The Greatest Gift

I laughed when I was reminded of the translation of manna this week. I could just picture the Israelites, hungry, cranky, tired, watching this stuff as fine as snowflakes fall from the sky and ask each other—“What is it?”

God’s provision elicited the response, “What is it?”

Thing is, their response isn't so different from mine at times. After I've prayed and watched and then been handed something that didn't at all look like I expected God’s provision to look like, I too have asked, 

“What’s this, now?”

Not only do some of God’s provisions not look like our expectations, but sometimes God doesn't either. I wonder how often I model my idea of him after my own interests.

Imagine going back in time two thousand years. You’re standing in front of the Temple in the outer court, and can peer straight into the Holy Place with its lampstand and table of bread of the Presence. A massive curtain separates it from the Most Holy Place, shielding the Presence of God. This place so holy only one priest, one day a year could enter.

The whole massive structure, the careful placement of symbols, the idea of the Presence of God over the Mercy seat back there floods you with awe, and then, right before your eyes, the curtain rips in two and for a moment you can see straight through to the forbidden place.

What do you do? You shield your eyes; you fall on your face. And then, expecting to be struck dead, you lift up your head and peek.

There on a hill not far from where you bow, hangs a man, limp, bloodied. A crown of thorn hangs askew on his now dead body.

Your eyes travel back to the Temple. Could it really be?

He doesn't look like you expected.

My prayer is to see the Lord from unveiled eyes this year, to let any preconceived ideas and expectations fall away if they are not of Him, and be willing to let God unveil God in my life this year. 

Sometimes He uses books to help that process.

One of those books (which I went through much faster than you should because it was burning in my hands to be given to a certain friend) is The Greatest Gift: Unwrapping the Full Love Story of Christmas, by Ann Voskamp.

Everything about this book exudes beauty.  Exquisite cut paper illustrations by Paula Doherty frame each short section of devotional reading and reflection.

Quietly, carefully, thoughtfully, Ann recounts the Coming, the march of Grace from Adam to Jesus , through the messy ancestry, through the messy places , to the messy manger.

Each reading feels like a gift in itself because it opens your eyes to the Greatest gift of all—the One that didn't look like He was expected to look, the One who doesn’t always do as you expect Him to do.

The Greatest Gift--"God gives God."

Buy this for yourself and a friend before December 1^st so you can enjoy the pageantry through the daily readings culminating in a rich celebration of Christmas. 

Blessings!

Marcia

The Mirror Maze

One of the things I'm learning about being a caregiver is that you have to be inventive about taking care of yourselves.

 In our Pre-Pa Days (before Bob’s 93-year-old dad moved in) we had that window of empty-nesting to do and go quite freely. Now our comings and goings have about a two or three hour window. So although we may not be able to go on a vacation, we are trying to change the way we look at what’s around us.

For example, how many of you live in a place that has some special sites or things to do, but you've never availed yourself of them? We realized that the town we live in attracts a lot of tourists because it has so much to offer and yet we were longing to go somewhere else. (Okay, a sidewalk café on a chilly fall evening in SC isn't quite the same as dinner on a Florida beach, but…)

So we decided to change our perspective and play tourists in our own downtown. We had tapas on a rooftop, a Malaysian meal at a sidewalk restaurant. We poked in boutiques and bumped shoulders with out-of-towners at crosswalks. 

Apparently our happy tourist façade was convincing because the owners of an arcade wooed us in to try out their Mirror Maze. We handed over our money (more than it was worth, I thought) donned our 3-D glasses and headed into a maze of me. 

Me reflected in front, me in back, me all around.

The object was to get away from yourself—and find the one way out of each corner. (And in case any of you decide to try a mirror maze, that is a clue.)

Get away from you.

I thought it was a great reminder. Maybe it was worth the bucks after all!

Friday I am going to discuss some of the books that have impressed me this past month. One of which is the BEAUTIFUL new book from Ann Voskamp—The Greatest Gift: Unwrapping the Full Love Story of Christmas.  I hope you’ll stop back.

A very blessed and joy full week to you,

Marcia

A No CC Day: No Complaints. No Criticisms

I don’t know how many of you like this time change, but being a morning person I am all about Eastern Standard Time. The sunshine an hour earlier in the morning charges my cells faster than a venti dark roast. 

I’ve been so energized that I had walked the dog her mile, showered and gotten half-way out the door for an appointment before I realized it wasn’t until tomorrow. I even rejoined the gym. (Let’s see how long the enthusiasm for that lasts.)

