I Can't Do It Alone

I have struggled at times with Sahara-sized dry periods brought on by my inability (unwillingness?) to accept gracefully the circumstances in which the Lord has placed me.

I have been ashamed of that and have not wanted to write about it -- it seems such a poor witness. But I now see that when the Lord pushed me into admitting the truth, it was the first step toward a solution (healing?).

After identifying the problem for what it was – rebellion and resentment – I was able to tell the Lord that I wanted to dig that particular root of rebellion all the way out. At least I had the good sense to know that I didn’t want to knock the head of th plant off and look good on the surface. I wanted to get rid of the whole ugly thing.

So I asked the Lord to dig another shovelful of dirt away from the root.

Until that moment, I had been working on the premise that I had to conquer my rebelliousness by myself before God could possibly bless me. And I had refused to ask for help. I had forgotten that His saving grace is the only thing that can be victorious over my sinful nature.

Scripture says we are to transformed by the renewing of our minds. There I was trying to make myself a new person by renewing my own mind and that is something only God can do.

But when you give Him permission to work in your life, you can be sure He will.

His first response was to remind me of a simple, homely truth. It is easier to pull a root out of the ground when the soil is wet.

I had been, as it says in Psalm 63, like a dry and thirsty land. It is certain that I needed water, but I had been trying to water by digging a well all by myself.

Tears of repentance are the only water I can produce. And they are a necessary part of the renewing process.

But the primary source must be the spring of living water that wells up inside simply because Christ is there. As I let the barriers down, I began to experience the outpouring of His refreshing love.

He did not wait for me to deal with my faults. While I was still a sinner, He loved me.

Then I confessed my struggle to some in my church and asked for the help of their prayers.

How foolish I had been to go on so long alone. No sooner did they hear of my need than they began lifting me up. And everywhere I turned I found assurance of God’s saving initiative, of His love in action.

Then, when I was sure again of God’s love for me, a love deep enough and wide enough to wash away all my sins, He pointed out my specific problems to me. I identified jealously and selfish ambition at work in me.

I confessed this as sin and asked the Lord to forgive me – and to change me, to set me free from the power of those emotions so I might delight in His will for me.

It’s a process. It’s happening as I write. After all, He said he came to set the captives free and He keeps His Word.

What I Almost Saw

I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. I think if I had tried to look straight at it, I would not have seen it at all.

In fact, that may be what I’ve been doing all these years. – trying to look right at something that can’t be seen that way – at least not by me – at least not now.

I remember that before I had surgery to remove cataracts in my eyes, I would often see something more clearly just to the side of my vision. Actually it was more like catching it just as I looked passed it. I know it made reading the eye chart difficult. I could read the letters on the sides but not the ones in the middle.

But enough about that already.

Since I did not get a straight-on, clear image of this thing I saw, it is a bit hard to describe it. In fact, I don’t think I can, really.

But I will make a stab at it because the process of trying to find worlds may help clarify my vision.

What I think it was was the Body of Christ – the church universal – the Bride of Christ -- something like that anyway.

I have understood intellectually that there is such a thing as that. I had just never caught a glimpse of it before.

It’s like knowing in your mind that the church is not the building, but not quite being able to flesh out exactly what it is instead.

It’s all the believers.

All which believers?

Well, let’s not take a negative approach here. Let’s not focus on what I didn’t see, but on the little that I did see.

I saw something that I am a part of and that includes more others than I can count, and they come from everywhere – Africa, Asia, America, all over.

If I had seen it straight on, I think I could tell you exactly who they were. But I can’t – yet. I hope to later. I don’t know how much later.

But I saw that I am part of them and they are part of my. My prayers are for them and theirs are for me and each other. And my believing supports them and theirs supports me. And each other.

I think God can see it as One thing, while He still sees each individual in it.

I can’t see either the whole or the parts.

I just caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye.

But now I know it is there and I will be looking for more of it to be revealed. He has not shown me this glimpse for nothing.

We're Different

I went to lunch with John Cowart and his daughter-in-law, Helen, last week to talk about “the books.”

The books are collections of the columns I wrote to run on the Religion page of the Florida Times Union back when I was employed there.

But I don’t want to talk about the books, at least not right now. There is something else on my mind.

While John and I were driving to the restaurant to meet Helen, he commented that after reading my columns, he had decided we were very different kinds of Christians. Very different.

And he is quite right. We are different.

I’m older. He’s younger.

I talk and he acts.

I like music. He doesn’t.

I write sporadically. He writes daily.

We both believe in the Gospel as revealed by God in the Scriptures.

But I think the difference he was referring to is that I talk about feeing God’s presence and he says he doesn’t.

I talk about having faith and he wonders if he has any.

I think he’s just a much more humble Christian than I am.

I have experienced some dark nights of the soul, one that lasted several years. He has lived most of his life in a darkness that relies on knowledge that God is, but not on experience of Him.

I have led a few retreats, spoken to a few women’s groups and taught a few Bible studies. He has done all that and served meals at places that feed the hungry and delivered clothes to places that clothe the not quite naked and responded to requests for all kinds of help. He has stood on street corners and taught about the Lord with stick drawings. He has also taught a blind man how to do the same thing by making a board with nails on which colored string can be strung to make pictures.

All based on a firm conviction that God is and that the Bible tells us so.

I think John finds my emotional relationship with God quite “other.”

Years ago I worried about his lack of a warm and fuzzy relationship with God. According to my haphazard journal keeping, I even spoke to Ginny about this. Fortunately I can’t remember the conversation now. I just noted at the time that she said quite nicely that I shouldn’t worry.

My relationship with my Lord is not just warm and fuzzy. It is painful and joyful, life-giving and death over-riding. Most of what I have learned about being a follower has come through painful encounters with the truth of who I am and Who he Is.

I don’t know how to describe John’s except as I did above – you know Him by what John does.

John serves Him continually. It why he does whatever he does.

It’s why he has put in hours turning my thoughts about trying to actually BE a child of God into a book. He thinks there are a lot more Christians like me out there in the world and that they could benefit from reading about my efforts, failures and successes, my failing and getting up to try again.

I hope he is right.

It would never have happened if it depended on me. I told him I couldn’t deal with the articles any more. That time was past for me.

So he told me to bring it all to him and I did.

He has put an enormous amount of himself into getting the books made. I would never have done it. And I really would like his efforts to be rewarded. Especially if he is right and the columns can still minister to people.

I actually pray that the books will be successful, that people will want to read them and in doing so will find ways to draw nearer to the source of all joy.

I also pray that people will read John’s blog, Rabid Fun, and learn some other ways of doing the same thing.

