Sticking My Neck Out

When something incredible happens, some deep desire of our hearts for which we've worked and prayed, words often fail us. Such an event occurred three weeks ago that so blessed my socks off, I'm still blinking in awe of God's unfathomable grace. I've tried to describe the joy--the pure exhilaration--and fallen short. It's all about God's fingerprint on my life, but it was a very mundane scene the other day that drew it all into perspective for me.

Now, some of you who live in sprawling urban areas might not "get" this analogy, but try to hang with me. I live in a rural county in north Georgia where there are probably as many horses and cows as there are people. A few days ago as I drove down one of our country roads, I noticed three or four cows with their heads stuck through the barbed wire, munching on grass on the outside of the fence. With all the rain we've had lately, the pasture grass was thick, green, and lush. But these cows wanted something they considered better, and were willing to endure discomfort to obtain it. Wouldn't you think the barbed wire sticking into their necks would discourage their greediness?

In the book of Hebrews, the writer (probably Paul, but we don't know for sure) points out the promise God made to Abraham, saying, "Surely blessing I will bless you, and multiplying I will multiply you." And so, after he had patiently endured, he obtained the promise. Hebrews 6:14-15

Now I'm not implying that the cows patiently endured to obtain the promise of better grass, but the sight of them with their necks stuck out made me smile. As writers, sometimes we have to stick our necks out and become vulnerable to rejection, criticism, and disappointment in order to achieve our goals. All the while, we endure. As one wise counsel once told me, if God has called you to write, don't you dare quit. So, even though I sometimes questioned my own motives, not to mention my own sanity, I stayed the course, not knowing if the gratification of having my work accepted would ever happen. But I wanted to "obtain the promise", so I stuck my neck out trying to grasp all that God had for me, keeping in mind another scripture, also written by Paul: "...this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I PRESS TOWARD THE GOAL for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus." Philippians 3:13-14

Last month, while attending the national conference of American Christian Fiction Writers, God blessed me when I least expected it. I was awarded a book contract with Barbour Publishing. Even now I am in awe of God's goodness, because it's all about Him. He simply allowed me to go along for the ride. Yes, writing is hard work, but every word I write belongs to HIM, not me.

For several years I have "grazed" in green pastures, continuing along the path where God led, until at some point, I stuck my neck through the fence wanting all that God had for me. However, there is one more critter analogy to present. Along the way, I've entered my writing in contests and picked up a few awards. I allow myself a minute or two to bask in the glow and admire the certificate, and then I stick it in my Dumb Donkey file. And what exactly is a Dumb Donkey file, you may ask? When Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, and all the people shouted praises to Him and threw palm branches and garments down in front of Him as a demonstration of honor and worship--wouldn't it have been ridiculous for the donkey to think all the shouts of praise were for him? Lord, never let me forget I am just the dumb donkey You have chosen to carry the message.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Peeking Around The Curtain

When my sisters and I were children, my parents had a tradition of waiting until we went to bed on Christmas Eve before they put the presents under the tree. Then they hung a sheet across the doorway that led to the living room, so when we came downstairs in the morning, we still couldn't see what was under the tree. My mother insisted we eat breakfast first before she finally said it was time to enter the living room. Sitting at the dining room table, too excited to swallow, but knowing we couldn't go into the living room until we'd eaten was almost more than a 6-year-old could bear. We usually would try to peek around the edge of the sheet when Mom wasn't looking, trying to catch a glimpse of the presents. The anticipation of knowing there was something in there that was mine was beyond delicious. Having to wait a little longer to possess it was excruciating.

Jesus is speaking in the gospel of John, chapter 16, verse 15. He says, "All things that the Father has are Mine. Therefore I said that He will take of Mine and declare it to you." The concept is too precious, too sweet, too glorious to say out loud. I feel like I need to whisper it. Jesus is taking what is His and declaring it to be mine--His strength, His love, His heaven, His eternal life. Oh, the anticipation of knowing it's mine! I just have to wait a little longer before the promise becomes manifest and God allows me to step into glory.

God gives us lots of practice waiting. One of my earliest recollections as child is having to wait my turn at the bathroom door. As we grow we learn to wait for birthdays and Christmas, family vacations, or an much anticipated outing. We wait for our first date, first car, first kiss; wait for the promise of a life mate, and the birth of a first child. I'll never forget waiting for the doctor to make the announcement, "You have a son." I remember the impatience of waiting for the closing on our first house. We've waited for answers to prayer and petitions for God to lead us in the way He wants us to go.

