Dirt and Peppers

In recent days Steve and I have been working and creating new landscape around our little house. I have never done this before on this level: mulch, annuals, bed borders and many other things I still don’t know the names. We have been working together, moving dirt, attempting to save dying azalea bushes and replanting tomato volunteers. This is a new world for me. We have been growing tomatoes for several years now, but this year we are attempting peppers and petunias.

Recently on one of our Saturdays off we had been working all day (by the end we had spent nine hours outside, oh happy day!) The sun was on high beam, the breeze was light. We had quite a few plants to get in the ground, but little space left to put them without creating a garden patch in the middle of the yard (which I am not ready for!). I did, however, have extra pots and decided to put pepper plants in these containers and put them on the porch. If nothing else they could be ornamental for a while.

There I sat in the front yard, in the middle of the sidewalk. My legs were wrapped around the pot and I was bent over totally absorbed in my task. I was mixing potting soil with top soil in a porch container. I dug in the loamy black dirt with my gloved hands. I didn’t like the results so I removed my gloves and sunk my bare hands in the mixture. I was completely unaware of my surroundings.

My husband spoke. Actually I didn’t realize he had sat down on the porch step in front of me and had been watching me play in my dirt.

“You’ve become quite the gardener.” He assessed.

Startled I looked up at him. Suddenly aware I was being observed.

I chortled, “Yeah, right. I don’t have a clue to what I am doing. I’m not a gardener.”

“Are you working with plants?” he prodded.

“Yes, but I don’t know their proper names. I just know it’s a pepper or tomato.”

“Are you mixing dirt?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if I even have the proper ratios or the right kind of soil. I am just simply guessing.”

“Are you using a little garden spade?”

“Yes.” I laughed unsure of exactly what his point might be and completely assured that just using a little shovel didn't make anyone a gardener.

“Do you have dirt on your hands? On your clothes? On your face?’

I looked down. My pants were smudged and streaked with dirt and white places of fertilizer. My fingernails were dark with caked dirt. I assumed that as a result of all of this my face must be dirty too.

“Are you planting a pepper?” He asked.

“Yes. But, Steve, I don’t know the Latin names for these plants. I don’t know when they will come to fruition. I don’t know when the peppers will be ready to harvest.”

He shook his head at me. This wonderful, indulgent husband of mine just grinned at me. “Tamera, I didn’t say you were a professional gardener, but you are a gardener. You are helping things grow.”

I just looked at him. The revelation didn’t come until later. I put the pepper in the pot and covered the stringy roots with soil. I patted down the dirt around  and watered it. Then I heaved the whole thing to the porch and sat it in its place. 

Later that night and the next day I was thinking about this whole exchange between us. I mulled over the dialogue. What I remembered, what came back to me with a vivid punch of clarity, was the look on my husband’s face when he startled me. 

When he spoke those words to me: “You’ve become quite the gardener.” I looked up and I wasn’t able to interpret the look on his face at the moment. In the midst of the words and the actions of the moment I wasn’t able to decipher what I was seeing on his face.

Later when the Spirit brought this conversation back to my mind (and yes, I do believe it was the Spirit.) I recognized Steve’s look.

It was delight.

Who knows how long he had been watching me—his wife playing in the dirt on the sidewalk. Who knows how long he watched me stir and pour and mix. Who knows how long he watched me push back my hair and leave black streaks on my face.

But when I looked up there was delight on his face.

I didn’t recognize it at first (later I asked him if I had interpreted correctly.)

As I pondered this I realized that this is how the Father looks at me.

My Father watches me with great delight when I am in the midst of doing the work he has called me to do. When I am sitting on the sidewalk, absorbed in the planting of the fragile little plants he has put in my care he is delighted.

I don’t have to know the Latin names. I don’t have to know the acidity of the soil. I don’t have to know when the plants will bear fruit. I just have to plant them. Water them. Nurture them.

You see, I’m just a little girl sitting on the sidewalk, playing in the dirt and trying to make things grow.

And when I do these things He is and will be delighted in me. And he will be delighted in you when you do the same.

Oh, and by the way, that pepper plant that my husband watched me plant?

Little peppers are growing on it.

Spiritual Ribs

A long time ago when I was a college student I drove from my university’s town to my home town almost every weekend. Rarely did I stay on campus other than through the week. The road home was quite narrow, a snake-curving drive. But I became so familiar and accustomed to it that there were times I got home and realized I didn’t remember long stretches of the road at all. And that was slightly frightening because there were places on that route home that were and could have been treacherous, but for some reason my mind went on automatic—body and muscle recall.

This memory surfaced when a friend and I were talking about having idols, making choices and turning a blind eye. She said there were periods in her life she couldn’t remember mostly because of lifestyle choices she made. During this time she had embraced hidden idols and the sacrifice they had required was that she didn’t remember long stretches of time from her past and her young motherhood was a blur.

I understood this.

When I look back on my life there were several periods and long stretches in the road I don’t remember traversing. There were high and treacherous places I don’t remember navigating. In retrospect I don’t remember how in the world I did it. But I am here.

During that time I was partly in survival mode: do what you have to do, what you need to do and there wasn’t room for much more.

