Well, I certainly didn’t think taking my seven year old to her very first concert was going to ignite such emotion, but hey, after the week we’ve had in America, I think it was inevitable.  And the concert was Taylor Swift.  If anyone knows writing about emotions, it’s that girl.  

Chick’s making millions off her emotions.  Oh yes, I’m sure it also has a little something to do with her talent, ambition, and well, the fact that she’s 5 feet 11 inches tall and strikingly beautiful.  Those legs of hers can’t hurt either – I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those things.  It doesn’t matter how much money you have and who your plastic surgeon is, there’s nobody on earth you can pay to get legs like that.  I’ve mentioned this before, but its people like Taylor Swift who inspire the question I’m certain will be my first to God when I make it to heaven. 

“Lord, don’t you think you could have divvied things up a bit more evenly when you were handing out gifts?  Does it really seem fair for one person to have the ability to sing, play multiple instruments, AND look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine?  Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘equal opportunity’?”

Despite the fact that she’s easy to envy and idolize, both of which we are specifically instructed NOT to do by the same God dolling out gifts rather haphazardly, I am now quite a fan of Miss Swift.  I didn’t know many of her songs, I had no idea what a production a girl in her early 20’s could put on, and I honestly believe I have permanent hearing damage after the concert, but I’m smitten nonetheless.  The child is precious.  She seems genuinely thankful for her life and offers some quality messages to her admirers.  She knows who her audience is and remains true to them for an entire sixty-minute show.  Her outfits were appropriate, as were her lyrics, language, and dancing.  The two drinks I had before the show to keep me from panicking about what I was about to expose my daughter to . . . they weren’t even necessary.  And hey, although that seven year old I kept up long past bedtime was still asleep at 8:00 the morning after the concert, by that time I had already downloaded the entire Red album, which I will happily listen to now that I know how many catchy songs are on it.

Still, there is a downside to attending a Taylor Swift concert, and it has nothing to do with the hearing aids guaranteed to be in your future.  The downside is that while you bop your head and clap your hands to music that can’t help but make you smile, you look around and realize it’s all moving way too fast.  Because in every direction, all you see are little girls – young, sweet, adorable little girls – who have the whole world at their fingertips and don’t even know it.  My heart catches in my throat as I picture them now, dancing and screaming and singing with all the naiveté childhood offers.  The endless possibilities, the decades of opportunity, the unidentified dreams destined for discovery.  Those girls dancing and screaming and singing? They have an entire lifetime ahead of them, while I . . . I have already lived much of mine. 

The problem with a week in which bombs explode and workplaces crumble and you find yourself surrounded by the youth you can never again attain is that it forces you to confront your own mortality.  And when I face my own mortality, it isn’t simply the thoughts of a shortened future I find upsetting.  It’s the thoughts of the past, and how much of it I’ve wasted. 

How much time have I squandered in anger?  How many nights have I spent crying over circumstances beyond my control?  How many people have I judged without knowing their story?  How many minutes and hours and days have I spent worrying about my finances or my appearance or my reputation? 

I’ve had so much time to do the good things, the right things, and yet, I’ve wasted countless moments doing everything wrong.  I could have been dancing and screaming and singing and praying and laughing and snuggling and smiling and helping and serving and hugging and kissing and giggling and teaching and worshiping and learning and living and . . .

I can hardly catch my breath as I think about what I’ve done instead. 

So much wasted time. Why didn’t I make better choices?  Why didn’t I do the good things, the right things?  Looking back puts a vice grip on my heart, squeezing regret from every cell as I view my life as a montage of misused opportunities. 

There is really only one way to live the gift of each day, and that is to live it in love.  Yet, many times . . . most times if I’m truly honest with myself . . . I make other choices.  I choose to fold laundry instead of reading a book with my daughter.  I choose to unload the dishwasher instead of playing catch with my son.  I choose to watch a mindless television show about a dream kitchen I’ll never have instead of talking to my husband.  I choose to serve myself instead of serving others.  I choose all the insignificant things instead of making the most of every moment. 

Of course, I realize the laundry has to be folded.  I know the dishwasher must be filled and emptied on a regular basis.  The toilets have to be cleaned and the email must be checked and the groceries need to be purchased.  But how much of my time is spent on these mundane activities?  Am I filling up my life with duties that can’t possibly have a lasting impact on anyone or anything?  Am I going about the minutes of each day in an effort to check off items on my to-do list, while hopes and dreams and opportunities to love slip by unnoticed?

Time is not limitless.  Charlie is halfway to gone and Libby’s feet are almost the same size as mine.  I’ll be forty in less than three years, which means if I’m lucky, I’ve probably reached the middle of my life.  Time is fleeting.  It’s speeding and racing and . . . winning.  

I’m running out of time. 

I’m running out of time to do the right things.  To make good choices.  To spend each day hoping and dreaming and, most importantly, loving.

This week reminded me of that.  Sporting events turned deadly reminded me of that.  Fellow citizens losing their lives on the job reminded me of that.  Taylor Swift, and her audience of girls, most anticipating 22 while I recollect it, reminded me of that.  And while the reminders hold a thousand heartaches of moments forever lost, they hold endless promise as well.  They hold the hope of a future filled with blessings, as long as I cherish each day for the gift of time it is, and keep my focus on the one thing that matters most . . . the thing even an inexperienced yet extremely famous singer writes about in every one of her songs.  I will not waste even a second of the time I have left, as long as I make sure each of my seconds revolves around love.