The other decision birthed from this fall quickening was that I signed up for National Novel Writing Month—a commitment to write a 50,000-word novel between now and the end of November. Since I have never written more than two-hundred words of fiction in my life this presents a major challenge. But I am giving myself permission to play with that murder? Psychological thriller? Suspense? that lurks around in my mind, but that I never feel justified spending the time to let out.

This giving myself permission to play with creativity, even if it doesn’t produce some meaningful fruit has been very freeing. I don’t know about you, but I think sometimes—a lot of times—I am too hard on myself. In Isaiah, God says, “Comfort my people … Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and proclaim to her that her hard service has been completed, that her sin has been paid for.

Speak tenderly. A good word for those of us who live in the shadow of a hard taskmaster. And I suspect in speaking tenderly to ourselves, we will find it easier to speak tenderly to others. So I’m proclaiming today No Complaints or Criticism Day. No negative muttering about myself or anyone else and no hard taskmaster.

As G.K. Chesterton says, “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.” So that’s what I am going to practice today (although coming up with a murder isn’t exactly a “light” thing!)

Meanwhile I have a couple of posts in other places today if you want to hop on over to My Christian Writers Conferences and take a look at When a writer falls into her reader’s story or stop by Life to the Fullest for Hope: when you can’t pray your way out of an open box.

And for those of you who’ve heard these stories before, I echo Groucho Marx: “If you’ve heard this story before, don’t stop me, because I’d like to hear it again.”

Meanwhile I pray that today you give your permission to enjoy—the day—the gifts you have—the desires of your heart and above all to Enjoy God!

Blessings abundant,

Marcia

When you think you have little to offer . . . offer it!

“When I grow up, I mean way, way up, I hope to be a wise old woman of God.” So says Carolyn Weber in Holy Is the Day: Living In the Gift of the Present.

She says a lot of beautiful wise things as she examines what it is to live Carpe Deum—seizing God by living the gift of the present. This is a beautiful book of poetry and pondering, gently crafted but deep-rooted in its challenge to live “in difference because we serve an extraordinary God.”  And I am pretty sure Carolyn Weber is well on her to becoming a wise (not yet old) woman of God.

I, myself am closing in on growing “way, way up,” and pray that being a wise woman of God accompanies the old part. Having started midlife with the Lord, I’ve had to dive deep and swim strong.

This past weekend, I attended Allume, a conference with about four hundred other women, most young enough to be my daughters: bloggers, mom entrepreneurs, ministry and mission minders, storytellers—all daughters of the King looking for ways to encourage one another in both craft and community.

There was a lot of wisdom being passed around and I gleaned several valuable insights. One thing that impressed me was the reminder that everyone—no matter how small—no matter how tied down with kidlings, or elderly parents, or a seeming lack of resources or skills, has something—some loaf or fish to offer to the Lord for his use. Yet how often we let competition or comparison or lack of confidence cripple us from even beginning.

Recently I saw a terrific quote (which I can’t track down and will do no justice to in my paraphrase) about thinking since we can only do a little, we don’t do anything at all. Isn’t that the truth—or rather the lie.

It was a lie that Asher Collie, a young woman I met at the conference, didn’t buy into. While watching  YouTube, she came across a video about the crippling effects of jiggers on children in Africa. The fleas burrow into the bare feet, suck the host’s blood, and form debilitating blisters and sores that cause infections, paralysis and even death.

Asher could have said, “How horrible,” and left it at that. But she didn’t. This “self-proclaimed shoe addict” enlisted a designer friend and together came up with a way to make shoes for kids an ocean away.

It’s an ingenuous idea: SOLE HOPE. Make the shoe uppers from recycled material such as jeans anywhere in the world, then ship the kits to Africa where they can be assembled by impoverished women and a shoemaker who attaches the rubber bottoms.

Love it! Kids get shoes; community gets employment. God gets glory.

You can have a shoemaking party anytime with the kits from Sole Hope. Check them out www.solehope.com

One other story that will cheer on any of you who have participated in or who think about participating in Operation Christmas Child with shoe boxgifts, involved a young man from Rwanda. He watched as his family was murdered in front of him. Sent to an orphanage, it was there he received a shoe box gift. He said he kept his comb for three years! And didn’t know what to do with a candy cane but was thrilled to find out.