But sometimes the waiting isn't so sweet--waiting with dread for a phone call you know is coming with news you don't want to hear, or waiting by the bedside of a loved one, knowing their final breath will be soon. I've spent time in those kinds of waiting rooms, and every time, I was held in God's loving arms. I was able to walk through those difficult times because of those gifts God has already given to me. Jesus declares that what is His, He gives to me--His provision, His peace, His mercy, His hope, His love, His inheritance. All are gifts I enjoy now. But His ultimate gift--His Home, is one for which I must patiently wait.

We can peek around the edge of the curtain for a far-off look at all that He has for us in glory. But for now, He simply wants us to feast at His table while we wait until it's time to pull away the curtain and enter into all that He has promised. Knowing there is something in heaven that is mine is too awesome for words. Waiting to possess it makes it all the more precious.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Uh Oh, She's Awake

I often receive emails geared to inspire or uplift, or designed to challenge the reader to greater heights of faithfulness. There's nothing wrong with this type of email--the message gives me something to think about and encourages me to persevere in my daily walk with Jesus.

Occasionally, I open my inbox to find one of those emails that tells me I must forward this email to at least ten people and something good will happen to me in 24 hours. Or if I don't hit forward, it infers that I don't love Jesus. I hate those. Maybe it's the stubbornness in me, but I never forward them because I refuse to be manipulated. If people don't know that I love Jesus by the reflection of my life, then telling them in a forwarded email is a pretty pathetic way to communicate it.

I read one this morning however that made me want to pass it on--at least one of the sentences. After several statements about what satan cannot do, because he isn't as powerful as God, there was a word picture at the end that made me sit up and take notice. It said, "Live your life in such a way that every morning when your feet hit the floor, satan says, "Uh oh, she's awake."

This morning, an announcement was made at church that a dear, sweet saint of God went to heaven just a couple of hours earlier. Her name isn't important. What was important about this lady was her quiet faith and her incredible power as a prayer warrior. There are few people on this planet who spent as much time in prayer as she did. She also had a ministry of letter writing. Old-fashioned? Maybe. But when I opened a card from her, sweet blessing washed over me with the knowledge that this dear lady prayed for me. When I heard the news about her Home-going this morning, it made me wonder who is going to take up the slack.

I'll never be a charismatic speaker or inspire great multitudes with the wisdom of my words. Millions of people won't know my name, and I'll never make history in the Christian annuls of time. The only power I possess is the power God gives me through His word, His promises, and His Spirit. So if I want to be one of those people who makes a mark worth remembering, I need to put my heart and soul into learning to be a prayer warrior. Millions of people still won't know my name, and that's okay. I still won't make history, and that's fine. But if I can give satan a bad day because I've learned to pray like a warrior, then praise God. When I get to the point where my fingers can't type out the words of a manuscript, I can no longer work behind the scenes at church, and the strength to do the things I used to do for the Lord has slipped away, I can still use my waking hours to pray. Oh, that God will fill me with His power through prayer, and when my feet hit the floor in the morning, satan will be annoyed and say, "Uh oh, she's awake."

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Remembering. . .

I've wrestled with my thoughts for over three weeks, wanting to publish a special post dedicated to my mom, but struggling over exactly what I wanted to say. Last month, I traveled to Pennsylvania to visit my sister and her family, and to see my mother--one last time.

For the past three years, every time I visit, I've wondered if Mom would remember who I am. Alzheimer's is an insidious disease--stealing tiny pieces of a loved one a little bit at a time. When our son was diagnosed with cancer in 2005, we decided not to tell Mom, because it would have been too difficult for her to remember who Jonathan was. So every time I visited, I stepped into her room at the nursing facility with a bit of trepidation, wondering if this would be the visit when she wouldn't know me. Early in June, the visit that I dreaded happened. No recognition lit her eyes. The disease had robbed her of her speech. A veil seemed to be drawn between us.

My sisters and I spent our visits with Mom talking about "the old days". "Mom, remember the time we went to the beach and we buried Daddy in the sand?" "Remember the time Pam told me to drink vanilla extract because it smelled good?" "Mom, remember the time you tried to fry eggs on the grill and they all slid off?" "Remember the snow coaster slide Daddy built for us, and you rode down the slide with the dog in your lap?" Laughter and tears punctuated our time together. Memory after memory carressed my heart as I shared them with the woman who helped make them. As I knelt by her wheelchair, I started to remember some precious times of my own.