Ephesians 3:20   To Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine . . .

Do it.  Please.  Do more.  Do immeasurably more, Lord.  We are asking.  We are imagining.  We are wailing and kicking and thrashing and begging. 

This can’t go on.  It’s too much, too many, too often.  The bleeding continues and it’s all just too much.  The bleeding and the screaming and the death.  Bodies altered.  Children murdered.  Hearts and minds and lives scared . . . scarred . . . forever.

How many more times can we witness joy turned tragic, celebration made wretched?  How many more people must suffer at the hands of sin?  How much fear, how much pain, how much grief can we take?

Do more. 

And then . . . I see Jesus hanging on that cross, and I realize, He’s already done it all. 

Maybe . . . it’s our turn.  Maybe, we have to do more . . . help more and teach more and sacrifice more and love more.  Because if we can ask and imagine and cry and plead and beg, we can also DO.  We were made to DO.  Love is an action, and we are called to it.  Not just when bombs detonate in our city streets with every intent to kill.  Not just in Boston, or New York, or Oklahoma, or in our own backyards. 

John 16:33  “In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.” 

He did it with love. 

Somehow, so must we.

I hope you will join me in praying for the people of Boston today, and for people all over the world who are asking God to do more.

Proverbs 17:17  A friend loves at all times.

I think one of the greatest joys I find in womanhood is in my friendships.  My husband has some wonderful friends – men he has known for years and who now live all over the country, some of whom he speaks to almost daily.  But Adam’s conversations with his friends are like a morning radio show on ESPN. They rehash athletes and sporting events as though being paid to do so, and then hang up abruptly, never once having inquired about one another’s wives, children, jobs, lives, souls.

Lord, how I thank you for making me a female.  I don’t ever have to talk about Tiger Woods with my girlfriends.  I can, of course, because my friends and I can talk about anything.  Yet the majority of my conversations with other women consist of meaningful discussion that truly has the potential to affect my life.

It wasn’t always that way.  The richness that exists in my friendships is not there just because I’m a woman – it’s also there because I’m an adult and a mother.  I was fortunate to have great friends throughout my childhood, and many of those friendships will, I believe, last for the rest of my life.  Still, young girls can’t possibly grasp the depth of importance their friends will have in their adult lives – when the jealousy is either completely gone or easily shared, and the focus is on love and loyalty rather than on social status and survival.  We’re in this game of life together now, as companions instead of competitors.  We want the best for each other, we help each other, sacrifice for each other.

Yes, I think the sincerity in my adult friendships with other mothers comes from the maturity only age and experience can provide.  I also believe it comes from the One who designed friendship from the beginning, He who created us to be in fellowship with others so we could learn what it means to truly love your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31).  You see, I treasure my friends because I see Christ in them, and because, I want to be Christ for them.   

I spent a weekend with some of my favorite women recently – a girls getaway as we like to call such outings.  And while we didn’t go far, we didn’t stay long, and we didn’t do anything particularly special, the weekend . . . the women . . . touched my life, and I wasn’t at all surprised.

I see love notes from God all around me this time of year.  In the warmth of the spring sun on my back, in the dogwoods peeking through the pines, in the yellow tulips smiling at me from just beyond my front door.  But I see God most in other women.  When they laugh with me, and sometimes, at me.  When they challenge me to be myself, only better.  When they are honest about my flaws, and accept me anyway.  When they send me a thoughtful text message at just the right time.  When they lift me up with kind words and gestures.  When they encourage me to look beyond my circumstances.  When they affirm my worth in their caring.  When they nurture me . . . educate me . . . inspire me . . . forgive me.

I am so grateful to God for the amazing women he has put in my life.  They are beautiful and bold.  They are dynamic and daring.  They are smart and sweet and silly and soulful.  They are His daughters, spirit-filled and spirit-led, and they are my friends.  I pray I can love them as well as they love me.   

 “Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”  Psalm 8:9

Our family went to Colorado for spring break – our first ski trip ever, and it was truly an unbelievable week.  The views, the sunshine, the snow, the fresh air, the new experiences . . . we all enjoyed ourselves so much I’ve recently been online looking at time-share condos in the Vail Valley.  After I win the lottery, I’m totally buying one.  

The thing about doing something you’ve never done is that it requires some faith.  It’s not cheap to fly a family of four three-quarters of the way across the country, and we won’t even talk about the prices of ski rentals and lift tickets and a salad the size of way too small when it’s served twenty feet from a gondola. Not to mention the fact that we chose to do all of this with a ten year old who doesn’t like to be cold and a seven year old who can’t stand to wear long sleeves and socks.  Like I said, it required some faith.  Not surprisingly, God was faithful right back, as he always is. 

I’ll never forget the looks on their sun-kissed faces after our first day on the slopes – pure joy is easy to spot on your children and it makes your heart soar in ways you’d forgotten it could.  There was joy for me as well.  Downhill skiing is both amazingly thrilling and ridiculously challenging – there’s something quite remarkable about gliding down a snow-covered hill with “things” attached to your feet that simply don’t belong there. Still, I quickly realized my thirty-seven year old body and mind could not let go of the fear of falling, of injury, of sailing off the mountain into one of the deep ravines scattered with rocks the size of small cars.  It was obvious my fear would hold me back forever, because you can’t get over fear like that when you are in your late 30’s, or at least I can’t. 

