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.

Handfuls Of Mercydrops

Sometimes it's so easy to forget God's goodness. When times are tough and the future is uncertain, fear and doubt can loom large--like a hulking shadow or circling buzzards. We fight against the tide of tangible things--unemployment, unpaid bills, broken relationships, health issues, elusive goals. But the intangible can be even more frightening. Loneliness, grief, feelings of inferiority, and disappointment attack the most vulnerable places in our hearts, especially if once-faithful sources of strength and encouragement evaporate like morning mist. We cry out like the psalmist, "How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me?" (Psalm 13:1)

A few months ago, my husband was laid off. Given today's economy and the unemployment numbers, it wasn't exactly unexpected. Like thousands of others, the jobless status walked into our lives. We just threw ourselves at the foot of the Throne of God and trusted Him to carry us through a difficult time. What we didn't expect, however, was a new job in less than a month. God gave us a miracle, and we were staggered by His goodness, handfuls of mercydrops raining down upon us, each droplet a kiss from God saying, "I know your need. I've not forgotten you."

About three weeks ago, my car started making a very expensive-sounding noise. The ominous clunking sound grated on my nerves every time I turned the key, and all I could think was--this engine is going to blow, it's going to throw a rod. If that was the case, we were faced with a decision, and we only had three choices: have the engine rebuilt ($$$), have a new engine installed ($$$$) or buy a new car ($$$$$$).

I drive a 1997 Toyota Rav4. It has 159,886 miles on it. Was it financially prudent to invest so much money either rebuilding or replacing the engine, especially since the cost of the repairs would most assuredly exceed the resale value of the car? But there is one more thing I didn't mention about this car. It's not really MY car. It was my son's car. When he died, I started driving it. So it's really Jonathan's car. I'm just taking care of it for him. I affectionately named the car "Jarhead" since Jonathan was a Marine. How could I even consider trading his car in and getting something else to drive? Every time I slide in behind the wheel, I can almost catch a whiff of Jonathan's aftershave.

So it wasn't with just a little apprehension I took the car to our favorite mechanic, "Jarhead's doctor", Mr. Ken. I described the noise and left the car in Mr. Ken's capable hands. One the way home, I talked with God. "God?" I said. "Jonathan's car has a problem. I'm not really sure what it is, but You know what I'm afraid it is. You also know how special that car is to me. If it turns out to be the worst case scenario, please help us to find the means to fix it so we can keep Jonathan's car." I needed a mercydrop. No, I needed a whole handful of mercydrops.

Mr. Ken kept the car for two days. When he called me yesterday, he told me he was positive it wasn't a rod, it wasn't anything internal in the engine. In fact, he was fairly certain it was just a spring on the starting motor. Mercydrops began showering down. I raised my face toward heaven and let the droplets splash over me. How good God is to give us exceedingly, abundantly beyond what we ask!

Jarhead is sitting out in the garage with a clean bill of health, a tangible witness of God's goodness and mercy. In the times of drought, when tears fall unbidden, loneliness is my companion, and disappointment shadows my steps, I have only to lift up my head toward heaven. As the prophet Elijah declared in 1st Kings 18:41-- "...there is the sound of abundance of rain." Handfuls of mercydrops, each droplet a kiss from God, saying, "I'm here. I know your need. You are not alone. I'll not forget you or forsake you. It is my delight to bless you."

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

Connie

I've Never Seen Tomorrow

I’ve never seen tomorrow. I only have today.

Why is it when our loved ones are gone, we never think "I wish I’d spent more time worrying about tomorrow, or next week, or next year." "If only I’d stressed more about my job." "I wish I'd thrown myself into more activities outside the home." Inevitably, we wish we’d spent more time loving and laughing with that person we miss.

Planning for the future is a wise thing to do. We open savings accounts and 401Ks, we make sure our insurance coverage is adequate and our wills are up to date. We consider where we’d like to be a year from now or five years from now. We consider our spiritual growth and what God desires for our lives. We educate ourselves and our children so we might be successful in whatever unfolds in God’s plan.
As prudent as it is to plan, prepare, and organize, if the planning takes your focus off the things that are most important—family & friends—then I need to take another look at my motives.

I’m a planner, an organizer, a list maker. People roll their eyes at me when I tell them how far in advance I plan for holidays or events. They think I’m obsessive compulsive when I describe how I organize the small details. They’ve even made unkind remarks behind my back about how they think I’m showing off.

But they miss my point altogether.

Throwing myself blindly into the activity of planning or organizing is not my goal. The goal is to unclutter my schedule so I can take time to hold hands with my husband, pet the cat, sit back and gaze at a picture of my son, and reminisce. I can take a day to drive up to the mountains and lean against the same tree my son leaned against and appreciate the view he loved. If the youth group needs a batch of cookies, I can make them. My friend wants to meet for lunch, I’m there. My sister in Christ has a heart-wrenching prayer request? I’m on my knees. I have time. Tomorrow will never be as important as today.

I’ve never seen tomorrow and neither has anyone else. By the time tomorrow arrives, it’s today. So why do we focus so much attention on tomorrow? Take care of today, because tomorrow isn’t a promise. If resolutions are in the making, make this one:
Let all your plans and all your work for tomorrow have one goal: to unclutter tomorrow so you can make a precious memory today.

Thanks for letting me share my heart.

(In memory of my son, Sgt. Jonathan Paul Stevens, USMC; 6-22-77 ~ 1-10-06)