BARBIE LOFLIN

ADMISSIONS

2011-01-05T18:46:00.001-08:00

I do not know what my mother was thinking.

I was 8 years old, my little sister, 7, the first time she let us pick the color our room would be painted. Now, you have to understand, I was a middle child who usually let everyone else make the decisions for her. I did not rock boats and I did not tolerate well those who had a propensity to do so. I had a tendency to live (publicly) in neutral shades, blending, trying to be invisible for the most part. But something happened when my mom said the magic words, “Barbie, what color would you and Angie like your room to be?” Someone wanted my opinion and in that moment some special kind of Yes! magic welled up inside and before I could stop my lips from moving, or my hand could reach my mouth to silence the shouted vision of my heart, I heard the excited words spring forth, sounding very much like the silent, secret me… “RED!”

I was shocked. Who said that? I thought to myself.

My mom’s eyebrows rose to hide themselves within her hairline. And before she could speak to retract the offer of our choosing, I heard the sweet response of my beautiful baby sister, the light of our household, a whispering of… “Ooooh… red!”

And the decision was made.

Red it would be.

“Okay,” my mom continued, “What about the bedspreads?” I looked at the knobby, white chenille bedspreads that draped our twin beds, ran my hand across their knap and thought aloud (since my ideas were obviously what they now longed for…) “Well, (I hesitated as I thought about calling her by her first name since things were so much more casual now that we were partners, but decided I wanted to keep my teeth and settled on the traditional…) Mom, if you would just think about it, practically everyone knows that the best color to go with red is black.” I could have sworn I saw something in my mother’s eyes that silently said Kid, you do not have a lick of sense…but what came out of her mouth was, “Okay. Red and black it is.”

The next day we set out to complete the transformation, and by bedtime that night, I was officially sleeping in my eight year old mind’s equivalent of... hell. Do you have any idea what a black bedspread looks like when hazy moonlight reflects off of fiery red walls?

My mom thought I was sleeping peacefully when in fact I had hyperventilated until I passed out. I awakened the next morning, opened my eyes and immediately began repenting for every sin I could think of, including but not limited to, cutting the hair on all of my sisters Barbie dolls (Sorry, Angie. Our dog, EJ, did not chew their hair off as I slept). I kept waiting for Satan to come around the corner.

I have never gotten out of bed and dressed so fast. I was in the kitchen washing dishes, asking for more chores, helping old people cross streets… Anything that would keep me from having to go back to that room.

Interestingly, my oldest sister just happened to be into Alice Cooper at that time, and every night as I would pray my way into my hades bedroom, I would hear Alice singing from the record player in her room… “Welcome to my nightmare…”

You know, looking back, I know my mother would have changed the room if she had known what I was going through. All I needed to do was tell her I that I was wrong… red and black did not go together as well as I had thought. But I had this little issue with admitting I was wrong. I mean, I had been so proud of the fact that they had asked my opinion and wanted my help, that I just could not go back and say Mom, I was stupid… I hate this room… Please help me. So I suffered in shell-shocked silence. (Selah)

But in the end, I decided I hated hell, liked sleep, and didn’t want to get up before sunrise anymore to avoid the walls, so my pride was going to have to bow. (Anyone else hear the angels singing?)

I went out into the sunshine one day while my mom was hanging clothes on the line. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to say to her… so I just stood. She stopped what she was doing and said, “What’s wrong, baby?” At the sound of her voice I began to cry (Isn’t it funny how a mom’s voice can do that to you?). She came to me, and it all tumbled out in a rush… “Mama, I was wrong. I was really, really, wrong,” I hiccuped as I used my sleeve for a Kleenex. “What, honey? What were you wrong about?” “I hate my room. It is scary”, I shuddered for effect. “ It makes me have nightmares and I do not want to live in there anymore.” She put her arms around me and laughed the sweet kind of laugh, “Oh, Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me sooner? We can fix that room. It’s gonna be okay. “ She hugged me and sent me in the house to wash my face – and change my shirt.

She bought sunshine yellow paint.

It took about five coats to deliver me from purgatory, and a gallon of bleach to get enough of the black out of the bedspread to be able to add a baby blue. In the end, what had been a hellish nightmare became a daytime sky, yellow, blue and white.

It is amazing.

All of that torment,

The sleepless nights,

The fear,

The anxiety…

And all it had taken to free me –

Was admitting ...

I was wrong.

Unbroken

2011-01-03T18:47:00.000-08:00

I recently had the wonderful opportunity (though it did not seem wonderful in the least) to grow in sympathy by experiencing the deep pain of a very personal rejection.

Very personal, though not my own.

I think I could have handled it with so much more detachment if it had been mine alone. For (sarcasm) I have been given the amazing super power of erecting sudden walls that have the ability to keep practically everyone at arms length for years on end. But you see it wasn’t my rejection. It was the rejection of someone I loved more than myself, and to watch them suffer truly broke my heart.

But before my heart could rightly break, my anger had to. It had to find a voice. I wanted to hit something. No. Someone. I wanted to rail, to rage, to confront, to stomp… to cry. And I chose the most familiar voice.

In the end, I literally put myself between my friend and her accusers. Moved her behind me , putting her between me and the wall. And I prayed as hot tears fell and I sought to keep evil at bay (another superpower) for a moment … as my soul wept out loud.

Though I knew I wasn’t, I felt very alone.

And then they came. As welcome as a warm wind in the dead of winter: The family. Not family of blood, but family of faith, stronger and kinder most times, choosing you rather than tolerating you because of shared DNA. Stealth family. They moved in silently and claimed the air before anyone knew what had happened. The atmosphere shifted around me. Reinforcements had come. And I could breathe again, as she and I were quietly and completely engulfed in a safe circle. A momentary personal sanctuary… built of friends.

And I no longer felt alone.

In that moment, as rending pain and piercing aloneness was swallowed up in fierce friendship and God-company, He reminded me that this is what He does... this standing between our accuser and us all the while surrounding us with fresh family, and purposeful wing-men.

I was and am so grateful… for both.

We faced the pain together, because that was the right thing to do. And when we left the battlefield, we left whole. We left as one.

That too was right.

Flanks covered, prayers offered, the accuser lost.
Again.

And the safe circle…
Remains unbroken.

Sandswept

2011-01-03T09:08:00.001-08:00

I have been thinking about life today. New beginnings and fresh starts – the whole New Year thing.

As I plodded and pondered, I had the strangest imagery run through my mind. I began to think about the now famous poem, Footprints in the Sand. You know the one where the person looks back on his life and sees two perfect sets of footprints side by side in the sand, and then finds only one set during the toughest part of the journey. He turns and asks the Lord why He would leave him at such times, only to have the Lord reply, “Son, these are the times that I carried you…” To which we all respond, Ahhhhhh.

Well, the image that struck me was something completely different, and in all honesty, I found it sadly humorous. It seems my journey did not have two sets of pristine footprints in the sand. Mine were more like circles in the sand, as I went around the same mountain over and over and over again. Then they seemed to trace back and forth so much that they dug a ditches – many of them, one from which God truly had to jump in and save me. Then there were messier moments (yes, even messier than the ditches and circles), moments when it looked like hand prints dragging and a few nose indention's marked the sand as I went face-first, followed by the double-minded zigzags that seem to have defined my journey all too often. There were reluctant moments, rebellious seasons, and sluggish responses, as well as outright disobediences when I ran the opposite direction. And as I looked at those crazy, erratic, footprints, I thought, Man, what a flake!

Can you relate? (I hope if you are shaking your head in agreement, it is not because you agree that I am a flake, but because you have been there.)

God has done so much more than merely walk beside me. He has carried me, pursued me, covered me, moved me, chased me, held me, and protected me from myself… with sand flying! I cannot believe all that I have put Him through, and how much patience He has shown me… even today. Because, though I would love to tell you otherwise, these were not the footprints of long ago, the days of youth and ignorance, these are the footprints of my last weeks, my yesterdays, and my today.

I truly thought I would be more grown up by now.

So, as we enter into 2011, I pray you might ponder your own footprints and God’s great grace, and in doing so, come to the conclusion that I myself have now reached…

We must surely have a God Who wears track shoes.

Probably AIR JORDANS… get it… Jordan…river…Bible…

Sorry.

Now, please pardon me, as I go and brush the sand from my eyebrows.

WILLOW

2010-08-05T07:45:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl we had a huge weeping willow tree in the front yard of our house. It sat to the right of the porch and encompassed the whole area. I remember feeling so small beneath its branches. I would crawl under the canopy and hide behind the fragrant green curtain, and there, in the depths of this captivatingly lush beauty I would build my kingdom… for I had been given a Burger King crown made of shiny paper and that most assuredly made me royalty.

I found that old metal serving spoons made wonderful scepters and came in quite handy as shovels, most capable of digging moat trenches around sturdy trunk roots, and Dixie cups can fill that ravine quite readily after many trips to mama’s kitchen. I discovered that small plastic dishes look most appetizing laden with big old acorns harvested from the oak nearby, and that crazy squirrels are not afraid to come and retrieve their stolen bounty from little red headed girls who scream and run at the sight of them.

In my kingdom I found that stray dogs love lonely laps, and that mothers yell really loud when they find nothing but your legs sticking out from under the neighbor’s collie. And did you know that if you lay on the ground with your hands behind your head and squint just a bit, - sunshine through willow branches looks just like heaven exploding all around you? Dust mites floating on effervescent rays become mini Glenda's passing through on their way home to Oz, and tree frogs become sentinels calling forth into neighboring reptilian lands.

It was pure magic. There was nothing like it upstairs in my bedroom or in any other place I had ever been. Huge, vast, limitless and intimate, it was a mine. And it was right there in my front yard all along. I can remember thinking, how long has this been here and why didn’t anyone tell me? And then I remember this special kind of excitement just knowing that it was all right there at my fingertips. All I had to do was come out of my safe little room and take a few steps, reach out my hand and sweep aside the branches, and step behind the curtain.

And the kingdom awaited.

(Let those who have an ear, hear…)

Seems like forever ago, but I still feel the sense of drawing. Just the thought of the lazy willow blowing in the breeze makes me long for home, spoons, drooling dogs and tin foil crowns.

Oh, but dear ones, I have found a more wonderful kingdom. With one sweep of the heart I found myself behind its curtain. And like the first, I found myself asking, how long has this been here and why didn’t anyone tell me? For in this kingdom, there dwells a true, honest-to-goodness King. And He is good and kind and powerful. Beautiful to behold and easy to serve. The King Who rules this Kingdom carves mountain ranges with a breath and fills oceans with words. His voice sounds like many waters and His heart pounds melodies. He can speak floods and paint rainbows, heal wounds and scatter stars across night skies. He walks with the pauper and feeds the hungry, covers the naked and comforts the mourning. Yet He is enthroned in majesty, surrounded by praise and exalted by The Elders. High and lifted up, yet touchable and accessible.

In His Kingdom, less is more and the first is last. In His Kingdom rulers serve and servants rule and in His Kingdom, filthy rags are made righteous - scarlet sins become snow white. In His Kingdom lions lay down beside lambs and there is a tree whose branches truly do provide healing for all of the nations…

It must be a willow.

In the Mist

2010-05-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

I have four sisters. I am the one in the middle. To my knowledge, I was the only one who ever went fishing with my dad. Of course, my going had nothing to do with my skill or expertise; it was based purely on my desire to be with him. Simple. I still remember standing on that lake shore with my toes digging into the mud, the cool morning mist kissing my face and making my unruly hair even curlier. I remember thinking how blessed people must be who live near the water and can frolic in the mist every morning. And just imagine, they could stick their toes in lake mud anytime they wanted.

I cannot remember another time in my ten years with him, that we were actually all alone together. I remember lying awake the night before wondering how many huge fish I was going to catch and thinking how proud he was going to be when he saw what a fine fisherman I was. But as I stood there that morning by my dad, casting and re-casting, reeling and re-reeling, baiting the hook time after time, it became apparent; my dream of becoming a famous bass fisherman and traveling the world with my dad in a Winnebago with a fancy boat trailing behind just wasn’t going to come true.

