A half-pound Phoebe takes over—again

Okay, so we’re not talking a multimillion dollar standoff between a rare worm and an oil pipeline, or a fly and a building complex, cases in which I landed on the side of progress, but the takeover of my poolside gazebo by an eight-ounce bird that screams “phee-bee” has me in a conundrum.

At first I was delighted the Phoebes had chosen to build their nest in the rafters of our gazebo. They flitted around the spacious enclosure as though it were their very own castle. But when they started pooping on the patio chairs, I began to think less favorably about our up-close-and-personal National Geographic happening.

Still, in deference to motherhood, we let them enjoy their takeover while their babies were nesting.  We avoided sitting in the gazebo for any length of time because I worried about the eggs going cold, or babies missing a meal. Finally, they took flight (a departure hastened when I tried to get a picture of them hovering on the rim of their nest).

Happy to hear them calling in the nearby trees, we moved back into the gazebo with our pool paraphernalia. The phoebes, however, knew a good thing when they had it, and they weren’t giving it up so easily.  Lo and behold, a few weeks later, there they were, staking their claim once again. Annoyed with our presence, they’d fly in close or perch nearby scolding and threatening.

I admit; I am amused at the gutsy stance of these tiny keepers of the castle. And I am humored by their apparent enjoyment of their find—a spacious, roofed, open-sided dwelling on the edge of insect -rich woods. 

They dwell securely, unaware that it is by my grace. And that is a reminder I would do well to contemplate. I too, dwell securely by the grace of God.

My phoebes are a living picture of the message the psalmist proclaims when he likens the birds that build nests in the Lord’s house and seek protection at His altars to the person who trusts in the lord.

  

Psalm 84—“Yes the sparrow has found a house and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even Your altars, O lord…happy is the man who trusts in you.’

As I, once again, move my chaise lounge out onto the deck and await the next flight.

When hurricanes, floods, and earthquakes don’t get attention, try Zombies

That’s what a recent blog for the Center for Disease Control did to get the attention of those of us preparedness slackers who think either, “Something like that would never happen to me,” or, “If something happens there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

We may have a sense of apathy about natural disasters, but we sure want to know what to do in the case of a Zombie outbreak. According to a Reuters report, so many people responded to the blog that the site crashed. Apparently the popularity of Vampires and Werewolves hasn’t warmed us to the horror of ambulatory beings bent on eating our brains or possessing our beings.

The Zombie lure may have been successful in drawing people to the site but I don’t know how successful it was in directing the attention to the real focus. How many people went out and bought batteries, water and extra first aid supplies?

We are a stubborn species. Ever confident in ourselves and our present reality.

But we all have been warned of two certainties: one day we each will face death, and one day the Lord will return. And no man knows the hour of either event.

Each day I read the news, especially as it pertains to Israel, I get a knot in my stomach like I’m sensing the approach of the Zombies, the encroaching of evil within my borders. I look at my pitiful emergency supplies stored in what I refer to as my “terrorist” cupboard, and although I get a bit of comfort knowing I have something on hand, I realize how feeble my attempts to save myself really are.

The only place I take any comfort is in knowing my real preparedness comes in drawing close to the Lord, in practicing the awareness of His presence in the good times so that I will be able to stand in times of danger and evil. I pray for my loved ones, and I pray for Israel.

And I cling to the certainty that one day when the Zombies threaten to take over, when darkness covers the earth and deep darkness the peoples; . . . the glory of the Lord will appear, the Holy One of Israel, and He will redeem all that are His.

Meanwhile, I do think I’ll take another look at the CDC’s site, this time bypassing the Zombies for the duct tape and other supplies info.

A day at the beach in burkas and Speedos

As a child, I delighted in playing with my grandmother’s stereoscope (a vintage Viewmaster of sorts). I’d place the sepia-colored, double-image cards on the holder, adjust the viewer and stare transfixed as the two photos morphed into a three-dimensional image that floated before my eyes.

Lately, I feel as though I’m seeing things through that old viewer again. Only instead of double-imaged paper pictures, I’m seeing opposing views of life. Simultaneously, I see good and evil, beauty and ugliness, the One who gives life and the one who destroys it.

One scene in particular has lodged itself in my mind this week. A woman told me about the time she watched a family emerge from their car for a day at the beach. The mother and young daughters, fully covered, gathered their billowing garbs as they made their way through the sand to the shore. A little boy and his father followed, each sporting a skimpy Speedo.

The males, unencumbered and undaunted by the revelation a wet Speedo delivers, frolicked in the water. The girls splashed about, enjoying, as best they could, the water that weighed down their garments like soggy diapers.

This image, however innocuous, reminds me of the oppressive evil that plays out all over the world today. A simple news search reveals story after story of women who are killed each year in “honor killings, who live with faces seared by acid-throwing men, who are lashed and beaten after having been raped. Young girls daily suffer atrocities under groups like the Taliban that we wouldn’t want our children to know even exist.

