Do It Anyway

The cover of the latest (October 2012) Christianity Today is covered with 1 ½” photos of twenty-five women. The headline reads: Fifty Women to Watch: Those Most Shaping the Church and Culture.


My reactive thoughts immediately had me asking can we put any more pressure on these women. Can we make the fish bowl any larger or set it at any more of a visible angle? Why do we do this? Why must we turn everyone into a celebrity? These women are servants, and many of them deal with their own issues. Now they have to add being watched. It’s enough to become a hermit! Or to fight the ugly dragon of hubris (awful pride) mentioned often by Madeleine L’Engle.

Yet, the muted cover with its female symbol stopped me. The photos of the women’s faces stopped my stickering and preparing this magazine for the shelf. I recognized several of the faces. Many of these women have been tools the Lord has used to speak to me. Their words have often pierced me, inspired me, angered me, impassioned me, coaxed me and redirected me.
Ann Voskamp. Beth Moore. Margaret Feinberg. Joni Eareckson Tada. Household names. Their books are on my book shelves. My Bible and journals are peppered with insights I have found in their studies. They are now familiar faces and even more familiar voices. We recognize them and their style—their place in the kingdom.

I thank God for Beth and Ann and all the others. Regardless of anybody and everybody’s opinion these women have been doing kingdom work and sometimes they take intense heat for it. Beth and Ann and many others, however, have been revisiting and revising and reinventing a woman’s place in God’s kingdom.

But as I thought about these women I considered others. Ones whose faces weren’t on the cover of the nation’s most well known Christian publication. They didn’t make the cover and they weren’t one of the fifty mentions inside the pages.

I thought about these women. Women you may never meet, you may never hear their voices, or see their faces. Women you may never recognize at a conference or on the back of a book. Women whose influence you may never be able to trace. I hesitate somewhat here. I don’t want the recognition they receive here from me to be their reward. My thoughts about and for them are simply not enough. So, I hesitate.

But I write anyway.

Why do we hesitate to say the good? Why are we reluctant to allow good words, kind words, uplifting words to whistle through our lips? Yet, ugliness and harshness blows past before we even think.

We wait too long, we hesitate too often to encourage and exhort. We hold back our words of affirmation for fear they have a feel of flattery. We are reluctant with our intuition and encouragement because we feel we will be the fool if we misread a situation or a particular look on someone’s face. We are afraid. Deep down we worry that the acknowledgement of someone else’s contributions and gifts will cause us to be accountable for our own. Blessing someone else often makes us feel vulnerable. We become transparent because we become brave enough to allow someone else to know we see into their lives. We see them.

Women scare us. We’re afraid of comparisons and falling short. We are afraid to share our victories because then we feel we must confess our failures. (I do this constantly. I am forever pointing out my own faults and failures. Attempting to make sure that I am real with others. But our gifts are what make us real too. And they need to be acknowledged.)

Women can be hard and exacting creatures. But the lesson for me in recent months has been don’t wait to say something good or encouraging to someone. Don’t wait to be kind. Don’t hesitate to tell a woman that she is lovely—and it is not just about her clothes or the ability to accessorize. Don’t be reluctant to, out of the blue, look at someone and say I appreciate the way you…

Paul tells us that we are to spur one another on to good deeds. We are to encourage one another daily (Hebrews 10:25). We are also afraid to do this because what if someone doesn’t do or offer it back? What if others disagree with us? What if no one looks at us and pats us on the back? What then? In the words of Martina McBride: Do It  Anyway .  This You Tube clip is worth watching!

(Mother Teresa’s poem Mother Teresa's poemseemed to have inspired this song.

Today, I am doing just that. I am tired of being afraid to bless the Body of Christ. I am weary of worrying how my words will be received. I am slightly exasperated with our reluctance to bless instead of criticize.

There are some women in or around my world who are quietly living in the valley, diligently doing what has been given to their hands to do, embracing the place they are and blessing many within their realm of influence. They are doing many things anyway. They need to know that this life in the valley will be worth it. It will be of value. It does and will have purpose.

My list is not fifty women long—although it could have been.

Meet some of the women of my world.


Terri Smith—read the post  Quarter of a Century

Amy Scalf—our minister’s wife. My good friend. She is not a typical minister’s wife. In Amy there’s very little sugar, but there’s plenty of spice. Six adopted children call her mama. She lost a precious son when he was barely three years old, and she bears the scars from the battle, but they have empowered her to minister to others who have lost a child. Many people teach, but Amy is a teacher. And, yes, there is a difference. She has a strong gift of administration and wields it deftly. Amy knows the truth; she tells it like it is and straightens out the messes. She weeps silently, hurting for the deep things that often others don’t see.

Sharon Wright—Spiritual Formation Director and marriage counselor at a large church. She is a woman of seriously profound wisdom. Sharon’s influence and spiritual direction and words still guide me today. Sharon is soft-spoken and gentle, but she has a power within her that is mighty to see. The Spirit has gifted her with the ability to rightly divide not only the Word, but people. She sees through to the real crux of the issue and speaks truth right to the center of it.

JoAnn Embs—a servant. One of the most beautiful and gentle spirits I have ever seen in a woman. JoAnn washes tables as if they were in the banquet halls of heaven. She is drawn to the hurting and the sad and to the least of these. She works, unseen, in her little corner of the world and has no idea what her words to me every Sunday morning mean. She has no idea of how much impact they have. I want to be like her when I grow up.

Christy Witt--An extraordinary single mom. Christy has an incredibly generous spirit. She gives and gives and gives. And she gives cheerfully. She pays attention to detail and her blessings flow out of those observations. She is loyal--a friend you would want with you in a crisis. A friend you would want in the midst of suffering--in the midst of pain.

Angela Turner—one of my dearest and longest friends. We often teasingly call her Sarge. She has a strong gifting of administration—and can see in a linear fashion that astounds me. She has the ability to see consequences and cause and effect a long way down the road. I have benefited quite often from this gift. What many people don’t see are the quiet things she does for others or how her heart bleeds. Angela puts her hand to the plow and does not look back. She is one of the lionesses in the Kingdom—fiercely loyal and deeply committed.

Dianna Harmon—this woman has one of the most beautiful and encouraging spirits I have ever known. She has endured life-threatening surgeries with a gentle and faithful resolve that has floored me. She is a prayer warrior and the enemy probably chuckled when they saw her approaching, but I guarantee they didn’t laugh for long. And she has loved me like a daughter. She has prayed and interceded for me and mine too many times to count.