Later, as a Christian (forgot how he came to the States) not only does he have an opportunity to go back to the same orphanage and deliver shoe box gifts, but he goes to the prison and extends forgiveness to the man who murdered his family. Wow.

His story goes full circle. But it wouldn’t have gone anywhere if someone hadn’t given a small box of gifts. If someone hadn’t packaged and paid to have them sent.

If someone had thought they had so little to offer that they didn’t offer anything at all.

Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received.--1 Peter 4:10

Blessings friends as we journey on into that month of giving thanks--for Veterans, for bounty, for gifts graciously given.

Marcia

A Groundhog With Scoliosis: Compassion Is a Good Thing

A groundhog with scoliosis. Yep. That’s what the man was cradling in his arms like the family pooch or a chunky baby. 

I immediately flashed back to my only other association with woodchucks (Punxsutawney Phil excluded)—Sunday drives on the back roads of Vermont with my father (an avid hunter) who in spite of needing glasses, could spot a chuck from a 50 mph moving car even though the critter was no more than a distant dot in a rocky field to the rest of us. I don’t ever recall my father shooting one in front of us, although I could tell by the stillness of his head and the narrowing of his eyes that he was mentally lining up his shot.

But I managed to restrain myself from blurting out this information to the man holding the woodchuck, who I discerned, was a sensitive soul because he volunteered for wildlife rescue.  The rodent readjusted itself in the man’s arms as he pointed out the crooked spine which impaired its mobility.  I pushed back the refrain we kids always sang in response to our father’s observation: “How much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” and asked instead how come it didn’t bite him.

 The man said it was because they had been together for the past four years.

As I watched them snuggle with each other, I doubted if it was solely a matter of time together that cemented the relationship between man and beast. From furry to feathery, animals have secured their spot in the heart of man. And loyalties are fierce. Did you ever notice how a movie villain can terrorize a whole family, but don’t let him touch the pooch or you’ll get really upset.

Pet supply trends suggest that Baby Boomers, once tagged as helicopter parents, have shifted their hovering from children to animals now that the nest is empty. This bodes well for this generation of animals, domestic or wild.

While the kids were growing up, my husband and I resisted getting too involved in the pet thing, mostly because we wanted to be free to go places easily. But ever since our adult daughter began coming home with puppies and leaving without them, we too have succumbed to the doleful eyes wanting up on the bed and the eager ears hoping that rattle of car keys included them.

I, champion of highway over rare spider (Endangered Spider Discovery Stops $ 15 Million Texas Highway Construction) and mocker of over-zealous PETA persons have been so softened by the family pooch that I know by the tone of the dog’s bark whether there’s a cat out back or someone walking their dog up on the track. And my discernment is extending to the wildlife. The other day I told my husband there was a predator outside.

“How do you know?” He asked.

“I understand bird talk,” I said. “They’re sounding an alarm.”Sure enough, there was a huge hawk sitting in the tree.

I am pleased with the increasing sensitivity to the animal kingdom that having a pet has given rise to, nevertheless, I do discriminate. My husband will carefully scoop up the prehistoric stink bug and release it outside, while I guilt-freely flush it down the drain. 

When we offered to do some work for our friends while they weren't home, and they called to say that in the interest of “full disclosure” they had to warn us one of their snakes had escaped, I asked how bad they’d feel if I stabbed it with a fork.  

And while I look at a woodchuck and see a rodent (with scoliosis or not), I am glad there are people who see a creature in need and are willing to help. 

Cultivating compassion in an increasingly desensitized society can only be a good thing, don't you think?

Blessings friends,

Marcia

photo credit

September Psalm

O where is a blue butterfly when you want one!

I hate to have it leave, this month of round yellow light that settles lazily over my body, of blue butterflies lingering on lantana and birds calling each other for October journeys.

September. Its departure is as decked out in splendor as was its arrival here in South Carolina.  I pause to soak in the beauty, but the paucity of words to burst through the glory and touch the Creator frustrates me. I identify with that “agony of prayerlessness,” that Dietrich Bonhoeffer says drove the disciples to ask Jesus to teach them to pray.

In his little book, Psalms: the Prayer Book of the Bible, Bonhoeffer makes his case for praying God’s words back to him because, “The words which come from God become  . . .  the steps on which we find our way to God.”  And: “The richness of the Word of God ought to determine our prayer, not the poverty of our heart.”

And so I let the laundry wait. Dinner will emerge in some form or other, and life will carry on into the October morning.  But today, this last glorious day of September, I offer the words of what Bonhoeffer classifies as the creation psalms back to the One who first spoke them.

