She will be 21 tomorrow.
My second daughter.
She is my ray of sunshine.
Hard to believe—and yet, I remember the first time I held her in my arms as if it were yesterday. She came so quickly—this tiny little girl. White hair and pale, pale skin and enormous blue eyes. She was my smallest—weighing far less than the other three. But she has made up for it. She is still tiny, but she packs a powerful punch.
Happy birthday, dear girl!
21 Things I Love about Katherine
Her enormous green eyes
Her infectious laugh
The twinkle in her eye—usually means mischievousness is nearby
The way she looks at a child
Her in-your-face attitude
Her idealistic nature
Her fearlessness
Her funny little dance
Her compassion toward those who are hurting.
Her style
Her desire to NOT conform
Her longing to do the right thing—even when it is hard.
Her enthusiasm—it is usually contagious.
Her charisma—hard to resist
The way she holds a baby
Her guarded vulnerability
Her endless supply of lip gloss
She is easily moved to tears, but not by sentimentality
Her fingers on the guitar strings
Her love for her sisters
Her passion—intense and often furious—sometimes even random.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Goads
Our friends had an incredibly important event approaching. They are foster parents and a court hearing was set concerning the future welfare of a child they have fostered almost since birth. Their hope is to adopt—for this child to be a permanent, legal child in their family. And all of us who do life with them have the same hope.
On Sunday night before church the mom called me and asked me to pick up a photo book at Wal-mart for the court date. The photos needed to be picked up before 9:00 p.m. Let me tell you, I was in the car and there before I was out the door.
There were, however, several other things going on that night. Youth group. Bible study. And we were also going to another couple’s house for dinner. An easy dinner. We were eating with friends—the kind of friends that you don’t worry if something spills. You don’t care what is on the menu, really. You just want to sit around the table and talk, laugh, and do life together.
But Tamera slipped into a zone. Now, those who are reading this and know me might, perhaps, understand this. I had a mission. I wanted so much to “do” something for our friends who had this court date. I wanted to get that photo book, because suddenly that became crucial in my mind.
After bible study I rushed to see if youth group was over. I looked in the room and a whole group of teenagers was sitting in a circle, lights dimmed, heads bowed.
In my focus on my mission I almost barged in and interrupted their worship. I almost became a squall in the midst of their peace.
Frantically I made plans for someone to drop my daughters off at the house where we were having dinner. Then Steve and I got in the car and flew to Wal-Mart.
We jumped out and walked quickly into the store. We got through the front doors and were just a short way into the entrance when I felt Steve gently pull me back. I looked up confused. I tried to continue walking, but he kept trying to slow my pace.
He looked at me. “Slow down.” He said. I was even more confused and by this time starting to be a little irritated.
I continued walking at my break-neck speed. And he slowed down even more. Now, you need to understand, my husband is 6’3” and I am 5’5”. His strides are a lot longer than mine. We came to a complete stand-still in Wal-Mart.
“Tamera, slow down. We have until 9:00; it’s only 7:20. We’ll be okay. You are running way ahead of yourself. Just slow down. Be still.”
Interestingly, my husband was not just talking about my pace. He knew my mind was racing.
Galloping.
He wrapped his arm around my waist and held on to me. If I wanted to walk with him, I had to slow down.
I stiffened. The rebellious Tamera who lies latent started to rise. Inside my irritation and defensiveness grew, but I reluctantly slowed my pace. The outside of me had slowed down, but the inside was still running. I bristled because I had very gently been chastised. Steve was simply the tool the Spirit used that night. I didn’t want to be chastised. I didn’t want to be reined in.
We got to the photo counter only to discover the order that was supposed to be done and confirmed at 3:00 was not right. We had to wait while they corrected and completed the order.
And wait.
And wait.
Ten minutes felt like an hour.
Now, as I write this I am laughing.
A little while later we dropped the photos at our friends’ house. We visited for a few minutes, and we got a short time of connection.
Then we went to dinner.
We weren’t late.
I was exhausted.
I was exhausted from trying to run ahead.
I was exhausted because I attempted to turn a simple task, given to me to bless and aid a friend, into a crucial element in their whole court case.
We get exhausted when we try to save the world by ourselves.
We get exhausted when we move at a break-neck speed to accomplish some seemingly important task.
We get exhausted when we attempt to bear the full weight of everyone’s problems.
Oh my, how important and indispensable we make ourselves feel sometimes.
In his wisdom, my husband tried to slow me down. He was attempting to help me. I resisted. Now isn’t that something? Sound familiar?
My defensive rebellion reared its ugly neck. Steve’s voice was calm and even. There was no chastisement. No judgment. He just wanted me to slow down. And he knew that more than anything my mind needed to slow down.
You see, I am a “fixer”. When someone has a problem, dilemma or in pain I want to make it better.
We can’t hear God speak when we are in that state. We miss his direction and his guidance when we are “kicking against the goads”. I used to wonder what in the world Jesus was saying to Paul. What in the world is a goad? I still am not quite sure, but I know this: that night I was kicking against the goads. I was stiffening against Steve’s sage advice. And against the Spirit's underlying whisper.
You see I mistakenly believed this task I had been asked to do was so important and so crucial—I was thinking far too highly of my role in the whole situation.
How often have I been moving forward at break-neck speed and the Spirit has gently checked me? Sadly, I have reacted to Him just like I reacted to Steve.
I have argued, “But I am doing something good here.”
“I understand, Tamera, but wait on me.”
“But it has to be done immediately. I have to do this now.”
“Tamera, my timing is never wrong or off.”
“But if I don’t do it, who will?”
“That’s my concern.”
“But…”
“Tamera, stop with the buts.”
“But…”
“Tamera..."
On Sunday night before church the mom called me and asked me to pick up a photo book at Wal-mart for the court date. The photos needed to be picked up before 9:00 p.m. Let me tell you, I was in the car and there before I was out the door.