Meanwhile, we, in our tolerant, free thinking, liberal disillusionment, open our doors to the very ones who want to destroy us. Why not allow them to establish their Sharia law in our land? We are generous in our tolerance. The tragic irony is that what we call freedom is actually enslavement.

And as we stumble over ourselves to permit their Prophet, we forbid our God to be mentioned in public places. We welcome the one whose ways allow beating, maiming, and killing females, yet ban the One who came to set the captives free. We let the deceitfulness of self-righteousness blind us to the One came to give life.

The images through my viewmaster are becoming clearer, more three-dimensional. The time is drawing near. There are two sides. There is one battle.

And there is one Victor.

“ . . .  today I have set before you life and death. . . So choose life that you may live, you and your descendants after you.”—Deuteronomy 30:19

I'd rather be like the swan besotted with the tractor than be nibbled to death by a duck

“Being nibbled to death by a duck.” I don’t remember where I read this, but it is an image from some Bible study that has stuck in my mind over the years.

Have you ever been in a relationship or a situation where someone has picked at you—quietly, persistently undermining everything you did? I have and I’m sorry to say, I haven’t behaved well. Constant taunting erodes even the toughest wall of defense when it is primarily focused on resisting, in this case, the temptation to fire off a verbal volley.

Achieving victory over anything, whether unfair treatment or addiction, requires more than a defensive grit-your-teeth-and-hold on battle plan. Victory comes with a new mindset, a new vision imprinted in the very core of your being.

 A great example of this comes from the book of Nehemiah. The Jews who were rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem were being “nibbled to death by a duck.” The enemies in their midst taunted, mocked, threatened, jabbed, and stabbed until the people of Judah were worn down, fearful and disheartened.

Nehemiah admonished them to not be afraid. Easy to say, but how to do? Nehemiah tells them to remember the Lord, great and mighty, to imprint Him on their minds.

Recently I saw a news clip about a swan who “loves” a blue tractor. The swan walks alongside the tractor, stands by it when it stops, and runs after it when it goes too fast. This has been going on for years. No one knows just what the fascination is, but they speculate something about the tractor was imprinted on the swan early in life.

Ah, besotted.That’s what I want.To have the Lord imprinted in fiber of my being so that I will rest in the security of knowing the One who is great and mighty.

A random thought came, as God thoughts do

The other day I got myself in such a dither, I had to take a time out.

It was my last chance to make a revision in my manuscript before its final edit. For days I had been agonizing over a change that involved some people I had written about. I scrutinized my motives, examined my heart, and submitted myself to Holy Spirit conviction. Still, I couldn’t come to a decision, mainly because I didn’t want to hurt the primary person involved.

My stomach was in such a knot I plunked myself down in a chaise lounge, set my face toward the sun, and said, “Lord, I give up. You know the situation. I can’t come to a decision, so I’m going to sit here and clear my mind, and expect to know what to do when I get up.”

A random thought came, as God thoughts do. I started thinking about the title of my friend, Lori Roeleveld’s book, Far From the Tree. I had read the first few chapters but didn’t know who the villain was. I toyed with whether he (?) was close to another character, as in “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” or whether he was far removed as in, “the apple fell far from the tree, this time.”

In the midst of my musing, the phone rang. Lo and behold, it was the person in my book I was most concerned about. After chatting a few minutes, I plunged in and asked what they (I know it’s supposed to he or she, but choose to ignore correctness for obscurity) thought about my concern. Their immediate response surprised me.

“I think that’s good. In fact, it’s better.”

Just like that. No issue. No reason for days of angst, anxiety, and anxious thoughts. Then, as though that weren’t reason enough to know God heard my prayer, in the midst of the conversation, my friend said, “Yeah, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Well, I still don’t know who the villain is in Lori’s book, but I do know this: The Lord delights in answering prayer, and sometimes, He just can’t resist topping it with His signature flourish, no matter how random it seems.

Oh why, do I spend days fretting and fuming?

“Return to your rest, O my soul, For the LORD has dealt bountifully with you.”—Psalm 116:7

The renovation winds down, the marriage survives, and God redeems a bad decision

Did you ever worry that you made a terrible decision and wondered if God would ever make it right? I did. My last three years read like a synopsis on the fall of woman:

1. Situated nicely—money in the bank, health solid, friends, and fame (well, not so much that). Wanders south to buy a house. (Husband trusts her judgment, lets her go alone.)

2. Beguiled by a blue plastic liner, buys a swimming pool with 100-year-old house attached.

3. Suffers consequences of bad decision: discovers rotten floor boards, broken water pipes, smelly wallpaper, mold and decay. Overwhelmed by magnitude of task, relationship with spouse and only friend within 700 miles strains, health suffers from sleepless nights, renovation consumes finances, jobs elude grasp, Lord does too.