So I stood there on the bank praying Just one fish, God… is that too much to ask? One lousy fish. But, it was not to be so. Not even one…

Still, much to my chagrin, the stinger was absolutely loaded with fish when we headed home later that morning. Daddy was happy and I was mortified. What a loser!

As we walked up the broken sidewalk to our little country home, my mother came out the screen door and asked how it had gone. I waited for the embarrassment that I knew was coming. Oh, I caught forty million, but Barbie was dead weight. She was the albatross around my neck… (I have always been a little dramatic).

Of course my father would never have actually said something like that, but I was just so disappointed in myself.

But what my dad did at that moment just blew me out of the water. When my mom asked how it had gone, he proudly took the stringer out of the cooler and held it high, fish hanging off every hook, and then he did something I found quite stunningly beautiful; he handed the opposite end of the stringer to me, allowing me to hold it out right alongside him – as if I’d had some grand part in their catching. Only then did he answer my mother’s question, with a wink at me, and a “Well, we did pretty good.”

We… he said we.

I remember thinking, but I didn’t do anything! He did all the work, and caught all of the fish. Yet, he stood right there and let me share in his victory, made me look good when I had no true right to.

As a little girl, I thought about that for a long time. And then I finally came to the only conclusion that made sense. My dad had let me shine simply because he loved me and because he knew I loved him; loved him enough to want to be out there by the water with him before the sun had come up. It mattered to him that I had gotten up sleepy-headed and packed a couple of little sandwiches. It meant something to him that I just wanted to be there for one reason alone - because he was there.

And you see, what I got from that encounter was far more than I could have imagined. For you see, he was not looking for someone who could throw a line. He could have called one of his friends if he needed help catching those fish. What he had wanted was time with me. Me – the barefoot, tomboy, curly headed, missing front teeth, June-bug catching, creek-wading, dress-hating, misfit middle child. He simply liked my company. Go figure.

And in those moments, I had my daddy all to myself. I was a part of what he was doing. He laughed with me. He talked to me like I was something special, and when all was said and done, he let me share in the fruit of His labor. One wink told me we were a team and everybody else would have to run to catch up to what we had. That wink formed an impenetrable circle around a father and daughter and said to all comers, “You ain’t part of this club.” And in this girl’s overactive imagination, we were now and forever the sootsotwadatwe- TheSecret Order of the Society of Those Who Always Dwell at the Water’s Edge.

Ah, childhood.

Me, my father, and the water in the cool of the morning… probably the most precious memory I have of my dad, the grand Pooh-Bah of the Sootsotwadatwe’s.

Forty years later, the parties have changed a bit, but walking in the mist remains a morning ritual for me. Me, my (heavenly) Father, and the Water Word in the wetness of a new days dawning.

I rise early. He meets me there. Together we sweep away to the water’s edge. I have Him all to myself. The world is barely waking, and I am headed straight into a secret adventure. He is there. He talks to me, we laugh together, and He makes me feel like there is nowhere else He would rather be. And do you know what? When we come away from the waters, though it is He who has done the work, He always hands me my side of the stringer - a word, a poem, a short story, a vignette – a memento of our time together, and allows me to hold it out as if I had something to do with it… though we both know better.

Ah, what a wonderful Father-God we have. He still loves to walk with us in the cool of the morning, sharing His heart - and making ours burn within us - as we make our way through the shadowed wetness of the Morning Mist.

(An excerpt from Morning Mist, Published 2010)

Angels and Ice Cream

2010-04-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

My daughter, Kaitlen, has always been a dreamer. At the age of three she walked into the living room in the wee hours of the morning looking like the cherub that she was. Blonde curls in beautiful disarray, blue eyes still shadowed by sleep, she crawled into my husband’s arms and curled in close. The rest… well, you can read for yourself.

Angels and Ice Cream

Awakening from nights soft arms,

Climbing clumsily from bed,

Rubbing eyes still laced with sleep,

Mussed hair standing on her head,

My little one arose this morn’,

Walked straight into daddy’s hug,

He pulled her close, kissed her cheek,

Held her warm and snug.

“Did you sleep well, my little one?,”

Her golden head did nod.

My heart did swell with love for her.

Oh, thank You, Father God.

Her daddy whispered in tiny ear,

“What did my baby dream?”

She smiled and looked into his eyes,

“Of Angels and Ice Cream!”

Angels and Ice cream, I sighed,

How beautiful, how dear.

Even in her dreams you show,

Your heart so purely clear.

Angels to protect her,

Ice Cream just for pleasure,

You show your hands to ever hold,

Both needs and desired treasure.

Not only do you provide

What we need to see us through,

Your greatest joy is to show Your love

In smallest hearts desire too.

So, Thank You, Lord for being there,

For instilling in all a dream,

So, we too can speak in gratitude,

Of Angels and Ice cream.

Nothing to Offer

2010-04-17T16:00:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have times when you just cannot figure out for the life of you what it was that God thought He was getting when He chose you? Do you ever wonder if He regrets His choice? I probably should not admit to such thoughts, but I cannot help but wonder if there are others out there, who, like me, know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they got the good end of the deal in this exchange with God. Today’s society scorns such a deal as the typical, “If it sounds too good to be true...” Ah, but it is that good and it is most definitely true.

Perhaps that is why we struggle so vainly with the idea that we can do absolutely nothing to make things come out even. We like even. We hate that feeling that we owe someone something - like a library book long overdue, laying right there in plain sight, it prompts a continua,l stream of "gonna get to it" thoughts, followed by a kind of unrelenting tinge of guilt. So, we push and push, and perform and perform, attempting to be good enough to balance the scales and be worthy to receive what He has already freely given. How human... to think we will ever be good enough to earn this free gift of God.

I am awed by the simplicity of salvation. It is so elementary it confounds the wise, just as God said it would. Free gift, without price, lavishly bestowed upon you and I. He gives all, we give nothing. What's up with that?

Okay.

But our lives should change, shouldn't they? Not to earn, to balance, to become worthy enough, but simply because we love Him that much. Great gratitude - true gratitude - should prompt the desire to please and honor the One Who did so much for us, shouldn't it? Yes, our lives should be changed, our actions altered in conformance to His perfect will, but never as an attempt to earn it. We are changed because of His love for us, and readily conform because of our love for Him. Our deeds are not payment, but a lavishing. They are in service to the one we love, just because we love. We reach out because our Beloved asks it of us, not because we must in order to be saved. And do you know what? I have come to believe that if our service is grudging, burdensome and egregious, our love is simply too small... we do not fully understand what He has done.

You see, I have been saved from this life of death. You have been saved from this life of death. Dead. Now alive. Huge! Really big deal. And all He wants is for us to grab hold of it and live it to the fullest. All He wants is to teach us how to use the gift, enjoy the richness, and keep us close to His side.

Man, there is nothing to make that even, to balance the scales. So, I say thank you and I run with it.

What a wonderful, wonderful, Savior.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus...

And you can still get something for nothing.

Nothing To Offer

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

My hands are empty.

Anything I might ever attain would be as nothing before You.

I try and try to be good,

To reach the point of miserably less than perfect,

Only to find that I am miles away from even that poor measure.

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

I wonder at times if You did not look closely enough...

before choosing me.

Yes, Father, I know nothing eludes You,

Still, at the risk of belligerence, may I please ask why me?

Did You see something in me that I have yet to see?

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

My faith weakens when provoked,

My hands fail to perform the most menial of tasks when prompted.

I see all of the wondrous works You do through others,

What have I to give My Master in return for this good fortune?

How can I repay what I do not understand?

Father, I am bowed by the awesome grace I have received.

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

This, then, I suppose, must be what I offer...

Nothing...

Nothing of the old me that wallowed in pride and pity,

Nothing of the shell that purposed to find her own way in this world,

Nothing of the shadow I used to be.

Nothing of the faithless, angry creation I was before you found me.

Oh Lord, I have nothing to offer You...

Please receive my nothing and make it something in Your hands.

Still Waters

2010-04-10T07:20:00.000-07:00

When I was a child I could not imagine why anyone would want to be “led beside still waters.” Who wants still waters? What fun is water when it is still? What were these grown-ups thinking that they would want a God who would lead them by still waters?

Me? Well, I wanted a God who would lead me down a log ride and splash headfirst into a waterfall. I wanted a God who was not afraid of whitewater.

Yep, it was cool that Peter walked on water, but could he ski?

Old people… I would think to myself ... they don’t know nothin’ about water. Didn’t they know that the only thing living in still water were turtles, tadpoles and catfish; mud-dwellers. Nope. That was not for me. I wanted to have to watch behind me for the next wave. I wanted to have to hold onto daddy to keep the undertow from taking me out. Rushing water - that was more my style. Now that was water!

Still water? Please….

Some forty years later, my perceptions have changed, for I have become one of those old people I could not understand. I know this because though the words still waters are still followed by the word please, the intonation is altogether different. The cry is not one of “you must be kidding,” but those of Oliver Twist “Please sir, can I have some more?” The thought of still waters evokes images of green grass and chaise lounges. Still waters call to me when I am in the midst of chaos. Still waters rest me when I am bone-weary.

I had a dream not too long ago about one of my friends that made me feel a moment of piercing jealousy. In the dream, she was laying beside a gently flowing stream. The water was cool and clear, the sound peaceful. In the dream, she was lying on her left side, her left arm curled under her head, her right hand skimming the waters surface as she rested. She looked so peaceful in this dream. She had found her place by the waters. Everything in me wanted to go there. My spirit longed for that place in Him.

When I told my friend about the dream she cried, for I was the second to tell her of such a dream, and the third to call her to the waters. His Spirit had called her first, When she had failed to respond to the drawing call, He had then sent two others to confirm what she already knew in her spirit: she was simply too busy. She was overloaded and way too tired to function, but she still had so much to do she could not see how to lay it all down. But the Lord knew. He knew she needed to come away and be refreshed and renewed. She was exhausted and Her beloved knew what she needed. She needed a time of still waters.

So, she repented and began to listen to the Fathers wooing, and I watched as one by one she began to lay down the balls she had been juggling, and began a journey with Him toward still waters.

In my minds eye I can see it so clearly - see the cares and responsibilities falling away like so many yesterdays - as she walks toward what she knows is there, but cannot touch as of yet. Then, as she catches sight of the water, I see her reaching down and sliding the shoes off of her feet. Walking barefoot, her head thrown back, she looks into the face of her Beloved, as her tired feet finally touch the crystal waters. Tears fall unchecked as the waters run through the weary places in her soul, making all things new.

She sits at the waters edge, soft grass welcoming, the fragrance of Presence surrounding her, as a million worries begin to wash away in the waters. Breath fills her for the first time in ages, as the One with the voice of many waters begins to sing over her.

She lies down on her left side, her left arm curled under her head. Her right hand skims the waters surface…

And my heart longs.

It is time, my friend, to seek out the still waters.

The Night-Ocean

2010-04-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed I could hear the sound of water breaking against a very close shoreline. It sounded like there was an ocean just outside my door. A night-ocean. The sound drew me; drew me on a very deep level. I moved across the room and to the door and stepped out onto a balcony. It was high balcony and it overlooked the waters, and though it was dark as pitch, I knew from the sound that if the moon were to come out in full I would find myself literally suspended over the water... the sound was that close and that rich. Rolling, undulating, crashing, breaking, pounding upon the banks. I wanted terribly to see what I knew was there, but it was too dark and there was no light to reflect off of the white crests. I ached with the longing of hearing but not seeing. I could not see... but I knew, and I leaned deep into the space in hopes of catching just a glimpse of the sound.

Oh, that sound! It washed through me. In my longing I cried, “Lord, I want to see the waters.” He answered my heart, “Until you see the waters, let the sound sustain you. Trust in what you cannot see.” And with His words, my heart pressed deeper and my spirit engaged the sound of many waters. I cried… and I longed… and I hoped. Wide awake, quickened, and humbled, I moved toward the waiting.

As I stood on this balcony the Lord reminded me that this is how we are to live this life He has given us. Trusting in what we cannot see, we cry out to Him in all that we do. We hear a sound in the spirit and we long for Him in the depths. We hope - because our hearts have heard the waters; the sound of promise washing through us and pouring across eternity. We hope - because our spirits resound with the rhythm of the waves. We long - because we have tasted. We yearn - because only He can satisfy. We break - because His beauty unhinges all that held us together.