This is true not only of my daily physical life, but of my spiritual life. I leaf through the thin pages of my bible and read notes made in the margins. There are dates marked and tiny writing next to verses and passages. The writings are explanations and road markers of where I was. During this period I created paintings. Several of them. These paintings are wordless, but they speak volumes about the stretch of road that I was on at the time. And I have my journals. Stacks of black books that open to expose not only my cursive handwriting, but my very soul—the essence of me, and far more importantly the faithfulness and goodness of God.

The notes in my bible, the paintings and the journals remind me that God has never left me. Never forsaken me to travel alone.

He never was or is absent—perhaps silent—but never absent.

Even in the midst of my survival modes when I could only whisper sentence prayers he was present. When I didn’t know how to pray, when I didn’t know how to ask the Spirit to apply the truth of God’s word to my life he was being faithful.

I know during these times I was spiritually and emotionally emaciated. I was living on the barest of it all. You could have counted my spiritual and emotional ribs.

The years of famine.

Those were the years I don’t remember several long stretches of the road. Like Naomi and Ruth on their way from Moab back to Bethlehem, I trudged putting one foot in front of the other.

I understand and know the famine years were partly a result of my own poor choices. There were signs that famine was coming, but I didn’t heed the warnings.

Those were the lean years. Lean, ugly years.

The strangest thing? I had very little real cognition of how critical the state I was in; I was too busy trying to survive and trying to make sure everyone else survived.

Just as I have experienced the years of famine I have enjoyed the years of plenty.

And I am in the midst of them now.

And theses years have been years of fatness: of feasts, of tables laden with the richest of food, of good wine, of deep fellowship, of spiritual healing and of iron blades being sharpened.

But there are so many people in my life, so many (especially women) I love and care for, who are in the famine. Daily they live on and in the barest of it all. Famine ravages. It pilfers in coffers already empty. Famine causes us to forget the abundance or to believe it will never come our way. We’re blinded from the hunger and thirst. And we just plain can’t see our way out.

I had years of plenty in the past, but I neglected to do something crucial: I failed to store away for the times of lean. I didn’t have a deep or broad enough reserve to take me all the way through the famine. Thankfully there were wonderful people around me with reserves who were willing to share.

I understand, now, that there may be another famine in my life, but I am putting God’s word and his promises in my storehouse. I am recording his faithfulness, his goodness, and his workings in my life. Because I will go back to them. I will reread; they will help me remember. They are mile markers. Altars named by the lessons I have learned about God and his character and his involvement in my history.

No longer am I naïve enough to think that there are no more treacherous places in the road. No longer am I gullible enough to believe that I can drive based solely on familiarity. I don’t want to lose seasons of time again. I want to be awake and aware and very present—and I want to have plenty in my reserve to share. Before and when famine has reduced others to bone thinness I want to have something to offer.

I never want to be able to count my ribs again.

Mother's Day Tribute: My Big Girls

Years ago when all my daughters were still at home we had two sets of girls. In conversations and discussions we referred to the oldest girls as The Big Girls and we referred to the youngest two girls (4 ½ years after them) as The Little Girls.

The oldest two are very close in age and then there’s a gap and the two youngest girls are very close in age.

These monikers have fallen out of use. I haven’t thought of them in this way in a very long time. They have all grown up. They aren’t girls anymore. Even the youngest two are now young women, but my big girls are now women grown.

Mother’s Day 2013 was a fabulous and humbling day. I sat in church and looked down the row and all but one of my daughters were there (one had to work). And the feeling that crossed over me was just too much to attempt to explain. But I have thought about my daughters all day long. Seriously, all day.

I have thought a lot about The Big Girls. These big girls are now mamas themselves. They both sat in church this morning with their sons in their laps—great big boys already. And as I looked sideways at them I watched them do things that mothers do—things good mothers do, and I smiled. And for a few minutes I was transported back.

Back to when they were babies. Back to when, as a young mother I panicked because an elder’s wife passed my first born six week old daughter across the pews to anyone who wanted to hold her. My young mother heart was frantic as I looked across what seemed like a sea of people trying to find my daughter—my beautiful daughter. I was so mad. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have been. But I was. She was being held by someone I didn’t even know; I hadn’t even met the woman and she was cradling Anna in her arms five pews away. I learned my lesson: from then on I carried Anna’s car seat into church and she stayed in it—I was the only who got her out after that. And when Katherine was born I followed suit.

Elijah got his finger hurt during the service and I thought about his mama. She was barely walking, but independent and curious. She reached into the trash and pulled out a ravioli can. She stuck her hand into the can which was fine, but the cut tin lid remained attached. When she attempted to pull her hand back out she caught her pinkie finger on the edge and almost sliced off the pad of her finger. Moving at what I considered warp speed I ran to try and stop her, but I failed. I packed Anna and Katherine into the car and went to see Dr. Becknell, our family doctor. He was in his eighties and still practicing medicine. He had seen much and he did a great deal to calm my mothering fears. He knew I was feeling inadequate and like an awful mom because I allowed my child to get hurt. He assured me her finger would be fine, but that this wouldn’t be the last time. He was right.

