God's Dashboard Light

I just returned home from our trusty mechanic, Mr. Ken, to find out why Jarhead's (that's my car's name) "check engine" light keeps coming on. At first Mr. Ken thought it was just a loose gas cap, but now it turns out that it's something in the emissions system that is going to cost $500. Oh, goody... I can think of lots of ways to spend $500 that would be a lot more fun or practical.

The good news is that Mr. Ken assured me that I don't need to do this immediately. It won't cause the car to quit or leave me stranded on the side of the road. He told me I could wait until after the holidays to have this work done and it wouldn't hurt anything. It's just that annoying light on the dash--my gaze keeps glancing down to look at it, as if staring at it will make it go away. Then I thought of a way to fix it for a whole lot less than $500.

I gathered a few tools: a screwdriver, snips, tape measure, electrical tape. I've never been mechanically inclined, but I was fairly certain I could perform this task. Sucking in a deep breath and with confidence building, I gathered my tools and marched to the garage. I could do this.

First, I extracted the tape measure and ran it across the space on the dashboard to calculate the measurement. Then, with the screwdriver, I poked a hole in the cellophane packaging around the electrical tape and pulled it off. So far, so good. Carefully transferring the measurement I'd taken earlier to the electrical tape, I snipped off a precise piece of black tape. I took another deep breath to steady my nerves--I'd never attempted this before... Finally, I lined up the tape and placed it strategically on the dash, covering the "check engine" light. Problem solved. I felt like a mechanical genius.

There have been many times in my life that I knew God was trying to tell me something. Sometimes I listened, but other times I ignored Him or offered a flimsy excuse for not heeding His counsel. Brushing aside God's nudging is like covering the "check engine" light with electrical tape. I can't see it, but it's still there. Hiding it won't make it go away, just like ignoring God's direction won't render it non-existent.

Instead of disregarding the touch of God's finger on my heart, I can see it as a comfort that God won't leave me alone. If I peel back that black electrical tape, that silly dash light is still there and it will continue to remind me that I need to address this problem. God's Holy Spirit stays with me, whispering to my soul until I follow His leading. I may think I've effectly blocked out His voice, but His love can never be silenced. I know this because He continually sends me little mercydrops to demonstrate His everlasting presence in my life.

At some point, I will have to decide to have Jarhead's problem fixed. I know this. When God speaks, I have a choice. I can say "Yes, Lord, I'm listening" and then obey what He is telling me to do. Or, I can say, "Not now, I'm too busy, ask someone else to do that." It's my choice. Following God in obedience always results in a blessing. Making a poor choice, like ignoring God's nudging, might not leave me stranded on the side of the road, but it does mean loss of fellowship with Him--something that grieves me as much as it does God. Knowing He is always as close as my breath and my very heartbeat is a comfort beyond description.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Snuggle Time With God

My cat is mis-named Sweet Pea. In hindsight, I should have waited to name her until I learned her personality. Had I done so, I might have named her Tasmanian Devil. Oh well, she does have a sweet side when she feels like showing it. One of her "sweet" habits is jumping up on my desk and putting her paws on my shoulder, meowing and begging to be held and petted. She demands her snuggle time, but it's usually while I'm trying to write. For some reason, she thinks my writing chair is the only place snuggling should take place. She meows until I pick her up and lean back in the chair, at which point she lays on my chest and kneads her paws into my neck. It's really hard to type in this position. She even takes her paw and gently bats my face if I try to look at the computer screen instead of her. She wants ALL my attention.

Isn't this what we do with God sometimes? When circumstances aren't what we hoped, or adversity surrounds us, we cry out to God and demand His attention to our problem. And this is a good thing--God wants us to bring our burdens to Him. But what about the other times? What about trudging through every day dealing with the mundane or routine? What about those busy days when we have more to accomplish than time allows? How about those unexpected distractions that jerk the rug out from under us and we feel we have to scramble to address them?

This morning as I was trying to work through some revisions on my latest chapter, Sweet Pea kept insisting on some one-on-one time and wouldn't take no for an answer. She wasn't in distress or pain. She didn't have an earth-shattering problem for me to solve. She simply wanted to be with me, face to face. She wanted to know that I saw her, I loved her, and she wanted to snuggle. And I realized something this silly cat was teaching me, however unknowingly. God wants the same thing from me. He wants me to stop what I'm doing and just spend time loving Him. I need the same kind of "snuggle time" with God as Sweet Pea was seeking with me. He doesn't want me to be distracted with other things. He wants ALL my attention, my love, my adoration, my praise, my worship.

I realized something else. It's somehow easier to brush God aside than it is to brush the cat aside. The cat is insistent. God is patient. The cat meows in my face. God whispers to my heart. How sad it must make Him when I allow the things of this world to take center stage and I neglect to spend snuggle time with Him.

I think I'll log off Facebook and email, and set aside this chapter I'm working on for a while, and just climb up in God's lap and love Him.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Questions You Want To Ask God

Recently I was sitting in the waiting area at Jarhead's doctor's office. (Jarhead is my car, and he needed an oil change.) Jarhead's doctor, (my mechanic) is a wonderful Christian man, so we were chatting about different things God was doing in our lives. He mentioned to me that he had posed this question to his Sunday School class: If you could ask God one question, what would it be?

I grinned and replied, "I'd be willing to bet 98% of those questions began with the word "Why". He chuckled and admitted that, yes, most of them did.

God created us with an insatiable sense of curiosity. By the time a toddler is three years old, their favorite word is "why", not because they necessarily want to know the reason for something, but because they have learned asking why will generally result in a parent communicating with them. That same desire is inherent in us as we grow in our faith. Yes, we love it when God communicates with us, but that curiosity has deepened by the time we reach adolescence, resulting in an unquenched thirst to understand things beyond our grasp.

Over the past five years, I've asked God more than my share of WHY questions. When we walk through a difficult valley, WHY hovers overhead like a stalking vulture, and the accompanying frustration of not receiving the answers to our questions makes us ripe for buzzard bait. So, not wishing to remain vulnerable, I simply asked God to speak to me. I wish I could say I never demanded answers from God, but that would be a lie.

When exhaustion spent my demands, I was finally ready to listen. What God communicated to me was enlightening to say the least. He gently told me that He doesn't owe me an explanation. (blink) Well, no, of course He doesn't. But then He spilled out His grace and mercy over me, and I realized something else. In my humanness, I don't have, nor will I ever have this side of heaven, the ability to wrap my mind around God's reasons. My finite mind isn't capable of comprehending all that God comprehends. (lightbulb moment) Oh, so that's why He doesn't consult with me before allowing circumstances into my life!!

Since God created me as a finite creature, He knows I could never understand the answers to the WHY questions. That's why He doesn't expect me to understand, He doesn't call me to understand. I am not required to understand all that God does in order to have fellowship with Him. Now that is something I CAN wrap my mind around.

The questions were still there, but the frustration of not knowing the answers dissipated, because when it dawned on me that I didn't HAVE TO understand, that realization was so freeing, and NOT understanding became okay. The fellowship I enjoyed with God was sweeter, and my time with Him was uncluttered.

My demands were swept away and I was able to see more clearly what God did require of me. He may not call me to understand, but He does call me to trust. I can do that. As a finite, sinful, broken person, I can trust, because it takes all the responsibility off my shoulders and allows me to roll it onto God.

So my questions to God have changed. I want to know WHEN--When will I go to see You, Father? When will You come back?--And His answer tarries in my heart: Not yet. Wait. Okay, I'll wait. I can do that, because the joy of God communicating with me makes the wait bearable.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

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.