Standing with her who is standing firm

I have friends who say they don’t watch the news because it fills them with anger and despair. I have to agree. My reactions to many of the stories surfacing—especially those outrages aimed at Christians—frustrate me no end and recall to mind some of the psalmist’s pleas to God to deal with his enemies: “Let them be like grass upon the housetops, which withers before it grows up,” (a more mild example).

Too aware of my own shortcomings, I usually leave the eye-plucking to God and pray for the evil sent out to return on the one who sent it. But as far as despairing and losing hope, I don’t.

The one weapon I have that is more powerful than uranium in a madman’s hands is prayer. Prayer to THE Living God. THE all-powerful, almighty one. THE one with whom nothing is impossible. Nothing.

But I am sitting here in my warm, lovely home with a refrigerator full of food and a closet of clean clothes. My children are well and none lacks. It’s easy for me to keep confidence.  

I am acutely aware that despair and faltering hope prey on suffering, suffering that involves not only one’s self, but that of having to watch loved ones. These are the ones who need me and you to stand in faith when theirs weakens; when rats run over their child having to share a filthy jail cell and the hangman’s noose swings outside the cell in anticipation of their neck as soon as the child in their womb is born.

I am thinking today of Meriam Ibrahim, jailed for apostasy  (being a Christian married to a Christian man). According to new reports, her 20-month old son is with her in jail because the courts won’t recognize her husband.

Meriam has stood firm for her faith. Please stand with me in prayer for her. For her young son. For the child in her womb. And for the husband and father who has lost his family.

Evil surrounds and may at times seem to walk off victorious, but we appeal to you Lord. We pray for strength, for grace, for your very presence to fill that cell room, to protect this woman and children, to cause your face to shine upon her and hold her pain and suffering.

Prison cells are nothing for you. Jesus, we lift her to you.

  ***

 Really wanted to leave on a cheery note, as I go off to Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference this week, but I have had a heavy heart for Meriam, as well as for the kidnapped girls in Nigeria. And so, I ask you to wield that weapon of faith and power with me as you go about your day and I mine.

Until next time--

Blessings,

Marcai

My Alice Doesn't Have Lice

Her daughter’s name was Alice. Alice was a grade-school classmate, who, as I recall, had long, mousey blonde hair that camouflaged the withdrawn demeanor that marks one wounded or weak. One easily made fun of.

Maybe Alice was just shy. Or maybe she had had the fight smothered out of her, but one thing was certain—her mom sure hadn’t.

No, even though she lived in a run-down affair off what we called the Dump Road, and was married to a man who went to jail (I suspected it was for doing things we didn’t talk much about back then, like exposing himself to my sister as she walked home from school one day) Alice’s mom had pride. And she had fight.

And if there was one thing she’d fight for, it was her daughter.

Back then (I don’t know if schools still do this) the nurse would come around periodically and do a lice check by running a pencil through our heads. After one such inspection, for some mean reason, I whispered it around that Alice had lice.

At home, later that day, my mom told me someone wanted to see me. I didn’t see a car in the driveway, but when I stepped outside, there, standing in the hot afternoon sunlight were Alice and her mom. Apparently they had trudged the miles down Dump Road, along Falls Road, and up our road, stopping at my front door.

“Come here,” Alice’s mom commanded in a voice reserved for mothers and generals. One that left no room for argument and melted the cockiness right out of me. She lifted a hunk of Alice’s blonde stringy hair and waited until I edged near. “Look. Look. Alice says you’re saying she has lice. Do you see any lice?”

Properly mortified, I peered at Alice’s pink scalp. No, no I didn’t see any lice. No, no I hadn’t seen the nurse find any either. Yes, yes I had spread those rumors. Yes, yes I was sorry (I hope I truly was, and not just trying to get out of my own uncomfortable mess.)

Satisfied her daughter’s reputation was vindicated, Alice’s mom straightened her shoulders, took her daughter’s arm and marched backed down the driveway.

My mom taught me much about faith, and perseverance, and love of learning, which I’ve shared before, but today, in thinking about moms and daughters—all these decades later, I see Alice’s mom standing there in my driveway, defying a punk kid to mock her daughter.

I salute you Alice’s mom. And Alice, I truly am sorry.