Care to join me in a meditation of Psalms 8, 19? (Bonhoeffer also includes  Psalms 29, and 104, which you might consider on your own.)

Psalm 8

O LORD, our Lord, / how majestic is your name in all the earth! O Jehovah Lord, I acknowledge you as Creator God. I praise your name and proclaim your glory. Glory that is above the heavens, uncontainable, unfathomable. (v.1, 2)

How can it be that when I look at the heavens, the work of your fingers, /the moon and the stars, which you/have set in place, that you are mindful of me and that you care for me! (v.3,4) I bow down and thank you. I thank you that you have made a way for me know you and that you have crowned me with glory and honor. (v. 3)

O LORD, our Lord, / how majestic is your name in all the earth! (v.9)

Hallowed be your name.

************

1980. I am flying in to NYC, a new Christian about to embark on a new journey. The sunrise explodes above the clouds and I turn in my spanking new Bible to Psalm 19. Your profound declaration of how you have revealed yourself through your creation fills me with awe, and your spoken Word of revelation leaves me no excuse.

The heavens declare the glory of God, / And the sky above proclaims his handiwork. / Day to day pours forth speech/ And night to night reveals knowledge. (v.1, 2) O Father, try as we will to make sense of all the mysteries that surround us, try as we will to inform and contain, there is no way to explain the undeniable grandeur that is revealed both night and day. –even the stars “sing” (as scientists have seen). I praise you for the mystery, the beauty, the grandeur of your creation.

What a great image you have given us to delight in . . . The sun,/ which comes out like a bridegroom/ leaving his chamber/ and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. (v.5)

And in case we miss it—the face of you in this creation—you have left us your Law which is perfect and revives our souls (v.7), your sure testimony which makes the simple wise, your right precepts which rejoice the heart, and your pure commandments which enlighten the eyes . . .(v.7,8)

O God, may I not exchange your glory for my man-made idols. (Romans 1:23) May I not chase after emptiness and become empty. (Jer.2:5)

But let the words of my mouth and the /meditation of my heart/be acceptable in your sight, /O LORD, my rock and my redeemer. (v. 14)

Blessings friends, as we leave September behind and face fall-ward,

Marcia

Tickets to Alcatraz

My father didn’t think he should bother God with little everyday problems and requests. Said he’d wait until he needed something important. I wasn’t sure if he was worried God would think he was a nuisance and ignore him when it really mattered, or if God was just too busy answering prayers about starving children and warring countries to be concerned with our growing grocery tab at the neighborhood market.

And so I outsourced most of my childhood concerns. Various saints were delegated the task of helping me find missing items and being safe in the car. Santa Claus got the big-item-once-a-year wish list while crossed fingers and first stars of the night got my lesser daily desires. I did pray to God every day, but I kept to things I was certain He was interested in—like forgiving my misbehavior and helping me to be better.

Years later, when “star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,” Santa Claus, and crossed fingers were as distant a memory as my teddy bear, I floundered about seeking something on which to pin my daily concerns.

That’s when God stepped in and showed me nothing was too insignificant for Him to handle. The same God of the universe and all things incomprehensibly infinite was also the God of my minutia. (Care to tweet this?)

                                                           Tickets to Alcatraz

I had moved across the country to try out life In San Francisco, but nothing was working out as I hoped. Plus, the strain of having to stay alone in an apartment in a strange city while I pieced together enough temp jobs to feed us was taking its toll on my young son. So one sunny afternoon we decided to have fun and take in the city sights.

Making our way to the bay, we joined a group of tourists in line for the ferry tour around Alcatraz. I stood at the edge of the crowd and debated whether or not to spend my last few dollars on something so irresponsible.

 I agonized. It seemed too insignificant a request to warrant the attention of heaven.

It would have been easier if my son had whined and begged. Then I could have felt justified in squelching a tantrum. But the silent hope in his eyes as he looked from me to the diminishing line melted my resolve.

“Lord, please forgive me if I'm being frivolous. It’s been a tough time for him, and he needs to have some fun.” With that, we took our place at the end of the line.

As the last person reached the booth, I faltered. My son looked at me with a desperate glance of hope.

“Psst. Psst.”

Standing at the side of the ticket booth, two little ladies, each with a head full of bluish curls, were gesturing to get my attention. I eyed them warily as they held something out to me.