There were, however, several other things going on that night. Youth group. Bible study. And we were also going to another couple’s house for dinner. An easy dinner. We were eating with friends—the kind of friends that you don’t worry if something spills. You don’t care what is on the menu, really. You just want to sit around the table and talk, laugh, and do life together.
But Tamera slipped into a zone. Now, those who are reading this and know me might, perhaps, understand this. I had a mission. I wanted so much to “do” something for our friends who had this court date. I wanted to get that photo book, because suddenly that became crucial in my mind.
After bible study I rushed to see if youth group was over. I looked in the room and a whole group of teenagers was sitting in a circle, lights dimmed, heads bowed.
In my focus on my mission I almost barged in and interrupted their worship. I almost became a squall in the midst of their peace.
Frantically I made plans for someone to drop my daughters off at the house where we were having dinner. Then Steve and I got in the car and flew to Wal-Mart.
We jumped out and walked quickly into the store. We got through the front doors and were just a short way into the entrance when I felt Steve gently pull me back. I looked up confused. I tried to continue walking, but he kept trying to slow my pace.
He looked at me. “Slow down.” He said. I was even more confused and by this time starting to be a little irritated.
I continued walking at my break-neck speed. And he slowed down even more. Now, you need to understand, my husband is 6’3” and I am 5’5”. His strides are a lot longer than mine. We came to a complete stand-still in Wal-Mart.
“Tamera, slow down. We have until 9:00; it’s only 7:20. We’ll be okay. You are running way ahead of yourself. Just slow down. Be still.”
Interestingly, my husband was not just talking about my pace. He knew my mind was racing.
Galloping.
He wrapped his arm around my waist and held on to me. If I wanted to walk with him, I had to slow down.
I stiffened. The rebellious Tamera who lies latent started to rise. Inside my irritation and defensiveness grew, but I reluctantly slowed my pace. The outside of me had slowed down, but the inside was still running. I bristled because I had very gently been chastised. Steve was simply the tool the Spirit used that night. I didn’t want to be chastised. I didn’t want to be reined in.
We got to the photo counter only to discover the order that was supposed to be done and confirmed at 3:00 was not right. We had to wait while they corrected and completed the order.
And wait.
And wait.
Ten minutes felt like an hour.
Now, as I write this I am laughing.
A little while later we dropped the photos at our friends’ house. We visited for a few minutes, and we got a short time of connection.
Then we went to dinner.
We weren’t late.
I was exhausted.
I was exhausted from trying to run ahead.
I was exhausted because I attempted to turn a simple task, given to me to bless and aid a friend, into a crucial element in their whole court case.
We get exhausted when we try to save the world by ourselves.
We get exhausted when we move at a break-neck speed to accomplish some seemingly important task.
We get exhausted when we attempt to bear the full weight of everyone’s problems.
Oh my, how important and indispensable we make ourselves feel sometimes.
In his wisdom, my husband tried to slow me down. He was attempting to help me. I resisted. Now isn’t that something? Sound familiar?
My defensive rebellion reared its ugly neck. Steve’s voice was calm and even. There was no chastisement. No judgment. He just wanted me to slow down. And he knew that more than anything my mind needed to slow down.
You see, I am a “fixer”. When someone has a problem, dilemma or in pain I want to make it better.
We can’t hear God speak when we are in that state. We miss his direction and his guidance when we are “kicking against the goads”. I used to wonder what in the world Jesus was saying to Paul. What in the world is a goad? I still am not quite sure, but I know this: that night I was kicking against the goads. I was stiffening against Steve’s sage advice. And against the Spirit's underlying whisper.
You see I mistakenly believed this task I had been asked to do was so important and so crucial—I was thinking far too highly of my role in the whole situation.
How often have I been moving forward at break-neck speed and the Spirit has gently checked me? Sadly, I have reacted to Him just like I reacted to Steve.
I have argued, “But I am doing something good here.”
“I understand, Tamera, but wait on me.”
“But it has to be done immediately. I have to do this now.”
“Tamera, my timing is never wrong or off.”
“But if I don’t do it, who will?”
“That’s my concern.”
“But…”
“Tamera, stop with the buts.”
“But…”
“Tamera..."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
No Butter Needed
Give us this day—our daily bread.
There is bread rising in my kitchen. A treasured family recipe. The dough is half-way through the first rise. I wanted to have fresh bread for lunch, and so early this morning I started the process.
We bake a lot of homemade bread at our house. The tradition and recipe came from my daughters’ beloved Granddad. He introduced us to fresh bread.
Inevitably when the loaves come from the oven, everyone asks, “Who is the bread for?” If I explain these loaves or rolls are for us, everyone starts looking for the bread knife. Butter is an afterthought. We always want the heels. Fresh, hot and soft. The scent is absolutely luscious.
After everyone devours what they want (usually there isn’t much left, unless I have made a double batch), we put the rest in a zip-lock and store it in the bread basket. The left-over bread does not disappear as quickly. The second day it is still good for sandwiches, by the third day the remains are forgotten (I am working on a crouton recipe!).
Stale bread.
I thought about the disciples asking Jesus to teach them to pray. Jesus told them to ask their Heavenly Father for their daily bread.
In Jesus’ time, bread was baked daily. Women baked bread themselves or went to the village oven and bought their bread—enough for their families for the day.
Interestingly this is how manna was provided for the Israelites—enough for the day for the family. Don’t bother to try and take extra. Don’t try to gather more than the day’s needs. The extra you gathered would spoil and couldn’t be used or eaten.
God was teaching the Israelites dependence on Him for even the most basic of sustenance. Each morning as they went out to gather the manna from the ground, God was visually and concretely giving them a living metaphor for their lives. Daily God would provide for their needs. Daily God would provide the bread that would curb their hunger and quiet their growling bellies.