Relatives

My grandson is 28 years old now, but he was much younger when he helped me learn something important about God. I wrote about it at the time this way:

My grandson, Russell, asked me a question recently that pointed up how far the world is from fulfilling God’s plan for the family – and how great his mercy and love are in forgiving and renewing us.

I was taking care of my two grandchildren while my daughter and her husband had dinner with her father and some of his relatives. The children would have gone, too, but Russell had chicken pox.

Russell, who is 6, asked me why I hadn’t gone to the dinner.

I said something about that being another part of the family and families being like that today.

It triggered another question, one I believe he must have been pondering all along because the words came so quickly.

Russell asked if his stepfather was my stepson.

I answered, “No, he’s my son-in-law.”

He stared at me, a puzzled look on his face. After a brief pause, he tried again.

“He isn’t your stepson?”

“No, Russell,” I replied. “I don’t have any stepchildren. The only children I have are your mother and your Uncle Nathan. Your daddy is my son-in-law.”

He grew very still, very serious. It was almost possible to hear the wheels of thought turning around in his head.

“Then what am I?” he asked, with as much challenge as question in his voice.

“You are my one-and-only, very precious grandson,” I said.

My delight in that fact must have been conveyed by my expression and tone of voice for he raced to me and gave me a big hug.

“I’m your chicken pops grandson,” he shouted with pleasure.

He repeated the hug, then turned to pick up a toy.

Life goes on.

So did my thoughts – on to the difference between our lives and the lives of so many people I know and the intention of God for families as expressed in the Bible.

How many men and women I know are no longer married to their first husband or wife. How many children have step parents and stepbrothers and half brothers.

How many opportunities we have missed for knowing God’s blessing through obedience to his word.

It made me very conscious of the pain we have caused each other and of the burden of guilt we bear before the Lord for making such a mess of things.

Without Jesus’ death for us on the cross, we would have had to bear that burden for ever.

I am so grateful for the forgiveness which God made possible for us through his great love. I am enormously thankful for the fact that he can bring blessing even out of such failures.

Russell has parents and stepparents, a half sister at his mother’s house, a stepbrother and hal brothers at his father’s and a couple of extra grandparents.

All of us love him dearly, but not one of us singly or all of us together can give him righteousness, peace and joy. Only his heavenly Father can do that.

Good or Bad News?

I’m writing from a position of extreme ignorance – I only know what I heard on a TV newscast.

According to the news clip, Mother Theresa was not sustained in her ministry to the poorest of the poor by a warm, comforting relationship with her Lord. In fact, she wrote to a friend saying she was not sure she had any faith at all. And had not been sure for a long time.

.The guy on the television said this revelation might change the way we thought about Mother Teresa. He said it with a studiously neutral voice. I have no idea whether he thinks we will think better or worse of her.

But I don’t really care what he thinks. And it doesn’t really matter what I think about it unless it affects the way I live when I can’t feel my faith.

Perhaps she did not feel it, but she lived it anyway.

This morning I came across something I wrote 20 years ago. I wrote it after a time of dryness and lack of any feeling of contact with the Lord. I’m not comparing my life to hers, my brief dark trying of my soul to her long painful years. I wouldn’t dare.

But perhaps your lives are more like mine than they are like hers, so maybe this will speak to you, too.

This is what I wrote;

I had some good news and some bad news last week.

The good news was a note from Reader’s Digest saying it was thinking about running an anecdote I submitted – maybe three years ago!

The bad news was that my air conditioner had to be replaced.

The wires melted. And for a time it appeared that the damage might be even more extensive.

After calling the air conditioning repairman – and making the decision to replace the central unit – I opened windows, turned on a floor fan in my bedroom and went to sleep.

Sometime in the night I woke to the sound of rushing wind. For a moment I thought it was beginning to rain and prepared to hop up and close the windows. Then I realized it was just the fan – just the fan acting very strange.

It would slow down, come almost to a stop, then start again with a rush.

As the fan stopped entirely, I glanced at the digital clock by my bed to see if it was still working. Its dark face confirmed that the problem was electrical.

My next thought was that bad wiring must have burned up the air conditioner and was now about to burn up everything in the house – if not the house itself.

I turned off the fan and checked the house to see what else was or was not working.

The refrigerator was acting just like the fan. The sound of the starter motor grinding away conjured visions of more melted wires -- which sped me on my way to the circuit box to flip a breaker or two.

With half the house shut down, I went back to bed, but I must confess, not back to sleep.

The electrician, when he came, said a “bad” wire at the meter box was the culprit. He replaced it, checked the circuit box, charged me a very reasonable fee and left.

A new three-ton air conditioner is expensive, but it could have been much worse.

The amazing thing about both the good news and the bad was that neither disturbed a deep, joyous peace I felt within. That peace had been mine ever since I confessed my rebelliousness and anger to my Lord in the presence of a friend and she prayed for me that I would be able to delight in all he had for me.

If that notice from Reader’s Digest had come before I asked him to deal with my jealousy and selfish ambition, it would have been fuel to that fire within. But coming as it did after that confession, I was able simply to delight in the possibility that they might print something I wrote.

And I was wakeful the night the electrical wiring in my house acted up in case something else might go wrong, but deep down inside, I was still happy. When someone asked later how I was doing, I said, “Great!” and meant it. I could not have done that without God’s peace in my heart.

Surrender and obedience sound like such grim things to do. But when that surrender and obedience is to the Lord, this is not true. Then it is the beginning of something wonderful and the fruit is that peace which passes understanding and joy beyond measure.

What can I say?

My friend John Cowart says it’s more important right now for me to paint book covers than to retype columns.

Boy, am I relieved!

I wrote those things years ago and I can’t even read the small type now, especially on yellowing newsprint.

John says he thinks that, put together, the columns will amount to a spiritual classic.

If so, it’s true that God can use anything or anyone He wants anyway He wants to. Singly, which is the way I wrote them, they were reflections on my spiritual journey, the rocks I tripped over, the ditches I fell in and the oases that turned out to be just more sand – and the occasional moments of peace and joy and fulfillment given to those who try to follow.

I sat with John as he scanned in just one column. I was overwhelmed by the process, the amount of detailed – DETAILED – steps involved. And he has done all these steps hundreds of times

When I retired, I stopped writing. It felt all burned up inside of me. I had nothing left to say.

Or so I thought. And I may have been right.

But John has put my fingers back on the keys and I press them down one at a time, prayerfully, waiting to see if the Lord has anything He wants me to say.

Like thank you.

Not, thank you, John, for all the work you are doing to make books of my columns. There is no way to do that. Besides, I don’t actually think somehow that he is doing it for me.

But Thank You, Dear Lord, for reminding me of all the trials and all the joys and all the in-between moments of the life which You have given me and in which You have been with me.