Since I knew my fear would likely keep me from ever making enough progress to enjoy a run down the blues with my kids (which they accomplished after one day of lessons), I decided to try a new winter activity on the third day of spring break. Turns out, I’m a Nordic girl at heart, and it was cross-country skiing that got my heart pumping and won me back my confidence in myself.  Who would have thought this lifetime Southerner could excel at a sport created in Norway?!?

Yet it was our last day in Colorado that I will remember long after my children stop teasing me about my ability to remain in a permanent snowplow position.  Since everyone had passed me by on the Alpine areas of the mountain, I was on my own that final morning in Colorado.  I trekked back to my new home away from home, The Nordic Center, rented a pair of snowshoes, took the chair lift to the very top of the mountain, and spent two hours entranced by Earth’s bounty.  It was just me and my God, roaming together through some of His most splendid works - pristine forests filled with alpine trees and sweeping views, miles of untouched land, snow falling, quiet enveloping, peace pervading.  It was nothing short of glorious.

And so, after our brief yet memorable time in Colorado, here’s what I know for sure . . .  

God’s providence = God has guardianship over all his creations.

God’s sovereignty = God is in control of all things.

God’s mercy = God withholds that which we deserve.

God’s grace = God’s gift of salvation granted to sinners through Christ.

God’s wisdom = God’s infinite knowledge of everything.

God’s power = God’s ability and strength to bring to pass what His infinite wisdom directs.

God’s dominion = God’s complete ownership and supremacy over everything in the entire universe.

God’s righteousness = God’s actions aligning perfectly with his holy nature.

God’s love = the primary reason for human creation and the primary purpose of life.

God’s holiness = God’s complete absence of sin.

God’s goodness = the sum total of all of God’s attributes.

And God’s majesty . . . well, that’s easy . . .

God’s majesty = Beaver Creek, where no one seems to have any idea there’s a recession going on, but where smiles prevail, souls overflow, and the incredible creations of God take center stage, as they always should.

Disclosure: The above opinions may or may not have been influenced by the warm chocolate chip cookies freely handed out all over the mountain in Beaver Creek every afternoon at precisely 3:00.

It’s one day past Easter.  As my dad would often say, I'm a day late and a dollar short.  Forgive me.  We’ve been busy traveling for both spring and Easter break, and my writing time has been hijacked by airport security lines and way too much turbulence.  Still, the most Holy day of the year has been on my mind constantly for the past few weeks.  It still is in fact, because this year, more than ever before, I see the discrepancy in Easter.

Everywhere I look lately, I see bunnies.  Chocolate bunnies.  Ceramic bunnies.  Glass bunnies.  Bunnies holding baskets. Bunnies holding eggs.  Bunnies holding jellybeans. They’re in Pottery Barn and Target and Homegoods and Publix.  Bunnies are everywhere right now, and I get it.  Bunnies are a symbol of Easter, and I’m fine with that.  Bunnies are cute and soft and cuddly. (I’ve also heard they poop more than any creature on earth, but we’ll just overlook that for the sake of tradition.)  

The funny thing is . . . Easter isn’t about a bunny.  Easter is about a lamb.  Easter is about the lamb.

Back in Old Testament days, lambs were used for sacrificial purposes.  People came to the temple with their very best lambs, ones that were perfect, unblemished, and they presented their flawless specimens to the high priests to atone for their sins.  You can blame the whole thing on Adam and Eve if you’d like – remember they were the ones that fell first – they were disobedient to God and the next thing ya know, their friends in the garden, those helpless little lambs were in serious trouble.  They became a creature man handed over to show his need for repentance.  The lambs were slaughtered, their blood shed to remind man that the consequence of sin is death. 

“without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins” (Hebrews 9:22, 26)

Of course, because we were blessed to be born A.D. (can I get a hallelujah for that?), we know that this old testament law of sacrifices was a mere hint of what was to come.  It reminded humans that sin separates us from God, and at the same time, it planted the seed of a bold new idea – that there must be another way . . . a better way.

That way is Jesus.

And he did the unthinkable. 

No, I’m not talking about giving sight to the blind or healing the lame or feeding thousands with food meant for one.  I’m not even talking about raising the dead, though he did that too.  Jesus loved so many people while he walked on earth - -people no one else thought to love.  People considered unlovable.  Jesus sat with them and taught them and broke bread with them and changed them.  Back then . . . still now . . . the way Jesus loved was unthinkable. 

There’s more.

Jesus spoke the unthinkable too.  He challenged the old rules and laws and mentalities.  He turned authority upside down with his radicalism.  He preached love, peace, forgiveness, unity, sacrifice.  His ideas were preposterous to many, exciting to some, and far-reaching even in a time when the spreading of the word came only through the mouths of wanderers.  No phones.  No email.  No newspapers or television or text messaging.  Yet all over the land, they heard about this man and his crazy ideas from those with feet willing to go and share.

At the end, even those who believed began to question.  His followers, the ones he hand-picked and diligently prepared – they didn’t understand.  Jesus can’t die, they said.  That’s simply unthinkable.  He is God’s only Son, Lord over all.  He can do whatever he wants.  He can save himself if it comes down to the brutality he suggests.  