The Israelites, however, grumbled like spoiled children, “…you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.” They complained about the food seeming plain, about being dry, about not having any flavor. (Yet, Scripture tells us that manna tasted like something made with olive oil and wafers with honey—doesn’t sound plain to me.) But, they wanted leeks, onions and garlic from Egypt. They wanted meat; they wanted spices. They complained they had lost their appetite.
In spite of their petty complaints, grievances and disobedience God provided for them anyway. His faithfulness was not lessened in quantity or quality by their whining. He rained manna down, and it was available to all.
Recently I heard someone talk about the Word of God tasting like sawdust. They read their daily measure of Scripture, but it tasted dry and mealy in their mouths.
Lately, I have been missing the Word of God—the daily Bread of God. I have been reading good materials (great writers) and participating in a bible study (a good and necessary one), but it hasn’t been manna for me. I had spoiled my appetite. Because of my busy schedule and over-stimulated taste buds I neglected gathering my daily manna.
I got hungry.
My spirit growled. I tried to fill it with leeks, garlic, meat, melons, cucumbers—everything but bread.
Finally, I went to the bread basket and pulled out the remains of the loaf I made several days ago. It wasn’t fresh. The loaf was no longer soft and warm. The scent had dissipated. And there was nothing left to do but make croutons.
Stale bread.
I wanted fresh bread.
This week I went back to gathering my daily manna.
In spite of my neglect and distractions and disobedience God provided for me anyway. His faithfulness is not lessened in quantity or quality by my lack of discipline or spoiled appetite. He is still willing to rain manna down for me. He will provide bread for my growling, hungry spirit.
I opened the Scriptures and began to read. And read.
And read. And study.
And read some more.
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
How sweet are your words to my taste,
sweeter than honey to my mouth!
Fresh bread from the oven.
No butter needed.
There is bread rising in my kitchen. A treasured family recipe. The dough is half-way through the first rise. I wanted to have fresh bread for lunch, and so early this morning I started the process.
We bake a lot of homemade bread at our house. The tradition and recipe came from my daughters’ beloved Granddad. He introduced us to fresh bread.
Inevitably when the loaves come from the oven, everyone asks, “Who is the bread for?” If I explain these loaves or rolls are for us, everyone starts looking for the bread knife. Butter is an afterthought. We always want the heels. Fresh, hot and soft. The scent is absolutely luscious.
After everyone devours what they want (usually there isn’t much left, unless I have made a double batch), we put the rest in a zip-lock and store it in the bread basket. The left-over bread does not disappear as quickly. The second day it is still good for sandwiches, by the third day the remains are forgotten (I am working on a crouton recipe!).
Stale bread.
I thought about the disciples asking Jesus to teach them to pray. Jesus told them to ask their Heavenly Father for their daily bread.
In Jesus’ time, bread was baked daily. Women baked bread themselves or went to the village oven and bought their bread—enough for their families for the day.
Interestingly this is how manna was provided for the Israelites—enough for the day for the family. Don’t bother to try and take extra. Don’t try to gather more than the day’s needs. The extra you gathered would spoil and couldn’t be used or eaten.
God was teaching the Israelites dependence on Him for even the most basic of sustenance. Each morning as they went out to gather the manna from the ground, God was visually and concretely giving them a living metaphor for their lives. Daily God would provide for their needs. Daily God would provide the bread that would curb their hunger and quiet their growling bellies.
The Israelites, however, grumbled like spoiled children, “…you have brought us out into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.” They complained about the food seeming plain, about being dry, about not having any flavor. (Yet, Scripture tells us that manna tasted like something made with olive oil and wafers with honey—doesn’t sound plain to me.) But, they wanted leeks, onions and garlic from Egypt. They wanted meat; they wanted spices. They complained they had lost their appetite.
In spite of their petty complaints, grievances and disobedience God provided for them anyway. His faithfulness was not lessened in quantity or quality by their whining. He rained manna down, and it was available to all.
Recently I heard someone talk about the Word of God tasting like sawdust. They read their daily measure of Scripture, but it tasted dry and mealy in their mouths.
Lately, I have been missing the Word of God—the daily Bread of God. I have been reading good materials (great writers) and participating in a bible study (a good and necessary one), but it hasn’t been manna for me. I had spoiled my appetite. Because of my busy schedule and over-stimulated taste buds I neglected gathering my daily manna.
I got hungry.
My spirit growled. I tried to fill it with leeks, garlic, meat, melons, cucumbers—everything but bread.
Finally, I went to the bread basket and pulled out the remains of the loaf I made several days ago. It wasn’t fresh. The loaf was no longer soft and warm. The scent had dissipated. And there was nothing left to do but make croutons.
Stale bread.
I wanted fresh bread.
This week I went back to gathering my daily manna.
In spite of my neglect and distractions and disobedience God provided for me anyway. His faithfulness is not lessened in quantity or quality by my lack of discipline or spoiled appetite. He is still willing to rain manna down for me. He will provide bread for my growling, hungry spirit.
I opened the Scriptures and began to read. And read.
And read. And study.
And read some more.
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
How sweet are your words to my taste,
sweeter than honey to my mouth!
Fresh bread from the oven.
No butter needed.
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Funeral
I attended a funeral today.
I do not like funerals. I fought a mental war all day yesterday and last night about whether or not I would go. How silly, yet how real was the struggle.
Why? Funerals are heavy and somber events. They are shrouded in sorrow. Hurt is tangible.
Funerals make people feel awkward. They move us out of our comfort zone. What words do you say or not say? What gestures will be sincere and authentic? How do you avoid being trite? What do you do for people whose pain is evident in their eyes and body posture?
Steve asked me this morning what changed my mind about attending? What caused me to decide to go?