Donna Vaughan—my sister-in-love. One of the wisest, most intelligent, gifted women I have ever known. Donna reminds me of Deborah and her tree. Her husband is a minister and she takes and fulfills her role with great grace and profound beauty. She has learned to say no; she has disciplined herself to resist peer pressure—not allowing herself to be pushed into a mold of someone else’s expectations. She has raised two godly sons who will no doubt praise her at the city gates. And her husband, I know, counts her as one of the most tremendous gifts God has ever given him.

Sherry Mohr—one of the most alive women in my life. She is the mother of five incredible children I love deeply. Her grasp of Scripture and its daily applications is extraordinary. She is intelligent and witty and one of the hardest workers I have ever met in my life. She reminds me of Abigail and her discernment and wisdom in the mess with David, but she is certainly NOT married to Nabal. Actually, it is because of her marriage that I began to watch her; honestly good marriages are rare, and so I noticed hers.

Pam Finley—a woman I would want in my corner. A prayer warrior I would request on my flank. She wields the Sword of Truth with a dexterity that is astounding, but she also loves the Word and is passionate about the truths and principles found in its depths. She is a minister’s wife. Astute and strong. She is a no-nonsense kind of woman. Pam ministers to her flock; she feeds and leads them to green pastures. Like Priscilla, I believe she could hold her own with Paul.
The last four women are my daughters:

Anna Vaughan  
and read her blog : Unforced Rhythms

Katherine Rector
And read her blog: The Whole Kat and Kaboodle

Olivia Vaughan


Abby Vaughan

My four girls tell me that I see good things in them just because I am their mama. My answer to that is truth is truth. I admire my daughters more than almost anyone in the world. Each one of them has changed me and spurred me on to be a better woman. In twenty years there’s a great possibility that if Christianity Today (or a publication like it) discusses the influential women of the time my daughters’ names will be on the list. Is this just a mother’s bias and hope? Perhaps, but there’s truth in my bias and a foundation of hope in my dreams.

These are women who are doing it anyway. Women who are influencing the world God has put them in right now and right here.

Please go today and encourage someone in your world. Point out something good and right in them. Shine a light on their gifts. Tell them you appreciate them. Let them know you see the Spirit at work in them.

Don’t hesitate to bless.

You never know you may be the blessing God uses to exhort someone to fulfill their calling and shape and mold their culture. You may be the catalyst God uses to help someone step into their gifts.

Please go today.

Don’t wait to say something kind.

Please do it anyway.

Morning Prayer

I have been hungry for your Word, Father. Hungry for your presence. The seams of me are stretched.


I have tasted your Word; I know that it is good. I know what your Word can do in a heart, in a spirit and in a mind that is given to you. I know what your Word has the power to do.

I know because your Word has transformed me too many times to count. The tally marks would look like a cross-hatched piece of artwork.

But you call me deeper. You do not allow me to remain on a plateau of revelation for too long. Your Spirit stirs in me and reminds me of learned, but forgotten truths. Your Spirit mines up, out of the deepest recesses of my heart, truths that have been hidden. Treasures in the dark.

And there are themes and patterns I recognize. You have infused me with a love of your Word—and the symbolism and the metaphor laced through the grommets of it.

This week you reminded me. This week your Spirit took me back to a place of teaching.

We don’t live in tents anymore, but I am a tent. My heart is the temporary and earthly dwelling of Your Spirit.

I am the skin-tent of God.

My poles have stretched my skin tightly and tethered me to this world for a little while. My pegs have been hammered into the physicality of this place.

And your Word through Amos and Job* have revealed to me that You will come and have fellowship with me in this tent. You will come and sit on the cushions of this flesh and spirit tent and converse with me. You will come and have an intimate conversation with me—you will sit beside me and both of us will lean forward and speak to the other.

My God, you will be a friend of my tent.*

This one word, Father, you gave to me. This word cowdh* reminded me of what you long to do. You long to have fellowship with your people, to be invited into the interior of their tents. You do not want to simply sit at the edge of the tent flaps or stand at the entrance as so many of your people did with Moses*. Because of the tent-dwelling time of Jesus, because he gave his tent over as a sacrifice for us, because he left us, returned to you, but did not leave us orphans*, he sent the Holy Spirit to now abide in these tents of ours. We no longer have to wait at the entrance. You will join us inside out tent if we just simply ask.

Because of Jesus. Because our brother came and did what we could not do for ourselves, because our brother came and moved obstacles from our paths, because our brother came and fulfilled your every expectation, Your Spirit will and can now reside within our tent.

You do not just visit.

I ask now, come join me in my tent. It’s messy. It’s cluttered. It’s dark. But come anyway, please?

Come anyway.

I welcome you into this skin-tent of mine. Please come and sit with me on my cushions and recline with me on my pillows. Let’s talk and reason together.* Come and have fellowship with me.

I welcome you.

Come this morning.

Come.











Amos 3:7

Job 29: 21-27

John 14:18

Exodus 33: 10

Isaiah 1:18

Cowdh—Hebrew for secret, intimate friendship

Bitterness

Our conversation was a serious one. We were discussing intense issues. She listens well and she converses with great wisdom for one so young, so when the words slid out of her mouth I almost did not catch them. Two sentences later I realized that my youngest daughter’s words had been spoken to me.


Me.


Her words pinched. She did not mean for them to do so. I had made a statement, commenting on another situation, and she applied them to me.

I hear some bitterness in that statement.

Those are the words she said to me.

They were couched in a half-joking tone. But they stopped me. My gut reaction was surely not? I kept thinking of her observation; I was appalled by the maybe-truth of it and pricked by her honest candor.

When I tried to pull her words from the ground soil of my heart—they resisted. There were roots of truth there I had to acknowledge. An undetected shoot sent into the deep places of my heart.

At first, I thought she can not be right. I have let go of bitterness; I dug those roots up long ago. And I know about roots. I know how deep they can descend and how much dirt, soil and earth can be disturbed, turned and moved when you pull the root up and out.

I know.

I have pulled up a lot of bitter roots. Some were shallow, only in the surface soil. Some had only one long tap root and slid straight out of the dirt. Several, however, were so deep I sat down on my backside with the pulling.

Sometimes even now when I am ready to plant something new—excavating a deep depression to accommodate a new variety —I will find a root left behind from the last digging. I can see where the root has been cleaved by a shovel in an attempt to remove it. But it remained.

Bitterness goes deep.

My daughter’s words were said as a simple observation, but the Spirit used them to prick me gently. Just enough for one drop of blood to blister to the surface—enough to remind me that a root of bitterness can grieve the heart of God.