Their unthinkable happened anyway, and it was even more brutal than they could have imagined.  It was savage and horrid and painful and bloody and tortuous and it was exactly what he said he had come to do.  When Jesus breathed his last on that cross at Calvary, naked and beaten, he accomplished his mission.  He did the will of the Father.  He established the new covenant, just as God planned from the very beginning.  His sinners . . . all sinners . . . had a Savior.  Lambs would never again need to be sacrificed.  Jesus was the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrificial Lamb of God. 

He lived an unthinkable life.  He died an unthinkable death.  And yet, the most unthinkable thing about it all is that Jesus lived this life, and died this death . . . for me.

You see that is the discrepancy in Easter.  It’s not the bunnies taking center stage when it’s all about a lamb.  The discrepancy is in the fact that the lamb hung on that cross to save me.  And when everything I’ve done and said and not done and not said screams that I’m not worth it, the lamb on that cross says otherwise.  He says my debts are paid.  He says I’m forgiven and free.  He says I’m a beloved daughter of God forever and ever and ever and ever.

Me . . . beloved?

Unthinkable. 

Except there’s Easter.  And there's Jesus.  And with Jesus, the unthinkable becomes truth.  With Jesus, the unthinkable becomes God's greatest gifts.  The gifts of redemption . . . of salvation . . . of grace . . . of eternal life. 

For me. 

For you. 

For the entire world. 

Happy Easter.              

My Bible study on Mark recently sent me to a verse in 1 Peter.  Now usually when that happens, I’m internally grumbling about having to put my bookmark in the spot I’m studying in Mark so I can flip back . . .  wait . . . is it back or forward? . . . oh right . . . flip forward to 1 Peter and spend several whole seconds trying to turn the thinnest pages in the world to find a whole new verse that may or may not seem to have anything at all to do with what I was just reading in Mark.  NEWSFLASH – the really cool thing about the Bible is how much a verse in Mark can make sense when you read it with a verse in 1 Peter.  Or better yet, how much a verse in the Old Testament, when, let’s face it, things were totally nuts, comes full circle and actually tells you EXACTLY what is going to happen in the New Testament like, hundreds of years later.  Whoa.  Only God can write that stuff people.

So, the verse in 1 Peter spoke to me.  Or I guess God did, through the verse.

1 Peter 5:2-4    Be shepherds of God’s flock that is under your care . . .

I typically describe myself as a mama, not a shepherd, but I’m digging the title ‘shepherd.’  It makes me think of my responsibilities in an entirely new light.  I am a shepherd to my flock.  It’s a small flock.  Only two sheep, as different as night and day, given to me to watch over day and night.  Of course, real shepherds tend to dozens of sheep at once, but I assure you, for this shepherd, two sheep can be a lot to handle.  They have minds of their own and bodies that obey those minds, despite the fact that those minds – oh, there is still so much those precious minds don’t understand.  

My sheep used to stay close to my side, always watching, waiting for my cues.  As they grow, so does their confidence, along with their innate desire to flee.  More sure of themselves than ever, they have begun to wander off too frequently, moving farther away each time, rarely looking back to see if I approve of where they are going. 

I once found my focus in feeding my sheep, in protecting them from all the dangers that seemed to hover in every direction.  They were helpless, dependent . . . my life so necessary to sustain their own.  These days, my role is shifting so fast I can barely find solid ground to stand on.  My sheep have learned to feed themselves; protect themselves.  I’m not so necessary anymore.  I must relinquish some control and become a different kind of shepherd.  I can no longer pull my sheep along behind me in the direction I wish to go.  I must follow them, watching to see if they will stop and allow me to come near, to provide guidance when they aren’t sure what lies ahead.

It’s hard, this new role.  I felt much more comfortable in the old one.  I was in charge of my sheep.  They were willing; they did things my way.  Now, they must discover their own ways, and sometimes, that means my sheep will feel pain.  They will get lost and hurt and find themselves all alone.  When they do, they won’t want to snuggle up close to me for comfort and reassurance.  They will want to blame it on me, get angry with me, find fault in all my ways.

I’m trying to embrace this new role by opening doors – fence doors, if you will, which allow my sheep to discover new pastures.  I don’t love what’s behind the fence doors – I usually find tough topics and difficult questions I don’t want to answer.  But my job is no longer to feed and protect.  My job is to lead and nurture.  I can only do that if I’m willing to walk through some open doors with my sheep, because despite my best efforts, I can only keep them closed for so long, and my sheep are eventually going through them with or without me.

A door opened this week with my littlest lamb.  She’s only seven, but she’s infinitely curious.  She asks questions all the time, many of which I have to answer with, “That’s a great question.  We’ll talk about that when you get a little older.”  She doesn’t hear the truth in my response – that I’m trying to respect her maturity level - that I want to keep her naiveté intact as long as I possibly can.  What she hears is a door slamming, right in her face.  And if I keep slamming doors in her face, she will eventually stop knocking on doors and offering me a chance to walk through them alongside her.  Instead, she will barge through them herself, unaware and unprepared. 

So a door cracked open unexpectedly, and though my first instinct was to slam it in her face – I’m an avoider after all – I took my little lamb by the hand and stepped inside with her.  And now, Libby knows all about tampons. 