“Here,” one said, her face awash in delight. “We have two tickets we don’t need. Go ahead. Take them.”

I can’t say for sure, but I suspect, no two people ever felt so gifted by God for a trip to Alcatraz.

The final whistle blew as we hurried up the gangplank. 

Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who trusts in Him.--Psalm 34:8

Blessings Friends,

Marcia

photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/9465588@N05/3140320422/

Something to Consider this glorious September day

From frivolous (Talk Like a Pirate Day, 9/19) to serious (National POW/MIA Recognition Day, 9/21) the calendar is full of things to celebrate or consider.  

 I enjoy the silliness and humor of some of these designated days (although my family would probably be astounded to see humor and silliness in the same sentence as my name). But as anyone who has poked around here knows, I have a heart for missions.

Previously I told the story about the time I followed up on a Google alert of my book, Call of a Coward, and was led to a blog post of a woman who had just finished reading it. The long and short is—it ministered to her because she was going through the breaking away period, the counting the cost time, to pack up her family and move to Hogar de Vida in Costa Rica to team up with the same people we had been involved with in my story!

I’ve since followed her journey as she and her family untied from all things familiar and made the move to Costa Rica. If their arrival is any indication of things to come, this family can rest assured in the mighty hand of God.

 Imagine the bustle at the airport as you settle your family into the transport, stash your bags and your kids, and then just as you start to relax twenty minutes down the road, you realize you’ve left the backpacks containing all your most valuable paperwork, cash, cameras, and computers on the sidewalk at the airport!

You can read the Gnuse’s amazing story about The Glorious Rear Guard here.

Which brings me back to the calendar days. This month is also Blog Month for Compassion International. Their goal is to get sponsors for 3, 160 children. My friend, Susan Stilwell, a blogger over at I Hope 4 Him invites us to find the story behind this picture:

And so my offering to you, this so-beautiful-I-want-absorb-it day in September is this—please consider the abused and abandoned children here, there, or anywhere and the people who sacrifice to help them. The opportunities to impact lives are plentiful—without even leaving your homes. 

Blessings in the joy of the Lord,

Marcia

One Word September Check-up

At the beginning of every year there is a lot of hoopla about choosing One Word, a one-word theme that resonates with your particular stage of life, and that you determine to focus on. Many Christians seek that word from the Lord, but plenty of non-believers choose to reduce their ambitious New Year’s resolution list to one word also. 

It’s easier to remember one word and therefore easier to do. Or is it? I'm wondering how it’s going for those of you who chose/received a word this year.

Are you still praising? Resting? Seeking? Serving? Chilling? Are you still experiencing beauty? Faith? Freedom? Joy? Loveliness? Silliness? Serenity? Serendipity?

For the thirty or so years I have been a Christian, I have sought the Lord on New Year’s Day for a key scripture. I still did that this year, but I also asked the Lord for a one-word lesson or theme He wanted me to be attentive to.

 I immediately knew what it was, and I didn't particularly like it. In fact, I was kind of envious of the people who had fun words like adventure and light, or mysterious words like hidden and key, or just downright peaceable words like tranquil and secure.

My word was anathema to the “me-generation” of which I was such a part.  

It conjured up images of the recalcitrant kid sitting in the corner but standing in his heart.

Like cans tied to a newly-weds  car, misconceived ideas of legalism, suffering, submission, and resignation rattled after it, distracting and deterring a pursuit of it.

And yet I knew that it was only through the practice of this that I would draw closer to the heart of the Father.

Obedience.

“From Paradise lost to Paradise gained, it is obedience that gives access to God.”—Andrew Murray

Obedience acknowledges a higher authority, and if that authority is God, I would like to think sheer love for him would make me willing. And often it has.

But there have been times when although I've done what I knew should, my attitude stunk. The Lord didn't have to wither up a shade-plant in order for me to see that my Jonah heart needed a dose of grace.

And that’s what I am learning about obedience this year—I'm getting the form down but the Lord wants the heart.

I know He is sticking close with me on this because just when I start patting myself on the back about how well I am learning servanthood, I am confronted with an even more demanding situation.

But obedience is not about resignation. Resignation “lies down quietly in the dust of a universe from which God seems to have fled”—Catherine Marshall.  As someone told me this week, her hopes and dreams were like shattered glass. Her attitude was: “It is what it is.”

No. Obedience doesn't resign, it relinquishes, open handedly those dreams to a good, loving, gracious God, confident that He can pick up those shattered stained glass pieces and form a masterpiece.