Bitterness has no place in the heart of a Christ-follower. Bitterness impedes the working grace of the Spirit. Bitterness’ dormancy seems benign, but its root and tendrils must be exposed and removed because bitterness and grace will not co-exist.

The prick and the blister woke me.

The convex curve of that dark red drop caused me to examine the residual roots in the soil of myself. That dark red drop has become the curved back of the shovel I need to use.

At least it is raining today--the soil will be moist and soft. And my garden gloves are in the laundry room.

I Think I Got This Now

In my twenties I was quite busy having babies. Four. Four daughters in seven years. Inevitably each time I announced I was pregnant someone would ask or question me: how are you going to love another? They asked this question as if every time I birthed a new baby that the love present in my and their father’s heart would have to be divided--as if we had a pie with only so many pieces.

The prevailing theory seemed to be that each time a child came the pieces of the mothering pie would have to be cut smaller. More narrow. Perhaps this is true of time, of resources, of material things.

But not of love. Love expands. Love enlarges. It grows.

Love multiplies.



On September 13, 2012 my love multiplied again. My second grandson, my second grandchild, came into this world on a Thursday at 6:05 p.m.

Judah Nathaniel Vaughan.

Judah, your name means a gift of praise. Indirectly Nathaniel is a family name: it would have been my name had I been a boy and it would have been your mama’s name had she been a boy. I’m very glad she wasn’t. Your mama was my first child and the very reason I wanted more. Because of her you have three aunts. Plain and simple.
I heard about you one night in a quiet, short conversation with your mama. The conversation was brief, but I felt its impact for days and days. My mind was too finite and too limited to wrap around your existence yet.

But your existence grew. And my imagination exploded.

Judah, I remember the day your mama called and told me that the black and white images on the screen revealed you were a boy. A little boy. Later your mama would have a 4-D ultrasound and the image of your little face impacted my reality. I studied your little face often.

At this point Aunt Babz nicknamed you little lion man.

Lions seemed to appear everywhere or I became acutely aware of them. Suddenly this nickname became something more. In many ways it seems to be a marking of who you are, of who you will be.

I watched your mama grow with you. Yours was a quiet growing. Unobtrusive.

And in direct proportion to her physical expansion she grew as a woman.
At the end the weight of you pulled on your mama. Pulled her forward. You were almost too large for her.

The night you were born, in the late hours of the next morning, I slept in a chair in your mama’s hospital room. During the night I woke, and I watched your mama. Several times she looked over at me and later she told me I looked miserable in the hard, want-to-be recliner.

In reality, I was trying not to cry. I was damming the walls around my over-productive tear ducts because I had tried very hard all day long not to cry. I wanted to be strong for you and your mama. I hadn’t wanted tears to interfere or get the best of me. Your Noni has a reputation for crying. And on your day I just wanted to be a rock for your mama. An unemotional one. But in the middle of the night I woke from my light slumber and peered through the half dark at you and your mama. And when she thought I was miserable? I was really just holding back the flood, the release and dam of tears, which had been held back all day long.

Judah, she was beautiful in the faint light. And you were splayed across her chest like the giant of a man you will be. And I was enthralled. I watched her wake as you grew fitful. Her voice soothed and quieted you. She whispered in your ear and you would go limp again. She sensed I was watching her. Perhaps, she thought I was assessing, but in reality I was admiring and accepting. Your mama had been a woman grown for a long time, but she stepped completely over the threshold with you.

This revelation came to me during her hours of labor with you. I watched her. Was near her. I’m not sure she really needed me. But someday, Judah, you will discover and run headlong into your mama. You need to know that she is a compressed package of stubbornness, strong will, strength and stoicism.

Even so when you were born, the whole great long length of you, I was astounded that her tiny little frame had held, carried and encompassed you for nine months.

She let me cut your cord. The cord that tethered you to her, that had fed and sustained you, I cut. And I was both ecstatic for the privilege, and awed by the enormity of the task. Others could have done this—the doctor or your mama. But your mama allowed me. And when I finished they laid you on your mama’s chest. I was speechless and stunned (this too is a rarity for your Noni).

God’s provision for birth and the miracle of it—the absurdity of it--can only be explained by his grace. The profoundness and the simplicity of it could only come from his hand. I felt like a little child getting to be privy to something much bigger and more wonderful than I could ever comprehend.

I, who had been present to see you arrive, felt like I had just arrived. I stood by the head of her bed and peered at you, and I was totally oblivious to anyone or anything else. I got to see your mama’s face when she saw yours. Just know, Judah, she loved you before. But in that moment she fell in love with you. Her heart broke wide open and she pulled you back into herself.

Then in the chaotic aftermath of delivery room your mama looked at me. There was such gentle sincerity and firmness in her face and voice and I will never, ever forget her words:

I think I got this now.

I think I got this, now. She said it for me, but in that moment she believed her own words, her own prophetic statement.

And it was time for me to go.

I left you and your mama alone. You, who had known each other for nine months, needed time to recognize each other’s faces.*

I left the room and went out to deliver all the news of you. And through the long walk from the delivery room to the waiting room love was multiplying exponentially.

During that walk I kept thinking of your mama’s statement:

I think I got this now.


She does, Judah.







*This is an allusion to a text that my youngest daughter sent Judah's mama (my oldest daughter):

He wants to know your face. He knows your voice and your heartbeat, now he needs to know your face.







Judah--about 1 1/2 hours after birth. His mother's tattoo? Greek word for grace.




Little Lion Man's roar.




Judah loves his fist.




Mama and her Judah.




What lips!




Noni and Judah




Judah Nathaniel Vaughan
September 13, 2012
6:05 p.m.
8 lbs and 5 ounces
21 1/2 inches long



Tilted Axis

You, Elijah David, were born at 5:47 p.m. on September 1, 2012. And your arrival tilted the axes of many, many worlds.

My axis began to shift back in January. Your mom and dad called and suggested an Ice Cream Sundae night on Friday. This wasn’t out of the ordinary. We get together a lot. But this invitation felt different. Somehow I knew. I knew what they were going to tell me. They came, they said, bearing a late Christmas gift. I laughed and messed up their surprise by blurting out that I knew they were going to have a baby. They didn’t seem to know how to handle my announcement. Somewhere deep inside me I understood that you had begun. The bib they brought me to announce this news is still in my room in plain sight.

My axis shifted many more times in the following months. When your mom called me and told me they heard your heartbeat for the first time I wept. When they brought the first ultrasound pictures and I saw your profile the axis within me shifted noticeably.

When your mama and daddy discovered you were a little boy they called and I couldn’t seem to breathe quite right. Oxygen didn’t get to the places it needed to be.