Yep, that was the door she wanted to enter, and it was NOT the first time she knocked on that particular one.  My stock answer to her “What is this thing for?” inquiry has previously been, “That’s a band-aid for moms,” which I usually spurt out at warp speed right before changing the subject.  This time, I looked deep in her big blue eyes and I thought of that verse in 1 Peter.  This lamb is under my care.  She trusts me, right now, in this very moment to give her what she needs, and if I slam the door in her face, who knows when she will come to me again.  And God . . . God believes I can handle it.  He’s the one who made me a shepherd.  He has confidence in my ability to know when a member of my flock is ready to walk through a door I once kept locked tight. 

My response came out more easily than I imagined, and while I certainly didn’t provide all the details, I think I did a good job explaining that God makes human bodies so incredibly that he gives girls signs to let them know they are turning into women.  My lamb was totally grossed out and immediately told me she never, ever wanted to go through puberty, so I consider that a win.

Truthfully, I had some second thoughts about my honesty in the hours that followed, but not many.  It was a good step for me . . . for us, sheep and shepherd.  We walked through a door together and found out what was on the other side.  Hopefully, my willingness to open that door will mean my little lamb comes knocking again, over and over in the years ahead.  Because she has much to learn, and I want to be the one to teach her.  Yes, my little lamb has much to learn . . . so many doors to open . . . before the day, God willing, she becomes a shepherd with a flock of her own.      

I’ve heard sheep are a lot like people.  They come in all shapes and sizes, with as many different temperaments as one can count.  Some sheep are calm and cautious.  Yea, I know someone like that.  He’s about four feet tall and he sleeps upstairs.  Some sheep are spirited and stubborn.  Yep.  Know someone like that too.  She calls me Mom.  Sheep can be obedient, loyal, affectionate, slow, friendly, gentle, sensitive, rowdy, rough, foolish, fierce – the list goes on and on, and I bet you can name a different human you know who fits every personality trait on it.   

There is a parable in the Bible about sheep – sheep are actually mentioned a LOT in the Bible, in case ewe (wink, wink) didn’t know – and this particular parable tells of a shepherd who will leave ninety-nine of his sheep to go out and find the one who has wandered off.  The shepherd doesn’t value any of his sheep more than the others.  They are all totally worth his time and effort.

I don’t always think like that shepherd.

Sometimes, I dismiss people because they don’t look or act in ways that make the most sense to me.  Variety is supposed to be the spice of life and I’m certainly in no position to judge another human being.  Only God gets to do that, and the last time I checked, I wasn’t ruling the universe.  Still, I often put myself in the role of judge anyway.

1 Samuel 16:7   The Lord said to Samuel . . . “The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

I’ve been trying to view this Biblical concept of acceptance by thinking about babies.  All babies are lovable.  It doesn’t matter where they came from, who they look like, what they’re wearing.  Babies are captivating - you can hardly take your eyes off them.  Everything about a baby is sweet and precious and endearing.  The expressions he makes, his movements and sounds, his every action. When you're with a baby, all you want to do is admire him.  All you want to do is show him love. 

I think God looks at all humans in the same way we look at babies.  He thinks we are all delightfully mesmerizing because he can find the flawless innocence inside each of us.  Remember, He created us in his image.  God is perfection, and we are part of God. 

If I can view people the way God does, I can accept them the way they are.  Everyone I meet will touch my heart because I won’t simply notice the things I see on the outside - their appearance, their choices, their conversations.  I will see their inner beauty.  I will see everything that makes them special and attractive and worthy of adoration.  I will see glimpses of God. 

After all, if I am going to love the Shepherd . . . I must also love the sheep.

I recently learned something about the cross, and it got me thinking.  (You’re wondering what doesn’t get me thinking, aren’t you?)J

In 2013, at least in the Bible belt where I reside, the cross is all over the place.  People have them hanging in their houses, stuck to the back of their cars, on their belt buckles.  They can be found on thank-you cards and picture frames and decorative plates, on cell phone covers and t-shirts and coffee mugs, on women’s earrings and necklaces and bracelets. The cross is a mainstream symbol these days – an instant declaration of one’s choice to follow Jesus.

But back in Jesus’ day . . . you know, when travelling by donkey and eating locusts weren’t quite so taboo . . . the cross was not a go-to decorative object.  For the people that lived two-thousand years ago, a cross had no positive connotation whatsoever.  It would be like someone showing up for a girls’ night out wearing a vile of poison around their necks, or hanging an electric chair on the wall in their foyer, or writing in a notepad with a noose on the cover.  Are you feeling me here, folks?  When Jesus was alive, the cross was a tool of destruction used to crucify people who had committed crimes.  When Jesus was alive, the cross was ugly.  

Interesting, isn’t it, that before Jesus became a Savior, he was a carpenter.  Carpenters take trees and make them into dining room tables that cost thousands of dollars (on clearance) at Restoration Hardware.  Carpenters take trees and make them into chairs and cabinets and beds and houses.  Carpenters take uninteresting pieces of wood, plain and primitive, and turn them into masterpieces of all kinds. 

And Jesus . . . Jesus took the cross, something dark and dirty and disgusting . . . and made it beautiful.   

Don’t you think He can do the same to you and me?