I would love to hear how you are doing with your theme for the year. And if yours was “happy” or “joyful” do tell! But if you are walking through a trial of a time, may grace tie you securely to the hope you have in the One who relinquished his will, knowing resurrection triumphs over crucifixion.

Hill Meets Tuff Hill

 It might have been an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning—except for the change in staff plans that brought Antoinette Tuff to work on an unscheduled day and placed her right behind the front desk of a Georgia elementary school.

Placed her right in line with a young man armed with an AK-47 rifle and “nothing to live for.”

For the past week Antoinette Tuff has been hailed as a hero, and rightly so. Her unflappable courage, compassion, and authority while talking down a distraught gunman (you can listen to her 911 call) at a Georgia elementary school have garnered the attention of the media, as well as the White House.

Some hold her up as an anti-gun model. Some want to know if they can teach the leadership skills she used—she called him by name, related her own troubles, extended compassion and hope all  while keeping calm and composed.

And some, like me, see the power an ordinary woman, seasoned by life, trained in vocational skills, and “anchored in the Lord” has for such a time as this. She said her pastor had been talking about being anchored in the Lord and that is what she clung to as she employed all the skills and training she’d had for hostile situations.

Listening to her 911 call, you’d never know she was more scared than she’d ever been in her life. It seemed to me, a signature touch of the Lord that when she asked the man’s name. He told her  Michael Hill. She said, “I'm a Hill too!” Her mother’s name was Hill.

Hill meets Tuff Hill, and for that he can be thankful.

Antoinette Tuff is a reminder for me that it’s so easy to just react in any confrontation (not necessarily with gunman!). An eye for an eye sort of response. And yet, anchored in the Lord, we have the power and the skill to “see through” the situation and to respond with kindness and compassion.

Her story is also an example for me of how any day, any ordinary day, might just be the one the Lord chooses to use us for such a time as this.

Blessings on this National Just Because Day! May the fleeting days of August be sweet.

Marcia

First Day of School Fears (Mom's That Is!)

Here's a back-to-school repost for some mom out there in need of assurance as her child heads off to school. (Doesn't matter whether it's to kindergarten or college--we cry and worry nonetheless!)  My daughter is long out of school but I always think back to that first day when I see the crossing guards at their posts.

Our daughter, the only girl of five kids, was a Velcro child. For years she stuck so close to me we moved as a unit.I decided she needed to go to pre-school a few mornings a week to introduce her to the world beyond my pant legs.

Like a hound on a fox hunt, I searched out every kiddie program for miles around. I sat in on show-and-tell circles, surveyed classrooms for any potential dangers in the five-year-old world, and questioned teachers about their lesson plans. Finally I found the perfect program, made especially so because of the teacher.

Although the program was held in a church which we were not members of, and the classes were rapidly filling, the director assured me my daughter would be placed in that particular teacher's class.

First school day arrived. My little one donned her backpack and I donned my brave face. Before we got out of the car, I rolled up her sleeve and planted a rosy lipstick kiss on her arm.

"If you get scared, just peek under your sleeve and know I love you," I said.

As we approached the classroom, the director intercepted us and pointed to another room, which she said was my daughter's.

"Oh, no," I protested. "I was told we would have this teacher. She's the reason we are here."

Unmoved, the director said Mrs. First Choice Teacher's room was full, but that Mrs. Unknown was also a wonderful teacher. I could feel the panic bubbling up, but not wanting to get testy in front of nervous little children, I handed my daughter over to Mrs. Unknown Teacher, blew  a kiss, then raced to my car where I promptly burst into tears.

I fretted all morning. "Lord, I spent weeks looking for the perfect situation and now, at the last minute it changes! How could you let that happen to us?"

Finally in between my complaints, I realized the story of Joseph had been playing in the background of my mind. I paused to pay attention. Peace settled over me as the reminder that in spite of all the unfair, downright bad things that happened to Joseph, things he had no control over, God had his back. What was intended for evil, God intended for good.

When I met my daughter at her classroom door, I expected to find her either in tears or on the verge of them. Instead, a happy child laden with crayon drawings greeted me.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Good," she said. "I like my teacher. She has warm hands."

Warm hands. God knew my daughter needed warm hands far more than the most progressive way to learn ABC.

Blessings, parents of off-to-schoolers. Remember He loves your little (and big) ones more than you do!

Marcia