And when your mama’s belly began to round with your growth my heart began to swell in direct proportion. God makes sure that mamas’ bellies and grandmamas’ hearts have a great capacity and elasticity for great expansion. It’s a good thing.

The first time I saw your little foot and the sweep of your body make the terrain of your mama’s belly move there was a tremor in the landscape  of my own.

Your daddy predicted with absolute accuracy the day you would arrive. We sat in the midst of a family gathering and guessed when you would make your arrival. Earlier he had been the only one to know the measurement of your mama’s belly. I was second, but he was first. So, when we decided to try and predict your arrival your daddy spoke. He knew. He thought he was guessing, but he knew. (Your Grandpa Rector was very close, but he was guessing.)

During the last time someone looked at your face and little body through the wall of your mama’s womb, I was there. At first you were too big for me to see. I was looking for the whole of you, but the ultrasound couldn’t capture your entirety. The technician worked until she found your little face obscured by your placenta which tethered you to your mama. And you were sleeping. Your little face peeked through briefly and just a glimpse of you was caught on a shiny paper frame. It didn’t do you justice. It didn’t prepare me at all. My axis shifted five more degree.

I saw your mama three days later. She was buying tiny pants for you. And I knew, Elijah. I knew you were coming. I could see it in your mama’s beautiful face. I could sense it in the weight of you in her body. You had grown too great for her frame to contain.

My phone rang at 4:23 am. Your daddy’s name scrolled across the screen. I laughed out loud. They were going to the hospital. You were on your way. You were coming.

And my axis shifted.

And the waiting began.

I saw your mama briefly in her labor room. Her face seemed ethereal and otherworldly. Her body was shifting, contracting and giving over to the work it would take to bring you here. But she was lovely in the midst of it. Focused in the anticipation of you,  and in the pregnancy of the hour she truly labored to bring you here.

And your daddy. Elijah, your daddy was someone to behold. There was a deep measure of intensity in him. An intensity that had only briefly manifested before—usually in times of deep protectiveness and concern for your mama. His body and demeanor seemed relaxed on first glance, but as I watched I could see the readiness, the tension that he held. And he held it for you and your mama.

Periodically during the six hours of the afternoon he appeared several times to us. An anticipated messenger. He was calm and quiet. Without pomp he would just slide unobtrusively around the corner of the waiting room. Most often he only gave two sentences of information and then he would smile and shrug and turn to go back to his appointed place.

After a while he didn’t come. His absence was an explanation. I knew that you must be moving into this world. The waiting room was crowded and noisy. It was alive. I moved out into the hall where there was breathing space. The clock showed 5:35 p.m.

See, Elijah, your aunt had prayed twelve hours earlier; she had asked for you to please come meet us. And when I stood in the hall I prayed for you. I am sure that the nursing staff thought that this particular grandmother was a little crazy. I realize now that I was praying out loud and my mouth and lips were moving fast. I prayed for your mama to have the stamina and strength to bring you into this world. I prayed for your daddy to be her strong wall to lean on. I prayed for you to come knowing that you had a place in this world. I prayed that you would know your purpose early. I prayed for you to be whole. But these prayers, Elijah, were just a culmination of all the prayers that have been prayed for you since January. That hall was just an extension of my prayer closet.

I looked up to see your daddy come around the corner once again. And the axis shifted me off balance.

His face was something to behold. Elijah. He looked like he had just been given a glimpse into heaven. His face held an awe that I have rarely seen. He was stunned. In courtesy I had to look away. In respect I had to close my eyes and allow the glory on his face to settle before I could look at him again. He was astounded by the miracle of you and the strength and tenacity of your mama.

Later he would come and get your Grandma Rector and me and lead us into the dark, gentle room. There you were in your mama’s arms. My inner axis tilted at an angle I couldn’t quite navigate. You were the whole of our worlds compressed down into one tiny little being. You were your mama and daddy dovetailed into one. Our God had enabled these two incredibly beautiful people to create you. And I blessed Him. I blessed Him for you.

I held you in my arms. I, who have held countless babies, was tentative and hesitant. Overwhelmed. You were almost too much for me. And the complete shift happened. All the terrain within me slid too many degrees to measure.

My world had been shifted before—when your mama and aunts were born, but this was a different kind of shift. I had been warned; I had been told. But I hadn’t comprehended or understood what it would mean to hold the embodiment of the next generation in my arms. I understood what the Psalmist meant when he said, “Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from him.” *

Later we would all wait at the nursery window to see you through the glass. The nurse wheeled your mama and you into the corridor. Your mama’s arms hovered in the air as your daddy reached for you to take you behind the glass and wash the labor of the day away. She looked bereft and a little lost without you. We watched as a very competent nurse instructed your daddy about the little body that was yours.

Elijah, I looked over at your mama, my daughter, and watched the swell of tears rise in her tired eyes. As she gazed at your daddy and you I saw her heart swell. I witnessed the expansion of her heart for her two boys. I looked at her and said, “There it is. Psalm 37:4. There’s the desire of your heart in front of you.” And the swell of tears spilled. My own vision blurred. Then nurse took her to her room.

We remained. All of our faces pressed against the glass. We moved and pivoted to gain a better view of you. Your dad was listening to the nurse’s instructions. Perhaps, she taught him something he didn’t know. But when you cried because you were cold and afraid and insecure, she didn’t teach him to put his hand on your chest and stroke your cheek with his finger. No, he knew how to do that on his own.

When we left the hospital that night. I was reluctant, but I knew it was time. As we walked through the hospital I told everyone in the hall, the elevator and the security gate that I had a brand new grandson. I told the tired employees at Chik-fil-A that we were celebrating because you had arrived, and they allowed us to stay after they locked the doors.

Elijah David, I went to sleep in the early hours of the morning thinking of you and seeing you on the back of my eyelids. I fell asleep praying for you. That’s not the first time, and it is certainly not the last.

I love you, Elijah David Rector.

My axis has tilted because of you.



Elijah, this is how you looked when I met you.



Part of your family at the nursery window.

Your amazing Dad!

Dad washing your thick head of hair!



Your favorite place to be--with Mama.



My shifting world.



Elijah David Rector
September 1, 2012
7.2 pounds, 19 1/4 inches



Great Gain

Several days ago I was on my porch.

And my soul was full. The sunlight was bright—touching and permeating even into the dense undergrowth at the porch’s edge. I took Henry out with me. He’s learning to remain there with me no matter what tempts him to run into the front yard. I’m very pleased with him.