Oh Those Tangled Things We Weave

                                     “Crave God and run your guts out.”—Jennie Allen

I once bought a vacuum cleaner that boasted a tangle-proof cord, a claim I promptly disproved. There is no flexible thing longer than two feet that I can’t have in a knot within minutes. I wrap my hair dryer cord carefully around its handle and tuck it gently in the drawer, but it must be doing some knotty things at night because every morning there it is— all tangled up with the flat iron cord. (I heard that groan!)

And I’ve mentioned before how, as a kid, I got my hair in a wad by putting a wound up wind-up car next to my ear so I could listen to the whine. It took about one second for my hair to wrap around the spinning wheels. I walked around with a car hanging from my head until my mother cut the whole thing free.

Knots and tangles. I was thinking there wasn’t a good thing to say about them but then I remembered a time back in my crafty days when I learned how to macramé and my house was filled with knotted plant holders suspended in front of every window.

So I’m thinking about those yards of beautifully patterned knots, and how so many of the poignant bits of life stories that emerged during a creative nonfiction workshop I led this weekend had beginnings in life-knots—circumstances that were difficult to see the pattern in at the time—and I’m beginning to appreciate the hidden beauty of knots.

Then, one thing led to another as one thing so often does: I picked up Jennie Allen’s book and Bible study, Restless: Because You were Made For More, and read, “Just as we see the threads of God’s purpose weaving through Joseph’s life, our goal is to lay out the threads running through our own [lives.]”

Finding purpose and patterns in tangled threads. “When we see how they weave together, we better understand ourselves.”-Allen

So since Allen so seamlessly wove herself into my morning musings, it seems a good time to brag on her Bible study (which I delayed reviewing because of my father-in-law’s death).

Through each of the eight video-based units, using the life of Joseph as a backdrop, Allen prods us to realize the people, places, circumstances and even sufferings in our lives are all material God uses to weave his purpose in us.

The older we get, the easier it is to see that the course of our life was not/is not random, but I appreciate how Jennie Allen chases after God’s purpose, how she challenges us to remember we already matter, that we’ve been given gifts for the

purpose of helping others. So let’s make our days count for the time we have been born to.

Her prayer for us is “that God and eternity would get bigger and more real in our lives, and as they do, we would feel more compelled to live for eternity and Jesus Christ than this short life.”

Yes and Amen! to that.

Previously I used Allen’s study Chase with a group of women meeting in a local café. That study was well received because its design encouraged deep reflection and conversation. Although I am in between group studies right now, I have read the book Restless (can be purchased separately) and have reviewed these Bible study materials, which once again are beautiful, probing, and challenging.

They are designed for participation and personal application, and at the same time are anchored in Scripture. Check them out.

“Something deep inside us is made to live for a story bigger than ourselves—the story of the one who made us.”—Jennie Allen, Restless

As we sneeze (here in the land of blossoming things) or snow-shovel (for those of you dear ones still sloshing through—I hate to even say it—snow—Blessings of abundant joy!

Marcia

The Pillar of Creation

They are called the Pillars of Creation, these spectacular gas formations so far away that by the time their light reaches us, they are thousands of years older. (Or maybe not even there at all.)

 Pictures from the Herschel Space Observatory must drive the most obstinate atheist crazy with wonder. 

One of the pillars is reportedly four light years tall. How tall is that? Try this from the NASA Glenn Learning site:

"The light-year is a measure of distance, not time. It is the total distance that a beam of light, moving in a straight line, travels in one year. To obtain an idea of the size of a light-year, take the circumference of the earth (24,900 miles), lay it out in a straight line, multiply the length of the line by 7.5 (the corresponding distance is one light-second), then place 31.6 million similar lines end to end. The resulting distance is almost 6 trillion (6,000,000,000,000) miles!"--That's one light year!                                                               

The other night as my husband and I watched a show on these and other breath-taking marvels—like the planet, Wasp 12b, whose clouds are filled with corundum, the stuff of sapphires (imagine a world where it rains sapphires!)—I  wondered why God would create such magnificent, word-defying, incomprehensible beauty that no one gets to see. 