Bless those who labor in Your vineyard, Lord. I ask for a special blessing on those who are working on this book because they believe it will bring glory to Your name.

Their labors already do that.

So I’m off to the other labor, painting pictures for book covers. I am as skilled at this as I am at doing all those other things You have ask me to do, Dear Lord.

So go with me, please. And thank You.

Roses: Fragrance and Thorns

After several weeks of talking about thorns, I’d like to say a word about roses.

A true appreciation for colors, shapes and fragrances of roses can be lost in the press of attention to the thorns.

If you are standing far enough back from the flowers, you can enjoy their beauty without paying any attention to the danger. But you can miss the perfumes they hold for those who come up close.

If you’re standing in the middle of the rosebushes while a windstorm is swirling them all around, it’s hard to do anything but stay out of harms way.

The trick seems to be to get close enough to smell the roses while staying far enough back to avoid the thorns.

I think a lot of Christians try to do that. They try to get as close to Jesus as they can for the warmth and comfort his presence brings, while staying far enough back to safeguard whatever it is they are afraid he is going to take away from them.

I do that.

And I do it very well. I disguise my true motives, saying I am concerned with this or that aspect of the matter. I even find Scripture to back up my stance. But all the while, the truth is that I want something to be different from the way the Lord wants it to be. I want it my way.

Only sometimes you don’t get to choose where you stand. You can only agree to stand there or walk away.

Before I walk away, I’d better make sure the ground I’m leaving isn’t the one on top of the rock. I might be headed for sand instead.

If I’m sure of my ground, I can risk standing around among the roses even in the whirlwind.

The words of a song I’ve heard recently speak to this issue. The song goes, “Oh, let the Son of God enfold you in his Spirit and his love. Let him fill your heart and satisfy your soul. Let him have the things that hold you and his Spirit like a dove will descend upon your life and make you whole.”

Let him have the things that hold you – everything that holds you back from touching and smelling and living among the roses of delight in his will, delight that quickens the senses, that fills rising in the morning with joy and going to bed at night with peace.

Of course, letting go can hurt. I’ve been hurt before and I still flinch when the thorns come my way. I can’t seem to help it.

Sometimes I even ask the Lord if I couldn’t have just a little recess from admiring the rose, a break from dodging thorns.

But no thorn ever comes my way that will be more than I can bear. He promised.

All those thorns have been taken by Jesus.

The thorns that do come serve to snatch away those things that had been holding me back – things we had been holding back and are now ready to release.

And when I look back from the other side of that place called “letting go,” I can mean it when I say that his yoke is easy and his burden light. Then I can renew my strength and soar on wings like eagles. I can run and not grow weary. I can walk and not be faint.

For I have smelled the roses of the Lord now and no other fragrance will ever sartisfy.

The Chartreuse Hat, Part II

There is a deeper meaning to the event of the chartreuse hat (see the previous item for the original story).

I thought of it during Sunday School this morning when the teacher made an of-the-cuff remark. He said, “How profound we are in our shallowness. We can drown in a puddle.”

The “deeper meaning” of my finding a chartreuse hat to wear while painting – and getting lots of positive feed back from folks who saw me wearing it – may only be puddle deep. But it’s there.

But when there hasn’t been much rain, a puddle is still water.

What I received with the hat was laughter. A floppy yellow-green hat with a turned up brim seen on top of a quite wide old lady made me laugh when I looked in the mirror.

And I think it amused God, too. I think He planned it that way and I was fortunate enough to see the plan.

Every morning I pray, “Give us this day our daily bread.”

And I believe He does.

The trick, if I may call it that, is to learn to see the widely – and sometimes wildly – different forms bread can take.

It can take the form of a chartreuse hat.

That hat with its floppy up and down motion and outrageous color fed my spirit with the idea that God picked it out for me and left it in the Boutique for me to buy.

You don’t think He does things like that?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But Scripture says He knows my sitting down and my rising up, my going out and my coming in. He knows my thoughts before I think them.

There are certainly deeper proofs of this than a chartreuse hat, things deeper than a puddle. But I believe you can find your own deeper meanings if you try. Or God will show them to you if you ask Him to. Or at least give you hints and clues for you to ponder while wading.

The Chartreus Hat

There is an entire society of women who wear red hats and have fun together, attracting attention along the way.

All by myself I managed to do the same thing, only my hart was chartreuse.

My eyes were bothering me the other morning in the arts room so I went next door into the Boutique – which is the fancy name we give the place where we dispose of things we no longer need or have room for – to see if they had a hat. And they had a red one, but it did not fit, too small.

The one that fit was chartreuse, and soft and bouncy. You can roll it up and shake it out and it goes right back to its original shape. I think the slightly rolled brim goes up and down as the wearer moves, but since I was the wearer, I paid no attention to that.

For the best thing about the hat was that it shaded my eyes from the fluorescent lights.

I enjoyed the shade so much, I wore it into the dining room for lunch and there it attracted lots of attention and comments. Mostly positive.

I don’t think I will wear it everywhere, however. I don’t have that much that chartreuse goes with and I’m not really energetic enough to become – and maintain being -- a character.

I got my brace back at about 3:15 yesterday afternoon. It is so much more comfortable than the old black fuzzy boot. With its Velcro bindings and over all rigidity.

Today is an all-mine day, nothing scheduled to do for anyone else.

So I did basically nothing all morning. Not a bit productive.

I think I will go paint a while this afternoon. At least that produces feelings of contentment in me, if it doesn’t do anything for anyone else.

While I concentrate on the picture before me and on how to make it look the way I want it to look, I can’t think about what I could, or should be doing instead.

Like finding a deeper, spiritual meaning in this entry.

Click Scrunch

I took my brace to Hanger Orthotics and Prosthesis on Tuesday because it was going click clack.

Now it goes click scrunch.

Not an improvement.

Today I will take it back and see if they can repair it by tomorrow. In the meantime I get to wear the old black boot with Velcro closings that they gave me when I first tore the tendon that held up my arch. And now doesn’t.

Getting old really is rough on the body.

There is a lady here who celebrated her 103^rd birthday last month. She still rides a three-wheeled bicycle (if that isn’t a contradiction in terms) and writes poetry and volunteers here and there. She must have drawn on a very good gene pool and been much more careful and active and all that stuff.

Ah, well.

There are, of course, others in my shape or worse. When we greet each other and say, How are you? we usually just say, Fine. Meaning fine for the shape I’m in.

However, I am in better shape now than I was when I moved here five years ago. Isn’t that interesting. Compliments to my doctors and thanksgivings to my Lord.

I think it’s a combination of the right medications – heart condition – and prayer and praise. As I increase the latter I may be able to decrease the former. If you can follow all that.

If not. I enjoy life more because of the prayer and praise. And that’s worth a lot.