These Big Girls taught me more about mothering than any book or any other person. They exploded all my theories about motherhood and they found all the holes and gaps I had in my knowledge of children and development. They taught me that mothering wasn’t for the weak, or the timid or the impatient. They taught me that theories were just that—good ideas that sometimes worked and often didn’t. I thought I knew so much when Anna was born—I had taken care of my much younger brother and my step-nephew. I had baby sat and been a summer nanny. I really thought I was well educated, but what I learned is that I didn’t know much.

When they cried I couldn’t hand them back to my mom or my step-sister. When they cried I had to decide what was hurting them, what was lacking or what was wrong. And I learned I was inadequate. I was not an expert. I learned that the scant amount of knowledge was not enough.

This Mother’s Day I want to thank my oldest daughters—my big girls. They helped me grow up. And now they have children of their own. Because of these two older girls I was a better mother to their younger sisters. And because of them I am a better grandmother.

Occasionally I wish I could go back and repair and fix my regrets—all the things I did wrong. All the things I should have done differently. There’s a sore spot in my mother’s heart for what I didn’t know when I had them because I was ignorant, because I was clueless. But I do pray and hope that when I erred I did on the side of love. I wanted to do what was good and right for my girls. I wanted to do what would benefit them. I know I didn’t always get it right.

Now, on this Mother’s Day one of the very best unsolicited pieces of advice I can tell my big girls is that you won’t always get it all right with these sons of yours. You won’t always know what to do or how to help them. You won’t always be able to keep their hands out of ravioli cans or from being in awkward situations. And there will be times that you hold them and just simply cry because you seem to be at a loss.

But…

I have watched you mother these boys in the past eight months. I have watched the tenderness in you toward them. I have watched you hurt when they do, cry when they have. I have seen you love them, hold them, comfort them, soothe them.

I have watched you challenge and push these boys—putting things just beyond their reach so that they will move forward to gain what they need and want. I have listened to you talk to them in a grown-up way. There has been no diluting of language for them with you. I have watched you play and laugh with them.

I have listened to you hush them to stillness. I have watched these sweet boys go limp in your arms—feeling safe, secure and loved—their little bodies sinking into you. I have watched them look at you with ecstatic recognition. I have seen you gently correct these boys already teaching them that it is good for a man to be gentle. And I know you have held these boys and whispered prayers over them.

And my own mother’s heart has been enlarged. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of the mothers you are. Elijah and Judah will be richer because of you. They will have a perspective of the world that will be different because of you. They will engage life diffently because they have you in their lives. And I am so glad.

I hope you hear me: I am very proud of you.

My big girls are women grown now, and they have become beautiful, beautiful mamas.

Happy Mother’s Day my daughters.

May these boys teach you as you taught me.

Katherine and Elijah

Anna and Judah

Easier Said Than Done, Part 1

Lately I have had many conversations with women about beauty. Earlier this week a group of women met in our local coffee shop (a gorgeous place by the way: The Cairn). Six women. Eighteen and nineteen year olds and forty- somethings. The conversation meandered and found its way to a topic for the day: are we beautiful? Am I beautiful?

I’m not sure how the conversation meandered to this subject. I just know that every woman at that table had struggled with this question.

“Every woman wants to be beautiful,” said one of the forty-somethings. “All of us, deep down, want to be beautiful. All little girls need to have their daddies telling them they are beautiful.”

She is right. And the enemy knows this. He preys and feeds with great frenzy on the tender flesh of this fact. The enemy has distorted, warped and bent the definition of beauty until it is unattainable.

We have bought into the lie.

The lie that beauty is equivalent to model perfection.

Often we have traded beauty for slick, cool sensuality—not even feminine allure, but an empty sexual magnetism that is for exhibition and exploitation.

And we find ourselves and our daughters struggling and grappling with devastating disappointment.

Beauty is examined, discussed and touted in magazines, talk shows and in the media as if it were a commodity to be bought or attained at all cost. But it seems that the media and the fashion industry hold the only acceptable definition of beauty. And they keep it ever beyond our reach.

Little girls want to be sexy before they even understand sexuality. Young girls and women are starving themselves to whittle their bodies to look like the glossy magazine photos of women who without the aid of photo shop would never appear as they do. Women are looking into the mirror and hating, even loathing, what they see because the image reflected does not look like a Victoria’s Secret model.

Women often cry fat and ugly because they are constantly comparing and being compared to a standard that is arbitrary and unrealistic. Men do not escape. Men are bombarded by these images and they look and find that very few women in their lives meet this stringent definition of sexual allure and beauty. This creates a huge gap between expectations and reality.

As I listened to the conversation earlier this week my heart broke. It just split right apart.

I’m very sorry to say I believe with conviction that the church has bought into this lie too. Perhaps not as blatantly. Maybe not as openly. But allow Beth Moore to gain a size or two on her small frame and see what happens. Let Priscilla Shirer cut her ebony locks into a short bob and hear the talk. Doubt me? Ask Mandisa about the sting of the image censor on American Idol several seasons ago.

A new friend and I were discussing this same subject. We talked about how this image mentality affects us regardless of age. She is a nurse. She shared something so sad that it actually made me ache. During her rotations as nurse and caregiver to the terminally ill she encountered this negative image consciousness: women in their eighties would want their gowns pulled and fixed in a way not to show the fat of their bodies.