My mother was never idle. When there was work to be done, she plunged into each task with energy. Her smile was given readily. She loved to laugh. Endless patience defined her as she gently guided me through the process of learning to be woman. But I think most of all, I remember my mother's hands--work-worn, gnarled by time, and twisted by arthritis, her hands held mine when I was afraid, they hugged me to celebrate joyous events, held me to soothe away my tears, and applauded for me when she felt I'd accomplished something significant. My mother's hands, by example, taught me how to pray. Those memories are forever etched into my soul. The sweet times we once enjoyed can never be lost--not even to Alzheimer's. All that we love deeply becomes a part of who we are.

Three weeks ago, as I knelt beside her, my mother's fingers wrapped around mine and wouldn't let me go. Did she know who I was? Did she know I was there? I couldn't be sure. But on my last day there, before I left, Mom grasped my hand and pulled my fingers up to her lips. Was she trying to say goodbye? Did she know it was the last time we see each other this side of heaven?

Almost two weeks ago, June 25th, my mother took her last breath and stepped into glory. Oh, how I wish I could have peeked into heaven to witness the reunion with people she loved: my father, her parents and grandparents, her sister, my son.

The tears I've shed haven't been ones of sorrow. Yes, I miss my mother, but I've been missing her--the person she was, the person we've been in the process of losing--for more than five years. Our prayers for my mother were answered exactly as we prayed them. God reached down and gently, sweetly took Mom home. My tears were a demonstration of gratitude, relief, and joy. I'll see her again soon. And the next time I see her, she'll know who I am.

I love you, Mom.


Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Looking For A Miracle

I could hardly believe my eyes. The other morning, I went out to do some weeding around my roses. My one and only white rose bush (Iceburg) was covered with buds and glorious opening blooms. Every year since I planted it, it's been my most prolific bloomer with clusters of snowy white blossoms cascading over the fence. But this year, I was amazed to see blood red blooms on my white Iceburg rose bush.

Not being an expert on rose horticulture, all I can do is surmise that the bees cross-pollinated my white rose bush from the red ones nearby. Or maybe God just leaned down and kissed those roses to give me a sweet mercydrop.

* * *
Have you ever prayed for a miracle? A specific, God-breathed occurrence so bound in your heart that every prayer you uttered included a petition to see that miracle take place? I did. For eleven years, I prayed that I would see my son come back to Jesus after he turned his back on God and his faith. He'd so hardened his heart, I knew it would take a miraculous touch from God to turn him around. So for eleven years, I begged God to let me live long enough to see "my miracle". Four years ago this week, May 15, 2005, God granted my prayer and I saw my miracle. The joy that burst forth from my heart defies description.

Ephesians 2:13 says, "But now in Christ Jesus you who were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ." That's what happened. That was my miracle. My son was far off, but Jesus, in His astonishing and unending love, paid the ransom with His own blood and drew Jonathan back. My praise will never be the same. Seeing the miracle for which I'd begged God for so long changed forever the way I praise and sing to my Lord.

Something that is miraculous to us is not a staggering event to God. No sweat moistens His brow, no complicated logistics cause Him a headache. He doesn't wring His hands with worry over the details. He breathes His miracles into existence.

So the other morning when I saw red roses blooming on my white rose bush, I was astounded, but only for a moment. God can do anything He likes.


Thanks for letting my share my heart.

Open Your Mouth In His Name

As children of God, we are meant to be encouragers. One of the joys of adoption into His family is fellowship with other Christians, as well as the opportunity to reach out to those who've not yet experienced the bonding of their soul with the Savior.

Such an opportunity arose a few days ago. A friend--a wonderful Christian lady-- posted an email, and I could hear her pain and confusion, I could feel the tears that tightened her throat. She was asking some of the same questions I asked when our son, Jonathan was diagnosed with cancer. "Why?" "How can this be?" Back in 2005, I couldn't understand it all when the doctor made his diagnosis, and I asked "Why, God? I don't understand what You're doing. How can it be that my strong, handsome, healthy son is inexplicably stricken with cancer?" At that time, God sent a special friend to minister to my heart and show me God's incredible mercy. Throughout our cancer journey, God taught me new dimensions of His grace that I might not have learned this side of heaven had the doctor's diagnosis been different.

When I read my friend's email, I wanted to be an encourager to her, especially since I'd asked the same kinds of questions she was asking. When Jonathan was faced with his own mortality, he had a great need for healing--not just of his cancer, but of some deep scars on his heart and soul. We asked God for a miracle for Jonathan.