Because some things just simply aren’t about us. Some events are just not about our comfort levels. Some hard places in life aren’t about what WE say or do; it is about our willingness to be present.
Our presence indicates, at varying levels, our willingness to enter into the sorrow and help carry it.
Will the grieving remember each individual who was there? Most likely not, but what will be remembered is the collective body that came together to express grief, offer support and give love.
I do not like funerals. I fought a mental war all day yesterday and last night about whether or not I would go. How silly, yet how real was the struggle.
Why? Funerals are heavy and somber events. They are shrouded in sorrow. Hurt is tangible.
Funerals make people feel awkward. They move us out of our comfort zone. What words do you say or not say? What gestures will be sincere and authentic? How do you avoid being trite? What do you do for people whose pain is evident in their eyes and body posture?
Steve asked me this morning what changed my mind about attending? What caused me to decide to go?
Because some things just simply aren’t about us. Some events are just not about our comfort levels. Some hard places in life aren’t about what WE say or do; it is about our willingness to be present.
Our presence indicates, at varying levels, our willingness to enter into the sorrow and help carry it.
Will the grieving remember each individual who was there? Most likely not, but what will be remembered is the collective body that came together to express grief, offer support and give love.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Earthquakes, Part II
Earthquakes.
We continue to see the devastation the earthquake and its aftershocks have caused in Haiti. My heart is still hurting, and as I said, it is simply not enough. Even now, when I pull up news web pages—the earthquake is old news.
Earlier this week, I read about a 31 year old man who was rescued after two weeks under the rubble. Alive because he had access to water.
The human body is resilient and tough. It can be pushed to incredible depths and lengths and still survive.
As you continue to read, please understand that the physical and emotional suffering in Haiti continues to break my heart. I am still in the middle of deciding what I need to do to help. What can I do that will truly benefit the Haitian people? What can I do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?
I can open my eyes.
Earthquakes are the result of major shifts in the earth’s geological structures.
Earthquakes do not just occur in the geological realm of this world.
I have always thought of our emotional, mental, and spiritual lives in terms of geology. Our inner terrain. This idea came from someone else, and I can’t remember who, but this makes sense to me.
On a daily basis I am quite sure I come in contact with someone who is experiencing or is about to experience an earthquake.
And there is a great chance I am missing the signs.
We often ignore the signs of an earthquake in others and in ourselves. (Just like we ignore the gentle tug at our hearts when we see the images from Haiti) We try to avoid the responsibility we will assume if we acknowledge the potential danger. Our mercy is curbed by our fear of getting too deeply involved. We are concerned of the danger we might experience. We are wary of the power of association.
Sometimes we don’t see the signs because the person has become incredibly adept at camouflaging their pain and circumstances. They don’t want us to see the cracks and fissures in their spiritual and emotional terrain. But if we look into our brothers’ and sisters’ faces, if we peer long enough and deep enough, we can see the fault lines. We can detect the unstable ground.
Who and where?
The lovely couple at church who seems to have it all together. Great kids. Great house. Great jobs. But their marriage is sitting on a fault line. The foundation is cracked and the gap is ever-widening.
The young adult who is weary of the peer pressure. He is tired of trying to make right choices. All his friends are drinking. A lot. This young man is so frustrated. In his attempt to do what is right there doesn’t seem to be much reward. Why continue to walk such a hard road?
The minister who knows that the relationship is not appropriate. It has crossed acceptable lines, but he is weary from the fight. And he is about to let his guard down.
The little boy who is constantly bullied at school. Being teased and ridiculed. He becomes like a timid dog backed into a corner. But in his attempts to fight back he just gains more ridicule.
The young girl who has been told she is too fat or too skinny. She is weary of being told she is simply not beautiful enough to have value. She is exhausted from the attempts to try and meet the standards and so she resorts to things she can control: her eating habits and cutting.
The middle-aged wife who has a husband who doesn’t seem to see or hear her anymore. She feels invisible. And someone pays her a compliment and her heart reawakens, but in the wrong direction.
The beautiful young woman who is told she has cancer. She has a family. An incredible career. An encouraging, faithful husband. And she loves Jesus.
The family who is living from paycheck to paycheck. Scraping to just barely get by. And the last paycheck has been issued. They have been laid off.
The once-thriving business is about to end. There is not enough clientele to keep the doors open. The owners now face bankruptcy or lose everything.
Earthquakes.
And after the earthquake there are usually multiple aftershocks, and they often leave their victims paralyzed.
Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.
We need to see that the Body is often severely wounded. It is hurting and suffering.
Sometimes it will break our hearts. But that will simply not be enough.
We must decide what we can do to help. What can we do that will truly benefit these earthquake victims? What can we do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?
We need to open our eyes.
We continue to see the devastation the earthquake and its aftershocks have caused in Haiti. My heart is still hurting, and as I said, it is simply not enough. Even now, when I pull up news web pages—the earthquake is old news.
Earlier this week, I read about a 31 year old man who was rescued after two weeks under the rubble. Alive because he had access to water.
The human body is resilient and tough. It can be pushed to incredible depths and lengths and still survive.
As you continue to read, please understand that the physical and emotional suffering in Haiti continues to break my heart. I am still in the middle of deciding what I need to do to help. What can I do that will truly benefit the Haitian people? What can I do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?
I can open my eyes.
Earthquakes are the result of major shifts in the earth’s geological structures.
Earthquakes do not just occur in the geological realm of this world.
I have always thought of our emotional, mental, and spiritual lives in terms of geology. Our inner terrain. This idea came from someone else, and I can’t remember who, but this makes sense to me.
On a daily basis I am quite sure I come in contact with someone who is experiencing or is about to experience an earthquake.
And there is a great chance I am missing the signs.