Yes, because of the breathtaking radiance of Christ we are fully and completely undone; marvelously melted. And we lean over earths temporal balcony and listen with our hearts, for that which we long for and that which resounds within our spirits.

So what do we do as we await the waters only our spirits can hear?

We move toward the sound. With everything on the inside of us we shift forward. We move in prayer, in reverence, in worship, in silence, in hope, in faith, in deep anticipation.We make a decision to move toward Him in ways that cost us something. We sacrifice praise from a new altar of brokenness. We put off the old wine skins and allow Him to make new ones. We sing, we dance, we rejoice, we cry, we kneel, we pray. We lean.

And we listen in the depths to this wonderful God of the night-ocean.

Turning Stones

2010-03-08T12:38:00.000-08:00

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them...

Ecclesiastes 3

There is something to be said of turning stones.

When I was a little girl living on a dusty old road called Walls Hollow, one of my most wonder-filled pastimes was perusing gravel. (Yes, I am easily entertained). Gray rock, mundane and nondescript, possessed a lure I found somehow irresistible. Though the grown up eye might find it common, I knew that lurking beneath the surface of the ordinary was the potential for the extraordinary. I knew that if you turned the stone and looked at it from all angles, you might find a pink or white quartz-like composite. I had happened upon that supreme knowledge much by accident, but it was an encounter that marked me. What I had seen as plain old stone before, in that moment of revelatory beauty, had now become potential treasure, and it was mine, all mine! What I had once ignored I now became obsessed with. I could not walk on an ordinary gravel road without feeling a pull to look under the stones. I just had to see what was just beneath the surface; what lay on the other side. While others ran ahead, or left me altogether, I walked slowly, stooping to turn the gravel in my hand, abiding the dust cloud, knowing that at any time, the hidden beauty would miraculously appear.

In my days of innocent searching subtle nuances drew my eye and held my attention. Was that a shard of pink? What is that running along the edge? Is that what I think it is? Fueled by faint knowledge and the draw of previous findings, I was hooked. From side to side, I staggered along the potholed road, chasing glimmers, thoughts and perceptions. I knew it was there. I just had to look until I found it. I never once thought the trove barren. I just had to take another step, turn a couple more stones, not be moved by the others who told me there was nothing there.

Turn, turn, turn. Yes! There it was. I knew it! Pink quartz in ordinary gravel. Though some thought it without value, I knew it was the most amazing stuff. It was just beautiful to me and I knew that God had hidden it away just for me to find. Pure gifts... and those little treasures brought me such great joy. I simply could leave nothing behind. I would pick it up, take it home and wash it, and place it with my private collection... and oh what I collection I had. By the time the box was full, it was too heavy for me... so it rested in a secret place. The box stayed securely tucked under my bed, because I thought to leave them out in the open would be to advertise my wealth to others, and that seemed like bragging to me.

You see, I had stumbled into a gold mine and could not believe my good fortune. Nor could I understand that others might be immune to its draw. How could anyone walk past this beauty without stopping to gather some for themselves? One glimpse, one holding of the bounty in my hand, and I was captivated. The stones paths were treasure fields to me.

Much the same has happened in my study of the Word. Though I in no way want to infer that the Word is a stony field, I have come to find that the words flowing upon the pages have become (to many) an ordinary and mundane thing. So often have they walked these pathways, they no longer take time to notice the stones, much less stop and turn them. They tread the obvious, and never take the time to hunger for the hidden. They love the beautiful jewels mined by others, but rarely consider their own propensity for digging. They have no tolerance for the dust that gets kicked up when searching on their own.

It only took one uncovering, one vein of true beauty to hook me. It was the simplest of moments. It was four words that released the rainbow of color, unleashed the hunger for the other side of the Word. Four words slowed me down and made me allow the others to run on ahead as I kicked up dust and got my hands in the dirt. Brilliant, incandescent and pure, the colors of eternity rose from the page and I grabbed the treasure that would fill my heart and send me on an unending, stone turning quest... four little words:

"In the beginning, God..."

And that, dear one, is what I call Eternal Pink Quartz... AHHHHH.

Dreaming of Cats and Bathtubs...

2010-03-02T12:51:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite shows was The Walton’s. It was simple, honest and filled with kids like the ones I went to school with. However, my favorite part of the show was the last 90 seconds. Every evening John Boy would go to his room, sit down at the desk beneath his window, and begin to write about his day. I used to imagine that I would one day write eloquent words telling about my life, my adventures, my thoughts and my dreams. As I listened to the Walton family calling out their signature good nights, I would reach for my journal, pretending that I, like John Boy, was a real writer. Thursday nights. Eight O’clock. Me and John Boy.

Nothing fancy, just a simple dream, but a dream I have now come to see as a God-dream. How very dear the memory is to my heart.

Now, many years later, I have come to realize that it was not merely a dream but an awakening and recognition of a deeper part of my spiritual identity. The eternity on my heart was whispering a love of words into my soul, and with every syllable the captivation became more complete. This was God rushing through would-be writers veins. You see, He gave me dreams that lined up with His plan for my life. And more than likely, he has done the same with you. Your dreams may well be the prompting of the Holy Spirit toward your particular calling or gift.

(I am pretty sure many first writing attempts were birthed while looking through John-Boys window. I gnawed through countless no. 2 pencils in my quest for the perfect word-dance.)

As a child, I could not get my mind around a dream quite so big. Becoming a writer was equivalent to... oh I don't know... teaching a cat to run its own bath water and jump in. I simply could not dream that big. Just couldn't imagine it. Oh, but He could. This wonderful God could not only imagine it, but could bring it to pass. Now, four books and countless opportunities later, I have come to understand that God’s plan is never limited by or to my abilities. Amazing, huh? I have truly come to see that my dream had very little to do with what I could do, and everything to do with His grace and goodness. In this, God is teaching me every day that the boundaries I have set for my life are not His boundaries (Thank you, Jesus!).

I believe with all of my heart that He’s is calling all of us to take a leap of faith and begin to believe Him for the big stuff…the things we used to dream about that may seem totally out of reach. It is time to stop relying on what we have and rely on all that He possesses. He's got some stuff!

So, dear ones, anyone out there got a John-Boy dream hidden away in the dusty confines of a long locked hope chest?

Get it out.

Dust it off.

Ask God about it...

Then grab the cat and head for the bathtub.

PERSPECTIVE

2010-01-17T05:56:00.000-08:00

I had a conversation with a friend this past week. She was talking about how every time she started to dig into the Word and started getting closer to the Lord, something bad happened. It seemed as if she believed that her pursuit of God was bringing about these attacks. It made her want to stop in her tracks. After all, if things were just going to get worse, she should back off.

I looked at her and said, “I believe you’ve got it all backwards. You are not looking at this in the right way. You see, I believe God knew the attacks were coming, so He drew you into the Word and initiated the time of deeper intimacy. He wanted you full and grounded when all of this hit. Just think of where you would be if your legs were not under you when all of this came down.” She relaxed and you could see the appreciation for God’s grace washing through her. This God she loves had prepared her for an onslaught.

Modern theology might ask, well, why didn’t He just stop the onslaught? But Biblical truth tells us in the world we will have tribulation, but that we will overcome because He overcame. In God’s mercy, He prepares us for times of tribulation if we will allow Him to do so. In His mercy, He had placed my friend in the protective covering of His presence before the storm came through. The enemy wanted her to think the storm came because of her proximity to God, when in truth it was her orbiting of God that saved her during the onslaught that had already been set in motion. What a marvelous God! How deeply He loves His children.

When my friend grabbed hold of this truth, you could see the peace and gratitude wash through her. Her faith was strengthened by a change in perspective.

Another friend made an offhand remark, “Why is it that every time I get ahead financially something happens? Everything I have saved is gone.” I said, “How good of God to provide what you needed before you ever needed it. Now you do not have to go into debt to pay for this unexpected situation.” They rolled their eyes, looked at me and said, “You are one of those glass-half-full people, aren’t you?” They meant it as an indictment. I took it as a compliment. But you see, to me, the glass being half full is just a blessing from God. There are many in the world who have no water in the glass whatsoever.

I am blessed. I serve a good God who takes care of me. I choose to live my life magnifying the good and minimizing the bad. I will not spend my precious time on this planet mourning over what I think I do not have, but in gratitude over all that I have been given.

How will you choose to live?

Dear struggling soul, there is so much peace to be found in a simple changing of perspective.

ACT LIKE IT

2010-01-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

Colossians 3:1 So if you're serious about living this new resurrection life with Christ, act like it. Pursue the things over which Christ presides.

Last night I sat in stunned silence as the woman across from me turned beet-red in anger. I am quite sure her blood pressure went through the roof as her eyes filled with rage, her mouth turned down in a snarl, teeth bared and her arm shot out in an attempt to slap the police officer who was trying to calm her.

Nothing like a high school basketball game to bring out the best in people.

I thought about that woman today. She was old enough to be my mother. Old enough to know better. I thought about how stressful her life must be in order for her to go over the edge like that in a public arena, over a little ball going through a hoop. I thought about how out of focus things must be in her world – how out of line her thinking must have become. I wondered what happened to her peace, and if she had ever had any. I wondered if the Sunday previous she had sat in a pew somewhere and made any attempt whatsoever to connect with her Creator, her source of peace. I briefly thought, wonder if she is a Christian?

And that thought shocked me a little.

Made me think.

Because that was not a question I would have even considered a few years ago. Back then I thought I knew what a Christian looked like and how they behaved.

You see, for better or for worse, (worse - in my opinion) it’s getting really hard to spot behavioral Christianity these days. Unfortunately, our perceptions of grace have wrongly licensed our lower lifestyles. We do not believe God expects anything better of us, so we expect nothing of ourselves. We have issued ourselves get out of jail free cards for every wrong behavior, and in the process, the image of Christ is all but disappearing from our walk before man. We think we are walking examples of His mercy, when in fact we are misrepresentations of truth. We are perpetrators of a great universal injustice – we applaud a blemished bride and attempt to offer her to a Holy Groom in the name of mercy unceasing.

I know, it seems like a heavy thing to derive from a mad woman at a basketball game – but where did our convictions go? When did the line between right and wrong disappear to be replaced by the gray ambivalence of cheapened grace? When did Christianity begin to wear the garments of watered-down morality and secular humanism? When did we stop paying attention to that still, small voice and start obeying this overfed, under-disciplined flesh of ours?

As I look around, I miss the evidences of a life controlled by God. Not the thumped Bibles, or the bumper stickers. Not the bad comb-overs or three piece suits, the Aqua Velva, long skirts and pious faces; but the wise, gentle ways of a peace-filled existence. I miss the clean, simple, love-you-Jesus kind of hearts and lifestyles. I miss Christians who behave like they believe in the Holy and the Divine and the Sacred. I miss the deep appreciation for sins covered by precious blood that was shed through pain and sacrifice. And I miss the once-piercing awareness that a brutal price was paid for our redemption.

Say what you will, I still believe a life committed to Christ looks completely different than a life led by the senses. I still believe you can and should know a Christian when you look them in the eye... or watch their behavior. Tattoos, piercings, blue jeans, t-shirts, Dior or Durango, the love of Christ should radically and completely change us from the inside out. And I truly believe if the God you serve is not big enough on the inside to effect the behaviors on the outside, you may want to take a closer look at who you really are serving.

Dear Ones, Grace is not an enabler. It is a gift.

We really should act like it.

Us and We

2010-01-01T14:27:00.001-08:00

2010. Resolutions, promises, good intentions. You name it and it has been put out there into the atmosphere. When the ball dropped and the clock struck midnight renewed determinations filled the cosmos. I am going to exercise. I am going to spend more time with family. I am going to pay my tithes. I am going to be nicer, be smarter, be happier, be richer, be thinner. With whispered prayers and cries of exultation and revelry, crossed fingers, and fresh, clean diary page at the ready, we have stepped into a brand New Year of opportunity.

So, what are we going to do with this undeserved treasure we have been given?

