams” to tighten the fibers of our being, or to ask Him to lay off, with
the result of a weak and hardly-useful product. The writer of Hebrews wrote of
the spiritual aspect of those “hard slams”:
God disciplines us for
our good, that we may share in his holiness.
No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of
righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. (Hebrews 12:11)
Another “fiber art” illustration further emphasizes our need
to trust God, even in the times that seem dark and confusing. It’s one frequently used by the late Corrie
ten Boom, survivor of the Holocaust, who spent the rest of her long life in
weary travel and speaking, pointing people to Jesus. She would show the back
side of an embroidery project, full of knots and stray threads, and not very
pretty. But turned over, it revealed a glittery crown. She’d quote this poem:
“My life is but a weaving /
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors / He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow; / And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper/ And I the underside.
Not ’til the loom is silent/ And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas/ And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful/ In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver/ In the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares;/ Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those/ Who leave the choice to Him.”
I probably heard her quote that poem when I heard her speak
in person in the mid-1970s in southern California. Friends urged me to arrive
early at church to get a seat. I did,
and was astonished by the crowds already waiting an hour early for the doors to open. I will
never forget this simply-dressed older woman, her hair in an old-fashioned bun,
speaking through her thick accent of atrocities she survived and the sustaining
presence of God.
She would die a decade later on her 91st
birthday, her “weaving” (or embroidery) finished—to the glory of God.
I’m not sure what prompted the writer of this little ditty.
I think it’s saying that our parents’ traits (and physical
characteristics) show up more as we age. Or, as another wag put it, the acorn
doesn’t fall far from the oak tree. I’ll never know how my mother would have
looked at my age now. It’s been 41 years since cancer took her at age 59. I do
remember her early-crinkly skin—she blamed it on being Norwegian. Chemotherapy
messed with her hair cells so much I’ll never know how natural gray would have
come.
We both suffered broken ankles (as did my sister), so have a
well-earned limp. Her cooking style included “frugal smorgasbord”—using the
Norwegian feast word to dress up a menu of refrigerator leftovers. I’ve been
known to similarly plan a menu by checking out what’s hiding in plastic
containers in the frig. She hardly met a piece of fabric she didn’t want to
create something out of. Well, I enjoy making something useful out of scraps,
but don’t have the room to stockpile “projects” as she did. (Her sewing workroom/storage
was my old 10x10 bedroom—so full it became a yard sale of itself after her death.)
Thoughts of her “at rest” bring up her relaxing in her
mustard yellow rocker (oh, such an ugly color) with her “letters box” in her
lap. This was a clipboard with a storage
compartment underneath for her stationery and stamps. She wrote hundreds of letters back in those
pre-computer days to keep her eight siblings connected. I have sticky notes
near my computer to remind me to drop a note (by mail or e-mail) to someone who
comes to mind, especially to bring encouragement. Even in this era of cryptic, quickie E-notes,
there’s something to treasure in a real letter. It seems warmer.
WRINKLES
I’ve come to the stage of life where the title of a Madeline
L’Engle book describes my face: “A Wrinkle in Time.” I never slathered it with
pricey skin creams; maybe I should have. But then I recall Mother's excuse of having the Norske genes for wrinkles.
I’ve heard it said that our faces are mirrors to our soul.
I’m not sure what people think when they see me. I hope they look past the
aging imperfections to my heart. I’m proud of my children, who grew up with
quality friends, excelled in high school and college, and now are married with
children, responsible employment, still-quality friends, and—most important—a
faith in Christ they “own.” I think of Proverbs 15:20: “A wise son brings joy
to his father, but a foolish man despises his mother.” I’ve seen the second happen, and it is very
sad. Then there’s Proverbs 23:22:
“Listen to your father, who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when
she is old.” During the time Solomon penned these proverbs, women were not
respected. Their role was to bear children and keep the household going. I’m
glad Solomon paused to encourage respect and honor to mothers.
More than we probably realize, we imitate our parents. If
they are, or were, good people, it is a high calling. If they lacked in
principle or honor, it’s even more imperative that we seek to change the image of our past. Or, to put it another way, to look into God's mirror, with the perfect image of His Son as our Example, and say, "In my spirit and character, I want to look more and more like Jesus."
Can't go wrong with that!
Yes, we grow whopper apples in Washington state. But the
saying “apple of my eye” has nothing to do with juicy fruit. Scholars say the
English idiom goes back to 9th century English literature, when it
just referred to the dark part of the eye. It was still around for Shakespeare,
who dropped it into a conversation in his play Midsummer Night’s Dream. Shakespeare lived about the same time as
the 1611 King James translation of the Bible, so it’s understandable that when
scholars came across a similar Hebrew idiom, they used the English saying:
Deuteronomy 32:10: "He found him in a desert land, and
in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept
him as the apple of his eye."
Psalm 17:8: "Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me
under the shadow of thy wings."
Proverbs 7:2: "Keep my commandments, and live; and my
law as the apple of thine eye."
Lamentations 2:18: "Their heart cried unto the Lord, O
wall of the daughter of Zion, let tears run down like a river day and night:
give thyself no rest; let not the apple of thine eye cease."
Zechariah 2:8: "For thus saith the LORD of hosts; After
the glory hath he sent me unto the nations which spoiled you: for he that
toucheth you toucheth the apple of his eye."
Of all these, I like Psalm 17:8 the most. It reminds me that
I can appeal to the God who not only created me but cherishes and protects me
even more than I try to protect my eyes. Even though I may mess up and fail,
He’s there to lift me up and restore me when I honestly and humbly ask for his
help.
CHERISHED
On the window ledge just above my computer, along with an engraved stone, I keep a print of
an artist’s rendition of Christ praying over the world. It's a reminder
of His agonized prayer at Gethsemane. I cannot look at that without tears
stinging my eyes as I recall Hebrews 7:25:
Therefore he is able
to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives
to intercede for them.
Jesus may have returned to heaven some 2,000 years ago, but
in the mystery of who He is, He is still very present and inexplicably involved
in every detail of our lives—when we love on Him and adore Him, and even when
we turn our backs on Him. “Apple of His eye,” and the protective shadow of God
(His “wings”)—there’s no better place to be.