The image of a worn, wrinkled and dying woman pulling at a hospital gown so that a nurse couldn’t see her fat just tears at my heart. What have we done?

The enemy wants us to believe our value comes from our appearance: the right body size, the right body shape, and the right clothes. Not only do we need all of this, but we also need straight teeth and perfectly arched eyebrows and luscious locks. If one or any of these are absent then we are lacking. Even if we have ALL the others, the one lack will be our focus.

This isn’t news to us, is it? We have heard this before. We know this is not the truth, but when you hear a lie so often and coming from so many places you begin to dance along the edges of it. Eventually you find yourself entertaining the lie on your porch.

Beauty.

Is it really that elusive? Is it reserved for only a few? Is it only physical? Is it a quality that only the elite can afford or obtain—whoever the elite might be?

Can real beauty be achieved by manufactured means?

For our sakes and the sakes of our daughters, and for our sons and husbands, we need to redefine beauty.

We need to decide—not Vogue, not Seventeen, not Oprah, not Victoria’s Secret and not Abercrombie & Fitch. No vague faceless they needs to decide.

Someone at that table this week said, “Easier said than done.”

Because They're Mine

My husband, two of my daughters and I had a long conversation at our favorite Mexican restaurant tonight. Just goes to show you that the presence of God is not confined, limited or hindered by location—for where two or more are gathered there he is also…

During this conversation, midst tears, something I had been thinking and mulling resurfaced.

Between my husband and me we have eight gorgeous daughters. Yes, you read that correctly: eight. They range from 17-27 years old. We have three grandsons between us. They are all born in September and range from 8 months to 2 ½ years old. We have two great sons-in-law and one joining us in June. This combined family has never been altogether, and one of our dreams is to have them all in one place at one time. This might just happen in June of this year as Steve’s oldest daughter will be getting married.

We love this family of ours. Surely, we do. My husband and I have talked about this—often. We have had many conversations about these daughters of ours. They are part of why my husband and I are rich.

Recently I was looking at my grandsons’ pictures. I had been with both of them during the week. I know. I know. I’m doing the grandmother thing again: bragging on my grandsons. Honestly, I just can’t help it. Anyway, I watched their sweet faces and listened to their gurgles, coos and babbling. I held them in my arms and dodged their fingers pulling on my face. I was thinking about how much they have grown and developed in eight months. I considered how many developments they had achieved. And of course I have deeply loved and crazily applauded every single one, even if in my mind.

But I started thinking about when my daughters brought Elijah and Judah home from the hospital (actually before). These babies did nothing but cry, eat, sleep and fill diapers. They didn’t hug us back. They didn’t kiss us back. They didn’t look at us with recognition. They didn’t interact with us. They didn’t talk to us.

Yet we loved them anyway.

We swaddled them in their soft blankets, pulled them as close as we could and buried our noses in the softness of their sweet necks. We stared at them. We counted their fingers and toes. We traced the outline of their ears and lips.

Why?

Because they are ours.

Even though they didn’t love us back yet, even though they didn’t respond to us we loved (and do love them) anyway.

We love them because they are ours.

Over the past eight months they have grown. In every way. They interact, respond, and react to us now. They have developed these unique personalities—serious, contemplative, cuddly and charming, curious and busy. They are so much more than those few word descriptions; they are becoming little people.

But you see I loved them before this. Because they are mine. My grandsons are my daughters’ children. Just as I loved my daughters I love these boys. I loved them before they ever loved me. I delighted in their development. I was thrilled each time they learned something new regardless of how trivial or small it seemed. I clapped and shouted often.

Just today I said it to both of my grandsons, Yay! Elijah. Yay! Judah. And my smile almost split my face.
If I can love like this…

If I, who in comparison could be called evil, if I can love like this, then what must God’s love really be like? If I, not knowing how to love perfectly, can love like this—then please tell me what the perfect love of God is like?

He loves us because we are his.

We came just like baby Elijah and Judah—with almost less than the basics. We came to him doing nothing more than eating, sleeping, and crying.

And he loved us. Just us. Our frail, fragile little selves.

And then we began to grow. We grew incrementally. We developed and reached new stages. We acquired new skills.

And the Father watched.

He delighted in our development. He was thrilled when we learned something new—regardless of how trivial or small. He shouted and clapped when we were obedient.

But he loves us because we are his.

It is my prayer that my daughters and my grandsons understand that my love for them is not based on what they do, but who they are. Not based on what they accomplish, but because of who they are. I love my children because they are mine.

And if I, who am frail and sinful, can love like this…

Then please consider what kind of love our Father has for us.





Because They're Ours!