You see, too many of our resolutions and revelations are singular in purpose and lonely in their course. We need some together time. We need some body life, family fun, generational blessings passed through the touch of a hand and the rubbing of a shoulder - the sharing of a conversation and a meal. We need impartation and corporate celebration. We need profound quiet in the midst of the community of many voices. We need to think bigger in our New Year meanderings. Let's think small globe (at the very least).

Let me ask you a couple of questions I have been asking myself lately.

1. Whose life will be better this year because you were a part of?
2. Who is missing from your thoughts, your prayers, your focus?
3. Who have you left behind that was supposed to go with you?
4. Where can you cultivate reconciliation?
5. Who cries for your forgiveness?

Simple questions, but important ones. Questions God's family should ask on a regular basis.

Guys, my prayer is that we would reach deep and bring "better" into the lives of everyone with whom God entrusts us to share this journey. I pray that those who have been forgotten, neglected, rejected, broken, bruised and abandoned would find their home in the hearts of His people. I pray that we will not repeat our sins, our failures, our transgression, and that our old habits will actually die… even if it is hard. I pray that lonely be abolished and separate be only for a time and by Spirit's unction. I pray that me time becomes us time, and all the Lone Rangers out there on the Jesus Frontier, finally find their Tonto's.

May this year be a year of fewer I's and more we's, and may it be filled with less of mine and more of ours.

Can WE just go there?

Reaching for You,
Barbie

THERE IS ROOM

2009-12-15T12:28:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh. Home sweet home. Dust bunnies, dirty dishes, and a couple loads of laundry… FIVE GOLDEN RINGS… It is way too late, and way too close to Christmas for you to expect me to do anything coherent.

I just walked in from a wonderful Christmas program at church. I think pretty much all of you were there. (If not, you better start being faithful in your attendance… someone has taken your seat!) The house was full and the family was in rare form. What a wonderful exclamation point on an already joyous season.

As the orchestra struck the first strains and the choir began to swell, I snuggled into my seat, took a deep breath and relaxed for the first time in what seems like forever. I looked around the shadowed room and glimpsed the profiles of many that I hold dear (that would include you). I watched as babies crawled over weary mothers who continued to lift their voice in song. I watched sleeping infants drool on daddy’s shoulders as rich baritone voices filled the air. I saw mothers and daughters sitting close together and fathers and sons nudging one another with elbows, as if to say, “This is pretty cool…in a manly way.”

The sights and the sounds of Christmas surrounded me. Not the ones from the stage, though they were wondrous indeed, but the ones in the seats around me. What I heard was the laughter of hearts content and full. The camaraderie of strangers and friends that have slowly and perfectly, without notice, turned into family. The peace and unspoken gratitude of having finally found their place in this world. Home-folk, doing what home-folk do: loving, extending, welcoming, accepting, nourishing, making room for one another. Singing a spacious and welcoming song of genuine embrace. A song that made me feel like I was sitting by the hearth with friends...

And you see, this (I believe) is where the true sounds of Christmas can overtake you, just as they did me. For remember, two thousand years ago, in a crowded little nowhere town, a gentle young man and a weary young woman sought a place of rest and the sound they heard was that of “No Room.”

So tonight, my friends, I say thank you. Thank you for making room. Thank you for allowing me to experience a night in the heart of family, though my relatives live far away. Thank you for scooting over, patting the seat next to you and offering me a place close by. Thank you for sharing your lives, your laughter, your tears and your joy with me. Thank you for showing me how blessed I am and how generously God lavishes His love on the earth today. Thank you for being tenderhearted, kind, compassionate and faithful to one another. But most of all, tonight I thank you that you are a family that always makes room…

I love you dearly.

Luke 2: 7 “and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”

And They Danced

2009-11-01T06:23:00.000-08:00

I went to Katie’s school the other day to have lunch with her. As I sat in the hallway waiting for her class to appear, I watched the children make their way through the cavernous hallways.

Single file…

Mouths shut tightly…

The familiar clip, clip of the teacher’s heels pounding on the tiled floors.

As they filed past I began to hum… all in all it’s just another brick in the wall. Oops… where did that come from? Pink Floyd?

When the next class came up the hallway, I watched as they marched silently, single file, close enough to the wall the keep the corridor clear. Hands clutching little metal lunch boxes, I began to sing… O EEE oh, O EEE Oh… (Picture Wizard of Oz march…)

The third class started around the corner… Hands by their sides, stepping in unison, silence and order reigned… until I saw him. Yes, you could not miss him.

As he rounded the corner the single file line took a detour. Arms flailing, hips moving to some unknown beat, the little boy danced his way down the corridor… everyone around him acting as if he did not exist.

As he danced, I sang … “Celebrate good times. Come on… it’s a celebration…” (Yes, still a child of the 70’s) I made it to the second “celebrate” before our mental music came to a screeching halt. Then came the voice. You know the voice. It is the voice that has told you all of your life that you must conform and fit in. From somewhere down the hall, just around the corner, I hear its weight shifting from burdened grown up, to carefree boy… the voice bellows… “That will be just about enough out of you, mister! You will now have a SILENT LUNCH (now picture the special effect echo...)… silent lunch… silent lunch…

A hush fell, accusing eyes darted toward the child who had dared break the rule. Dancing… in the middle of a school! How dare he?! The dancing stopped. The little boy stepped obediently into line, following the same path as everyone else, and went into the cafeteria, where he would now partake of his SILENT LUNCH. Order was restored once again. Chaos ceased to reign. All was well. The dancing had been brought under control. I mean, how dare he dance…?!

If I could go back and do it over, I would dance down every single hallway and risk the silent lunch.

I felt the little dancer dude’s pain. I thought about the many (and I do mean many) times Mrs. Margaret Bunch would sneak up behind me during naptime and swat my backside with that paddle just because I had something very life-changing and urgent to tell the person asleep on the mat next to mine. I mean, had it not been for this strong gifting of conversation that God had given me; I might have been truly scarred!

What’s my point?

Oh, I don’t know. Why does everything have to have a point? Sometimes you just want to talk about things… get them off your chest.

Ah, yes, my point is this:

There will be many times in your life – if you love God with all of your heart – that you will absolutely feel compelled to a heart rhythm, a different drum. You will hear music that no one else hears; feel a lightness in your step that woos you to dance instead of march. And when you feel His music, Darlin’ dance. Be willing to risk a silent lunch or two. Be ready to release what people think about you in exchange for caring what He thinks, because if you never risk it, you will miss the transcendent Celebrate moments.

Dear one, never let clicking heels – or wagging tongues – stop your dance. Or, as my four year old daughter so aptly sang as she danced her way absently down the aisle at church… “Our God is an awesome God… so shake, shake, shake,- shake, shake, shake, shake your booty.”

Selah

In Process

2009-09-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

Malachi 3
2.For he will be like a refiner's fire or a launderer's soap. 3 He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; he will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver. Then the LORD will have men who will bring offerings in righteousness, 4 and the offerings of Judah and Jerusalem will be acceptable to the LORD, as in days gone by, as in former years.

When I was a little girl, we loved to make homemade ice cream at my granny’s house. We did it with the hand crank ice cream mixer. It seemed like it took forever on those hot summer days. That ice cream just did not want to freeze! I would turn and turn until I thought my arm would surely fall off. “Granny! Granny! How long’s this gonna take?” I’d fuss. “I reckon it’s gonna take as long as it takes.” Would always be her reply.

It was not what I wanted to hear, but it was true.

The work just takes however long it takes. You cannot predict when ice cream will freeze in the summer, and you cannot predict how long the Refiners fire will have to burn before the work is completed. One thing you can be sure of, however, is that the Refiner never leaves the fire unattended. As children, we knew that if we left the ice cream and ran off to play – it took longer. The work that had been accomplished up to that point then had to be redone.

By the same token, if we run from the flames and reject His purifying process – we just might find ourselves in the same flame at a future date. God finishes what He starts.

Did you know that if you do not put your trust in the Refiner and stay committed to the completed work, all the flames will bring about is a brittle hardness? You place something in an oven long enough, it is reduced to ashes… but long before the ash process is a hardening process. In both cases, the work is incomplete.

We have seen it time after time. Someone goes through a hard time and a difficult place and instead of being refined, they come away bitter and hard, and do not want to let anyone in. The refining process was not accepted, and therefore the hardness of heart increases, ashes and hardness mark their path, and most who come in contact with them feel the sting of their dry places.

Oh, dear ones, stay in the process until the work is completed. I know the temperature is rising, and your metal is being tested, but beauty truly is on the way. Do not run. Keep your mind centered on the Refiner instead of the fire. He will keep you in perfect peace – no matter how hot it gets!

And when the work is done... find a nice shade tree and have that bowl of ice cream:0)

The Wedding

2009-08-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

I stood and looked out over the field in front of my mother’s house. Acres of old garden and dried hay stretched before me. The Blallock’s old farmhouse stood on the hill across the dirt road, a stark white contrast to the deepening shadows of the day. In between the two aged dwellings something wonderful was taking place – something of eternal significance; my cousin was marrying his bride.

I watched as men in overalls and women in gingham dresses made their sojourn across the field, not to an arbor, or a lace covered gazebo, but simply to the center of the field… the same field that had grown their crops, fed their families, and resounded with the feet of running children. The tender circle began to form. There was no wedding coordinator to lead the way, or ushers to seat grand ladies, there was simply a gathering – a gathering of good people.

As the country minister made his way to the center of the circle, the father of the groom threw a stone at a barking hound dog, prompting it to head back to its lazy perch upon the worn rug that graced the weathered front porch. Then I saw them – the bride and the groom – walking hand in hand toward the gathering. She wore a simple white dress, and he – well, he shone brightly in his dress uniform – the same he would wear when he left for Iraq the same week.

As the couple walked close, the circle opened to receive them, then closed once again around them. They were surrounded by generations of faithful hearts and strong backs, generous souls with calloused hands. And as I watched, the good people bowed to thank their Creator for the blessed bounty of this day. A day without crystal goblets and chandeliers. A day without string quartets and satin slippers. A day when cotton dresses and work boots would stand witness to God’s goodness in fields of promise.

The sun began its descent just as the preacher whispered shyly to the groom – “You can kiss her now.” The soldier bent his head and kissed his pink cheeked bride, holding her close to his heart, as the circle grew quite small. Hands were shaken, backs patted and embraces shared as the couple was absorbed into the hearts of their kin.

Men and women, hand in hand, turned and made their way across the field and down the road to their own dwellings.

Life resumed… and the field brought forth life, once again.

FOCUS

2009-07-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

When I was fifteen, I had my first real date. I remember it distinctly. I was living with my grandmother at the time and thought my ship had finally come in. I was going on an honest to goodness, guy pick you up in a car, date.

It wasn’t that I had actually liked the boy that much when he asked me out, it was everything that had happened since the asking. I had begun to FOCUS. What would I wear? How would I do my hair? How clean could I get granny’s house before he walked in it to pick me up? What would he wear? Where would we go? What would we do? Was he THE ONE? Would he like me? What if I bit into the pizza and it was too hot and I pulled burning cheese out of my mouth in front of him? What does one wear to the emergency room when burned by pizza cheese?

By the time Saturday morning arrived, I was a wreck. I think I was dressed, hair done and in full make-up by 7:00 … AM. All I had left to do for the next twelve hours was lay in front of my granny’s old turntable and listen to Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.”

Needless to say, by the time he arrived in his black T-Top Trans Am, I already knew how many children we would have, ( two - Brandy and Chayse), what kind of house we would live in, (two story red brick), what color my Camero would be, (red), and that our black Persian cat would be named FIFI.

Poor guy. He thought we were going out for a coke.

So, what happened during those twelve hours that took me from getting a coke with a boy, to spending the rest of my days on earth with him?

FOCUS.

Prov 23:7
7 For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he (KJV)

We truly do fall in love with what we focus on, with what we invest our time in.
So, I guess the question of the week is this: Where is your focus? What, or who occupies your mind? Where is your treasure? For it is there that you will find your heart.

I do not think I ever went out with that guy again… but thanks to a healthy imagination and a whole lot of intense focus, for twelve hours in a fifteen-year-old girl’s life, I was married with children.

THE INVITATION

2009-07-14T06:06:00.000-07:00

My uncle Tommy had an in ground pool. Understand, where I came from, only rich people had pools, and an in-ground… well, those were almost unheard of.