Art class this morning! Joy, joy.

Hanger after.

Not stupid, not smart

I can’t begin to tell you how stupid I feel when I can’t get the copy to come out the right size! No one will believe I used to work on a computer every day at the newspaper. But I only learned how to work their program. I didn’t learn anything about computers. Oh, well. I guess I am, well, if not quite stupid, at least not smart.

I received a post card from Switzerland yesterday. It was a picture of a hotel tucked in the crack between snot capped mountains with lots of flowers and trees around. Very beautiful and very cool. COOL. With temperatures at 95 or higher, cool is very attractive.

The card came from Margaret Peattie, who lives in Scotland and is vacationing with her younger sister and her brother-in-law. Margaret and I began writing to each other when we were in high school, right after WWII actually. I remember sending CARE packages to her.

But she is the one who has kept us in touch with each other. When my marriage failed, I quit writing. She sent Christmas cards every year until I finally sent one back. She and her husband visited me some years ago, before I retired. I visited them the summer after I turned 65 and no longer on the job. I called her the night before she left for Switzerland – it’s five hours later there so I have to remember to call early enough not to get her out of bed.

She was my only pen pal. I was not her only one. She visits another pen pal in France and may have others I don’t even know about. But I’m glad she did not let me drop off the face of her life.

Tomorrow’s schedule starts with picking Mary up and taking her for her weekly blood draw. Then I go to the brace place to see if they can find out why my new brace clicks. That will be followed by a meeting of the officers of the residents’ council.

Doesn’t that sound fine? Well, it will keep me out of trouble.

Nighttime serenade

I ate grilled tuna for the first time today. I have eaten canned tuna for years – when did they start canning tuna anyway? – but raw tuna looked so unappetizing I avoided it. Until today.

I went out to lunch after church with a few friends. I’m such an in-a-rut person that I almost always order a particular thing at each restaurant I go to. Tuna was not on that list. But somehow, I felt out of ordinary today and ordered a salad with grilled tuna on top. Asked how I wanted it cooked, I told the waitress I had no idea, never having eaten grilled tuna before. She suggest medium rare and that’s what I got.

Delicious! Who would have thought it!

Other than that things are very much the same as they have been for the past 22 months. My primary focus has been on my 47-year-old daughter’s fight against small cell lung cancer. She is such a fighter. She has done everything they ask her to do – except get a port. As long as they can find a vein, she will go that route. I drive her to appointments, sit with her while she has a treatment and occasionally cook a meal.

I took her Christmas shopping a couple of weeks ago. She used one of the carts with a scooter attached and went aisle by aisle amassing items for everyone on her list. This is not a result of her cancer, but her usual practice. She hates Christmas shopping in December. Too many people in the store.

My secondary focus has been on my son’s off and on struggle to get to the other side of an injury from a motorcycle accident that happened when he was 20. He was 50 last month. This was at one time a primary focus, but it has gone on so long I am often numb about it. There have been so many starts that petered out, so many chances for change that never happened. But I hang in. Positive things are happening now. Maybe this will be the time when that continues.

Any time left over from all this has been occupied by writing minutes of meetings. I don’t know why I can’t stop being secretary of the Residents’ Council here. It’s a volunteer job. All I have to do is say I resign. I just haven’t done it. I’m numb about this too.

Oh, yes. Once a week I spend a morning in an art class, along with half a dozen old folks who live where I live and an old teacher who also lives her and who really knows her stuff. Just lately I have been going back to the arts and crafts room by myself to paint. When I tried a hobby art class 40 years ago I had expectations of really doing good work. Now I have no expectation except enjoying myself. And I am.

It helps with the thoughts that leap into my brain if I wake in the middle of the night. All negative. Maybe just realistic, but not welcome in any case. My son-in-law says there will be no negative speaking around here. And I told the Lord I really didn’t want to give room to the thoughts I was fighting off. I told Him if He didn’t take my load it would squash me flat. I remembered that all I really had to do was give it to Him and leave it there. It. The outcome. The solution. The rescue and restoration. I can do nothing about any of that. But He can.

So I sing to Him – out loud in the middle of the night. The noise interrupts my other thoughts and I believe somehow that it sounds beautiful to the One who listens. And loves and works and accomplishes – whatever it will be. Who better?

Miles of Thanksgiving

It rained all day yesterday. And I drove through a lot of it.

I picked Mary up at her work place and drove to Baptist South for her chemo.

On the way there, she called a doctor’s office downtown and asked if they had any samples they could give her of a very expensive medicine she is using. They said they did. We would have to pick them up today, because they wouldn’t be open tomorrow.

Getting out of the car under the overhang at the front entrance of the medical building next to the hospital, she realized she had left her purse at work – too many other things in her hands to notice.

So after they started her treatment and I brought lunch up from the hospital snack shop, I left to pick up purse and medicine.

A co-worker came out in the drizzle to bring the purse and, smiling, wished us a good Fourth.

I left my car in valet parking at the downtown hospital and told them I was just picking up something and would be right back, in hopes they wouldn’t actually take it off to the fifth floor of the parking garage, which would mean a 15 minute wait when I got back.

The medicine was waiting for me at the sign-in window and the car was waiting for me at valet parking, which is under a roof. So far I was dry and speedy.

Back to Baptist South, where the rain dropped again to a drizzle as I found a parking space near the back door.

Upstairs, Mary’s various IV bags had run dry and she was ready to leave.

On our way to the back door, she stopped outside her radiologist’s office and asked if I had time for her to try to move her Monday appointment up so she could get the results of the MRI of her brain and not have to wonder all weekend. (Her cancer had appeared in her brain months ago leading to surgery and radiation and this was her first test after treatment)

They moved up to right then! The doctor was just finishing a conference and had time to see her. The news was good. Nothing new at all!

So out to the car and off to her home. The rain started again as she got out to go in, but she made it to the porch without getting very wet. And I headed hone, but stopped at the library on the way because they had a book in I had requested.

It stopped raining as I parked at the library and started again to drizzle as I came out with my book.

Home at last, I don’t know how many miles, but seven hours later.

Today, my body is tired, but my spirit is content.

Thank You, Lord, for the safe miles driven, the good report on the MRI, the fact that the nurse found a vein on the first stick for Mary’s chemo, that her co-worker was willing and happy to help, that the car park people were kind, the doctor’s office helpful, the library filled my request for the book so promptly and the check-out lady didn’t mind going to find in on the bottom shelf of the Will Call place (I can’t read the bottom shelf and can’t get down there to find my name on the wrapper).

Thank You for this land and all it offers.

Thank You for raining on the just and the unjust. Thank You for loving us all and making it possible for us to love You, too.

What's humorous?