Tatem Axel



Elijah David




Judah Nathaniel



katherine and Elijah




David, Katheine and Elijah



Tamera (Mama) and Anna





Noni and Elijah



Noni, Judah and Elijah

David, Abby and Tamera

Noni and Judah

Aunt Liv (Olivia) and Elijah

Elizabeth

Hannah and Tatem

Stephanie



Gabrielle



Olivia

Hannh and Trevor



Elizabeth, Stephanie and Gabrielle



Abby

Elizabeth and Keegan

Abby and Olivia



Anna and Judah




Stephanie and Tristan



Tamera and Steve

Sanctuary

This morning I sit in my makeshift sanctuary. It really doesn’t look like a sanctuary. Laundry is spread on the couch waiting to be folded and put away. Dishes from breakfast sit dirty and empty on the coffee table. Books are strewn on both sides of me. One section of a wall has been pulled away to expose our plumbing because a plumber had to come this week. The pack and play sits out because I forgot to put it back in place after the boys left one day. So, it doesn’t look like a sanctuary.

But it doesn’t have to look like a sanctuary to be one. This back room of mine is a sanctuary because of God’s presence. That’s what makes any ground, any place holy.

His presence.

Burning bushes are sacred and holy because our God reveals himself there. A sanctuary is a place set aside for the purpose of something holy and good. It is a place that has been cleansed and prepared to, at least momentarily, hold the weight of God.

In that sense we, who are his children—his people, are sanctuaries. We, these common earthen pots, hold the surpassing greatness of God. Did you just read that or gloss right over it? Paul says that we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all surpassing power is from God and not from us.

Since April 7th I have been involved in a Bible study with a group of women. The book we use? Idol Lies by Dee Brestin. A book about idolatry. A book about cheating on God. A book about turning to other lovers. A book about spiritual adultery. It has been a hard study. But something has happened that we didn’t expect, or at least I didn’t.

We are a messy group. We have issues. We have discovered the idols under our camel’s saddle. It is not a neat and pristine place.

But!

This women’s group, the twenty-seven, has become a sanctuary.

It has become a place of holiness. A place that has momentarily held the surpassing power of God. A place where His presence hovers and abides. A place of protection and safety.

For a little while on Sunday nights these women cry sanctuary. And God hears.

And in this sanctuary I behold the glory of God.

As I look out at the sea of faces I see his weight in each of them. This very essence of Him is radiating from the portals of their eyes that usually swim with unshed tears. And I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I think they need veils. Just for my sake.

I lead this study—that really is a funny thing. Because right now all I can do is stand with Isaiah in the temple. In the sanctuary. And in this sanctuary I see the train of Almighty God’s robe in the honesty, transparency, realness and compassion of these women. I feel his presence in their longing to lay down their idols, to tear down the high places and to allow him to crush their stones.

And I, inside my heart and head, I am crying, “Oh, Lord. Woe to me. I have unclean lips. How can I speak to these women? Bring the coals, quick, before my lips even part.  "

Because in the midst of their confessions, in the midst of their tears, I hear them whispering, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty.”

And I join them.

Sanctuary.

All that manifested in Isaiah’s physical temple is happening inside of our spiritual temples. These women are crying, “Holy, holy, holy.” They want their lives to whisper and shout it. And they are stepping in line to have their tongues seared.

And I see his glory.

They are reflecting his glory. They are being transformed into his likeness.

Each one.

With ever increasing glory they are housing the weight of God.







C.S. Lewis: Weight of Glory



Ephesians 4: 6

One God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.

Unbending the Bow

The difference between this morning and yesterday is mind-boggling.

This morning, as it is often, the house is so quiet. The only things I hear are my own typing and the rotating of the dryer drum as it dries the laundry. I do hear thunder way off—muted. But it’s coming. The sky is dark this morning. The threat of rain hovers.

And I am tired. I feel it deeply this morning. I am sitting here in my sanctuary attempting to wait on the Lord. Or, perhaps just to simply rest in him. To lay all and everything down and to rest. I’m sure it won’t last long, but I want to enjoy being immersed in it for just a few moments—regardless of how brief.

I’ve been given a release, a momentary sabbatical, from schedule, routine and fastings this morning. Just a brief time of remaining in pajamas, forgetting the dishes and the messy living spaces, the chapters to be read and the study to be pondered.

My bow has been pulled taunt for quite a while. So, this morning I’ve taken my fingers off the bowstring. And the unbending of the bow is a blessing.

May you find a momentary sabbatical in the midst of your routine today.

Snarling Dogs

Come, let us return to the Lord.

He has torn us to pieces,

But he will heal us; He has injured us

But he will bind up our wounds.

Hosea 5: 1

We, a precious community of incredibly diverse women, are in the thickness of a study by Dee Brestin called Idol Lies. I found this book through Ann Voskamp.  I haven’t read any of Dee's work since she and Kathy Troccoli wrote their series together several years ago. The description of the study caught my attention. I was inwardly hoping that it surely didn’t apply to me. But I bought the book. And God has used it. My heart has been pierced—lanced.




Idols turn on us. It’s as if we have been carrying around these stone statues and their faces suddenly break into horrific animation.

At first they beckon us and promise us comfort, security and approval. They offer to supply what we crave. These idols are well disguised. We believe them to be just ordinary longings. Commonplace needs that have little to no affect. And they do supply what they advertise.

Momentarily.

For a brief period of time the food fills, the alcohol and drugs free, the social networks connect, the relationship quenches, the control offers order, the approval gives us confidence. On the surface all seems to be good.

