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!

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.