Do you know what you get when you cross a termite and a mantis? A bug that prays before it eats your house.

One of the retired ministers in residence here told that joke before saying grace over our meal yesterday.

As jokes go, it’s not bad. It’s not good either, but it’s not bad.

His contention is that we need humor, that laughter is good for us. And I certainly agree with that.

And I laugh – or groan with faint humor – at most of his jokes. But I’m also just a little uncomfortable.

I never know what he is going to say. Sometimes when he can’t find a G rated joke, he strays over into whatever the rating would be for sexually suggestive language.

I know God laughs. He must or we wouldn’t know how to. I don’t know what He laughs at or about. I wonder if He doesn’t often find us laughable in gentle, loving ways, as a father or mother might with a loved child.

And He surely knows all about sex. He may understand our infatuation with it and our use of sexually suggestive language to produce laughter. But not when it demeans anyone.

Besides, I can’t help feeling the timing is a bit off. To me “saying grace” is praying; it’s offering thanks to the Giver of all we have and that’s serious business.

Prayer does not have to prim and proper. Honest and real are much better than that. But sexually suggestive?

And when grace is being said over a public meal, the “audience” is kind of trapped into listening.

I did ask him to draw a line he wouldn’t cross in telling jokes before saying the blessing. He didn’t answer. Just walked away.

Most people don’t seem to mind.

I think I will suggest we set aside time for a “humor hour,” a time for jokes and laughter. And everyone who wants to tell jokes can come and do so. And if anyone cracks a joke someone else doesn’t like, well, that person can just get up and go home.

I haven’t done that yet in the dining room. I stay and finish eating.

And come here to complain.

Dear Lord, help me not to take offense – even if it is intended, and I don’t think it is. My sense of humor may be rusty. Help me, instead, to say a blessing over him.

Murmur, Murmur, Grumble or Not

While driving over to have breakfast with John, I suddenly realized the name of my malady. It is Discontent!

I’ve had a bad case of this for several weeks now, if not longer. But in the last few days it has really begun to take me over. All I can think about is how this is not right and that is wrong.

But with my attention diverted by paying attention to my driving, a thought arose from my subconscious – or somewhere -- that my problem has a name and it is Discontent.

I don’t think I discovered that. I think it was revealed to me.

Meaning , I was being given the change to deal with it and not just keep on grumbling things like:

“My memory is shot. I spend too much time going back for things I’ve forgotten!”

“I don’t know what to say. If I say anything, it comes out wrong. I just make a mess of it.”

“All these people have problems and want to tell me about them and I’m tired of listening.”

And on and on and on. And these are only the “nice” ones.

So I took a look at what Discontent was hiding:

“God, You really haven’t been doing a good job for me lately.”

Wow. That’s what I’ve really been saying. And that really isn’t what I want to say.

Let’s try again.

“I sure do forget a lot, but I remember more than I forget. And I am physically able to go back for the stuff I’ve forgotten. And when I see it, I know what it is and what it’s for. Not so bad after all.”

“I don’t know what to say. Maybe silence is the right thing here. Maybe if I think a bit before I talk, I won’t say so many foolish things. Thank goodness I already know I can be wrong!”

“When people tell me their problems, I don’t have to have the answer. As a friend reminded me one day, the name of the Savior is Jesus, not Barbara. Listening can be all that is required. Really listening, not waiting for the other person to stop so I can start.”

When I think about it, I do trust God to be doing very well by me. Of course, God’s definition of good may not match mine sometimes. I can’t see far enough ahead to realize it. But, well, He’s God and I’m not. And He has proved faithful in the past.

And I really like my second set of thoughts better. I like me better in them.

I suspect I will fall back into discontent again, because it’s an old enemy. But for the moment, I see it for what it is and I choose to turn it around and show it the door.

It’s not just playing Pollyanna. It’s letting the Lord have His way instead of insisting on my own.

While driving over to have breakfast with John, I suddenly realized the name of my malady. It is Discontent!

I’ve had a bad case of this for several weeks now, if not longer. But in the last few days it has really begun to take me over. All I can think about is how this is not right and that is wrong.

But with my attention diverted by paying attention to my driving, a thought arose from my subconscious – or somewhere -- that my problem has a name and it is Discontent.

I don’t think I discovered that. I think it was revealed to me.

Meaning , I was being given the change to deal with it and not just keep on grumbling things like:

“My memory is shot. I spend too much time going back for things I’ve forgotten!”

“I don’t know what to say. If I say anything, it comes out wrong. I just make a mess of it.”

“All these people have problems and want to tell me about them and I’m tired of listening.”

And on and on and on. And these are only the “nice” ones.

So I took a look at what Discontent was hiding:

“God, You really haven’t been doing a good job for me lately.”

Wow. That’s what I’ve really been saying. And that really isn’t what I want to say.

Let’s try again.

“I sure do forget a lot, but I remember more than I forget. And I am physically able to go back for the stuff I’ve forgotten. And when I see it, I know what it is and what it’s for. Not so bad after all.”

“I don’t know what to say. Maybe silence is the right thing here. Maybe if I think a bit before I talk, I won’t say so many foolish things. Thank goodness I already know I can be wrong!”

“When people tell me their problems, I don’t have to have the answer. As a friend reminded me one day, the name of the Savior is Jesus, not Barbara. Listening can be all that is required. Really listening, not waiting for the other person to stop so I can start.”

When I think about it, I do trust God to be doing very well by me. Of course, God’s definition of good may not match mine sometimes. I can’t see far enough ahead to realize it. But, well, He’s God and I’m not. And He has proved faithful in the past.

And I really like my second set of thoughts better. I like me better in them.

I suspect I will fall back into discontent again, because it’s an old enemy. But for the moment, I see it for what it is and I choose to turn it around and show it the door.

It’s not just playing Pollyanna. It’s letting the Lord have His way instead of insisting on my own.

Babe Ruth sparks memories

I bought a Babe Ruth candy bar yesterday. I can’t remember the last time I did that.

But I can remember when I used to do it regularly. It was when I was in high school.

My friend and I would go to the drug store after seeing a movie and we would each buy a candy bar. Mine would always be a Babe Ruth. I can’t remember right now what hers was. I’ll have to ask her next time we talk, which we d not regularly but pretty often.

I bought it yesterday because Mary bought a Payday and I couldn’t find anything in dark chocolate except a Mounds and I don’t like coconut and chocolate a whole lot.

We bought candy and a small bag of chips to share while she received her chemo treatment. They were running late because all the Monday –a holiday, remember – people had to be inserted into the schedules on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday.

Anyway, her 11 a.m. appointment to see the doctor was delayed until 12 and he suggested we go get lunch before coming back to the procedure room. We did and bought stuff on our way back in.