Eventually the idols turn on us. Like a once friendly house dog, it snarls and briefly bares its fangs. At first we can soothe it with kind words. And the idol will go tame. We breathe easier because it seems under control again. But quite often the dog begins to dominate the house, and we begin to tiptoe around it. We are cautious and catch ourselves cowering when it dips its head and lowly growls.

Who then is the master?

We find ourselves chained to the wrist of a comfort we no longer recognize. This once easily controlled idol now demands more. And more. Never satisfied. Never content. What once tasted good, now lays bitter on our tongues. We wince at the acidity of what once seemed sweet.

No one tells us that our idols will turn on us.

No one explains that there could come a time when we will struggle to say no.

I know women. I am one. We look in the mirror and often detest what we see. Or we think others do. This colors our perceptions of our worlds. And the idols offer a little more. And we believe the lies: if only I had a little more control, if I did this more efficiently, if I lost weight, if I were more attractive, if I could be more intelligent, if I could go back and change that one decision. And the lies unfold by the accordion pleats. One right after another.

Seems like I have believed them all. I have soothed the snarling dog often.

But Hosea's words have caught me. Just as he once beckoned Israel, Hosea's words now beckon me. He pleads for me (us) to return to the Lord. Hosea says yes, the Lord has torn us to pieces. He has injured us. But…

In the past weeks through our Bible study we have felt like we have been torn to pieces.  That’s how we have felt as we have faced these ugly dogs that have taken up residence in our homes. We have been made aware that these once seemingly docile animals are now unpredictable.

And we have been bitten. Some of us more than once. Some of us are in serious condition.

These snarling dog idols leave us in our wounded positions unattended; they leave us bleeding and in pain. Their once full promises are now nothing more than empty words, backed by nothing more than vaporous lies.

But God…

What God has torn away he will heal. The wounds he will bind. He does not leave us unattended. He does not forsake us. His promises will be fulfilled.

As we face these ugly, snarling dogs we need to understand God is not afraid of them. He is not intimidated or halted by their territorial presence or barking bravado. He will come in and be our Bridegroom protecting and defending his bride. He will step between us and the dog if we ask him. He will open the door and toss the dogs outside, if we ask. Often we don’t ask.

Let’s ask. Please let’s ask.

There have been moments in recent days when futility has threatened to overtake me. I have despaired of this barrage of sudden awareness (or perhaps acknowledgement) of the idol lies present in my life. Wearied, I have considered just throwing up my hands and saying I just can’t do this. There’s too many.

But the Lord has whispered. He has spoken.

Tamera, I will restore you, and you will live in my presence. And you will be satisfied. Open the door.

A Hard Conversation

Oh, Gomer.

I have wanted to have a discussion with you. With you and with our sister Hagar, but today my conversation is with you.

I’m not sure what drove you to the life you led. I can’t see the turns you had to make. I don’t know what circumstances in life caused or led you to where you were. I’m not sure who left you, abandoned you, abused you, tricked you, coerced you or tempted you.

How many empty eyes did you look into and then away? How many nights were you left alone and lonely? How often did you cry because you were being known, but no one knew you?

Tell me, Gomer, when Hosea came was there a point when you realized just what kind of love you were being offered? Was there a moment of lucidity that allowed you to see past the place you had been and were?

When Hosea came and touched you, brushed his finger across your cheek, did you cringe because you were afraid of him or yourself? When he offered you his name did you shudder and wonder if he could handle the damage you would do to his name? Did you wince because you thought he would suddenly realize what you were? That he would wake up and recognize you and all the places you’ve visited? Or visited you?

Did you question the sanity of a man who kept bringing you back? Who kept carrying you home? Who kept loving you even when you spit in his face? Or turned your head from him? Did his love for you disclose and reveal your lack? Did it hurt you when you saw the pain on Hosea’s face? Did it concern you that you grieved him?

Did you keep returning to your old life because you didn’t feel worthy of your new one? Did you feel so much shame at being offered something so good and so right, when you knew yourself to be anything but? Did you go back to your former self because you were just sure you didn’t deserve the love you were being offered? Did you feel guilty for wanting it?

Why, Gomer? Why?

I wish I didn’t know you, Gomer. I wish I had no kinship with you. No association. But I have and sometimes I do.

I have stood naked before God. He has seen where I’ve been and what I’ve done, but like your Hosea he keeps coming after me.

Pursuing me.

Me—

His bride who sometimes hides idols under her camel’s saddle. His bride who often turns to other lovers. The adulteress.

And yet still He comes. He comes to me—knowing where I’ve been. Knowing the sins and my other lovers. He comes to me and whispers in my ear that he loves me. He doesn’t say he loves me anyway. Just that he loves me. He doesn’t come to me and point out the ugliness of my nakedness. He doesn’t come and condemn me to a stoning because I have not been faithful.

He comes and brushes my cheek and says,

I have loved you with an everlasting-love. I have drawn you with cords of kindness. I have hovered near waiting for you to turn and see me. I have stood with open and outstretched arms to welcome you back..

He lifts my chin and looks straight into my eyes and says, You are precious to me, and I love you. Though you are not faithful, I am.