I remember the condensation on my water glass. And my book was upside down and splayed open on top of another (just in case I wasn’t in the mood for the first), and my timer for the chicken in the oven ticked away the minutes.

I was content.

How underrated that phrase and state of mind really is. To be content. Paul tells Timothy godliness with contentment is great gain.*

Great gain. To be pleased with where you are at that moment. Contentment is not a disregard that it could be better; it is not a denial that anything needs improvement. It is not an apathy and lethargy that settles like dust on us. Real contentment defies these; it looks around and assesses the situation with prudence and gentleness and says, “This really is good for now. This really is a good place to be.”

For years this contentment eluded me. I could never settle, never bend into the now enough to realize that everything doesn’t have to be perfect to be good. Life (and your house, your husband, your children, your job) does not have to be immaculate and pristine and orderly for it to be a divine place, a sacred place, an anointed place.

The yard needed to be raked . Mowing had left rows of dead grass and debris from the weed eating needed to be blown away. The porch needed to be swept and the potting soil from the overturned plant needed to be removed. My life was and is much like the front yard. But that is not what I saw that afternoon.  And it most certainly was not what I felt. I experienced something far beyond these.

In my moments of contentment I absorb the truth that God is good. Really good. And it is not an epiphany or a revelation in my theology. It is a gradual absorption. A slow saturation of a reality that I can’t explain, only experience.

Last year (and many times in the past) I had a very hard time finding contentment. My schedule was too full. There were too many responsibilities and people in the course of my day. From early in the a.m. until late at night I was with people—people I enjoyed. I love to teach and I most enjoy high school age students. But in the course of the day I would shift between teaching six classes and then on to my next job which involved a whole of people. Contentment eluded me. There was always something to be done; there was always something that hadn’t been done. And the list never shortened. Our family lived in a semi-survival state. Yes, I am very aware that I made these choices. And because I did I tried very hard not to complain, not to be disgruntled and not to be constantly frustrated.

Would I do it again? The very gut of me says no. I think the price was too high not just for me, but for my whole immediate and extended family. We learned much about ourselves and each other, but the price was a costly toll.

My schedule has been greatly modified this year. I am still teaching, but in a far different situation and capacity. I am still working, but only one job with modified hours. I see the promise of Sabbath in my life now.

God designed Sabbath to give us breathing space. He set in place a day of leaving, a day of staying, a day of remaining—a day of resting. Last year (and in many other seasons in my life) I did not have that sacred space.

That day on the porch (and many since then) I allowed myself to breath. I did not have to be at work until 3. This seemed to be a foreign concept to me. I went to the grocery and walked leisurely around assessing, pricing and purposefully gathering. I came home and did laundry, straightened the house, cooked chicken for our evening meal and for chicken salad for lunches this week. I looked at the clock. I still had a whole hour and a half before I needed to get ready for work. I fixed lunch and carried it to the porch. I dawdled. (I can’t remember the last time I engaged in this Southern pleasure.) I took my time savoring my Santa Fe salad. The avocado was rich. The chicken was spicy. The black beans punched. The salsa burned (a little). Then I began to read. Somewhere in the midst of those pages I realized how content I was.

I was utterly content.

I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. As I mentioned my life tends to be as rag-tag as my porch and front yard. Certainly not all is in order. Definitely everything is not as it should or could be. But it didn’t seem to matter.

Breathing space helps with contentment.

When life is stupid-crazy and there is no room to change or shift then there is no breathing space. I didn’t have time last year to sit on the porch and allow the afternoon sun to shine on me. I didn’t have time to do laundry or chores without the hurry button on overdrive. I was constantly doing, but rarely being.

Because of the choices and opportunities offered to us (because of the beautiful grace of God) this year my husband and I have more breathing space. Sometimes my husband still has to work hard to get me to relax—to be in the now. My mind is often on perpetual forward; it doesn’t seem to have an idle mode. But he is quite adept in his methods to get me to relax…he’s sneaky with them. I don’t recognize them until I am already uncoiling.

Our Father wants us to be content. He desires for us to be in a place where we can see what he is doing and giving. And he is quite adept in his methods to heightened our awareness. He is sneaky with them. He knows that when we live in the hurry mode we fail to see these provisions. And when we fail to see the provision then we do not experience the contentment. Breathing space is a remarkable gift given from a Father who knows us. He knows our limitations, boundaries and perimeters far better than we know our own.

Contentment stays the hungry monster called More. More woos us into believing that if we have just one more thing, if we can just fix this, change that or rearrange this then we will be happy. Contentment whispers to us that this is enough—for now. Contentment is learning how to abide in the now. To be grateful and thankful, like Ann Voskamp**, for right now. Contentment teaches us to be pleased with the tiniest of gestures, the smallest of actions and the minutest of details. Contentment teaches us that we don’t have to wait for the then. When we learn to make this awareness a part of our daily living then we are content because we see and experience the great gain.

In the past few weeks I have become more aware of this place of great gain. It has been available to me all along. Waiting for me. Patiently.

This morning I lay in my bed. The room was dark and quiet and I moved in and out of a shallow slumber. I remained there not so much because I was sleepy, but because I could. I can’t do this every day. There are days when my schedule begins quite early. But today, today I had breathing space.

 I remained cocooned in my thin sheet and thin veil of sleep—prayers floated in and out of my head. One sentence, two sentences. Prayers for my husband who is being stretched, prayers for my oldest daughters who carry my grandsons still, prayers for my youngest daughters who are attempting to navigate new places in life, prayers for my brother’s family, prayers for my friends who are walking in new arenas and fighting hard battles, for my co-workers who are struggling and prayers for you.

Yes, you.

I slid out of the bed this morning content.



*
I Timothy 6:6

**
Ann Voskamp

Miracles Beget Miracles

My brother will be a guest blogger on this site in the near future. Certainly he has a story to share of God’s grace and redemption, and it is his to tell. And he tells the story far better than me.

You see there’s a principle in God’s kingdom—one of many—miracle gives birth to miracle. There’s life in a miracle. Abundant and frothing it spills over and feeds the birth of other miracles.

On July 16, 2012 two little miracles arrived in this world. They entered after their mama and daddy spent a month living in the hospital. They arrived after weeks of medical intervention to delay their arrival. They arrived after bed rest and lack of iron. They arrived after sleepless nights and confinement. They arrived after much prayer and weeping. They arrived after much longing and yearning.

Aiden Seth* and Allie Jo* were born. They arrived seven weeks before their expected date. Thirty-three weeks and one day after their conception.

Twins. My brother’s children. My niece and nephew.