It was 2:15 before they had her all hooked up, and I ate my candy bar.

I told her I couldn’t remember what was in it or whether I would still like it after all these years. She assured me I would.

And I did. In fact, I ate the whole thing.

Then I sat with an open book in my lap and watched her work her cross word and word search puzzle book.

And thought about how much and how little I know about her, my daughter.

And about the fact that I know next to nothing about any of the other patients in their recliners except that they have sne kind of medical problem and are receiving some kind of chemotherapy.

I was reminded of trips by train from Jacksonville to Atlanta when I was a girl and shared a lower birth with my mother. I would wake early and let the window curtain up just enough to watch the countryside go by. And I would wonder about who lived in the houses where lights we on and whether they wondered about who was on the train speeding by.

Not deep thoughts. Not new thoughts. But I thought again about the staggering wonder that God can know all this about us and about everyone everywhere.

I understand it’s called omnipresence – being everywhere at one time. Or omniscience – knowing everything. Or both, I guess.

But the long words don’t matter really. They are just short hand for something much bigger than they are.

Jesus knew all about the woman at the well. He knew all about the hearts and thought of all the people He met while on earth. And He still does. He knows all about me and all about you.

And He loves us anyway. In spite of ourselves. And anywhere. Everywhere.

Including my friends David and Deborah who are right now in South Sudan living with a native family of a tribe that had seen no white people until about two months ago. Them, too.

And all the rest. All at one time. All at every time.

Beyond my comprehension. But not beyond my desire -- sitting there, full of too much sugar -- to give Him thanks and praise.

So I sang a little love song to Him, quietly in my head.

NOTE: I started this Thursday and finished it today. In between, the computer decided not to work. I don’t know why. Along with a lot of other things I don’t know.

Peanut butter pie and pool

Mary, Dan and Brittany came here for Memorial Day lunch in the dining room. We were having hamburgers, hotdogs, barbecued chicken and most of the traditional fixings.

Mary told Dan I was “tickled pink” that they were coming. It’s true. I’ve asked them before, but they had never come.

Mary wore her little camouflage head scarf. Not wanting to flaunt her nearly bald head before all the old folks, I guess. She doesn’t mind going to restaurants with me without head covering.

I think she was protecting me from questions later.

Dan thought the hotdogs were great and ate three. He likes his with everything on them. Mary just added coleslaw. Brittany chose chicken, having had hotdogs and hamburgers at a slumber party the night before (and no sleep, of course.)

We all thought the chocolate peanut butter pie was too sweet, but found that if you just ate the whipped cream and chocolate parts and left the peanut butter, it was really good. I have no idea why the peanut butter was so sweet.

After lunch, Dan and Brittany played pool – with Dan instructing as they went. Mary and I walked slowly from the dining room to the game room. Mary commented on how she used to have to wait for me and now I have to slow down for her. But it was ok. She made it.

Nothing profound. Just life shared for a few hours.

But precious to me.

I have realized that I must record these moments if I don’t want to lose them. My forgettery is working overtime these days so I will help my memory along.

Mary, Dan and Brittany came here for Memorial Day lunch in the dining room. We were having hamburgers, hotdogs, barbecued chicken and most of the traditional fixings.

Mary told Dan I was “tickled pink” that they were coming. It’s true. I’ve asked them before, but they had never come.

Mary wore her little camouflage head scarf. Not wanting to flaunt her nearly bald head before all the old folks, I guess. She doesn’t mind going to restaurants with me without head covering.

I think she was protecting me from questions later.

Dan thought the hotdogs were great and ate three. He likes his with everything on them. Mary just added coleslaw. Brittany chose chicken, having had hotdogs and hamburgers at a slumber party the night before (and no sleep, of course.)

We all thought the chocolate peanut butter pie was too sweet, but found that if you just ate the whipped cream and chocolate parts and left the peanut butter, it was really good. I have no idea why the peanut butter was so sweet.

After lunch, Dan and Brittany played pool – with Dan instructing as they went. Mary and I walked slowly from the dining room to the game room. Mary commented on how she used to have to wait for me and now I have to slow down for her. But it was ok. She made it.

Nothing profound. Just life shared for a few hours.

But precious to me.

I have realized that I must record these moments if I don’t want to lose them. My forgettery is working overtime these days so I will help my memory along.

Mary, Dan and Brittany came here for Memorial Day lunch in the dining room. We were having hamburgers, hotdogs, barbecued chicken and most of the traditional fixings.

Mary told Dan I was “tickled pink” that they were coming. It’s true. I’ve asked them before, but they had never come.

Mary wore her little camouflage head scarf. Not wanting to flaunt her nearly bald head before all the old folks, I guess. She doesn’t mind going to restaurants with me without head covering.

I think she was protecting me from questions later.

Dan thought the hotdogs were great and ate three. He likes his with everything on them. Mary just added coleslaw. Brittany chose chicken, having had hotdogs and hamburgers at a slumber party the night before (and no sleep, of course.)

We all thought the chocolate peanut butter pie was too sweet, but found that if you just ate the whipped cream and chocolate parts and left the peanut butter, it was really good. I have no idea why the peanut butter was so sweet.

After lunch, Dan and Brittany played pool – with Dan instructing as they went. Mary and I walked slowly from the dining room to the game room. Mary commented on how she used to have to wait for me and now I have to slow down for her. But it was ok. She made it.

Nothing profound. Just life shared for a few hours.

But precious to me.

I have realized that I must record these moments if I don’t want to lose them. My forgettery is working overtime these days so I will help my memory along.

How Glorious

Sometimes it’s a good thing that somebody else is in charge. Even if it’s only the Bible reading guide I use.

I read Zechariah recently and I’ll have to confess that I can’t remember the last time I read this book of the Old Testament. I know I have read it in the past because I have read through the Bible several times. But not lately – which could mean the last 10 to 15 years – and had no inclination to do so on my own.

In any case, I read it. And I found something there that delighted me.

This minor prophet was writing/speaking to the people who had come back to Jerusalem from exile in Babylon with the intention of rebuilding the temple. But things got in the way.

So they became discouraged and distracted from their first intention.

So God told Zechariah to remind them.

And they listened and set to work.

It turned out they had started on the foundation when they first came back from captivity. But it didn’t match the grandeur of the former temple. Nothing they could build was going to be able to match the temple Solomon built. That may have contributed to their wandering away from the job.

It would have discouraged me. For most of my life I have operated on the premise that it was better not to try if I didn’t think I could do something really well, well enough to garner some praise and maybe even a little glory.

Of course, some things you have to do anyway. Most things. And I did the things before me to do, but I was seldom really proud of my work. I wanted it to be better. Better, obviously, than I could do.