Gomer, I’m sorry I said I wish I didn’t know you. I was lashing out because you turn a mirror toward me and I see myself reflected. Often I don’t look like I thought I would. I wanted to blame you for that, just as, perhaps, you wanted to blame others. But we can’t do that, Gomer.

Instead let you and I run into His arms and hide in the curve of them. Let’s press our ears against his chest and feel his heartbeat. Let’s let him love us. Let’s allow him to strip away the accessories of our prostitution. Let’s give him permission to unlock the fetters of our whoredom. Let’s ask him to send the other lovers away. Let’s have him answer the door when they knock and tell them they are no longer welcome.

And let’s tell him that more than anything we want him to make us his pure spotless bride.









Reading Materials:

Idol Lies by Dee Brestin, chapter 4


Hosea

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers

Love in a Broken Vessel by Mesu Andrews

Tuesday Morning Prayer

Heavenly Father,


Oh, the sunshine today! I bless you for the sun and its rays and that when I go outside I feel like a new person. Thank you that I can shed my winter skin. I can shed the insulation that has been accumulated during the cold and the drab. Thank you that the air smells new and green is hinting every where. Thank you for my front porch. Thank you for the red nectar in the hummingbird feeders and freshly bathed dogs who have wet noses. Thank you for little boys getting to touch the grass for the first time. Thank you for mamas who take their children to the park.

Thank you for your word. Thank you for having Paul write Ephesians. Thank you for the profoundness and the simplicity of his letter. Thank you that because of Paul’s letters from almost two thousand years ago I can know who I am and what I am to do. Thank you that you reveal your will to me in the sentences and phrases and paragraphs from his pen.

Thank you for prayer. Thank you that you hear me. That you bend your ear, and you bend down to feed me. That’s what your word says. Thank you that prayer is far more than many think and not at all what people think. Thank you for my calling. Make me worthy today, Father. Worthy of that calling I have received.
But this morning too, Lord, people are hurting. They are afraid, frightened, scared, wounded, bleeding, confused, perplexed and shocked. People around me are hurting in ways that I cannot even wrap my arms around. They are lonely. They are despairing. They are longing and yearning for their emptiness to be filled. And they are filling it with things that will eventually only contribute to the emptiness. These things will only dig the cavern deeper. People are fighting fierce demons and flesh appetites that are devastating.

People around us are weeping and we don’t see. We are blind or have chosen to turn our heads. And we are turning deaf ears to their loud cries. And we are putting our hands in our pockets.

Father, intervene. And yet as I ask this of you I wonder…have you asked me to do something for someone and I have ignored your proddings. Through me have you wanted to intervene into the chaos of someone’s life, but I didn’t want one more thing on my plate? Have I turned my head and pretended I didn’t hear you? Or have I given you a perplexed look as if I didn’t understand your instructions?

Father, Dave shared with us that faith is far more than what we say or think or even believe. It is what we do with those words, thoughts and beliefs. Do they remain these abstract concepts—good in theory, but not in practical every day life? Father, there must be flesh to my faith. Hurting people don’t need abstract thought, they need someone who will put their shoulder under theirs and lift them for a little while.

Father, I pray that you would help your children to allow their faith to have flesh. Teach us to be doers of your word. Teach us to love not just in word, but in deed. I don’t know exactly how you want me to do that today. But I ask that you help me pull my hands out of my pockets, help me to stop turning a blind eye and help me to be willing to hear. To listen.

I pray for fathers who have lost their sons today. I pray for mothers who are weeping for absent children. I pray for marriages that are suddenly splintered or slowly decaying. I pray for those who are battling cancer—their own bodies turned against them. I pray for the caretakers who are weary and tired and worn. I pray for those who battle addictions and are desperate. I pray for those who are looking in the mirror and hating who they see. I pray for those who are lonely, who come home to empty houses and empty beds and empty tables. I pray for those who have sent sons and daughters into harm’s way. I pray for those who are in war with depression and are clawing their way out. I pray for those who have lost their way and can’t seem to find their purpose.

Your children are hurting, Lord. We need you to move. We need you to heal. We need you to protect. We need you to provide. But we are a part of your answer; please help us to be obedient. Help us to be the messengers. Jesus became flesh and dwelt among us so that we might see you, please help us to become flesh now that people might see you.



Amen and amen

It Heals Me

When I was a young mother, a long time ago now, I used to take my four daughters to visit my maternal grandmother.


She was a character (You might enjoy two former posts Mad-e-lyn and Too Big for My Britches )




Madelyn, my grandmother and her youngest daughter, my Aunt Lana.

Granny was full of spit and vinegar. Opinionated. And believe me she thought her opinions were the gospel truth. Her point of view was the plumb line for everyone and everything around her and sometimes my choices and decisions didn’t match hers. Did I ever feel her heat then!

Granny was widowed early in life. Never married again and lived quite a bit of her widowed life alone. She maintained and ran the farm by herself—leasing land for crops and selling cattle. Granny didn’t drive, but she was fiercely independent in such an odd and unconventional manner.