His house sat high upon the hill overlooking my grandmother's little homestead. From his perch he could see when the grandchildren all pulled into the yard, and in his more benevolent moments, he would make that much anticipated call. We would all kind of hold our breath when the phone rang, hoping against hope that it was our invitation to come up and swim. We were not allowed to ask if we could come up, we came by invitation only… his rules, not ours.

When the call would come, shrieks and laughter would follow. There was no need to run into granny's house and change... since we had all worn our swimsuits under our clothes (just in case). T shirts and shorts went flying as bare feet made their painful and hasty ascent up the gravel driveway. Looking back, it must have seemed a bit daunting, this charge of the tiny shoeless kid cavalry coming up that hill. In retrospect, I can (almost) see why Uncle Tommy made the invitation only rule. But, at the time, it was like Chinese water torture, this knowing there was cool water I could not get to. In my minds eye I knew that true joy awaited me on that mountain… if only I had an invitation to come up.

And the invitations were rare.

Yet somehow, even when invited I never felt like a guest, but a tolerated obligation. I never truly felt welcome and wanted on those grounds. Even as a child I sensed that they were waiting for us to leave. But our love for the water overrode the uneasiness of the guilt induced invitation. We just wanted to play in the water... no strings attached.

When I first learned that there was water to be had in the Kingdom of God… true, no-more-thirst kind of water, I thought there must surely be a catch. How could there be costly, pure, refreshing spiritual water… more than I could possibly imagine, and how could it be there for the taking? I mean, surely there would have to be rules and stipulations, guidelines and by-laws. Surely the trip must be invitation only; and how presumptuous would it be if I asked Him if I could come up?

My heart could barely take it in, this open invitation to pristine waters. What kind of God would leave an open path up the mountain, and preferred a crazy shoeless ascent? What kind of generosity birthed an unending access to private pools, and cascading rivers of unquenchable life? And what kind of love could make you feel like they never wanted you to leave?

Oh, dear one, that is what I have found in Him. Open invitation, generous welcome, and embracing love. Crystal clear waters and unending refreshing.

I love Him so.

When I think about God today I see Him amidst waters. He is always flowing and rich with life. I see Him as welcoming and waiting. I see Him watching the children run up the mountain, His eyes alight with merriment, His shoulders shaking with the rich sound of laughter.

This is my God. He is brave and good and mighty. He is generous, wise and kind. His is the voice that awakens the waters, and invites all to come up the mountain.

His feet glowed like burnished (bright) bronze as it is refined in a furnace,

and His voice was like the sound of many waters. [Dan 10:6 ]
Revelation 1:14-16

UNRAVELED

2009-07-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

I think I must be tired. I’m not sure.

If I could sit down for a few minutes and actually think, I might be able to figure it out. Lately it seems as if the moment I sit down the phone rings or the door bell dings. This causes me to entertain the thought that my phone and doorbell are somehow attached to the seat of my comfy chair in the corner. Alas, it cannot be true, for others sit in that chair and there is no knock at the door for hours on end.

I have noticed that my email message board constantly reminds me that it is time to archive old items… which means there are way too many messages stored in its finite memory. I have decided that my computer and I have the same problem. Too many messages, so little space. My email inbox stays full, and I am quite sure there are many of you sitting out there wondering… just like the line from Dances With Wolves… Why don’t she write?

I truly mean to. I have every intention of doing so... soon. I am trusting that all of you who know me have already reached the conclusion that I do love you, and will, therefore, extend me a bit of grace. Those who do not know me… well, I will answer yours first, for I do not expect that same grace extension from you. In time, you may be asked to extend, but for now, just let me say, “The response is in the mail.”

Why do I ramble on with such nonsense? Many have asked that question. But what I find is that my mental meanderings are something of an unwinding for me. If you can for one moment picture a huge ball of yarn rolling across a polished floor, leaving its singular threaded trail, you will understand my rambling. It is as if I have wound myself around something important, and must unravel to get at the hidden center.

So what is hidden today that has prompted this trail of twine? Let’s see, I must push just a bit to straighten that last bit of unruly thread… Ah, yes, there it is. I see it clearly now. Four little letters: sert; no, ters, wait… estr… oh, there it is… rest.

I must unravel to rest. I must unwind and rest. I must meander to find my place of rest.

The Father speaks, “Rest, child.” The words cause me to breathe deep. “Rest, child.” My shoulders relax, my head bent forward, I test the neck muscles with a slow side-to-side stretch. “Rest, Child.” Head in my hands, my eyes begin to feel their own weight. Like a soft wind blowing through the trees, His voice disturbs me beautifully, “Rest, child.” One more breath; it reaches deep and sends the yarn spinning forward, one single strand meets four letters…

And I rest.

· Matthew 11:28
"…Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.

ENOUGH

2009-07-02T06:50:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Walls Hollow, a small coal mining community in East Tennessee. The curvy dirt road was easy to miss if you were not looking for it. A meandering dance of memorized potholes led into the woods where small plots of land had been cleared by those strong and determined enough to wield an ax and hold tight to a tiller. I remember well the days we would carry a sack lunch and sit out on the ground while daddy, papaw and my uncles worked our few acres, making a place for our house to be built. No bulldozers touched the soil, only worn leather work boots and buckets of sweat.

It was on our first visit to the hollow that Bum adopted us.

He had sorrowful brown eyes and coarse red/brown hair. He was gangly and uncoordinated and his ribs showed plainly against his taught skin. His back left leg had obviously been broken when he was small and had healed into a now useless appendage. He was starving, pitiful, and broken… and as he grabbed the bologna sandwich out of my hand, I thought he was the most beautiful hound dog in the whole world. I decided right then and there that he would be mine…‘cause he needed me.

I did not call him Bum; my daddy did. He would watch Bum skulking around begging and tell us to run the “bum” off. Eventually daddy would fall in love with the sad soul, but his name, Bum, would stick. Bum was my constant companion in those years. He ran the hills with me, waded the creeks, sat patiently at the bottom of trees as I climbed high and sat in their branches. Bum would run beside me as I rode my bike down dusty trails, often becoming entangled in the wheels in his desire to be close, sending us both tumbling. He would look at me as if to ask, why did you run over me? Still, he would keep pace as we started back on our journeys.

I loved that dog for several reasons, but the biggest reason was that he openly adored me. I could tell when he looked at me that I was enough. He was not daydreaming about other children in other fields. He was not thinking, what is up with her hair? No. Bum loved me. By the same token, I never thought… wish he wasn't crippled or could run faster.

He was enough. Beautifully, completely, enough.

Love makes us enough. In a world where it is easy to fall short, it is a wonderful thing to know that you are enough.

Many of us walk through our Christian lives feeling like God has His mind on someone else. We think if we could just be better, or funnier, or smarter, or more talented… or less crippled, He would love us more. But you know what? His love makes us enough. He loves every moment we spend with Him.

It is enough.

Why is everyone hungry for more? "More, more," they say. "More, more."

I have God's more-than-enough, Psalm 4:5-7

Water to Me

2009-06-21T06:25:00.000-07:00

I have never been the type to wade gently into the water looking all graceful and dignified.

I am more the run-jump-hold-your-nose-plunge-splash kind of girl. I always thought the others looked pretty, but knew they could not possibly be having nearly as much fun as I was. After all, while they were standing ankle deep in tepid salt water, the waves splashing gently around their ankles, I was soaked, sputtering, coughing like crazy, and had sea weed in my teeth… Ah, the bliss. Your eyes stung, every scrape (and I had plenty) came alive with the fire of painful cleansing, and your feet sank into things best left undiscovered.

My sisters all thought I was nuts (not much has changed, by the way…). They were girl-girls. They had no idea how much fun a starfish could be when stuck to your leg, or how it felt to be thrown from a horse or hit in the face with a basketball. My sisters did not know the thrill of stealing third base, or riding dirt bikes without mom’s permission. They did not know that stars are best viewed at 1:00 am after climbing out your window and onto the roof in your orange high- top converse and night gown. Simple things, really. They could have done any of these things… but no… they liked it safe and organized and all planned out.

I began most mornings looking for socks and homework, while my sisters rolled their eyes and tapped their dainty toes in frustration.

I remember running out the front door one morning, jumping down the front steps and falling very ungracefully at the feet of my embarrassed older sisters. They looked at my mom and asked, “Oh, mother, what are we going to do about Barbie?”

Duh, Hello! I thought. You could help me get up! See, I thought they were asking what they should do at the moment, when in fact it was my whole life that left them scratching their heads and walking many paces ahead of me in public.

I did not fit in. I never have. I have always heard a different drum beat in my spirit. I knew that life was supposed to be a grand adventure, and I did not want to miss a moment of it indoors where the world lost its wondrous beauty. I needed sunshine on my face and cool grass beneath my bare feet. I needed hills to climb and puppies to wrestle. I loved to laugh and I loved to sing at the top of my voice… with only God listening.

I learned at an early age that God created creeks for lonely children with curly red hair, and that dogwood blooms fit perfectly in small hands with dirty fingernails. For, you see, God has always loved me more than I deserved and more extravagantly than I could fathom.

He has always been water to me.

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal,

proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.
Revelation 22:1

When You Know

2009-06-03T10:14:00.000-07:00

John 4:21-26 Jesus declared, Believe me woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in Spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and His worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.

I have been pondering worship...

What actually sent me on this journey was a dream (I know, big shock) that brought a quickening revelation to my own heart. For, while I have found my place at His feet for years, I have struggled to explain to people with any type of clarity or accuracy, what worship really means in my life. But the Lord crystallized the heart of a true worshiper for me in one simple yet profound moment.

In the dream I stood on the side of a dusty road that led into Jerusalem. I stood with a crowd of people and they were waiting on something (or someone). They all watched and waited with agitated expectancy, peering down the road and trying to position themselves to see further. Then, from a short distance away I could hear the crowd begin to cheer. It was like the roar of a small wave moving in our direction. The words became clearer as they rolled in, “Hosanna!,” they cried in their excitement, “Hosanna!” I realized that I was standing with the crowd as Jesus made His triumphal entry. The shouts continued and rose as the crowd became more jubilant, and many threw their robes and cloaks in the road before Jesus… palm branches waving in homage. They shouted in joy, shouted out of emotion, shouted in group camaraderie, shouted as moved by the circumstances, and shouted at His presence.

Yes, the service was in full motion…

Then I heard her. I heard something other. Something that pierced through the rest. It was verdantly sweet and resonated in a way that made it distinct and precious among the multiplying noise. It possessed a quality, a tone, a knowing, unlike any of the others. Though her words were the same, she sang a different song. It was a singular voice crying out, drenched with tears, and bathed in deep and sorrowful joy. I watched as this woman threw her cloak at His feet. “Hosanna!” She cried. And her cries rent the atmosphere. “Hosanna!” Her tears wet the earth, each one reverberating beneath my feet, and all I could do was gasp for breath.

And then the dream shifted from the crowd into the very content of her heart. I saw her story… In the depths of the spirit of this woman lay a story, a story of being dragged into the street in her shame and degradation and being forced to stand before the angry, the judging, the religious and pious, who weighed her in the scales and found her wanting. I saw within her heart a story of stones aimed and ready to be released… and then I saw those eyes. Eyes that looked at her with kindness. Eyes that saw her; not what she had done. I saw within her, all that had touched her ears: the anger, the disgust, the names, the threats, the ridicule, the distaste, the condescension, the insults… all repeating what she already believed about herself. Expecting to feel the first stone strike, she heard instead His voice… let the sinless throw the first stone…, and then the pounding of stones dropping at the feet of her accusers. “Woman where are your accusers?” “Lord, I have none…” “Neither do I condemn you…” and in that moment worship was born in the heart of one who knew.

And now, I stood beside her understanding why her “Hosanna” was different, why it rang above all of the rest. It came from a heart that had absolutely found its Truth; a heart that resounded with everything she now knew about herself and the Lover of her Soul. She did not cry out because everyone else cried out. She did not shout out of emotion or prompted by habit. She did nothing our of the shallows or because it was what she had been taught to do. She cried out from a place of life-altering personal revelation. Her worship was a deep honoring and reverencing of His work in her life. Her worship told her story... and His story. She worshiped from a spirit that acknowledged her Truth... He loved her. He covered her. He had become everything to her. She worshiped Him completely.