What we didn't understand at the time was God has many ways of healing. When God grants His healing touch, it is absolute. Jonathan was healed of some deep mental and emotional scars that had created roadblocks in his walk with God. We celebrated the breaking of that bondage he was under, but his physical healing was different. In our humanness, we have a finite understanding of the definition of healing. We believe it is freedom from a particular disease or disability. Well, that IS the kind of healing Jonathan received. He is forever free of cancer. He is not in remission. He doesn't have to fear the cancer coming back or resurging somewhere else. He doesn't have to undergo any precautionary treatments. He is HEALED for all eternity. It was an understanding of true healing that we couldn't grasp at first. But I finally realized that none of us are ever truly healed until we step into glory.

God sometimes grants us gifts of earthly healing so we can continue to be used of Him free of the encumbrance or limitations of a disease or disability. Other times, our prayers for healing take a different turn. Sometimes it's God's plan to use the vehicle of disease to work miracles beyond our realm of understanding. In Jonathan's case, God used his cancer to draw people to the same Jesus Jonathan loved. Every time Jonathan opened his mouth in Jesus' name, God was glorified. And God continued to use Jonathan's testimony even after he died.

Every time we open our mouths in His name, we fulfill God's desire for us to be encouragers. Psalm 63 says, "My lips shall praise You, thus will I bless You while I live; I will lift up my hands in Your name...and my mouth shall praise You with joyful lips." This is what Jonathan did. He praised God while he lived, he lifted up his hands and his voice in Jesus' name. And he did it with joy regardless of the disease.

God, grant me the opportunity to open my mouth in Your name today.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Making The Old New Again

A friend of mine is in the process of purchasing a 100-year-old house. This thing has three stories and eight bedrooms, and eventually will have something I've always wanted--a gazebo. She sent photos showing the intricate woodwork, unique window casements, and quaint claw-foot bathtubs. There is even a "maid's room" that she has already claimed as her office. My friend has picked out wallpaper and paint colors, and has planned renovations and restorations that will enhance the historical ambiance of this century-old treasure. Making the old new again, but clinging to the history.

What if we treasured the things we learned over the years the way we value antique architecture? When we see a wonderful work of craftsmanship tooled into a house, we admire not only its beauty, but also the skill of the carpenter. Aren't the nuggets of wisdom and experience taught by God's patient hand worthy of praise? These lessons aren't easily caught. Many times God has to carve them into our being, like a craftsman honing a piece of art. God's masterpiece is the life and heart of a servant designed and reclaimed for His glory. Much like my friend's 100-year-old house.

She excitedly emailed her friends and family with pictures of the place, but included descriptions of what needed to be torn out, rebuilt, added on, and changed to make the house what she and her husband want it to be. There are plumbing problems and missing trim work, and the layout of some of the rooms needs to be altered. But the planned repairs and renovations have not dampened her enthusiasm. She is looking forward to plunging into the work.

Along our Christian walk, we sometimes get side-tracked or lazy. Disappointments or wounded feelings can make us bitter, attitudes can become ascerbic or cynical. Disagreements can weight us down and hang baggage around our neck. Sometimes work is substituted for worship, with the inevitable burn-out to follow. We can find ourselves like my friend found this house: old, tired, in need of a loving hand to make the old new again. God desires the same thing for us. He sees the rust and the corrosion from years of wear, ugly attitudes or distractions we've used as excuses to justify straying from our first love--worship and praise offered to our Savior. But before we can return to that first love, God has some repairs and renovations to perform. He tears down the ugly, the worn out, and the ill-constructed additions we've installed. He uses the sandpaper of repentance to uncover the original work He did, then uses His mercy and grace to polish and refine what was once a masterpiece designed by His hand. But he also preserves those experiences we used in a wrong way.

This same friend who is buying the old house once told me that God never wastes a circumstance. God chisels those lessons we misused into the mantle of our lives, but He doesn't intend for us to hold on to the hurt or the inappropriate feelings. Once we give those things over to Him, he sculpts them into an art called wisdom. It would be a sad thing indeed to forget those things we've learned by experience, especially if we repeated the same mistakes. God never assumed we would go through life without making mistakes. His mercy and grace repairs and rennovates the time-worn places and makes them new again, ready to be used.

I hope I can have a small hand in helping my friend make her new, old house bloom into a gentle look over her shoulder into the past. It would be fun to find out who lived in the house and filled those walls with the joys and sorrows of their lives. But wouldn't it be even more precious to look back and see God's hand using the circumstances of out lives to carve His masterpiece?

Thanks for letting me share my heart.