This last renovation nearly did us in. I was big on vision but short on wisdom. (The yellow duct tape holding the front door frames together should have been a clue). Not only had I underestimated the financial costs, but also the emotional and psychological ones as well.

The dreadful realization we were over our heads stared us in the eye at three in the morning; it ate with us on paper plates of take-out; it sucked our joy, our strength and our vision. We didn’t know anyone, had no friends to come over and help carry sheets of plywood, or advise us, or cheer us on. I was known in the neighborhood simply as the lady with the dumpster.

I felt as though the Lord had left me to my mess, and I couldn’t see our way out.

I thought of how His disciples, friends, and family must have despaired to see Him hanging on that cross, to see Him die. The end, the hope, the king is dead. What now? Go home and wonder.

Mournful silence for three days.

Until that morning…God trumps death! He up and leaves the rocky tomb. And He makes a way for us to follow. That’s the great ending to the story: fallen, yes, but then redeemed, restored. Alleluia!

Meanwhile, as we undergo our sanctification, our stripping, and ripping, He sustains us. He reminds us that He is a God of restoration, of hope, and of redeeming bad decisions.

That’s what we had to keep in mind during the days of the Monster Restoration.

One day Bob brought home a bouquet of zinnias. We shook the sheetrock dust off the plastic covering the couch, overturned a box, lit some candles, found a classical music station on the Bose, and decided to reclaim our vision.

“That arch looks great.”

“So do the new ceilings. The wood flooring will be in next week.”

“It’s fifty degrees here; they’re having a blizzard in Vermont.”

“I peeked under the pool cover today. The water’s still blue.”                     

entry before

entry after

                                                   

fireplace wall before

fireplace after

Renovated woman takes down a wall .

That wall had annoyed me since the day we moved in, particularly because it blocked the light from the one large window on the other end of the long, narrow basement room. Every time I went downstairs, I envisioned the wall gone. The problem was, that rated among the bottom fifty projects on my husband’s to-do list. 

Finding myself home alone one weekend, I decided to face my giant. What was the worse that could happen, anyway? Armed with a hammer, I marched into the basement.

For a few moments we stared at each other—the wall and me. Finally, screwing down my courage, I swung. Chunks of sheetrock crumbled and fell. I was committed. Piece by piece I stripped it down to the studs, leaving the ones that had wires running through them for my husband. The rest I dismantled, being fairly certain they weren’t holding up the first floor.

Sunlight flooded into the newly opened space. I realized the main obstacle that had stood between me and a renovation project more complex than paint and wallpaper was fear—fear of the what if’s. What if I messed up? What if I broke something? What if I started and couldn’t finish?  What if my husband got mad?

Now these are certainly things to consider—it especially helps to know the temperament of your spouse— but they are not insurmountable. So what if I screw up? It is my house. Broken things can be fixed. Once free from the paralysis of the what-if’s, I was able to tackle other projects, like tiling the bathroom.

(Granted. Most people don’t mix tile mortar with the kitchen mixer. But when you’ve finally gathered up your courage and given yourself the it’s-my-house-I-can-do-what-I-want pep talk, there’s no turning back—even if you’ve overlooked a few things, like the right tools. But I digress…)

           

Being paralyzed by the what-if’s happens in all kinds of situations. I worry, fret and stew about making the wrong decision, about where to go and what to do, about God’s will for me.

But God says to ask for wisdom and He will give it. He says to seek His face and walk by faith. He says to make plans and He will direct my steps. And if I make a mistake?  Can He not work all things to good?  Are His mercies not new every morning? Can He not hook His rod and His staff around me and set me upright?  Is His arm too short to save?

I had to laugh this morning while reading 1 Kings. Elijah taunts the Baal worshipers for their god’s lack of intervention—“…Either he is missing, or has gone aside on a journey, or he’s asleep…”

But Elijah’s God, and my God, is ever-present. He is my Helper, and by his grace, I will not be afraid to tackle that which is before me.

.

Renovated woman

 You’ve seen them—those Do It Yourself project books and TV shows featuring a perfectly groomed woman mortaring a tile backsplash or painting a wall without a speck of splatter. Let me warn you about the truth behind the camera shot—renovation is messy business.

  

I have to admit though, I have an affinity for fixer-uppers. It’s not that I am intentional about this, but if there are ten houses for sale in a particular area, my internal GPS will go straight to the one in need of repair. 

Perhaps it is because lived-in houses exude a well-worn comfort like soft cotton sheets or old jeans. Perhaps it is because they often occupy pleasant properties—ones with rambling shrubs, lofty trees, and overgrown flower beds. Or perhaps it is simply because I am compelled by a need to restore, to make order, and to make beautiful—God’s little handywoman imitating her Father. 