We often ignore the signs of an earthquake in others and in ourselves. (Just like we ignore the gentle tug at our hearts when we see the images from Haiti) We try to avoid the responsibility we will assume if we acknowledge the potential danger. Our mercy is curbed by our fear of getting too deeply involved. We are concerned of the danger we might experience. We are wary of the power of association.
Sometimes we don’t see the signs because the person has become incredibly adept at camouflaging their pain and circumstances. They don’t want us to see the cracks and fissures in their spiritual and emotional terrain. But if we look into our brothers’ and sisters’ faces, if we peer long enough and deep enough, we can see the fault lines. We can detect the unstable ground.
Who and where?
The lovely couple at church who seems to have it all together. Great kids. Great house. Great jobs. But their marriage is sitting on a fault line. The foundation is cracked and the gap is ever-widening.
The young adult who is weary of the peer pressure. He is tired of trying to make right choices. All his friends are drinking. A lot. This young man is so frustrated. In his attempt to do what is right there doesn’t seem to be much reward. Why continue to walk such a hard road?
The minister who knows that the relationship is not appropriate. It has crossed acceptable lines, but he is weary from the fight. And he is about to let his guard down.
The little boy who is constantly bullied at school. Being teased and ridiculed. He becomes like a timid dog backed into a corner. But in his attempts to fight back he just gains more ridicule.
The young girl who has been told she is too fat or too skinny. She is weary of being told she is simply not beautiful enough to have value. She is exhausted from the attempts to try and meet the standards and so she resorts to things she can control: her eating habits and cutting.
The middle-aged wife who has a husband who doesn’t seem to see or hear her anymore. She feels invisible. And someone pays her a compliment and her heart reawakens, but in the wrong direction.
The beautiful young woman who is told she has cancer. She has a family. An incredible career. An encouraging, faithful husband. And she loves Jesus.
The family who is living from paycheck to paycheck. Scraping to just barely get by. And the last paycheck has been issued. They have been laid off.
The once-thriving business is about to end. There is not enough clientele to keep the doors open. The owners now face bankruptcy or lose everything.
Earthquakes.
And after the earthquake there are usually multiple aftershocks, and they often leave their victims paralyzed.
Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.
We need to see that the Body is often severely wounded. It is hurting and suffering.
Sometimes it will break our hearts. But that will simply not be enough.
We must decide what we can do to help. What can we do that will truly benefit these earthquake victims? What can we do to come to their aid and truly make a difference?
We need to open our eyes.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Earthquakes, Part I
Strokes are known as the silent killers. Doctors can often see the predictors of a stroke: genetics and lifestyle, but we are still never sure when and where they will attack. And when they do they often leave their victims paralyzed. Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.
Earthquakes could also be known as silent killers. Scientists can often see the predictors of an earthquake: fault lines, unstable layers of the mantle beneath the earth’s crust and volcanic activity. To a certain degree they can predict where one might happen, but never with absolute accuracy. And when the earthquakes do happen they leave their victims paralyzed. Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.
For all our knowledge, advancements and predictions we did not see this silent killer coming when it did. Nor has our world’s technological advancements and sophistication immediately alleviated the suffering in Haiti.
The ground ruptured and broke open. Buildings shifted and collapsed. Roads were displaced. And people were/are caught, pinned and buried in the destruction. And the aftershocks cause panic and fear and chaos.
Silent killers.
We have all seen the photos on the internet or the television. We have been bombarded with images that capture the agony and misery and suffering of the Haitian people. We have heard the pleas of father not wanting the search to stop for his daughter—a daughter who was on a mission of service. She was there to feed the poor and take care of the needy. And now she is nowhere to be found. Her birthday was this week. She turned 20.
I have a twenty year old year old daughter.
One video followed a rescue team digging in the rubble, cement slabs collapsed at odd angles, to uncover a small child. The baby couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen months old—dressed in a onesie and a diaper swelled from the six or seven days she had been under the debris. One of her rescue workers held her close and gave her water, doused her head, loved on her, and then handed her to a Haitian man next to him.
We have heard the nightmare tales from the make-shift surgery centers resorting to using vodka being used to sterilize the surgery tools, hacksaws to amputate limbs and giving only Motrin to alleviate the pain. And we are reminded of our own days during the Civil War.
Catastrophe often causes us to revert to primitive and horrifying ways.
Haiti will feel the devastation of this earthquake for years and years to come.
Haiti is severely wounded. She is hurting and suffering. And it breaks my heart. But my heart breaking is just simply not enough.
Earthquakes could also be known as silent killers. Scientists can often see the predictors of an earthquake: fault lines, unstable layers of the mantle beneath the earth’s crust and volcanic activity. To a certain degree they can predict where one might happen, but never with absolute accuracy. And when the earthquakes do happen they leave their victims paralyzed. Incapacitated in some way—handicapped.
For all our knowledge, advancements and predictions we did not see this silent killer coming when it did. Nor has our world’s technological advancements and sophistication immediately alleviated the suffering in Haiti.
The ground ruptured and broke open. Buildings shifted and collapsed. Roads were displaced. And people were/are caught, pinned and buried in the destruction. And the aftershocks cause panic and fear and chaos.
Silent killers.
We have all seen the photos on the internet or the television. We have been bombarded with images that capture the agony and misery and suffering of the Haitian people. We have heard the pleas of father not wanting the search to stop for his daughter—a daughter who was on a mission of service. She was there to feed the poor and take care of the needy. And now she is nowhere to be found. Her birthday was this week. She turned 20.
I have a twenty year old year old daughter.
One video followed a rescue team digging in the rubble, cement slabs collapsed at odd angles, to uncover a small child. The baby couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen months old—dressed in a onesie and a diaper swelled from the six or seven days she had been under the debris. One of her rescue workers held her close and gave her water, doused her head, loved on her, and then handed her to a Haitian man next to him.