I get so caught up in the future sometimes. Do you do that?  I start thinking ahead, making plans, creating mental timelines in my head.  There is always so much to do, and I’m an organizer.  I want to know exactly when things are going to, or should, happen.  I’ve never been big on surprises.  I like to feel fully prepared for what’s ahead.  When I fold clothes, I stack them into piles according to where they are going and in what order I will get to those places – the clothes that go in my dresser on top, towels that belong in the bathroom next, things I will hang in the closet on the bottom.  I put detergent in the dishwasher immediately after I empty it in the morning, even though I will not turn it on again until we go to bed.  I keep extra garbage bags in the bottom of the trash can, so they are right there when I take a full bag out and need to replace it.  This is OCD at work my friends – feel free to borrow these fabulous, time-saving tips, completely free of charge.:)

Of course, I’m not just talking about the little things here.  I fret about the big things coming up as well.  When should we allow our children to get cell phones?  When should they go to sleep away camp, stay home alone, learn about sex?  I think about these things all the time.  My husband has actually requested that, for Lent, I refrain from starting any sentences with the phrase, “I’m worried about . . .”

I would love it if someone would create a calendar for me, and map out my future with an accuracy I couldn’t question.  Tell me when I should sell my house, go back to work, take a mission trip with my family.  Make it crystal clear, so that I am not constantly worrying about the timeline of my life. 

I’m sure my need for clarity comes back to that whole control issue of mine.  Of ours, actually.  No doubt, we ALL want to be in control of something.  Or, in my case, everything. 

In Proverbs 3:5 it says, Trust in the Lord with all your heart . . .    

Dang that’s hard. 

Trust in the Lord?  I want to, I really do.  But I can’t see him.  I can’t hear him.  I can’t invite him over for lasagna and listen to what he has willed for me for the next fifty years or so.   

Jeremiah 29:11 says, For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  

Again, that’s very cool and all, reassuring even, but what I REALLY want, deep down, is a detailed list of those plans you’ve got for me, God, in numbered order.  

The funny thing is, I do feel hope when I think about the future.  I believe God has great things in store for me and my family.  I also know, without a doubt, that we will have struggles.  Tough ones.  Because God promises those too.

John 16:33  “In this world you will have trouble.”

There ya go.  There is no ‘might’ here, people. The word is ‘will’.  This is truth, in all its awfulness, coming right out to warn me, Watch out girl, cuz’ sometimes, life is gonna suck. 

Guess what though?  There’s good news.  Of course, there’s good news!  Bible verses are from the Bible, remember?  And the Bible is all about good news.  You see, Jesus was the one who said that line about having trouble, and Jesus . . . well, He actually IS the good news.  So, the rest of that verse about having trouble goes like this:

“But take heart!  I have overcome the world.”

Smile.

Sigh.

Rejoice!

I don’t have to worry about what’s next.  I don’t need to fret about when this will happen or when I should do that.  I don’t know exactly where life will take me.  I’m on a path – one designed only for me, one never travelled before - and there are curves up ahead I can’t see beyond.  The path won’t always be straight.  It’s much more interesting than that.  It will have all kinds of twists and turns. There will be valleys so deep I might fear never climbing out of them.   There will be vast oceans to cross, days and days when I see nothing but sameness all around.  At any moment, a storm could turn up, swirling me into a darkness that seems to have no end.  But, there will be sunshine along my path as well.  There will be new places, where beauty abounds and love prevails.  There will be mountaintops of glory where I can look back and see how far I’ve come.  And as I make my way to each destination along my journey, I will be met with the One who mapped out my path from the very beginning . . . the One who takes every step with me . . . the One who knows each decision I will make before I make it. 

No, I don't have to worry about what's next.  Instead, I can trust, and hope, and try to enjoy the surprises, because as long as I’m following Jesus . . .  does it really matter where I’m going?      

Sooooooo, after Macie died, I said we would never ever, not on your life, not in a million years, not a chance so don’t even think about asking, never ever EVER going to get another dog.  The whole experience was just too hard.  The puppy part was hard, the illness part was hard, and the dying at only a year and eleven days old was hard.  Sure, the reasons we got a dog in the first place still existed, and yes, having a dog does have quite a few good parts.  Still.  I said we would never ever, not for all the gold in the world, not if my life depended on it, no matter what, never ever EVER going to get another dog.

We got another dog. 

And it’s raining.  A lot.  I thought Berkeley Lake was a mile up the road, but it seems to have relocated to my backyard.  There are muddy paw prints all over my floors and I’m washing dirty towels at laundromat pace and standing in the rain at two-thirty in the morning and my house smells like wet puppy, which, I assure you, is only slightly better than the smell of wet dog.

But this time, I know it will all be worth it.  This time, I really do know she’ll be worth it.   

The one making the muddy paw prints is a nine-week-old mini goldendoodle.  The goldendoodle part means she should be smart, loyal, calm, and, thank goodness for the invention of ridiculously expensive mutts, non-shedding.  The mini part means she should top off at about thirty pounds.  Yep, for us size matters, because standard goldendoodles can weigh anywhere from fifty to a hundred pounds, and what that screams to me is the possibility of paws on a kitchen counter, which is simply unacceptable in the name of sanitary conditions.