Then I heard a little boys voice, it rang with the same truth. His heart relived a time of being thrown into the fire by demons, of seizures and fear, then the voice of a man saying, “I will…” His truth was a life of possession now given way to a life of freedom. His hosanna rang true. He worshiped in spirit and in truth.

What they offered was TEHILLAH - A spontaneous new song. A song that abides in your heart that only you can give words to. It is a song offered straight to God. She tehillahed God, and Tehillah is the praise that God inhabits. It is your heart song. Tehillah is praise offered from your deepest level of recognized truth, and in that place, God takes up residence.

Only when our worship becomes deeply honest can we enter into the “spirit and truth” that God desires. When we can begin to sing a spontaneous song from a place inside of us that knows, that really knows, then we shift from being a house that has a lot of good singers and talented musicians, and even anointed gifts, to a house that He inhabits. Because if the praise that He inhabits is Tehillah praise (the praise that enthrones Him is our personal, spontaneous, spirit birthed song), then when we get to that place of honesty within ourselves, that pristine acknowledgment of God from our depths, He inhabits. And in that, we become like the woman on the side of the road, whose sound was different from all of the rest.

Oh Guys, do you understand that when spirit marries truth, the offspring is a new song… the child is Tehillah worship.

Can I tell you something else? You can have great passion and no truth. You can sing louder, run faster, jump higher, shout most radically, run the aisles and never get honest. Passion does not equal true worship. You see, Jesus told the woman at the well that a day was coming when it did not matter where you worshiped, but then the intimation of the next sentence often gets brushed past. He said, “You Samaritans worship what you do not know… we worship what we know… for Salvation is from the Jews.” In other words, the day is coming when you too will enter into a place of worshiping because you know the truth, and when that happens, it is not going to matter where you are. When you worship because you really know… you now enter into the land of spirit AND truth. We are not talking about praise here. We are talking about the sound of a testimony. The sound of awakening on levels we’ve never touched or heard before… the singing of the soul.

Friends, praise can issue from a feeling, an emotion, a delight, a stirring, an experience, but worship must flow from truth. What I want to propose to you and offer up for your consideration, is that the missing element of our worship is truth. It is the element that takes us from being a good church to a kingdom mover. It is the element that changes everything. Across the land there are churches built upon and steeped in worship arts. Dynamic sounds issue from the houses; singers unparalleled in gifts, musicians unequaled. The call has gone out and dancers have struck their rhythm. Praise pounds through the atmosphere, and could we be a listener above the earth on a Sunday morning, we would hear a chorus, a symphony of exaltation lifting from this blue orb. Still, while we have pushed and pressed our way into the sound of heaven, there is a note missing a tone we long for that would cause all to ring and resound. It is that tone, that ring, which will shift us from one level of offering to the next. I believe that sound is Truth. Honest worship.

For so many years we have danced upon the “in spirit” part of this instruction. We, as good Pentecostals, know how to move in the spirit… or at least we think we do. Nobody gets into the spirit like a charismatic (in our opinion - oops! sarcasm). Ah, yes, we know about the spirit. We can get into the spirit; the spirit of the experience, the spirit of joy, the spirit of anticipation, the spirit of expectation. We can work up a great spiritual praise experience. But in order for it to pass the point of praise and enter into clearly delineated worship, deep and profound truth must be added to the equation. And truth requires some transparency we prefer to dance ourselves out of.

You see, while your praise may speak to your level of involvement, your worship speaks to the level of true revelation in your life. It speaks to what you know about Him. Your worship tells your story. It is your testimony fleshed out… for better or for worse. You can praise Him. You can sing. You can dance. You can shout. You can enjoy. You can be saved. You can be a good Christian. You can be a Pastor, teacher, missionary, praise leader, and effective witness. You can be many good things without deep revelation, but you will never be a true worshiper until you can worship Him in Spirit and Truth. Everything about someone entering into true worship testifies… it acknowledges, it awakens, it pierces, it penetrates. True worship is resonant and resident. True worship has a story. True worship has a dance. True worship has a scent, a tone, a fragrance… a voice unlike any other. Worship is birthed in your life when your God becomes very real to you; when you finally get the hugeness of what He has done in and for you, and begin to understand how undeserving you are of that goodness. Only revelation can birth that in your life.

And when you know… I mean really know…

Your soul sings.

A DIFFERENT INTERCESSION

2009-05-20T08:24:00.000-07:00

Romans 8:26

26Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans.

In 1990 I encountered something truly life altering.

I was in a church in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, playing piano for an altar service when I hear the most devastatingly painful and intimate sound. I heard a moan that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck and tears immediately come to my eyes. My breath caught in my throat, and my hands literally froze on the piano keys, as a beautiful young woman to my right buckled over in anguish and groan after groan began to rack her frail body, issuing forth from the very depths of of her being.

I had never heard anything like it. I tried to breathe, but the groaning of the woman was shaking my spirit unlike it had ever been shaken. I could not breathe, but instead gulped in air like a woman drowning. Tears coursed down my cheeks as I watched her, people gathered around her, but it was as if they could not touch her… not for fear, but for reverent understanding.

She was in the grip of God. An intercession of soul was taking place, and we were stunned by the depth and breadth of what was taking place in the spirit realm right in front of our eyes.

"God", I asked, "what is happening?" I asked because it was an automatic response, though my spirit had already born witness to the truth of what was taking place. Still, He spoke to my heart in confirmation, "She is in deep intercession, My Spirit interceding with groans and utterance… for she does not know how to pray." The Holy Spirit of God was making intercession for a heart that could not find the words to voice its pain. She was broken, and only God could give utterance to her pain.

The intercession of groaning was planted in my spirit in that moment.

Nineteen years later, I still shake on the inside when I think about that moment.

I would later find out that the beautiful young mother had lost her husband that week. Still, raw with her loss, she stood in the altar with all of her pain, and all of devastation, not knowing how to release it to God. So, God did what God does, He searched her heart and the Holy Spirit made intercession in a way she could not understand.

I was changed in that moment, for I knew God had shown me a tool I had not known existed before then. I had heard all of the teaching and even knew the scriptures, but my working knowledge of the scripture at that point had stopped with the praying in tongues. I thought that as a good Pentecostal girl tongues was all that I needed. My private prayer language... just me and God. But you see, God knew that a day would come in my life when I would come before Him with great need and no words to utter… so He prepared me in advance, and showed me that when I needed Him desperately, He would move through me and release my cries through groanings.

Now, this place of groaning has become a place of breakthrough for me. You may never need it, but I definitely have. When I feel a pulling in the spirit and the heaviness of intercession begins to draw me, I inevitably find myself in this place. It is a hard, but it is a good. It is a place of deep spiritual communion, and I also believe it is a place of spiritual birthing. And for me, they have been the clarion cry ushering in many transitional seasons.

I do not know how God will use this weapon in your life, or if He will. You may never choose to pick it us and use it. But I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that it has been the intercession of groaning that has changed everything about how I pray. If I am frustrated, instead of getting up and walking out of my prayer time, I am able to press deeper. If I am hurt or wounded and words are not sufficient, I find release in this kind of pouring out.

Scripture tells us that there were times when the prophets would call for the wailing women to make the difference in the situation. I believe it is such a time. I believe there is much wordless intercession to be made … and He is looking for those who are willing to use this tool of groaning.

Even if you never use it… at least you now know it exists.

If you want to research it, please read Romans 8. If you want to allow God to show you firsthand, there is only one way…

Can I get an AHHHHHH JESUS!

The Biggest Change of All

2009-05-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

Can I talk to you about the most extreme change God has brought in my life? There are so many, but it isn't hard to choose. And though I know most would automatically say their biggest change or transformation was in their salvation, I cannot really say that. I know that may sound strange, but you see, I am a preacher’s kid and I gave my heart to Jesus so early in life that I didn’t feel a huge yoke fall away. I had no time to actually be terribly bad before I asked Him to be my savior. Do you see what I am saying? I mean, spiritually transformation took place, but in this flesh, I experienced little change.

Still, I could offer you many other wonderful changes; the change from fearing God’s wrath to experiencing His goodness (huge); from feeling like a failure to believing I could do anything God asked me to do (phenomenal); or delivering me from years of bulimia (life-changing); or setting me free from wrong mindsets because of abuse I experienced as a child (can I get a witness?). There have been so many wonderful changes in my life because of God. I could truly never name them all. But I have to say the most stunningly miraculous thing He has done in this life is teach me a new way to love. He has literally enlarged my capacity to really love. Not Him. I have always loved Him like crazy. But He changed me most when He opened my heart to love His people.

Now, I know that may sound strange to you, and in all honesty, it seemed strange to me at the time. I had been serving God for 35 years, teaching, leading ministries, working in high level positions- all for God, and out of my love for God. So when He began to deal with this part of my life, I was shocked. I thought this was one area that was in actually in good shape. I did not know that I needed to be transformed in my love walk, because I was always doing stuff for His people, always busy, always pouring, and always surrounded by the work of the ministry. But through a series of events and personal revelations, the Lord began to show me that if I were to truly be about His business, I would have to be about His people.

My first clue that something was off center was when I went to a training seminar with one of my friends and co-leaders. We sat down in the back and began to listen to the teacher. It was great, right up until the time he said… “Now, let’s break into groups of three or four and have some discussion time… Oh, and do not stay with the people you came with.” I thought I was going to be sick. It was a revelation. I could easily stand in front of a thousand people and talk about Jesus and not bat an eyelash. But the one on one, face to face, made me break out in hives.

Then a little while later, the Lord began to point some small things out to me, like how I would leave skid marks getting out the side door after I would speak at an event. Or how I would leave people asking, “Where’d she go?” And after particularly bombarded times or a conference with long prayer lines, I would retreat for days. I thought I was tired, but I was actually just in hiding.

It’s funny now, because if you had asked me, I would have told you I was very sociable, very approachable, very available, very caring… but what I was, was afraid. I wanted to offer God to everyone, but none of myself, because in truth, if I offered me and they did not like me, I was way too insecure to deal with the rejection. So, I delivered God’s message, but fell short of offering God’s heart.

Then one day at a conference in Missouri, standing in front of thousands, the Lord did something. As I watched the women sing and worship, and cry and sway, God opened my eyes. In the briefest of moments and the most profound of glimpses, He opened a window for me in the spirit and allowed me the most minute foray into His love for the people who stood in that room. The most brief fragrance of God-love and it completely took my breath away and absolutely buckled my knees. I felt like I had been hit with a sledgehammer. I had never experienced anything like it. The best way I could describe it would be to take that first night in the hospital, when you held your baby for the very first time in the quiet and stillness of the room… when you looked at their face and were absolutely overwhelmed with the awe, the responsibility, the intense and possessive love that only the one who carried and delivered can feel… that amazing and scary love… and now multiply it until the breath leaves your body.

That is God love. I cried the ugly cry until I could not cry anymore. My eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and people were walking several paces ahead of me pretending not to hear my wailing, but none of it mattered, because God had given me revelation. Painful, repentance inducing revelation, and I felt as if I would never see the world in the same way. And I can honestly tell you… I never have.

It shook everything I thought I knew about myself. That glimpse lifted years of Christian veneer off of my life. All of the religiosity fell off. All of the lingo I had learned, all of the methods and patterns and habits just came unglued in that moment. And I cried. I just thought I had cried before, but God changed me that night. He got into rooms in my heart that I did not even know existed and cleaned house. It was just the most painfully glorious thing I have ever experienced with Him. He emptied me, and then He did the most marvelous thing, like a breath sweeping the room, He filled me with a new capacity for God-love.

He so messed me up.

I am changed. My life is different. It is crazy different. I walk through much of it feeling like a fingernail torn into the quick, but it is such a good pain, because I have found His heart… and it is you.

Dear One, if you are looking for Him, if you are searching for the heart of God, look beside you. Go horizontal.

