I’ve been thinking a lot about discipleship.  Yea, okay.  Not a lot.  A little.  I think about a LOT of things a little bit.  Anyway, the idea of discipleship intrigues me.  A lot.

Jesus’ disciples were an interesting bunch. If you were to endeavor to pick twelve people to represent you and share your amazing ideas with as many others as possible (without the use of cars, planes, email, or anything starting with a capital I), you would probably look for those with characteristics such as loyalty, confidence, intelligence, responsibility, determination, charisma, and hey, let’s face it, good looks.  Remember folks, the Bible says God looks at the heart.  The rest of us are prone to focus on outward appearances, and if you’re trying to draw a crowd, you best get a hottie showing some skin – unfortunately, that’s the world we live in.  If you doubt me, please find and watch some coverage of the Golden Boobs, I mean Golden Globes, from last week. Apparently, a little beauty and a large dose of cleavage will make people hang on your every word, regardless of what you might be saying.

My point is, Jesus picked a strange group to call his disciples – to be with him and go out to preach (Mark 3:14).  These guys were not the best and the brightest.  In Mark 7, Jesus has to explain himself to them because they can’t quite grasp what he’s trying to say.  In Mark 9, once again, the disciples don’t understand Jesus, and this time, they don’t even have the guts to ask him what he means.  In Mark 10, James and John ask if they can be seated next to Jesus in his glory.  Wow.  Ya gotta love such a gross overestimation of place.  Then, in Mark 14, it all goes to pot.  The disciples can’t obey Jesus’ basic request to stay awake.  Judas completely betrays him.  And Peter denies knowing him, not once, but three times. 

Like I said, these fellas were not your top of the line groupies.

Still, I have a hard time thinking of myself as a disciple of Jesus Christ, because despite their inadequacies, the twelve disciples played major roles in the most incredible story of all time.  They were main characters in God’s amazing plan, while I’m just an extra among billions.    

The definition of ‘disciple’ is one who embraces and assists in spreading the doctrines of another.  I do the embracing part pretty well.  The spreading doctrines part, however . . . I could use a little work on that.

If I want to be a disciple of Jesus, I have to share him with the people that show up in my life, and that can’t just mean the people I know and love.  The reality is, the majority of the people in my life have already met Jesus, and most of them know him well.  I’m called to share Christ with those who don’t know him, and that’s where I often get tripped up.

I think it’s because I don’t feel qualified to be a disciple.  I don’t know enough.  I’m not bold enough.  I can’t answer all the questions or quote all the scriptures.  I can’t possibly be considered a disciple. 

But then, I think about the twelve people Jesus chose as his disciples.  The ones who didn’t fully understand everything he said.  The ones who feared him.  The ones who felt they were on the same level with him.  The ones who didn’t obey him.  They ones who denied him, betrayed him, deserted him.

And I realize, the disciples and I have a lot in common.

Maybe I didn’t walk alongside Christ as he healed the sick or raised the dead or fed the masses.  But I’ve misunderstood him.  I’ve been scared of him.  I’ve wanted his control and disobeyed what he was telling me and refused to acknowledge him as my friend.  The truth is . . . I would have fit right in with that unlikely crew of people Jesus chose as his disciples.  Because Jesus didn’t come for the healthy, but for the sick . . . he didn’t come for the righteous, but for the sinners (Mark 2:17).  Jesus came to save, and in a statement perfectly fitting of who he is, he chose a messed-up bunch of people to help him spread his messages of love and grace. 

Huh.

Being messed-up is kind of a specialty of mine. 

I guess I really can be a disciple.  I can embrace the teachings of Jesus, and assist in passing them along to others.  And I can find encouragement not only in the Chosen One, but in those He chose.  Because although they were flawed . . . although they found failure time after time . . . they succeeded in fulfilling their purposes in the greatest story ever told.

I long to play a part in that story, even if it's only a tiny part, a part that doesn't get recognized by anyone but the One who wrote it.

"A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.  By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."  

John 13:34-35

Faith is taking

the first step,

even when

you don't see

the whole staircase.

 

Martin Luther King Jr.

 

Happy Monday friends! 

I hope you have a WONDERFUL week!



So that whole verse in first Peter about the devil prowling around like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour . . .

Yea. That totally freaks me out.

Honestly, I’ve known people who spoke about the devil trying to cause problems in their lives, and not so long ago, I kinda thought they were . . . you know . . . nuts.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe the devil exists, because I do.  Hard to deny Satan when the Bible mentions him dozens of times.  I just wasn’t sure how I felt about the idea of him hanging out in my house every day.  I prefer to imagine him up in the heavenly realms somewhere – trying to tiptoe past Jesus on those scrawny red devil legs of his and failing every time.

I don’t want to acknowledge the devil and the ways he attempts to work in my life, but lately, God’s been pointing them out to me.  And you know what?  It’s still totally freaking me out.  At the same time, God has opened my eyes in some seriously meaningful ways.

Suddenly, I have a name for those whispers of doubt that creep into my mind on a regular basis.  The ones that tell me I’m not pretty.  The ones that tell me I make too many mistakes. The ones that tell me I’m an awful wife and a terrible mother and an all-around horrible person.  You’ve heard those whispers, haven’t you?  They say your house is ugly and your husband is all wrong and your children will grow up to be convicts and God doesn’t really care about little old you anyway, so why on earth are you even entertaining the ridiculous notion of grace. 

Screw off, Satan.

I hear your messages of nonsense, but I have my fingers in my ears and I AM NOT LISTENING!