My youngest daughter and I were there. We packed our bags and readied the car for a road trip and drove two hours to the hospital. There had been many false starts as we awaited their arrival. Near calls of when we thought they were going to be born—all times that would have been far too soon. But that morning the inevitable was finally happening. We got there at noon and late in the afternoon the medical staff wheeled Mama to the delivery room and we began our vigil. We were told if we waited in the hall in front of the elevator we would get to see the babies briefly as they were transported to the NICU. It was not a long wait. Less than forty-five minutes after she left us we saw the babies only minutes after they were born—swaddled in hospital blankets and carried by masked nurses.



Aiden Seth

 Aiden first. He was seven minutes older than his tiny sister. And he looked exactly like his Daddy did twenty-nine years ago. I know; I was there. Allie next. The little sister—the youngest of four siblings. God love her heart she has three older brothers.

Allie Jo



My step-father wept. My mother cried. I looked at my step-father, one of the dearest men in the world, and asked him how it felt to have his legacy continue? His pale blue eyes were milky with tears and he had no words. He just held his hand over his face. His stooped and slumped shoulders shook with his weeping. My mother simply wanted to know if they were healthy. Would they survive? Would they be ok? Abby and I just stood in awe. In awe, both for the tiny babies in front of us and for the miracle God had wrought in my brother. There was no way we could look at Aiden and Allie and not remember the place from which God had pulled their Daddy.

Five years ago my brother, Courtney, was near death, (not figuratively, but literally) because of drug addiction. And that’s his story to tell, but through a series of events and interventions and prayers he went to rehab a third time. He fought. He fought hard. And he survived.

His account will stun you. Courtney’s story will soften the hard places in your heart. His Damascus Road was long and rough and narrow. But like Paul scales were removed from his eyes. And like Paul his heart was changed from stone to flesh. The phrase it’s a miracle is tossed so frequently and flippantly that it seems cliche; therefore, miracles often become invisible and commonplace and we forget to stand in awe. But my brother’s life is a miracle—a testimony to the intervention and grace and provision of our Almighty God.


During the entire month that Courtney and his precious wife, Angela**, were in the hospital we texted every morning. The messages evolved into mini bible studies. They were born out of daily reading and immersion in the Word. He would send me a passage or verse of Scripture to read. Then a volley of discussion would occur. Church happened on my sanctuary couch almost every morning.

Several times there were intense scares with the babies, but I witnessed Courtney and Angela working through each crisis. Their tools? Prayer, the Word, encouragement from the people who love them and especially each other. Courtney plastered Scripture on the bulletin boards of their hospital room. He shared the Truth with the doctors and nurses and the staff. Courtney had no qualms and no hesitations telling what the Good Lord had done in his and Angela’s life.

Now we were seeing what the Good Lord had done.

The NICU staff explained to Courtney that after an hour and a half he could come to the NICU to see his children—his daughter, his son. He would be allowed to bring two people.

The time passed. The labor room clock read 6:20 p.m. The staff rang the phone in the room and told Courtney he could come. We thought our mom and dad would go with Courtney, but he turned to Abby and me and said, “Let’s go.”

I hesitated. I felt awkward. I struggled with usurping a place that wasn’t mine. I didn’t want to go ahead of the others. I voiced my thoughts.

My brother looked at me. Without wavering he held my gaze, “I want you to go with me.” My heart became too big for my chest. And I had to work really hard to keep the puddle of moisture in my eyes from becoming tears and running down my face. I was so honored, so touched by this unexpected privilege.


A NICU can be a frightening place. There are so many machines and medical paraphernalia. There is a lot of noise and the hum of contraptions that I had to ask for the names and often an explanation too. There seemed to be way too many nurses standing outside the small room pouring over charts comparing and assessing the recorded information. Aiden and Allie’s nurse was a young man named Zach; he was incredibly strong and sure. He deftly, but gently handled Courtney’s babies. I was touched and impressed. God knew what Courtney needed.



Abby and Uncle Courtney



Zach, Courtney and Allie.




Big Sister and Little Brother

Abby and I were not allowed to touch Aiden and Allie. We remained about two feet from them. Sometimes we would lean in and peer through the glass wall of their beds to memorize their little faces. We could only look and watch, but it was enough for us because we were peering at miracles.

Tiny, perfect miracles.

Abby stood at the end of Allie’s bed. She looked at me and these words came from her, “That’s a little person. A little person who will grow into this.” She said as she pointed to herself. I looked from Allie to Abby. Seventeen years. Abby is almost as old as I was when Courtney was born.




Courtney, age 3--Tamera, age 20

 Zach helped Courtney change Allie. I watched Courtney touch his little daughter—his hands, so large, cradled her miniature body. His dark head bent towards her. Adoration already vivid in his face. Tears puddled in my eyes again.

Courtney, Zach and Allie

Later Zach would allow several more people in the room. Our mother, Courtney’s father. A couple of very close family friends. Zach seemed to understand that we all needed to be reassured. We needed confirmation that they were here: alive and relatively strong and healthy considering their prematurity. A hum of excitement and joy hovered in the room.

We were allowed to stay for over an hour. I snapped photographs as fast as I could. I am not a photographer, but I wanted so much to record this for Courtney and Angela. I wanted them to have images as reminders of the early moments and hours of the miracles who came readily from the hand of God.

The last photograph I took is my favorite. Courtney was standing beside Aiden’s bed. Quietly I lifted my camera. Could I manage to capture what I saw there in this new daddy, my brother? Could it be pressed into the digital pixels and become a visual memoir of the moment? Immediately after I clicked the photo Courtney turned and disappeared.



Courtney--blessed man


























His absence was noticed and everyone began to look for him. Worried. Concerned. I knew where my brother had gone. I knew what he was doing not because he told me, but because I knew what he wanted and needed to do.


He went to find a quiet, solitary place. He went to be alone. He went away from the crowd. He went to tell the God who had saved him thank you. He went to praise the One who had changed him and given him a second chance. He went to bless Him who had called him out of darkness into his marvelous light.



This week Aiden and Allie are five weeks old. They have been home for three weeks. I have held and kissed them. I have prayed over them. I have rocked them. I have put them against my cheek and breathed I love you in their tiny ears. And I have blessed the Lord for their Daddy over and over and over and over.




Tamera and Allie



Miracles beget miracles.



Aiden Seth and Allie Jo***



* Aiden Seth is named for his older brother and his Daddy. I gave Courtney his middle name and he passed it to Aiden.

* Allie Jo is named for our maternal grandmother and Courtney's paternal aunt: Madelyn Allie and LaVinia Jo. See archives Mad-e-lyn and White Cadillac.