We named her Georgia.  She’s the color of Georgia red clay when it’s wet, which is appropriate because it’s been wet for days.  And she flew in from Ohio, so her new home is also her new name.  Yes, you read that right.  She FLEW in from Ohio.  Buying a plane ticket for a puppy and picking up a pet at air cargo ranks right up there with some of the dumber things I’ve ever done, but all the local breeders only had Christmas puppies available, and at Christmas, we weren’t ready for sleepless nights and urine on the hardwoods.  Those things just don’t go well with the beauty and magic of the holiday season.  So we found this wonderful breeder in Ohio who only breeds goldendoodles, and only breeds them a couple times a year.  She has been sending us pictures and videos several times a week since our puppy's litter was born, and you should know that watching five little balls of fur tripping over each other in someone else's kitchen (that part is key) is true entertainment folks. 

Georgia is already a precious addition to our family.  She's sweet and loving, and she sleeps a lot, which keeps me from wanting to give her back.  I have no doubt she will wind herself around our hearts even more with each passing day.  In the meantime, we're working on adjusting to what it means to have a four legged creature in the house again.  We’re working on the potty training.  That’s going just as you might expect.  We’re working on the crate training.  Also going as you might expect.  We’re working on ‘come’ and ‘sit’.  Not going anywhere fast.  And today’s lesson, and also tomorrow’s and every single day of Georgia’s life after that, we will be working on this lesson, which comes from Genesis 1:26 . . .

Then God said, "Let us make people in our image, to be like ourselves. They will be masters over all life -- the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky, and all the livestock, wild animals, and small animals."

Thank you, God.  I love you so much.  You thought of everything.:)

"For God so loVed the world

                                                               That He gAve

                                                                      His onLy

                                                                     BegottEn

                                                                            SoN

                                                                                That whosoever

                                                               Believeth In Him

                                                                   Should Not Perish,

                                                               But have Everlasting life."

John 3:16

 

Happy Valentine's Day!  I hope your day is filled with

LOVE!!!

“I see children as kites.  You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground.  You run with them until you’re both breathless.  They crash . . . you add a longer tail.  They hit the rooftop . . . you pluck them out of the spout.  You patch and comfort, adjust and teach.  You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them someday they’ll fly. 

Finally, they are airborne.  But they need more string and you keep letting it out and with each twist of the ball of twine, there is a sadness that goes with the joy because the kite becomes more distant and somehow you know it won’t be long before that beautiful creature will snap the lifeline that bound you together and soar as it was meant to soar . . . free and alone. 

Only then do you know that you did your job.”
 (Author unknown)

 

Happy 10th birthday, Charlie.  I see your kite rising higher by the day.  It is both glorious and heartwrenching to watch as it moves into the distance - further away from me with every glance I take.  But it is such a beautiful kite,  and I will watch is as long as I possibly can . . . waiting, hoping, anxiously anticipating exactly where it will go, and praying  that wherever it ends up, I will be near enough to see. 

 

 

I’ve had roots on my mind, and though I desperately need a trip to the salon for some highlights, I’m not talking about hair.

If you spend any time at all reading the red words in your Bible (those are the ones Jesus said, and I only mention that because, sadly, I didn’t know about the red words until I was in my 30’s) . . . so as I was saying, if you spend any time whatsoever reading the Bible, which clearly I didn’t do my first three decades on earth, you will come across quite a few parables.  Jesus likes parables.  Loves the darn things, in fact.  Jesus thinks it’s fabulous to impart massive amounts of wisdom by telling abstract stories that make perfect sense if you’re an interpreter of all things confusing. 

I’m not a fan.  Of parables, I mean.  I’m a fan of Jesus, but I would prefer he just came right out with it.  Give it to me straight, man, because all this stuff about the birds and fields and workers and camels and bags of gold and . . . I know.  Weird, right?  I think life would be a whole lot easier for me if Jesus had just said, “Here’s the deal.  I want you to go to this church and live in that house and have this job and give X amount to this charity every year and X amount to that organization every year and adopt X amount of children and do this for that person and that for this person and wear a shirt every day that tells people how awesome I am.”  I could totally do that stuff, if I knew Jesus was asking me to.  If I were certain of the decisions God wanted me to make, then making those decisions would be easy.

Of course, God isn’t about making my life easy.  God is about making my life mean something, and that’s an entirely different beast.

One of Jesus’ most famous parables is found in Mark 4.  He’s sitting in a boat by a lake, a crowd is gathered on the shore to listen, and Jesus tells a story.  The story is about seeds.  I know.  Weird, right?  Jesus has this huge audience and he talks about a farmer who goes out to sow his seeds.  I’m thinking the story would probably have more worldwide appeal if it was about the farmer going out to sow his wild oats, but Jesus didn’t tell stories like that.  He talks about seeds instead.   So, this farmer Jesus speaks of is scattering his seeds and they fall in various locations, which makes all the difference in the world as to what happens next.

The seeds that fall along the farmer’s path are quickly eaten by birds.  Okay.  Got it.

The seeds that fall on rocky places where there isn’t much soil spring up quickly, but are soon scorched by the sun because they have no roots.  Yep.  Lived in Atlanta my whole life – totally get the whole scorched by the sun thing. 

Still other seeds fall among thorns, which grow up to choke the plants.  Uh oh. 