I think one of the most profound things the Father shared with me about this was a simple illustration. I have three children, Aaron (24), Matthew (21), and Kayti (14). They are my heart. Aaron and Matthew have my wild hair and warped sense of humor. Kayti has a wicked awesome wit, my teenage form and my expressive eyebrows. When they enter a room, my breath catches. I would without hesitation die for any one of them. They are mine. They are me.

Now...

You may think you love me, and even tell me you love me, but if you see Aaron, Matt, or Kayti on the side of the road and you know them to be my children, and do not stop to help them, your actions expose your heart. If you can pass them by, I no longer believe you when you say you love me. Because if you love me – really love me – you will love them.

It is so simple it is hard.

I John 3:

14We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love our brothers. Anyone who does not love remains in death. 15Anyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life in him.

16This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. 17If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? 18Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. 19This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence

I can honestly tell you that the most extreme makeover I have been through in my life is that His people now break my heart for a completely different reason. I no longer sneak out the side door and I no longer hide in the back. God has opened my arms, and opened my heart. It is the most amazing thing imaginable to me that God can give you a love for people that just takes your breath away. And in that… I truly know I have passed from death to life.

And oh what a life it is...

Tarry With Us

2009-05-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

Luke 24:15, 16, 28-32

And while they conversing & discussing together, Jesus Himself caught up with them and was already accompanying them. But their eyes were held so that they did not recognize Him.
Then they drew near the village to which they were going, and He acted as if He would go further. But they urged & insisted., saying to Him, Remain with us (Tarry with us) (Stay with us), for it is toward the evening, and the day is now far spent. So, HE went in to stay (tarry) with them.

Our society is such an instant gratification society. We have become so used to never waiting on anything. Microwave meals, Instant Messenger, pagers, cell phones, drive thru meals, weddings and funerals, instant breakfast, instant photo… everything at our fingertips. Waiting for gratification and/or satisfaction has become, for the most part, obsolete. If we want it, we have it (if we can afford it). Presto! Here it is. Unfortunately, once accustomed to this lifestyle, we can transfer that need for instant gratification into our personal relationship with Christ, and then into our service of God in the local body. I see it all of the time. We, as a people, do not know what to do with “expectant pauses,” or a call to “wait upon the Lord.” If we do not get an immediate response to our prayer, or an instant “word” or “manifestation” of the Spirit, we simply move ahead, and can sometimes plow right through a gentling work of the spirit that is preparing hearts in a place of tender reverence wrapped in silence.

Seriously, have you noticed how little silence we subject ourselves to? We do not like silence. We turn on a radio, flip on the TV, turn on a fan or a dishwasher. We do not even want it quiet when we sleep. Silence makes us fidget and become restless. If there is a pause in the action, we automatically seek a way to fill it up. We get uncomfortable. We think we need to do something… make some noise… break the silent place.

Ah, but there is a wonderfully powerful purpose for silence. Take a look at what actually happens when you get quiet and wait before the Lord; what happens in the times of tarrying, and the times of waiting. It is truly no wonder that the enemy tries to keep us in constant motion.

Psalms 62:1 My soul waits in silence for God only; From Him is my salvation.

Psalms 62:5 My soul, wait in silence for God only, For my hope is from Him

Isaiah 41:1 Coastlands, listen to Me in silence, And let the peoples gain new strength;

Isaiah 33:2 O LORD, be gracious to us; we have waited for You.

And these are just a few of the amazing things that happen as we wait in silence for Him.

Jesus tarried with them. Think about that for a moment. So often we think we are waiting for Him, when in actuality, we are waiting with Him. He has revelation… He is merely waiting for the time of release. Too often we run away right before the revelation is released. Our need to fill the silence or escape it robs us of deeper knowledge of God: deeper revelation of things spoken only in the silence. It seems so innocent on the surface. We like music, conversation, activity. They are all good things. But are they the best? Churches are filled with every activity and event we can possibly fill it with, but prayer and tarrying before the Lord has no place. Intercessors have been relegated to closets and what Jesus Himself declared should be a House of Prayer, no longer is.

So much noise… so little salvation, hope, grace and strength. What is wrong with this picture? Have a meal at the church and the building cannot hold all of the people. Call a prayer meeting, and the prayer inevitably begins with, "… wherever two or three are gathered…," because that is all that have gathered. I know… I’m sorry! But we complain about the things we see as lacking in the body, but we are unwilling to tarry and wait before the Lord until the power fills the place. Salvation is free, but there is a price for Presence.

Jesus stayed with them when they asked Him to. He reclined with them; broke the bread with them, and it was only in that moment that their eyes were opened. Think about it. Only when the bread was broken did they recognize Him. I find it wonderful that the breaking of the bread brought recognition, for He was broken, this precious Bread of Heaven.

Our moments sitting with Jesus, tarrying at His feet, spending quantity time (because all time with Jesus is quality) with Him, brings us to the point where we can easily and clearly recognize the One who has walked with us, even spoken with us and explained things to us, but have never really seen. Time waiting on the Lord is precious. So much revelation takes place in the silence of waiting. And according to scripture, salvation, hope, strength, grace and clarity are all found in the waiting. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles. They shall run and not grow weary, walk and not faint…” The old song says – Teach me, Lord, Teach me, Lord, to wait.

Waiting is not our strong suit.

When I was a child (I know, here I go with one of my stories) I spent many hours in the altar tarrying. I didn't even know what I was doing, but it seemed fitting and right. I tarried in silence, I tarried with tears, I tarried with prayers, I tarried with friends, I tarried with parents, I tarried with brothers and sisters in Christ. I tarried when I had no clue what I was tarrying for. All I knew was that when these people set aside the time, got on their faces before God, and cried out to Him and WAITED… God showed up. Glory fell. Lives were changed. I liked that. I wanted to know that God.

You see, it is not that I think it takes and extraordinary amount of time for God to move, or for the Holy Spirit to do the work that He has been sent to do. They can put it on you on you in a heartbeat. I believe that the tarrying is for our sake. As we tarry we enter into His presence for an extended period of time, and in that extended period of time our flesh is dealt with. Sins are exposed, hearts are revealed, barriers are broken down. As we tarry in His presence, I do not believe that we are waiting for Him to move as much as we are taking the time required to get our flesh out of His way. God moves like lightning. Our flesh is another matter altogether. We tarry so that we can be changed and truly recognize what God is doing. We tarry so that we may know His Presence beyond the mere momentary flash of lightning. I believe that waiting on Him, and tarrying in His presence, prepares us for His move…. for friend, He is already moving.

When we fall into the thought pattern and the lifestyle of instant everything, we think God has to fall into that same category or mode of operation. Ha! Double Ha! God is a storm that will overtake you as you tarry and wait in His timeframe. In His time, He will fill you to the point that (as James Brown might say...) you Jus’ cain’ take no mo… When God breath blows through the place, it ain’t (sorry Mrs. Langston) always pretty. The winds blow through your spirit, the thunder rolls, a mighty voice breaks through your walls; the rains of truth begin to wash over you, and as all of this rampages through your spirit and soul, the lightning flashes. It is a natural progression as witnessed in nature all around us. The storm rolls through. Still, many of us want the lightning without the clouds. We want the power without the ominous presence. We want the flash without the boom.

Danger, Will Robinson! Never seek the lightning. Seek the One Who made it.

I believe:
We hunger and are not filled – because we do not wait for food.
We thirst and are not quenched – because getting water just takes too long.
We seek, but we do not find – because knocking takes effort.

Painful but true.

We know better.

Luke 11:9-13
9So I say to you, Ask and [2] keep on asking and it shall be given you; seek and [3] keep on seeking and you shall find; knock and [4] keep on knocking and the door shall be opened to you.10For everyone who asks and [5] keeps on asking receives; and he who seeks and [6] keeps on seeking finds; and to him who knocks and [7] keeps on knocking, the door shall be opened.11What father among you, if his son asks for [8] a loaf of bread, will give him a stone; or if he asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent?12Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?13If you then, evil as you are, know how to give good gifts [gifts [9] that are to their advantage] to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask and [10] continue to ask Him!

Drum roll please…

Persistence. Patience. Perseverance. Steadfastness. Faithfulness. Long suffering. Seeking, Knocking. Asking…. Waiting. It sounds like such an old fashioned concept. But once again, I do not think we have become so enlightened that we have no need of the “old ways.” I believe it is because of the old ways that there remains a holy remnant. But then, what do I know? I’m just the daughter of one of those face-down, knees raw, God-fearing, just foolish enough to take Him at His Word, women.

It really is quite simple: Is He worth waiting for? The sad thing is that each of us have already answered that question. We answer it every single day… when we do not wait.

I leave you with this:

Our society tells us to watch the clock, keep the agenda, and seize the moment…
When God Himself pursues us from eternal places, and longs to tarry with us.
May we abide long enough, stay and stand still,
Be silent for lengths of time sufficient
To peel off the layers of world that envelope us,
And be held within arms of the timeless and unseen.

Really.
What are you waiting for?

A Simple Life

2009-05-04T14:44:00.000-07:00

I loved going to the ocean when I was a child.

We did not have any money to speak of, but every year we would make the trek to Daytona Beach for a full week. It has been 28 years since we took such a trip, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

Mom would put us all to bed about 10:00 PM so we would be nice and tired. She would let us sleep until about 2:00 AM when we would smell the chicken frying in the kitchen. Mama always fried up some chicken for the drive. It took a lot of money to feed four girls and two parents, so we ate in the car along the way. We knew if the chicken was frying it was time to get ready. We didn’t get up, mind you. We didn’t do that ‘til it was time to go. But in my minds eye, I was already walking the gritty sand beach feeling the sun on my freckled cheeks.

We would all pile into the black station wagon at around 3:00 AM, still in our pajama’s; sleep still our closest companion, and the smell of warm chicken and the sound of Mama and Daddy’s muted voices would put us back to sleep. We’d awaken around 7:00 or 8:00 and the “are we there yet’s” would begin in earnest.

I did not know as a child that others had more than I did, or perhaps that I was even looked down upon because of my family’s poverty. I had no idea that my shoes were not supposed to be too big, or that all mom’s did not make their children’s clothes. I did not know that all trips to Florida did not end at the Thunderbird Hotel, or that the drive could be made in air conditioned vehicles with stops at actual restaurants… and it was beyond my comprehension that my mama’s fried chicken was not the food of kings.

Today I know the blessing of air conditioned cars and wearing shoes that I have chosen. I know the feel of silk upon my skin and the luxury of restaurants on long drives. Yes,
God has been extravagant in His provision for my family over the years. Still, in all of the change there has been a constant… My mama’s fried chicken is still the food of Kings.

The years of financial lack were nothing in comparison to the great wealth we enjoyed in that station wagon my daddy spray painted black. We would sing so loud the cars passing us would turn and stare… of course it could have been the spray paint, but we thought it was because of the beautiful music coming from within. We would laugh so hard we cried. Mama would pass out chicken and paper cups full of cold water. The wind blew through the windows and ruffled our hand made clothes, and my daddy would laugh a rich, throaty laugh as the passing drivers shook their heads in dismay.

And in those moments, the world was rich and wet and wonderful…
and we were fully invested.

Sometimes we have it all right in front of us, but cannot see what we have for all that we think we want.

A simple life in the Fear-of-GOD is better than a rich life with a ton of headaches. Proverbs 15:16 (Message Bible)

In This Season

2009-04-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

Ecclesiastes 3:1

I have been doing some thinking this week. I know, it’s enough to make your head hurt, but I just could not help myself.. I was reading a small, insignificant little book and one of the lines in the book planted a hook deep within my spirit. It simply said, “For most of human history life was measured and lived by season, not time.”

When I read it I had a flash of one of my husband’s westerns… one Indian explaining to the other “my son has seen 12 summers…” A life being recorded by season. It seems a little strange given our obsession with seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, time frames and deadlines, but it was a very accurate measure of one's life. I cannot explain it, but something inside of me quickened when I thought about this concept, for something deep within all of us battles the swift passage of time. We race against it, try to find ways to turn it back, and continually complain that we do not know where it all went. Ah, but if life is measured in seasons, not in seconds, now that is a different story. Seasons give you a much broader picture.