We have heard the nightmare tales from the make-shift surgery centers resorting to using vodka being used to sterilize the surgery tools, hacksaws to amputate limbs and giving only Motrin to alleviate the pain. And we are reminded of our own days during the Civil War.
Catastrophe often causes us to revert to primitive and horrifying ways.
Haiti will feel the devastation of this earthquake for years and years to come.
Haiti is severely wounded. She is hurting and suffering. And it breaks my heart. But my heart breaking is just simply not enough.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Winter Seed
My kitchen window has an incredible view. I can look through the long panes of glass, six feet or more, out into our yard. We have a tree stump in clear view of the kitchen window. It is what remains of a very, very large maple tree. The tree had to be cut down because it was dead—hollow and leaning precariously toward our house.
Some of it has been cut into scraps and firewood, but a stump, almost six feet long and two and a half feet in diameter, remains. There have been times I found the stump an eyesore and a nuisance. Many times I have said I want it gone.
But right now, I am so glad that it is here. We have been scattering birdseed on the top of the toppled trunk. Just plain birdseed, nothing fancy. During our last snow, I covered the trunk thickly with seeds and nuts and even a few cranberries left over from Christmas.
The birds have found the seed. And they must have told their neighbors—woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, and starlings have made appearances. Squirrels too—sitting on their haunches and furiously nibbling the food in their tiny paws. Watching them all has been a delight.
They came because there was food. They came because I took the time, effort and the little funds to scatter seed to feed them.
Just a simple act, nothing elaborate, produced, performed, or choreographed. I just wanted to provide a little nourishment for the birds in the yard.
Today as I watched the flock, I felt my heart swell and begin to hurt. I know when this happens, the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention; He wants me to see something—to be aware. My eyes brimmed and my nostrils burned.
Come eat.
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
I will feed you the richest of fare.
I will set a table in the wilderness for you.
Manna will never taste so good as what I offer you now.
I want to feed God’s people in whatever capacity that means.
I want to find a rotten, useless stump and turn it into a banquet table.
Some of it has been cut into scraps and firewood, but a stump, almost six feet long and two and a half feet in diameter, remains. There have been times I found the stump an eyesore and a nuisance. Many times I have said I want it gone.
But right now, I am so glad that it is here. We have been scattering birdseed on the top of the toppled trunk. Just plain birdseed, nothing fancy. During our last snow, I covered the trunk thickly with seeds and nuts and even a few cranberries left over from Christmas.
The birds have found the seed. And they must have told their neighbors—woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, and starlings have made appearances. Squirrels too—sitting on their haunches and furiously nibbling the food in their tiny paws. Watching them all has been a delight.
They came because there was food. They came because I took the time, effort and the little funds to scatter seed to feed them.
Just a simple act, nothing elaborate, produced, performed, or choreographed. I just wanted to provide a little nourishment for the birds in the yard.
Today as I watched the flock, I felt my heart swell and begin to hurt. I know when this happens, the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention; He wants me to see something—to be aware. My eyes brimmed and my nostrils burned.
Come eat.
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
I will feed you the richest of fare.
I will set a table in the wilderness for you.
Manna will never taste so good as what I offer you now.
I want to feed God’s people in whatever capacity that means.
I want to find a rotten, useless stump and turn it into a banquet table.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Come
Come, Holy Spirit.
I invite you. I welcome you. I bid you—Come.
Be near me. Be in the vision of my limited sight. Be Immanuel to me now. Abide with me.
You are not an apparition. Help me not to quench you, and please forgive me when I cause you to grieve. Remind me to fear not.
Give birth to spirit in me. Bring me out of the confining womb of this world. Let me born again—daily. Moment by moment.
Holy Spirit, show me Jesus. Remind me of what he said, and so guide me into the truth. Share with me the whispers of the throne room.
Testify to who I am—I am the adopted child of the Father. Remind me of the name to which I belong. Enable me to cry Abba.
Oh, Holy Spirit, you are my deposit. You are my engagement ring—the promise guaranteeing I am a part of the Bride of Christ. Guide me as I dress and prepare for His Second coming.
You are my intercessor. When words fail, moan for me. Groan for me—according to the Father’s will.
Purify me. Sanctify me—set me apart. Earmark me for use in the Father’s kingdom.
Equip me to bless the saints.
You have determined my giftings—according to your measure. Enable me to use these in proportion to my faith and the limitlessness of your grace.
Prepare me. Tell me what is yet to come. Train me. Manifest yourself in me for the common good of your Body.
John 3:5-8; John 14:15-21, 25-26; John 16:5-16;
I Corinthians 12:1-11; Romans 8:15-16; Romans 8:26-27
I invite you. I welcome you. I bid you—Come.
Be near me. Be in the vision of my limited sight. Be Immanuel to me now. Abide with me.
You are not an apparition. Help me not to quench you, and please forgive me when I cause you to grieve. Remind me to fear not.
Give birth to spirit in me. Bring me out of the confining womb of this world. Let me born again—daily. Moment by moment.
Holy Spirit, show me Jesus. Remind me of what he said, and so guide me into the truth. Share with me the whispers of the throne room.
Testify to who I am—I am the adopted child of the Father. Remind me of the name to which I belong. Enable me to cry Abba.
Oh, Holy Spirit, you are my deposit. You are my engagement ring—the promise guaranteeing I am a part of the Bride of Christ. Guide me as I dress and prepare for His Second coming.
You are my intercessor. When words fail, moan for me. Groan for me—according to the Father’s will.
Purify me. Sanctify me—set me apart. Earmark me for use in the Father’s kingdom.
Equip me to bless the saints.
You have determined my giftings—according to your measure. Enable me to use these in proportion to my faith and the limitlessness of your grace.
Prepare me. Tell me what is yet to come. Train me. Manifest yourself in me for the common good of your Body.