At the end of the story, the farmer tosses out his last bit of seed, it lands on good soil, and whaddya know . . .  the plants sprout, grow, and VOILA! produce a big ole’ crop.  Nice.

Now, while Jesus is telling this seed story to the crowd along the water’s edge, I imagine those nutty disciples of his are raising their eyebrows and nodding their heads as though they fully comprehend every word Jesus is saying.  Wouldn’t want to alarm the crowd by allowing bewilderment to appear on their faces, would they?  Later, however, the disciples get real, and they ask Jesus what in the name of John Deere tractors he meant when he was talking about the farmer and his seeds.  And – this is my favorite part - Jesus gives it to them straight.

Jesus says the seeds the famer throws along the path are like people who hear God’s word, but allow Satan to quickly come and take it.  Yikes.

The seeds that land on rocky ground, sprout, and become scorched by the sun are like people who hear and receive God’s word, but only for a short time.   Well, the Bible is long, and it can be tough to focus with the zillions of convenient distractions our world offers on a daily basis.

The seeds that land among thorns are like people who hear and accept God’s word, but let worries and wealth choke it.  DING!  DING!  DING!  Gulp.

And finally, the seeds that land on good soil are like people who hear God’s word, live it out in thought and deed, and share it with others to produce a crop.  HOORAY!!!  (Cue applause.)

Oh, how I want to be a seed in good soil.  I want to grow and multiply and make millions for farmer God. 

Sometimes, I do find myself sitting in good soil.  Sometimes, my roots are firmly nestled in the right things – God, family, friends, home, service, love - and I can feel the nourishment the farmer has provided flowing through me, giving me all I need. 

But sometimes . . . maybe even most of the time . . . I find myself surrounded by thorns, struggling to grow and thrive and be what God intended me to be.  My thorns might be different from your thorns – the things that grab hold of my heart and squeeze it until it hurts might not be the ones that leave you gasping for breath when you should be shouting for joy.  But they are thorns nonetheless, and thorns are sharp.  They cause pain.

In the Message Bible, Jesus says, “The seed cast in the weeds represents those who hear the kingdom news, but are overwhelmed with worries about all the things they have to do and all the things they want to get.  The stress strangles what they heard, and nothing comes of it.”

And the bell dings loudly again.

Yes.  That sounds familiar. 

I hear the news.  I study it and answer questions about it and pray about it and, many times, even share it.  Yet, there are things I have to do.  There are things I want to get.  Too many things – things that will never help me grow.  Things that will never help me thrive.  Things that will never allow me to multiply God’s goodness and love in my life.  Still, I allow those things to wind around me, influencing my choices and activities and conversations.  And instead of flourishing, instead of embracing the good news and all it means, I’m choking on things.

Adam and I went to Highlands, North Carolina a couple weeks ago to celebrate his 40^th birthday.  We went on two hikes, and on both, we saw some of the most magnificent trees growing from places you would never expect a tree could grow.  They grew between rocks, their roots pushing deep down between tight crevices and making it through to the rich dirt below, only to spread forth in every direction.  They grew on the very edge of rushing streams, their roots reaching so forcefully out to each side that they actually appeared to be chiseled muscles, lean and strong from holding a tree upright when moving water threatened to consume it.  They grew on steep mountainsides, their roots visibly stretching for yards above the surface of the ground, gripping whatever they could find. 

The trees were all different and so were their roots – some were thin, some thick, some entwined and twisted, some straight.  Yet they had something in common.  All of the roots reached out.  They were firmly planted in good soil, but they didn’t simply go deeper into that soil for more nourishment.  They reached out.  And it was such a clear picture for me of the roots I want to have. 

Yes, I must make sure my roots are in good soil – they must be planted in God’s word, in the kingdom news, in Jesus.  But I can’t just go deeper and deeper into that soil to feed myself.  I must reach out.  In every direction.  Through the rocks and the weeds and the thorns.  Despite my worries and my wealth and the things I want to do and the things I want to get.  I have to reach out to others, and tell them about my roots, and about my soil, and about my farmer.  Only then will I become what that farmer intended me to be.

I'm a football fan, though not necessarily an NFL fan.  But what does one do on Super Bowl Sunday except, you know, watch the Super Bowl?

I was doing my thing when it started.  Well, actually, Super Bowl coverage officially began this morning before noon, because why not spend an entire day watching "experts" make predictions about a game when there is really only one certainty - one team will win, the other will not.  Still, as the pre-game festivities began just minutes before kick-off, I was folding clothes and cleaning counters and taking off blue toenail polish that should have been removed at least a week ago.  My boys were settled in on the couch, the taller one having been instructed to keep the remote in hand at all times because, according to reports, every commercial for the next three hours was likely to include half naked women doing things I have no desire to explain to a nine year old on a Sunday evening (or any evening for that matter). 

I planned to watch Alicia Keys sing the National Anthem, because I like to tear up on a regular basis and I hadn't cried yet today.  But as I bustled around the kitchen with nail polish in my hand and toilet paper between my toes, I overheard someone on the television say something about Newtown, Connecticut, and I had to tune in earlier than planned.  I had to cry earlier than planned too.

"America the Beautiful" sung by the precious children of the Sandy Hook Elementary School Chorus . . .

Oh, how beautiful indeed.

America! America!

God shed his grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

from sea to shining sea!