Zechariah had some good news for those temple builders. And for me.

He said it didn’t matter if their temple wasn’t going to be the ultimate in temples. It only mattered if they were obedient and did the best they could.

Because that would please God. And then He would come and be there. And His glory would be seen in and through it!

Of course. The glory always comes from God. And when He asks me to do something, what He is looking for is obedience, not perfection.

Not a new thing, just new to me at a time when I must have needed it.

Maybe I have believed a lie. Like Eve. Maybe I will believe other lies in days to come. But I won’t have to continue forever believing them. He has ways of providing opportunities to discover Truth.

And for now, I know this one thing better than I did before.

my meme list

Eight facts or habits about me. I’ll try.

1. I loved to whistle when I was about 11 or 12 or so, probably because my Daddy whistled. I’d be whistling away at a song and come to a part that was too high for me and I would hear him whistling the part I couldn’t reach. Then I got braces on my teeth and couldn’t whistle any more.

2. When I was a sophomore in high school my best friend was a senior. She lived in a three story house a few blocks from the Matanzas inlet. When I spent the night with her we would climb out of her bedroom window onto the roof and lie there looking up at starts and out at the water. I have always loved both the night sky and bodies of water.

3. In elementary school, I can’t remember what grade, I was Cinderella in a play by the same name. Although I had no trouble shedding a shoe during rehearsals, during the actual performance, it wouldn’t come off and I had to reach down and take it off while running off stage. It was my first and last starring role. I still enjoy being the center of attention, but only when I can “pull it off.”

4. The old fort in St. Augustine was one of my playgrounds – this was during the early days of WWII. There was a cedar tree right nest to one of the coquina walls surrounding the fort and it had a limb that stuck out making a perfect seat. It became my secret reading place. Now I can read almost anywhere and always carry a book in case I’m stuck waiting somewhere. People watching is almost as interesting, but you need a lot of people around so you won’t be conspicuous watching.

5. I took fencing in physical ed my first year at Duke. Freshman got the left overs. I lived on the third floor of the dorm and found I had muscles I never knew I had – or wanted to have. After that I signed up for archery and folk dancing. I walked two miles a day for exercise before I injured my foot. I miss it.

6. After teaching school for nine years, trying out a lot of different grades, I realized I would never make retirement in that field. I was fortunate to get a job with the local afternoon newspaper, filling the slot of the pregnant editor of a weekly teen section. I worked for that paper until it ceased publication 11 years or so later. Then I worked another 13 or 14 years for the morning paper owned by the same company. I never had a journalism classes in college – I don’t think Duke offered them way back then -- but I had a Phi Beta Kappa key, so I wore that to work . No one was impressed, so I put it back in the box. But I made it to retirement!

7. I lived most of my life waiting for tomorrow, when I was sure things would be better somehow than they were today. Then I finally realized that today is all there really is and I began to look at it instead of through it as if it weren’t there. Today’s troubles may be more real this way, but so are today’s joys.

8. I came to know God when I was 14 in the library of the boarding school I was attending. I was baptized and confirmed shortly after. But it was mostly just in my mind. I came to know Jesus as my Living Lord and Savior when I was in my late 40s. That must have been about the time item no. 7 came to pass. The rest is the story of the journey with Him and turns up here and there in my blog.

I can’t tag people. Sorry.

Eight facts or habits about me. I’ll try.

1. I loved to whistle when I was about 11 or 12 or so, probably because my Daddy whistled. I’d be whistling away at a song and come to a part that was too high for me and I would hear him whistling the part I couldn’t reach. Then I got braces on my teeth and couldn’t whistle any more.

2. When I was a sophomore in high school my best friend was a senior. She lived in a three story house a few blocks from the Matanzas inlet. When I spent the night with her we would climb out of her bedroom window onto the roof and lie there looking up at starts and out at the water. I have always loved both the night sky and bodies of water.

3. In elementary school, I can’t remember what grade, I was Cinderella in a play by the same name. Although I had no trouble shedding a shoe during rehearsals, during the actual performance, it wouldn’t come off and I had to reach down and take it off while running off stage. It was my first and last starring role. I still enjoy being the center of attention, but only when I can “pull it off.”

4. The old fort in St. Augustine was one of my playgrounds – this was during the early days of WWII. There was a cedar tree right nest to one of the coquina walls surrounding the fort and it had a limb that stuck out making a perfect seat. It became my secret reading place. Now I can read almost anywhere and always carry a book in case I’m stuck waiting somewhere. People watching is almost as interesting, but you need a lot of people around so you won’t be conspicuous watching.

5. I took fencing in physical ed my first year at Duke. Freshman got the left overs. I lived on the third floor of the dorm and found I had muscles I never knew I had – or wanted to have. After that I signed up for archery and folk dancing. I walked two miles a day for exercise before I injured my foot. I miss it.

6. After teaching school for nine years, trying out a lot of different grades, I realized I would never make retirement in that field. I was fortunate to get a job with the local afternoon newspaper, filling the slot of the pregnant editor of a weekly teen section. I worked for that paper until it ceased publication 11 years or so later. Then I worked another 13 or 14 years for the morning paper owned by the same company. I never had a journalism classes in college – I don’t think Duke offered them way back then -- but I had a Phi Beta Kappa key, so I wore that to work . No one was impressed, so I put it back in the box. But I made it to retirement!

7. I lived most of my life waiting for tomorrow, when I was sure things would be better somehow than they were today. Then I finally realized that today is all there really is and I began to look at it instead of through it as if it weren’t there. Today’s troubles may be more real this way, but so are today’s joys.

8. I came to know God when I was 14 in the library of the boarding school I was attending. I was baptized and confirmed shortly after. But it was mostly just in my mind. I came to know Jesus as my Living Lord and Savior when I was in my late 40s. That must have been about the time item no. 7 came to pass. The rest is the story of the journey with Him and turns up here and there in my blog.

I can’t tag people. Sorry.

Eternal Now

RANDOM THOUGHTS

I find I can pray for the world and all the people on it and all the things that are happening everywhere, but I cannot do much with specificity.

And I cannot watch the news on television. It overwhelms me and words refuse to be said. They just won’t come out. Why do they show the same pictures over and over? Why, if no one has been shot in my city, do they run film clips of a shooting in a city far away? Do they WANT to make us grow as numb as they are to pain and suffering, able to speak of a kidnapped child one minute and then laugh about the weather report the next?

I can think of tomorrow and next week and next month and list the things I have to do on my calendar. But I can’t think ABOUT them much, just that they are there to be done when I get to them.

Someone said that today is a knife edge gliding from the past into the future. It’s the knife edge we live on. It’s what NOW is.

God’s name is I Am. Now. Always and eternal Now.

As He was in the beginning, He is now and He ever will be.