John 3:5-8; John 14:15-21, 25-26; John 16:5-16;
I Corinthians 12:1-11; Romans 8:15-16; Romans 8:26-27
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Marked Differences
This time of year always prompts resolutions. Many are set with what we hope is diligent resolve. This time we are going to follow through. This time we are going to finish the list. So, we buy a new journal, adopt a new diet plan, set plans to finish long-overdue projects and sundry other abstract goals.
Our own experience and statistics, however, tell us that most of these resolutions fizzle and fade and are forgotten by February.
How depressing. And the thought of making another list that I would fail to finish or fulfill seemed quite futile.
My daughter and I were discussing this the other day. Last year she really didn’t make a list, she just simply said she wanted to do better—she just wanted there to be a marked difference in the things that mattered to her.
I found my 2008 New Year’s Resolution List. I don’t know where my 2009 list is. I am not sure I even made one. The 2008 list showed up in a box of my important papers—things I don’t want to lose or misplace.
22 things were on the list.
22
Here are some of the goals I had then:
1. In-depth bible study with Terri. We studied the book of Romans. My view and perception of Paul was forever changed.
2. More art. I produced very little art that year. Lots of ideas and plans and good intentions, but little fruition.
3. Keep up this blogspot. I have kept it up, but not with the consistency I have wanted.
4. Be in a better financial place. I had someone do my taxes for me for the first time that year. I learned how to operate on a better budget.
5. Keep my relationship with my Dad and Step-mom strong and real. What a delight and thrill this one has been and is. They ate New Year’s Eve lunch with us and stopped by again today.
6. Work on loving myself…and loving others more as a result. 2008 was a remarkable year for this one.
7. I wanted a year of deep, deep prayer about where God was taking me and what he wanted me to do. Be assured when you pray this one from your heart, God will answer (you may be stunned at the answer, but he will answer).
8. I wanted more laughter. I got it.
9. I wanted to give intentionally. My goal was to give one gift per month. It didn’t happen. Again, good intentions…
10. Better school calendar. More creative and tougher. This has happened partially this year, but not to the extent I desire.
11. I wanted to have deeper involvement in a spiritual and friendship community. The roots of this goal began in 2008, but not where or what I expected—it was much deeper and far more extraordinary.
Now it is 2010.
Not only a new year, but a new decade.
Will I make a list this year?
No. Not the traditional kind.
I seem to be pretty fond of No Particular Order lists. So here are some of the goals and aspirations I have for 2010 in no particular order.
Spend less.
Envy less.
Fail less.
Complain less.
Dawdle less.
Judge less.
Worry less.
Compare less.
Exasperate less.
Critique less.
Waste less.
Afraid less.
Talk less.
Conform less.
Argue less.
Worship more.
Learn more.
Give more.
Laugh more.
Create more.
Study more.
Rest more.
Pray more.
Confess more.
Listen more.
Play more.
Encourage more.
Write more.
Care more.
Read more.
Love more.
Yes, love more.
Our own experience and statistics, however, tell us that most of these resolutions fizzle and fade and are forgotten by February.
How depressing. And the thought of making another list that I would fail to finish or fulfill seemed quite futile.
My daughter and I were discussing this the other day. Last year she really didn’t make a list, she just simply said she wanted to do better—she just wanted there to be a marked difference in the things that mattered to her.
I found my 2008 New Year’s Resolution List. I don’t know where my 2009 list is. I am not sure I even made one. The 2008 list showed up in a box of my important papers—things I don’t want to lose or misplace.
22 things were on the list.
22
Here are some of the goals I had then:
1. In-depth bible study with Terri. We studied the book of Romans. My view and perception of Paul was forever changed.
2. More art. I produced very little art that year. Lots of ideas and plans and good intentions, but little fruition.
3. Keep up this blogspot. I have kept it up, but not with the consistency I have wanted.
4. Be in a better financial place. I had someone do my taxes for me for the first time that year. I learned how to operate on a better budget.
5. Keep my relationship with my Dad and Step-mom strong and real. What a delight and thrill this one has been and is. They ate New Year’s Eve lunch with us and stopped by again today.
6. Work on loving myself…and loving others more as a result. 2008 was a remarkable year for this one.
7. I wanted a year of deep, deep prayer about where God was taking me and what he wanted me to do. Be assured when you pray this one from your heart, God will answer (you may be stunned at the answer, but he will answer).
8. I wanted more laughter. I got it.
9. I wanted to give intentionally. My goal was to give one gift per month. It didn’t happen. Again, good intentions…
10. Better school calendar. More creative and tougher. This has happened partially this year, but not to the extent I desire.
11. I wanted to have deeper involvement in a spiritual and friendship community. The roots of this goal began in 2008, but not where or what I expected—it was much deeper and far more extraordinary.
Now it is 2010.
Not only a new year, but a new decade.
Will I make a list this year?
No. Not the traditional kind.
I seem to be pretty fond of No Particular Order lists. So here are some of the goals and aspirations I have for 2010 in no particular order.
Spend less.
Envy less.
Fail less.
Complain less.
Dawdle less.
Judge less.
Worry less.
Compare less.
Exasperate less.
Critique less.
Waste less.
Afraid less.
Talk less.
Conform less.
Argue less.
Worship more.
Learn more.
Give more.
Laugh more.
Create more.
Study more.
Rest more.
Pray more.
Confess more.
Listen more.
Play more.
Encourage more.
Write more.
Care more.
Read more.
Love more.
Yes, love more.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Favorites
Another No Particular Order series, but how can I resist?
Christmas lights
Wrapped packages
Midnight on Christmas Eve
Christmas magic
Cinnamon
O Holy Night
What Child is this?