Well, he certainly does, and maybe once he let his God-creativity loose, he just couldn't help but make mind-boggling beauty. And maybe, we will get to see it all one day. I have to confess that I've taken biblical references to "foundations of sapphires, and "streets of gold" rather metaphorically, but I'm beginning to realize that if the Hubble telescope's sojourn through space is giving us such God-awe-inspiring glimpses of majesty, how unimaginable, how incomprehensible is the beauty of his presence and place that he tells us our eyes have not seen, ears have not heard and minds can not imagine!

But lest I stay worshiping him out in the marvels of the universe, this same Creator, transcends light-year time travel and meets me in my early morning devotion with one of my favorite reminders of how much he cares about even one:

John 20

Mary gets up early and goes in the dark—by herself—to the tomb where Jesus was. What did she expect to see? Probably not an empty tomb. After she runs to get the other disciples and they discover the cloths lying there sans body, they go home. But Mary waits, and when she looks in the tomb, she sees angels. And then, a man, who when he speaks her name, "Mary," she recognizes as Jesus. 

A few minutes earlier she had run to tell Peter that Jesus was taken away, gone. Now she runs to tell him, "I have seen the Lord." What a difference a moment makes.

Why Mary? Why did she see angels and Jesus but Peter and John didn't?

I don't know, but it touches me deep. And I pause to marvel that the One who made those stunning Pillars of Creation didn't hide himself out there, unseen, unknown, but met a young woman outside the cave that was supposed to trap him, and called her by name. Just as he calls me by mine—and you by yours. 

How marvelous is that.

Blessings abundant, friends. Thank you for stopping by. I pray this year, this April, he will meet you at that place where you are hoping to find him, where you are seeking comfort in knowing that he is indeed not gone, but very present with you.

Marcia

A modern day drink offering

Sometimes it’s hard for me to imagine some of the Bible stories. I have no trouble with a world-wide flood and a man loading an ark with a bunch of animals, but for some reason the account in Judges about Samson catching three hundred foxes and tying their tails together and lighting them with firebrands, well, I just have to take it on faith.

You just don’t see that kind of thing today.

And then there’s the story about David holed up in a cave and having a peculiar desire for water from a well near Bethlehem, which was occupied by Philistines. When three of his mighty men heard this indulgent muse from their king, they risked their lives to break through enemy lines and bring him his desire.

When I read this the first time, I anticipated the story to continue along the line of David’s profuse thanks and reward, but wait—instead, he poured the precious gift out on the ground before the LORD!

 I know this speaks of loyalty and really honoring the risk the men took. It also speaks of offering these precious gifts to God.

The other Sunday, one man in our church felt that the Lord told him to give some money to another man, who, it was known, was in a situation of need. The first man obeyed and gave the second a bill, and then watched, astounded, as he put the money in the offering box.

“I gave that money to you,” the giver said.

“Yes, and now I have something to give the Lord,” the recipient replied.

Right before my eyes, I saw David pouring out his precious drink gift.

May I hold the gifts in my hand so loosely.

Marcia

A Fortuitous Kicking the Bucket

Kicking the literal bucket that is, not the proverbial keel over and hoof it off to eternity kind. A recent news story about a California couple has captured my attention.

From what I glean from reports, it was a day not particularly unlike any other.The couple had no reason to suspect one tiny little action during a perfectly mundane walk would propel their lives in a different direction. They got up, probably ate, brushed their teeth and decided to walk the dog on their property, something I’m sure they had done many times.

During their walk, they noticed the rim of a bucket sticking out of the earth.Instead of passing it by,they stopped and poked the dirt from it.Then seeing it had both ends, dug it out with a stick and took it home, where they opened it and discovered it contained dirt encrusted disks. Disks which turned out to be rare gold coins worth ten million dollars.

Once I chased off the green eye of envy, I saw several lessons in their story:

 1. They weren’t doing anything spectacular, no “If only we were somewhere else doing something else,” grumblings. (I inferred this from a statement they made about how much they enjoyed the life they had and didn’t want to change it.)

 2.  Even though walking the dog was routine, they were still observant, maybe expectant.

 3. They were curious—didn’t pass by a rusty bucket rim buried in dirt.

 4. They acted upon their curiosity.

 5. They were wise with their discovery—waited to get counsel, avoided the press and “fame” (which no doubt would bring hordes with backhoes and metal detectors).

But particularly intriguing to me was the statement they made: “I never would have thought we would have found something like this. However, in a weird way I feel like I have preparing my whole life for it.”