Years ago I would pack the van and my girls and we would make the long and winding drive to her house. The girls often got carsick, and felt quite green by the time we reached my grandmother’s road. We would see the house before we got there: an old white farm house with black shutters and a wide, deep front porch. It sat on a low, rolling hill, and her yard was full of trees and flowers. Granny’s house was always immaculate, and of course the kitchen was the center and the hub regardless of who her company was. Perhaps that is why my own home tends to be that way now (not immaculate, mind you. I have never been able to manage that particular skill).

We all have idiosyncrasies. We have quirks and funny habits that our families tease us for and sometimes even playfully mimic. My grandmother had several. For some reason I just couldn’t get my mind wrapped around her idioms and her language and what she meant by either. My girls and I would tolerate this. Much to my dismay I now realize that I encouraged the tolerance rather than set an example for acceptance and respect. But I was young too. And in reality I was convinced I knew a great deal more than my Granny.

Oh, that’s a funny thought now.

When we would arrive she would throw her arms and hands up in the air and a smile would break out on her face. And she would exclaim, “Lord! Lord, have mercy. My children. My children. Oh, my children.” And then she would grab each one of us and squeeze and pat really hard, almost as if she couldn’t contain herself. My girls would smile politely and endure the whole greeting episode because, of course this was Mom’s eastern Kentucky grandmother.

But there was one thing she said and did that has remained with me all these years. Granny would pull us to herself and press her cheek against ours and her voice would lower, almost to a whisper, and she would say,

“Oh, it heals me. It heals me.”

I didn’t understand. I wasn’t exactly sure what or whom she was addressing. And my girls were even more confused than I was.

This would happen several times in the course of our visit. Random times. Then we would leave; we would say our goodbyes and she would stand on the cement back porch and then follow us to the end of the sidewalk. Always as I backed the van out of the driveway there would be tears in her eyes and she waved until we were far down the road.

Through the years that phrase has haunted me. Yes, that is the correct word. At random times, in unexpected places I have remembered my grandmother’s words and tone and gestures. And instead of tolerance I now remember them with a deep fondness.

God tends to bring all things full circle.

I am no longer a young mother. I am a grandmother now. I am called Noni (long o). I have two grandsons: Elijah and Judah. They are the beautiful sons of my two oldest daughters. They were born in September thirteen days apart. They are at wonderfully delightful ages. I see them at least once a week, and I often get to keep them overnight.



Elijah, on left. Judah, on right.


They reach for people now. They take your face in their hands and give open mouth cheek-plant kisses. They talk and gurgle and coo. They laugh and smile. They play peek-a-boo and high-five and pull hair and climb up your body when you hold them. They are alive, warm and real.

Several weeks ago my grandmother’s words came back to me. I spent time with both boys during the week snuggling and cuddling with them. Both boys pressed their little faces up against mine and then put their heads down on my shoulder and fell asleep—heavy, warm and solid in my arms.

Oh my. I am blessed.

The feeling that flooded over and through me in those moments was startling in its clarity. Pure and deep. All the pressures and worries and concerns of the day just melted away. These little boys, who look and feel so much like my daughters, brought healing to all the rough and uneven places in me. All the ruffled feathers, all the whipping waves, all the untidy places in me were momentarily smoothed over.

And I understood my grandmother’s words. Or at least I gained a more profound comprehension of the idea of them. I am not sure she could have explained exactly what she meant. But that day I experienced with the boys the feeling she must have had when we came to see her and for a few brief moments she pressed her cheek against ours.

We brought her hope. And hope heals.

I even said it aloud to Elijah and Judah. I whispered it to my grandsons. I pressed the boys to my cheek and spoke my grandmother’s words—it heals me. It heals me. Finally, I understood. I thought I would be embarrassed. Briefly it crossed my mind that my girls would think their mama had reached way too deep into her roots. But they didn’t, or at least they had the grace not to comment aloud. I realized it didn’t matter if they did.

God offers hope and healing in the most unexpected and unorthodox ways.

In Elijah and Judah I feel the movement and expansion of our family. A new generation—full of promise, potential and purity. And this hope often brings a healing balm to the rough and wounded places in a family’s DNA.

All things encompassed in these compact little boys cries hope. Their birth and growth signals that the family is beginning yet again. They offer another chance. Another beginning.

Another time to get more right. Another time to be more intentional. Another time to make more time. Another time to be patient. Another time to offer grace. Another time to laugh. Another time to forgive. Another time to set chores aside. Another time to enjoy. Another time to choose. Another time to love.

And all these other times lend to healing.

God is so good. I bless him for bringing idiosyncrasies full circle.

Lord! Lord, have mercy. My children. My children.

Someday, I am quite sure, Elijah and Judah will tolerate their Noni’s idiosyncrasies. They will just shake their heads and whisper to each other, Here she comes. She’s going to hug us and not let go. She’s going to say things that seem like a different language. She’s going to do that funny little dance.

And I am going to laugh because God will bring it all full circle.

Granny would have loved these little boys—her great, great grandsons. She probably would have squeezed too hard and too long, but it would have been deeply rooted in love. The boys would have wiggled and tried to get away, but my grandmother would have had her momentary healing.

I certainly have.






**Photos of Elijah and Judah taken by Rae Rector Photography. The photographer and owner of this company is my daughter, Katherine. She is Elijah's mama.