Fortunately, I am married to a patient and clever man who shares, or at least, bears, my vision. He went along with me when I bought a pink house--pink inside and out, but I almost lost him on this last renovation. This one cost us more than we anticipated, but it did teach me a lot of lessons, which I am happy to pass along. So for the next few blog posts, I'm going to share how to keep your husband, your sanity and your joy in the Lord while being renovated in the process of renovating, because God too, is in the renovation business.

He is making us beautiful. He is making us one with Jesus, the Perfect One so that our hearts reflect Christ’s love, our minds His thoughts, and our characters His character. But this is not always a tidy process, nor is it cheap. It cost the Father the life of His Son. It will cost us the right to our own self-interests. And we don’t give that up easily. The question is—are we willing to surrender ourselves to the Master Carpenter? 

He doesn’t cut corners or patch up old holes. He strips us to the core and builds us anew. Sometimes we get impatient and discouraged as we undergo this life-long process. 

 But slowly and surely, we begin to see the picture of His face on the walls of our house, and as we move from glory to glory we look to that final day when He “will transform the body of our humble state into conformity with the body of His glory . . .” (Philippians 3: 21).

Marching on top of mulberry trees

I consider myself a rather sober sort. Sensible, circumspect, not given to “seeing things.” But one afternoon last summer while lounging by the pool, I heard a rustling in the tops of the trees that line my property. Thinking a sudden wind was tunneling down the riverbank, I looked up and “saw” a troop of large, tall, angelic-size people walking along the treetops.

One turned toward me to speak to her partner. A thrill of fear lodged in my chest as I wondered what they would do if they saw me, but I quickly realized that whatever they were about didn’t concern me. After about a minute, they passed by continuing on their way south.

I have no idea what that was about or why I saw it. But yesterday, in my morning devotions, I came across a passage in 2 Samuel 5:24: “And when you hear the sound of marching in the tops of the mulberry trees, then bestir yourself for the Lord has gone out before you to smite the Philistines.”

Bestir myself. Not panic. Not run to and fro wondering what to do. But, quicken. Be on the alert to what the Lord is doing.

He goes before us, but we need to follow. 

  

Lord, may I not be dull to your spirit, to what you are doing. Open my eyes to see things unseen, my ears to hear your voice, my heart to feel your heartbeat, and my will to follow.

So just when your kids become responsible, you relax

Back when I was teaching school and looking for ways to dazzle my students, I accumulated an assortment of magnets. I keep them in a plastic lunch box. Short, fat, round, square, wandish. . . . One is really powerful. It will draw a nail right out of the wall (Well, sort of.) My students always delighted in finding ways to play tricks with their magnetic powers—like hiding the most powerful one under their desk and moving items on top of it as some unsuspecting classmate happened by.

When we moved to the South, I put my magnet lunchbox in a trunk of “grandkid” supplies, and forgot about it—for a few years apparently. Recently my six-year-old granddaughter was poking through the trunk. She came downstairs and asked her father to help her separate the mass of magnetized objects she had found.

“Mom! What are you letting your grandkids play with?” he hollered.

“Oh, that’s my magnet collection,” I said.

“Yeah, with rusty nails and staples sticking out all over the place,” he said, holding up a tangle of tetanus producing possibilities.

I had to admit. It looked more like a weapon of destruction than a science experiment for a grandchild. My grand parenting skills apparently need fine tuning. But what I was more impressed about was my son’s reaction.

This is the same person who as a child lived in a tepee on a Vermont mountaintop and as an adult included a position in SWAT on his resume. I was surprised he had such a strong reaction to his daughter’s choice of playthings.

Amazing. We work so hard to make our children see things responsibly, and just when they do, we want to tell them—“relax.”

No divine trick up His sleeve

Recently, a group of us in a writers’ workshop were brainstorming ideas about Jesus’ childhood. Our enthusiastic instructor, Ginger Kolbaba, asked us to imagine Mary’s reaction when her little boy Jesus ran to show her what he could do. Demonstrating the scene, Ginger extended her arms, twisted her fingers as though fiddling with an object, and then exclaimed, “Look. Ma!” as she opened her empty hand.

Can’t you see it? No clumsy shuffling of shekels here. No feigned smile of surprise on the face of Mom. This was the real deal—the doves fluttered and flew, the coin vanished.

Were they both surprised? Mary knew He was special; still, did she chide him to not show off in front of his friends? When did Jesus know who He was and what He could do?

Imagine. The Son of God in short pants and sandals. He grew in wisdom and stature to become Glory in a brown tunic. Both God and man. As God, He could not sin. As man, He was tempted yet did not. Not because He was able to pull a divine trick out of His sleeve, but because He would show us how we could live under the control of His life in us.

Lord, may we know today, in all that befalls us that with You is the fountain of life. In your light, we wish to see light.—Psalm 36:9