Hmmm. I wonder what they mean about that. Was it because they had property in Gold County California that they wondered about gold finds? Had they often speculated what they would do if they had a lot of money? Or did they just have a feeling that there was something more to their lives?

Although I’ll probably never know, their statement made me think about how we are to live as Christians. 

We know we have treasure in heaven but I’m pretty certain we are going to be Amazed when the time comes  when all we have lived for, hoped for, and believed in is revealed. When the Son of Man comes in glory and all the angels with Him

Like the couple who felt they had been preparing their whole life for this treasure, those of us who are Christians live all our lives—each and every ordinary day— girding our minds for action, fixing our hope on the grace to be received at the revelation of Jesus (1Peter1:13), knowing the proof of [our] faith being more precious than gold ... may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ (1Peter1:7).

So walk your dog or change those diapers or hammer those nails or write that article on this ordinary day, being expectant, thankful and confident that indeed you too have treasure laid up for you. 

And keep your eyes open--who knows what you may find!

Grace and blessings abundant,

Marcia

Just Like Mom

My daughter called me the other day to say she had come to a shocking realization. She found herself responding to a situation “just like mom.” I like to think that meant responsibly, orderly, and thoughtfully—traits sometimes referred to as anal by children in the throes of independence who believe they are plowing swaths through snow clogged highways. Highways their parents must never have traveled.

The thing is, when she told me how she had responded, she was proud—as though marveling at the discovery that what she had previously regarded as Mom harpings now made perfect sense.

Ah, thank you, Lord. I knew we would get to this point one day. For some of us that new found mom appreciation is a while in coming. Especially if your daughter is a lot more like you than she realized. I look forward to being able to share some mom stuff with her now—woman to woman.

The same week my daughter realized she acted “just like mom,” my sister sent me a birthday card (this year a lovely one instead of a snarky Maxine one reminding me of the perils of old age).  In her note, my sister wrote, “You’ve picked up many of Mom’s qualities.”

If so, I am a proud of that.

Unfortunately, I too was older before I appreciated what my mother taught me. Sometimes we teased that she was “ditzy,” something I realized late in life was far from the truth.

Mom never made excuses for opportunities she didn’t have, but found ways to accomplish much with what she did have. Although she didn’t graduate from high school, she bought us every set of books the door-to-to peddlers had to offer, from encyclopedias, to set of science and literature. She not only inspired a love of learning in us, but she gave herself an education to rival many.

By example, she taught me faith and loyalty and perseverance, things I’ve written about before.

And one of the loveliest things about her was that she found beauty where none was apparent. Our house, though sufficient, was worse for wear. For as long as I remember, a part of the ceiling in my bedroom was missing –fell off during a hurricane one year. Household appliances were often more work than worth. (For years we took turns sitting on the washing machine during the spin cycle, an act I credit to keeping my butt from taking on the Chadwick spread. And the five of us kids contributed more chaos than the three-roomed downstairs could contain or a weary mom could maintain.

But Mom knew where to find the first tiny mayflowers, the elusive jack-in-the-pulpit and the brook trout in the river across the field. Whenever I see a violet on the side of the road I think of Mom’s love for beauty in the midst of disorder.

Later in life, she taught herself to paint and all that locked up beauty came out in tiny brush strokes. And like so many women who have nothing but some cloth and thread or ball of yarn, she learned to spin beauty.

Just before she died I asked her to teach me to crochet. We’d sit on the couch, side by side, and she’d wrap the yarn around her finger, and I would try to copy, but not even get the gist of a slip knot, so we’d start again. And I’d master a chain, then turn and go back.

“Skip the first single crochet,” she’d say.

“Which one is the first?” I’d ask, a question that seems so ridiculously stupid until you try to figure it out—hint— not the first chain.

Well, that cancer inched through her brain before I figured it out. But Mom taught me perseverance, so I pulled a ball out from her tidy unfinished projects bag and make a slip knot, then chained thirty and turned and single crocheted back across the row. All the while remembering her there by my side.

The only problem is I still haven’t figured out where the end and beginning stitches are, so, my pot holders have a peculiar resemblance to the shape of the United States.

Well, there may be some things we never end up doing “just like Mom.”

Through snow storms, ice storms, unpheaved plans, give thanks, find beauty and persevere.

Blessings friends,

Marcia