Now you think I’m nuts, don’t you?:)

I’m not the person who stands in her kitchen, has a fleeting thought of discontent because the black, filled-to-the-brim refrigerator doesn’t match the stainless steel dishwasher, (never mind the fact that tens of thousands of children will die of starvation TODAY), and instructs the devil to flee in a loud, commanding voice.  Not yet, anyway.  But I have begun to take notice of that lion prowling around me. No, he’s not the one making me covet things I don’t need and which can never bring contentment – I do that all on my own.  He is, however, the one that takes my sin and uses it against me.  Oh, he’s a nasty little bugger – sneaky and scheming and full of lies. And when the devil tells me I’m unlovable because I occasionally wish for matching appliances, I can now recognize the trick, and instead of believing him, I remind myself that God makes a habit out of loving the unlovable . . . that God loves me despite my selfish, sinful ways . . . that God loves me so much he sent his son to die in my place, covering me with grace that is never ridiculous, yet always miraculous.

A wise woman in my weekly Bible study once said, “Satan is the accuser.  God is the advocate.”

Who will I choose to believe?  My accuser or my advocate?  Will I entertain those whispers of doubt, or will I resist the devil, so he will flee from me (James 4:7)?

I choose to believe the truth.  And God is The Voice of Truth.  He is my advocate.  He is right here with me, always, relentlessly defeating Satan in a battle he’s already won.

Psalm 119:160  The sum of your word is truth, and every one of your righteous rules endures forever.

She drove me absolutely crazy. She made me laugh equally as much. She stirred up my life in a way I didn't know could happen, and I think, in the end, I'll be a better person for it. She was adorable, and oh so messy. She whined a lot, begged for treats a lot, barked a lot. And on October 24th, at only one year and eleven days old, I stroked her head as she went to sleep for the very last time.

I miss that Macie.

No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.

It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.

About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.

And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.

By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.

I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did.  I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game.  I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings.  I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families.  But I'll be forever glad I did. 

They brought Macie in to me.  Wrapped her in a towel.   Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.

At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.

She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do.  End the suffering.

The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.

With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends.  I should have given her more belly rubs.  I should have played tug with her more often.  I should have let her sit next to me on the couch. 

With her death also came important life lessons.  Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier.  Life is short.  Love big while you can.  Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it.  Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes. 

I miss that Macie. 

I suspect I always will. 

   

1 Thessalonians 5:17  Pray without ceasing.

It's one of the shortest verses in the entire Bible.   And despite my inability to fully comprehend many of the things in the Bible, this one's about as straight forward as it gets.  Still, all I can say about it is . . . you can NOT be serious.

Pray without ceasing.  Are you kidding me?  Do you know how many things I cease to do each day?  The list is long, my friends, I assure you.  And I’m not all that great at praying.  I do it frequently, as in many times a day, but no one would ever classify me as a prayer warrior.  Those people can pray.  They can recite Bible verses like I can recite old Madonna songs.  They can sit with their heads bowed interceding on behalf of others for hours.  They know exactly which name of God to call on for every situation.  Their words are flowing and beautiful and Spirit-filled. 

My prayers, while numerous, are a lot less meaningful.  My prayers go something like this:

“Lord, please let Charlie score a basket in the second half.”

“Lord, please help Libby do her own hair in a way that convinces people she really does have an adult living in the home with her .”

“Lord, please turn me into a C cup.” 

Just kidding with that last one.  I gave up on the God of chest size a long time ago.

I’m a bit more intentional when I pray at night, lying in bed next to my husband who has fallen asleep exactly 3.2 seconds after putting his head on the pillow.  I pray for the safety and health of my family and friends.  I pray for people I know who are sick and hurting.  I pray for my husband’s career.  I pray Charlie and Libby will be good friends and make good friends.  I pray for their future college roommates and their future spouses and their future children and grandchildren. 

These are all good prayers, I guess, and they're important to me, so I know without a doubt they are important to God.  But what if I’m not taking this whole prayer thing seriously?  What if my inability to call myself a prayer warrior is really evidence that I doubt God’s ability to truly move in people’s hearts?  To change me?  To transform the world?  Our God is a God of miracles, after all.  Yet, I’m not asking for miracles.  I’m so focused on my own little life and the lives of the people in my immediate circle that I never stop to ask for the REALLY big things. 

In Ephesians 3:20, it says, "To Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think . . ."

How incredibly beautiful is that verse.  

Why do I so often forget the power of God and his infinite capability?  God can do ANYTHING.  He can do the most amazing things . . . things I never even dreamed of asking Him to do.

Wow. 

The new year has begun, and like most people, I have a lengthy list of resolutions for 2013.  I want to relax more.  I want to read more.  I want to smile more and serve more and save more and I want to provide my husband with more meals that don't involve a blender (I'm afraid smoothies have become a frequent dinner choice around these parts lately).  I also want to pray with more purpose.  I want to remember what God can do, and pray with a more far-reaching mentality.  Because there are a whole lot of people in this great big world who need God's awesomeness and power.  There are a whole lot of communities and countries and continents that need me to remember just how much God can do. 

In Matthew 19:26, Jesus said, " . . . with God all things are possible."

This year, I want to remember the possibilities. 

This year, I want my prayers to go from "Lord, please let me make this green light" to "Lord, I could really go for some world peace."   

It’s worth a try . . . don’t ya think?

James 1:6   But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.

No, dear brothers and sisters, I am still not all I should be, but I am focusing all my energies on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven.

Philippians 3:13-14 (NLT)

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!