As I was, I no longer am, now will I be. And that’s okay. He knows. I trust. Most of the time. It feels better when I do. It feels like rest.

Dinner with Friends

I ate my evening meal in the dining room of our Health Center – read nursing home unit – last night. I do this fairly often. I sit with two friends whose spouses live there.

I used to live next door to Julia in one of the independent living halls. Then I downsized apartments and ended up in another independent living hall where Dick lives. Got that straight?

Anyway, the five of us sit around one table and Julia and Dick eat their dinners and feed their spouses. I feed myself.

One of the CNAs offered me a clothing protector – read large bib – one evening when I dropped spaghetti sauce on my white shirt front. I do that every now and then, not regularly, so I declined the offer.

One day, maybe.

But we won’t go there right now. Or ever, I hope,

You can’t live in a continuing care facility – the kind that offers independent living, assisted living and a skilled care unit, read nursing home – without wondering sometimes what the future holds.

But mostly I don’t think about it. As Doris Day sang, “Que sera, sera,” or “Whatever will be, will be.”

I’m just glad I have more than that to hang on to. The Psalmist says: I trust in you, O Lord; I say, “You are my God.” My times are in Your hands ...

Scripture also says I will never be alone. Wherever I am, He is with me.

I find those thought very comforting.

In the meantime – which is also in His hands – I do what I can to make life more pleasant for others. At least that’s what I think I am doing. Maybe I should rethink the possibility that my company helps.

Nah. It helps. Having a friend there helps.

A Small Thought or Two

I don’t think I will ever get this right. I read John Cowart’s blog and know I will never be able to do that.

So I wrote for a living for almost 25 years. That doesn’t mean I’m a writer. It just means I knew how to keep the editors from finding out!

I thought of myself more as a messenger than a writer. If someone gave me something to say, I could do that. I could even do that fairly well. I could communicate their thoughts so others could understand them.

For example, and I am very proud of this, I interviewed a social science type person one time about a program he headed that was supposed to do good to a certain group of people. He spoke jargon – that is he used the vocabulary he and others of his trade used to speak to each other. And it was totally incomprehensible to me.

So I asked him to give me an example. And a little way into the example, I asked him to put what he was saying into simpler words. And so on and so on for about two hours.

In the end I wrote an article and it was published. The next day, he called me. I waited for him to tell me what I had gotten wrong. Instead he thanked me for clarifying his message so the non-professional could understand it. I was amazed and grateful.

Occasionally I have a thought or two of my own. Often these are about an inch long, or maybe two and a half inches long. But they don’t go far or say much.

While I was writing a weekly column, I relied HEAVILY on the Lord to give me something to write about. AND HE DID! That was how I knew I was to write a column.

The day came when He no longer did. I struggled on for a while, meeting deadlines. And then, fortunately, retired.

Since then my writing has been short and, well, I don’t know. Unsatisfactory to me.

I have reused a few of the earlier columns. I have 15 years worth to draw upon. But it doesn’t seem right somehow. They had their 15 minutes of exposure.

Today, I have a little thought to share, so I will. On Wednesday, after her second session of in this round of chemo, Mary, my daughter, was able to make the bed and prepare the coffee pot. She was able to say a few words together without gasping for breath or coughing. These are things she had not been able to do for several weeks.

This is actually her third round of chemo, the first one was back in the fall of 2005. Three rounds of radiation and one brain surgery have come in between.

But I’m happy today with today’s progress. And I don’t mind her bristly hair. I think she’s beautiful almost bald.

Hail, Fellows, Well Met

THOUGHTS ON FELLOWSHIP


I was supposed to say a few words on fellowship recently at the last gathering of a group at my church. Instead I was at home recovering from a colonoscopy – or rather the preparation-from-hell for the event itself.

I had jotted down a few notes ahead of time, so I expanded briefly on these and sent along a copy to the meeting. It said:

One of the things I have really loved about this mentoring program has been becoming part of a fellowship.

I’m a fan of the Lord of the Rings trilogy by Tolkein. I read the books long before the movies came out. The first book is called The Fellowship of the Ring. It’s about a band of people – including a dwarf, an elf, a wizard, several hobbits and a few men – who came together to try to destroy a ring that could ruin their world.

They did not know each other when they started on the task. Some of them didn’t even like each other much. But as they journeyed together, through rough, even dangerous times and ways, they grew to love each other.

We are a fellowship, too, a fellowship of those seeking to know the Lord better and to follow Him more closely. We have come together to share with each other some of the exciting and even maybe dangerous ways our journey with the Lord.

I have loved it. Nothing thrills me more than this kind of sharing. It speaks of Truth and what it means to live within it.

The one-to-one sharing has been especially wonderful, but the fellowship of the larger group has also been very meaningful to me. As I walk through the halls now I know more of you than I did before – and I know you as companions on the same journey.

Thank you all for being this fellowship of the Lord and letting me be part of it.

Why Do You Love Me, Lord?

“Why Me, O Lord! Why did this happen to me?

I could ask myself these questions every day. But if I’m really thinking about it, I wouldn’t actually be asking about the bad things that happen to me and those I love.

I would be asking why the Lord brought me through safely to morning; why I escaped the dangers of the night that befell so many others.

I could also ask why He blessed me so – but most often I don’t.

I don’t always even think about it. I blithely accept the gift of life from God’s hand with barely a hint of thanks. A rainbow may make me appreciate His creation for a moment; the scent of a rose may remind me of His blessings.

But most of the time “Why me?” means, “Why did this terrible thing happen to me?”

If I compared what I do and what I am with the perfect goodness of God, I would not be surprised at the tragedies and troubles that come my way. If strict justice were meted out by God, I’d be in a heap of trouble all the time!

And I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be a witness to the action of the Spirit of the Lord in my life. I’m trying to love the Lord with all my heart and all my strength and all my mind. And I’m trying to love my neighbor as myself.

But I’m doing a rotten job of it.

I don’t steal or kill or commit adultery. But while the law bans murder, Jesus commands us to love one another – as He loved us. And this love is an action verb.

It isn’t trying. It’s doing.

It isn’t emotions. It’s actions.

I don’t know anyone who does this all the time.

Fortunately, we are not judged strictly by either the Law of Jesus’ commands. He provided for that by His death and resurrection. And we don’t have to do it by ourselves. He also provided us with a Comforter to strengthen us and guide us.

So I try to do His commands not for fear of the just retribution for my law-breaking, but because I bloom in the wellspring of His love and I desire to please Him.

Why me, Lord? Why do You love me so?

I can’t imagine. But I thank You that You do.

And when those tragedies and troubles come?

Then the question becomes, “What do You want me to do now, Lord? Will You help me use it for Your glory?”