My daughter playing Carol of the Bells on the piano
Snow
Feeding the birds
Ornaments
Jingle bells
Gingerbread men
The Magi
Our Christmas tree
Laughter
Little girls in Christmas dresses
Baking
Secrets
Gatherings
Hope
Red
Poinsettias
Christmas stories (esp. The Miracle of Jonathan Toomey and The Legend of the Poinsettia by Tomie DePaolo)
The Little Drummer Boy
Creativity
Twelve Days of Christmas packages
Crèches and Nativities
Candles
Stillness
Reconciliation
Christmas magic
Sausage balls
Last minute rush
Very little sleep
Home
The people we love
Immanuel—God with us.
Christmas lights
Wrapped packages
Midnight on Christmas Eve
Christmas magic
Cinnamon
O Holy Night
What Child is this?
My daughter playing Carol of the Bells on the piano
Snow
Feeding the birds
Ornaments
Jingle bells
Gingerbread men
The Magi
Our Christmas tree
Laughter
Little girls in Christmas dresses
Baking
Secrets
Gatherings
Hope
Red
Poinsettias
Christmas stories (esp. The Miracle of Jonathan Toomey and The Legend of the Poinsettia by Tomie DePaolo)
The Little Drummer Boy
Creativity
Twelve Days of Christmas packages
Crèches and Nativities
Candles
Stillness
Reconciliation
Christmas magic
Sausage balls
Last minute rush
Very little sleep
Home
The people we love
Immanuel—God with us.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Blessed are the Poor in Spirit
For weeks I have been thinking about Jesus' words: Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of God. I have contemplated and pondered what Jesus meant--not what the commentaries or bible study authors suggest, but what did Jesus mean?
This past week God gave me a glimpse of the reality of Jesus' words.
A couple of friends and I were having a conversation with a precious woman. It was one of those random, out-of-the blue conversations.
Unplanned. Unrehearsed.
At least by us.
I can see this woman's face clearly. Gently rounded. Lovely skin. Wounded eyes.
The woundedness in her eyes broke my heart.
In the course of the conversation we started talking about church--church in general. Then we discussed the church my friends and I are a part of. We wanted her to join us and we told her. We did so because we have found healing and love there. And this woman needs both.
She looked at us and took a deep breath. The breath was so deep her chest visibly rose. Then she spoke.
"I am not sure if I can say this without crying." She whispered. She was right. The tears pooled in her eyes. She took another deep breath. I took one with her. "I am not sure If I can live up to it."
In that moment I understood religion had required too much of her. The weight of its expectations had been too great a burden.
My heart broke.
The three of us were stunned.
What a beautiful, real admission.
Simultaneously we said, "Neither can we. No one can. That's why we have grace. Jesus' grace fills the gap."
She was stunned.
The conversation started and ended in less than thirty minutes.
It was a pinhead space of time, yet a thousand angels were dancing.
A lucid, luminous moment illuminating the sweet grace of God.
If Jesus had been talking to this woman he would have told her she was not far from the Kingdom of God. It was very near her; in fact, in her statement it actually arrived and could belong to her.
Being poor in spirit means we acknowledge that we fall short. We agree there is a lack we cannot satisfy.
Religion tells us just how far we fall short and just how much we lack.
Sadly, religion also stops there--leaving the burden pressed and biting into our shoulders--with little or no hope.
On the front doors of the church we go to there is a statement: Real Hope for Real People.
Jesus offers real hope.
Jesus said when we acknowledge the poverty of our spirit then we are blessed.
When we look at the reality of our true poverty, then ours is the kingdom of God.
And we have hope.
I want this dear woman to know the richness and lavishness of God's grace. I want her to experience him filling in the gap. I want her to feel her spirit expand with the hope He offers. I want to see the woundedness in her eyes heal.
Blessed are the poor in spirit...
This past week God gave me a glimpse of the reality of Jesus' words.
A couple of friends and I were having a conversation with a precious woman. It was one of those random, out-of-the blue conversations.
Unplanned. Unrehearsed.
At least by us.
I can see this woman's face clearly. Gently rounded. Lovely skin. Wounded eyes.
The woundedness in her eyes broke my heart.
In the course of the conversation we started talking about church--church in general. Then we discussed the church my friends and I are a part of. We wanted her to join us and we told her. We did so because we have found healing and love there. And this woman needs both.
She looked at us and took a deep breath. The breath was so deep her chest visibly rose. Then she spoke.
"I am not sure if I can say this without crying." She whispered. She was right. The tears pooled in her eyes. She took another deep breath. I took one with her. "I am not sure If I can live up to it."
In that moment I understood religion had required too much of her. The weight of its expectations had been too great a burden.
My heart broke.
The three of us were stunned.
What a beautiful, real admission.
Simultaneously we said, "Neither can we. No one can. That's why we have grace. Jesus' grace fills the gap."
She was stunned.
The conversation started and ended in less than thirty minutes.
It was a pinhead space of time, yet a thousand angels were dancing.
A lucid, luminous moment illuminating the sweet grace of God.
If Jesus had been talking to this woman he would have told her she was not far from the Kingdom of God. It was very near her; in fact, in her statement it actually arrived and could belong to her.
Being poor in spirit means we acknowledge that we fall short. We agree there is a lack we cannot satisfy.
Religion tells us just how far we fall short and just how much we lack.
Sadly, religion also stops there--leaving the burden pressed and biting into our shoulders--with little or no hope.
On the front doors of the church we go to there is a statement: Real Hope for Real People.
Jesus offers real hope.
Jesus said when we acknowledge the poverty of our spirit then we are blessed.
When we look at the reality of our true poverty, then ours is the kingdom of God.
And we have hope.
I want this dear woman to know the richness and lavishness of God's grace. I want her to experience him filling in the gap. I want her to feel her spirit expand with the hope He offers. I want to see the woundedness in her eyes heal.
Blessed are the poor in spirit...
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