**I am sad that Angela is not in any of these photos, but laboring mothers are not interested in having their photos taken. Angela is a blessing sent by God to my brother. She is his helpmeet. She loves and encourages him. She makes him laugh. She does life with him. She prays and believes with him. She has given him a family. I bless God for her. I thank God for her. And we are going to keep her!

***This incredible photograph was taken by my daughter Katherine Rector with Rae Rector Studios. See archives A String of Pearls

And The Rains Came

This morning I am sitting in the quiet of my sanctuary and I hear the rain coming down outside. Slow and steady. Hard enough to saturate the cracked ground, steady and consistent enough to penetrate the hard soil. The rain barrel will be full.

My youngest daughter started praying for rain weeks ago. Bold and mouthy she asked God specifically for rain—imitating Honi* she sat down on our front sidewalk and decided she would wait there until the sky spilled rain.

And the rains came. Sparse and scant. But it was enough to slick her hair to her head and dampen her clothes to her skin. She sat there for a long time and we laughed with her and she waited. She danced in the rain on the sidewalk (same one I danced on years ago) and I joined her. We frolicked and held onto each other. Laughing and forgetting to be self-conscience. Later in the evening she decided to get out of her comfort zone and she danced in the middle of our road. I could see her head over the tops of the cars from my place on the front porch steps.

She had prayed for rain. Asked God to send it.

The whole summer has been an endless succession of baking temperatures. Off the charts heat. Two weeks or more of temperatures in the triple digits.

Our front porch was often vacant because of the smothering heat. Even the early mornings proved to be too warm to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. We stayed inside. Shades closed. Lights off. Anything to reduce the temperature and help the air conditioners as they labored.

But she asked for rain and since that night we have had many rainstorms.

You have to learn to ask for rain.

I hadn’t fully recognized how hot and dry my life had been in the past year.

Circumstances melded together and created some long stretches of intense heat. It was a season of survival. A time of one new element added to the story after another. Major life changes—in rapid succession. A year of a sometimes grueling and demanding schedule.

I didn’t realize I was longing for rain.

Until my daughter sat on the sidewalk and asked God to send it.

Until she risked looking like a fool in the asking and the anticipation of expecting Him to send it.

And I wondered: was my faith still in a place where I was willing to look like a fool? Was I in a place where I could and would ask God for something and expect an answer? Where had I misplaced my child-like faith in my Father to do things beyond the ordinary? Against the grain? Outside the confines of the box I have gradually put Him in since I became an adult? Am I willing to look like a fool? Am I willing to take a risk—is it a risk if it really is a sure thing? Is depending on the character of God a risk? If you don’t know him or only know of him you might answer yes.

I looked at her sitting on the sidewalk. And then I watched her dance in the road. She prayed and expected God to answer. Not out of arrogance. Not out of entitlement. Not out of ignorance. But she asked out of a place of trust. Trust in who she knew the Father to be. The only risk for her was being willing to look like a fool. She took that risk.

And the rains came.





*Honi's story comes from The Circle Maker by Mark Batterson.

Hope Floats

One of my favorite movies is Hope Floats with Sandra Bullock and Harry Connick Jr. I have watched it way too many times, but I really watch it only for a few reasons: the relationship between Bernice and Birdee, the just breathe scenes on the boat and dance floor with Bullock and Connick and the one line that you almost miss—hope floats.

Birdee Pruitt: Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That's what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will...           Hope Floats, 1998. Twentieth Century Fox

I never understood that line. For a long time I couldn’t wrap my arms around that concept. Hope was still under the surface in my life. I just didn’t get it; I didn’t know what hope looked like. I watched the movie just to hear Birdee say that phrase.

But God is always far ahead of us. His orchestration is already ripples and ripples beyond what we can ask or imagine. At that time I didn’t see hope floating among all the debris and rubbish. During the year of my forty-first birthday I began to see hope bobbing on the water. Briefly at first. Only glimpses in my peripheral vision. Then the debris began to move and sink and I began to hope.

Hope does not disappoint us—hope floats. When all else falls in the water and the weight sucks it to the bottom, it is hope that floats. Hope, any at all, will rise to the surface and float. It will hover on the top of the water. Because real hope (not hope-wishing) is backed by God.

Hope reminds me that the Father is going to keep remaking and cleansing me until I rise to the top. Even when I keep getting it wrong, when I keep missing the mark, when I really realize I am a mess, when the wrong words leave my mouth, when my attitude is warped, when I fail to listen, when I am reluctant to obey, when I am afraid to speak, when I hesitant to intervene God still pours his love into my heart. That is hope. 

He loves me still. Amazing.

When I study Scripture I tend to pull out phrases and words. I dig and mine them attempting to excavate gems or hit a seam of coal. And Romans 5:5 was being made manifest in my life before I even noticed. Now I cling tightly to the seam of its precious truth.

And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. Romans 5:5

God—Notice who is doing the pouring here. God. Not my children, not my husband, not my friends, not my co-workers or my church body. God pours. My God. And he is dependable and faithful.

Poured out—Notice the deep sense of lavishness here, no holding back, no conservation. God isn’t stingy with his love. It isn’t measured out in rational portions. He does not mete or dole out his love with caution because it might run low or be depleted. God doesn’t hesitate; he just pours.

His love—Notice what he pours. Love. Not punishment. Not condemnation. Not wrath. But I fear we have diluted this word love until it is nothing more than a romanticized fairy tale. This is not completely accurate because even in the fairy tales there is the presence of enduring, pure and strong love. Sacrificial love. The undercurrent of our culture’s definition of love is that it allows you to be true to yourself (whatever that is supposed to mean), that it doesn’t have to say it is sorry, that it doesn’t have to go out of its own way, that it doesn’t have to be accountable, that it only has to give until it gets uncomfortable. Listen, this is not God’s love.

Into our hearts—Notice where he is pouring this strong, real love. He pours it out on us, his children. God pours his love into these frail, dirty containers. He pours his love into these hard, stone-like vessels. He pours with a generous hand on the Body of Christ—his people. The ones called by his name and by his purpose. Our hearts become the receptacles for his lavish love. This should compel us to go and do likewise.

By the Holy Spirit—Notice how he does this. Through the Holy Spirit that he gives us. He sends this Spirit to show us truth, to counsel us, to remind us of what the Father has said and to walk beside us. The Spirit doesn’t just visit us; no, he comes to abide in us.

Now, when the debris and rubbish begin to fill my small creek the Spirit reminds me of what God has done in the past. He reminds me that I will see God’s hand move on my behalf. I may not see it immediately or clearly at first, but I will see. And in my peripheral vision a light will begin to bob on the surface of the water.

And I will be reminded that hope floats because of God’s remarkable, indefatigable, limitless love.

A Pregnant Hope

Every day last week the temperatures edged into the triple digits. Intense heat. Moving outside felt like stepping into a stone bread oven—the heat waves danced, undulating like a mirage in the desert. Oppressive and heavy. This heat is a robber. It steals energy, it seems, from the very marrow of the bones.

We had just finished dinner and decided to move out to the porch. The heat was dissipating because rain was falling somewhere. The scent was moving in the air, and the breeze was fluttering over the tops of the tomatoes and across the expanse of the porch. And the heat began to move away, carried by the breeze and it left fresh, crisp air behind.

Three of my four daughters were here. One of the highlights of my days is when I manage to get all four of them in the same place at the same time. They are all grown now and so this doesn’t happen as often. Two of them are round with child—incubating two precious little boys who will change our lives completely, utterly.

And that is how the night felt. The waiting for the rain mirrored the waiting in pregnancy. This waiting is a beautiful and tiring anticipation of something good and wanted and needed. Something longed for.

Lighting flashed and sparked against the sky. Thunder grumbled and quarreled in the air. And a few drops began to fall. My third daughter was standing on the front porch steps, one level down, watching the display. I moved in behind her and put my arms around hers, and laid my chin on the top of her head. It had been a long, long time since she had fit in that place. Under my chin. In my arms.

For a brief time I stood behind her and rubbed her arms and kissed the top of her head as I used to do when she was a little girl. Contentment swelled in me and opened up the very cells of my being. I didn’t even want to twitch for fear she would move away and the moment would be gone. I hoped it would lengthen and spread like the wet places on the sidewalk.

Later I sat down on the front porch step and my husband came and sat in front of me—this giant of a man leaned back against me and we braced each other. (We do that—brace each other when we need fortification, carry each other when the other is weak or tired, hold each other when we are fearful or agitated and love each other even when we seem or feel unlovable.) We perched on the edge of those steps for a long time watching the stormy night sky. Both of us were listening, waiting, anticipating.

Hoping.

Doesn’t our culture’s definition of hope seem like a funny thing? Often it is flighty and frivolous—like wishes on tilted birthday candles or fluttering dandelion seeds. Hope seems unsubstantial—like elusive shadows or invisible longings. Ethereal and airy. Not the stuff of this earth.

We were hoping for rain. We watched the sky and listened to the storm, but there was little promise in it. But we hope-wished anyway.

I hope-wish for a lot of things. But this kind of hope is not enough.

I want the kind of hope my daughters have right now. Their hope is not seen; their sons are tucked away and are being knit together within them. My daughters are hoping that their sons are developing, growing and lengthening. There’s evidence for this hope. These tiny little boys kick and turn and shift much to their mothers’ discomfort. But my daughters can’t see them, but they hold within them a very real hope that these little boys will arrive. They do not have their sons yet, but they are waiting for them and anticipating them. It is not a wish. It is hope.

Pregnant hope. Swelling, growing, expanding , enlarging.

Someday I know that the rain we need will come. Eventually the conditions will be favorable and the wind currents and heavy clouds will bring the much anticipated rain.

Someday in the future my daughters will recognize birth pains. And they will begin to count the minutes between them. The time span will decrease and the pains will increase. They will need to hope no longer. It will be upon them. Their hope will be in their arms.

Someday the answers I pray for will come. The conditions will eventually be favorable. Right now I can’t see the answers. I can’t find the solutions. I can’t drum up the resolutions. And I start to get discouraged. I begin to be weighed down and burdened. Right now my wisdom seems folly, my strength seems puny, my intentions weak, my abilities inadequate.

But I have hope.

I am waiting for my God to answer. And this waiting is a beautiful and tiring anticipation of something good and wanted and needed. Something longed for.

A pregnant hope.







Romans 8:24 NIV
…but hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has?

Waiting for the Rain

There’s been no rain here in weeks. Our yard is brown and straw-yellow and the blades of grass crunch under your shoes and stab your bare feet. The tomatoes and azaleas are vivid green only because I water them daily.

I started with the rain barrel. Every morning I dipped the bucket in and tipped it and let the water pour in and fill. I pulled up water that had sat for days and days. It was dark and murky. Stale. Stagnant. Full of stink.

Jeremiah’s cisterns.

But it was water. It was wet. So, every day I pushed the bucket down and watched it fill. Then I leaned to one side and carried the bucket and poured the earthy-smelling liquid on my pampered tomatoes. The rain barrel’s level has been depleted bucketful by bucketful. My arm is no longer long enough to reach down and retrieve it.

This week I have gone out every morning before the heat of the day and resorted to using the water hose. I turn the nozzle to shower, attempting to imitate real rain, and water my gems. Standing in my bare feet I spray until the ground is saturated. Until it is dark and moist. The stalks straighten and the leaves revive. I come back the next morning and the ground is pale and dry and the plants are deflated. I spray again.

The plants have survived because of the rain barrel. They have continued to grow and put forth fruit because of the water from the hose. But it is rain from the heavens, coming down from above, that will make them explode in vibrancy of color and heaviness of foliage and fruit.

They are waiting for rain. A release and refreshment from the heat. They need a clean, clear drink of water that permeates and saturates the hard crust of ground that surrounds them.

Isn’t that where we find ourselves sometimes? In the middle of a season of intense heat? Planted in hard, dry ground? We are in the midst of change, pain, worry, frustration, fear, fatigue and confusion.  We are right in the middle of it all and we know that going backward will be just same as going forward, so we trudge onward.

But we are thirsty. So thirsty. Depleted. Dehydrated.

We know the water from the rain barrel is water. It is wet.

But we long for a drink. Just a cold, cold drink of water.

This week there is someone in your life who needs a cold drink of water. This is not a maybe. Not a perhaps. No, there is someone. And they need someone, us, to come to them and offer a cold metal dipperful or a cool pottery cup of fresh clean water.

They may even need us to hold it to their mouths for them.

They have been drawing from the cistern. They have been dipping their buckets, but perhaps, their arm is too short to reach the dregs of water in the bottom. And dregs are gritty in your mouth. Really, they leave you thirstier than before.

These precious people need a kind word, a warm hug, a gentle nudge, a simple prayer, a squeezed hand, a quick wink, a chosen verse or a short note.

They need a drink of water. They don’t need more cistern water. They need a drink from the spring of living water.

It’s hot out there.

They're waiting for the rain.


Go give a cold cup of water in His name.

Go.


Jeremiah 2:13
Mark 9:41