I have decided that when I look in the mirror, I will see the beautiful passing of seasons etched upon my face. I will not abhor time and its ravages, but will embrace the transformation and progression of my seasons. While I may look back and see time that has been wasted, lamenting its loss, I will not scorn my seasons, for my seasons have been immersed in tranquil waters and blazing fires. My seasons have surrounded me, carrying me into laughter, tears, empathy, excruciating clarity and simple faith. Time has not marked my course, but my seasons have. There are childish seasons, coming of age seasons, pain-filled seasons, and seasons of laughter, seasons of serenity, seasons of turmoil, seasons of aloneness, seasons of hospitality, seasons of stagnation and seasons of abounding growth.

So many seasons…so little time (no pun intended).

Today, I am going to focus on my season. I want to really be aware of where I am and what God is doing. I have determined that I will not mourn for seasons past, but will fully live in the season God has moved me into. I will not cling to the ideas, positions, tasks, articles, possessions, and even ministries of seasons gone by, but will open my hands and release them as God says move forward. (Somehow that is much easier to do when you no longer enjoy the season you are in.) The problem comes when God says you are entering a new season and you were very comfortable in your old one.

So, what do you do when it hurts to leave another season? You do it anyway. Heart bleeding, tears falling, you bruise your knees one more time and press your face into His chest as you give Him your yes.

Another season etches its way upon your countenance, and your fingers relax their grip as your feet find His rhythm. Green grass gives way to crunchy, colorful leaves, and the warm summer breeze takes on autumn’s crisp fragrance. The colors become more vibrant, there is an extravagant appreciation for what was always there, but somehow escaped your notice, and you walk face-first into your most beautiful season…

Until the next one comes along.

Healing Hands

2009-03-30T13:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the most frustrating thing in the world can be trying to forget the past. We remember old wounds and unkind words quite easily. It is as if with each replaying of the incident, it becomes etched a bit deeper upon our soul. We hit the rewind button, listen to the whispers of the enemy and fall into the pit of self-pity, crying all the while in our best I-don't-deserve-this martyrs’ voice, "Why do you not take this from me, Lord? Why must I suffer so with these memories?" (Anguish best portrayed with back of the hand to the forehead, slight hesitance between words and lips trembling as the voice falters and breaks...)

Ever been there? A wound that should have healed forever ago continues to cause you pain because you continue to expose it and invite infection through constant picking.... Selah (Pause calmly and think upon these things).

As a child I was forever falling out of trees, off of swings, into ditches, off of bicycles. To say I was not the most feminine flower in the garden would be a vast understatement. I had a lot of fun giving my mom all of that grey hair. During all of these "adventures" there were inevitable scrapes, cuts and bruises. I would hobble into the kitchen ('cause that's where you found my mother at any hour of the day), my hands clenched over the offended area, the first words from my mother's mouth were always, "Come here, honey. Let me see what has happened." Whiny, irritable, but a bit pleased by the attention, I slowly and dramatically submitted to her instructions.

Inevitably, she would lift me onto the counter and with greatly feigned anguish I would allow her to open my grimy fingers to reveal the wound. (Imagine the grimace of a curly headed, two front teeth missing, sun burned nose kind of mischief face). Her next words were always, "Oh, see, that's not so bad." Funny how things are 'not that bad' when it isn't your own pain you are dealing with. Easy to say that when your life is not flashing in front of your eyes... but I digress.

Anyway, she would take a soft washcloth, run it under warm water and gently cleanse the area. (She knew if she grabbed the Bactine squeeze bottle she would not see me for days). She would then hold the warm cloth against the wound until it started to feel better (and the gravel fell out). What a miracle a mother's touch is! Her final act would be to apply a healing balm (AKA Vaseline - that magical potion that heals all, gets your head unstuck from between the porch railing and makes your hair stay in place at the same time) and seal the wound with a bandage to keep out infection.

Her instructions were to leave the bandage on and not to keep opening and closing it - because that is most definitely our tendency when it comes to wounds; we want to show everyone and remind ourselves how bad it really was. We have this morbid sense of inclusion when it comes to battle scars. Still, I knew the only time that bandage was to be removed was when mama said so. After all, everyone knows if "You keep opening that bandage up and looking at it and it's gonna get infected." She somehow knew I would need her there when I had to take another look. She knew I would not be able to keep my own hands off of it and I would need her comfort if there was another cleansing to take place.

I do not have to tell you where I'm going with this. Dear One, the first step in any healing process is taking our hands off of the wound and letting the Father take a good look. Only in His presence can we see things without fear ruling us and pain overtaking us. With and in Him the cleansing, the assurance, and the comfort can begin.

Yes, my friend, outside of our clenched fists there is healing. All we have to do is...

LET GO.

Silent Lunch

2009-03-19T10:06:00.001-07:00

Many years ago I went to my daughters school to have lunch with her. As I sat in the hallway waiting for her class to appear, I watched the children make their way through the cavernous hallways.

Single file…

Mouths tightly shut…

The familiar clip, clip of the teacher’s heels pounding on the tiled floors. As they filed past I began to absently hum… all in all it’s just another brick in the wall. (Oops. Flashback. Pink Floyd… where did that come from?)

When the next class came up the hallway, I watched as they marched silently, single file, close enough to the wall the keep the corridor clear. Hands clutching little metal lunch boxes, I began to sing… O EEE oh, O EEE Oh… (Think Wizard of Oz )

The third class started around the corner, hands by their sides, stepping in unison, silence and order reigned… until I saw him.

Yes, you could not miss him.

As he rounded the corner the single file line took on new life. Arms flailing, hips moving to some unknown beat, the little boy danced his way down the corridor; everyone around him acting as if he did not exist. As he danced, I sang , “Celebrate good times. Come on… it’s a celebration…” (Yes, still a child of the 70’s) I made it to the second “celebrate” before our mental music came to a screeching halt (add sound effects). Then came the voice. You know the voice. It is the voice that has told you all of your life that you must conform. Grating like fingernails on a chalkboard it scrapes through the spirit, leaving painful divits in the soul (wow - that was intense).

From somewhere down the hall, just around the corner, I hear its weight shifting from burdened grown up, to carefree boy… the voice bellows… “That will be just about enough out of you! You will now have a SILENT LUNCH!(now picture the special effect echo...)… silent lunch… silent lunch…. And in the recesses of my mind I clearly saw a spindly green hand extend, bony finger pointing as the words "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!" echoed through the corridor.

A hush fell, accusing eyes darted toward the child who had dared break the rule. Dancing! He was dancing in the middle of a school! How dare he?!

The dancing stopped. The little boy moved obediently into line, following the same ordinary and expected path as everyone else, and head bowed, went into the cafeteria, where he would now partake of his SILENT LUNCH. Order was restored once again to the halls, joy and individuality had been dealt with... all was well.

I mean, I felt the little dude’s pain. I thought about the many (and I do mean many) times Mrs. Margaret Bunch would sneak up behind me during nap time and swat my backside with that paddle just because I had something very urgent to tell the person asleep on the mat next to mine. I mean, had it not been for this strong gifting of superfluous conversation that God has given me; I might have been truly scarred!

What’s my point? Oh, I don’t know. Why does everything have to have a point? Sometimes you just want to talk about things… get them off your chest.

Oh, well, the point is this: There will be many times in your life – if you love God with all of your heart – that you will absolutely dance to the beat of a different drum. You will hear music that no one else hears; feel a lightness in your step that propels you to dance instead of march. And when you feel His music… MOVE.

What about the opposite side of the coin?

Have you ever been the person to condemn someone to a silent lunch? I have. I used to mentally scream silent lunch! every time a guy at church got on my nerves with his outbursts. When the dancers filled the isle to the point that I could not see the platform, I was screaming silent lunch!

When the worship pastor would start teaching definitions of praise terms…please silent lunch!

You get the picture. But what I was effectively doing is this…

2 Sam 6:20-23 When David returned home to bless his household, Michal daughter of Saul came out to meet him and said, "How the king of Israel has distinguished himself today, disrobing in the sight of the slave girls of his servants as any vulgar fellow would!"

Let me tell you something, what I had effectively done when I chose to hold others to my standard of worship… to say that it must be done this way and no other… was to render myself spiritually barren…

23 And Michal daughter of Saul had no children to the day of her death.

David’s response to Michal should challenge us to go further in our worship, and rebuke us for judging the worship of others.

21 I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes.

I wish we could all get that into our spirit. When someone close to you demands your silent lunch, I would love to hear you say…

Oh really?

Just before you start your happy dance.

Still Answering

2009-03-07T14:45:00.001-08:00

God always answers, one way or another,even when people don't recognize His presence. (Job 33:11-13)

What do you do when you simply cannot find the words to tell Him how much you love Him? How do you sing a song to Him that only your heart knows? How do you lay out before Him, your soul open and longing for His touch, waiting for what you cannot even name?

That’s where I am today. I find myself so completely and beautifully broken before this God that I love. I am at once ready to cry and moved to laughter.
Overwhelmed.

Yes.

I am overwhelmed.

His goodness has gripped me, His heartbeat resounds in my ears, and I feel His breath winding through my spirit. Oh, I love how He messes me up.
Mascara streaks my face as Kleenex form tiny Ebenezer’s all around this well-worn carpet. Just when I think I am fully unraveled and ready to sit upright, I feel that tight grabbing in the abdominal region and I buckle once again as His presence rocks my world. How foolish to think He was done with this work.

Face down I teeter between heaven and cool linoleum.

One prayer. One small sentence. I should have known He was listening. This ongoing revelation of lesser gods, and small pursuits; the painful disintegration of what I thought I knew. It brings me to but one conclusion: God is answering my unconscious prayer; “Father, let there be less of me and more of You.”

It sounded great at the time, somewhat holy, in fact, for the emphasis in my mind was upon the more of you part. Foolishly we think that more of Him is easily placed on top of what already exists within us. However, somewhere between the carpet fibers and eternity, the emphasis flew onto the wrong words, and it wound up on the less of me part.

And He just keeps answering.

As I move through prayer into the Holy Places of His presence, I am painfully aware that there is so much still to surrender, as clutched hands attempt to hide this heart and all of its shallowness. He allows me brief glimpses of my various vanities before He steps in and covers me, reminding me that He is enough… and less is inevitably coming.

Who could ask for more?

Dirt Roads

2009-02-19T07:21:00.001-08:00

I grew up in a small town in east Tennessee. The beautiful rolling hills lay just outside the dusty curtains that hang haphazardly above my bedroom window. In the mornings, I was awakened by the sound of birds singing, the mournful moan of our red-bone hound dog, Bum, and the sound of my mother bangin’ pots in the kitchen as she scrambled eggs and fried sausage. I could tell exactly when it was time to get up, ‘cause I’d smell the biscuits browning.

My summer days consisted of fighting with my younger sister, Angie, then playing games with her. We knew those hills like our own backyard, for that is just what they were. We played ‘Lost in Space,’ -she always got to be Judy because of her blonde hair-, hide and seek, freeze tag, bicycle races, stomped through muddy creek beds, caught butterflies, lightening bugs, frogs, crawfish. We simply enjoyed life. A simple life. We lacked for nothing and wanted everything. I remember laughing loud and often. I remember jokes, smiles, music. I remember the way my father smelled on Sunday morning before church. I remember how beautiful my mom looked in her red suit.

I remember so many things; still others are reduced to images, feelings, smells. They are triggered by the strangest things. Going on a field trip with my son, sitting on his bus, I was carried back to another bus, thirty years before. The seats stuck to my legs in the same way. The bus driver peered through the overhead mirror in the same manner; you know that kind of searching-scowl that all bus drivers develop over time. I was suddenly six years old, on my way to school. I felt the same little rush, the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I shook my head to clear the deja-vu webs.

I lived in a butterscotch-colored house on a dirt road called Walls Hollow. My dad built the house after our trailer burned down one night while we were at the stock car races. Does that sound redneck enough for you? I loved our butterscotch house. I never asked why daddy painted it that color, but looking back, I feel reasonably certain that the paint must have been a good deal. Back then, I just thought it was beautiful. I felt calm when I looked at that house. I felt safe living in that house.

When my grandpa was pouring our concrete sidewalk he let all of us girls, four at that time, put our hands in the wet cement. Four perfect little hand prints sealed in time. It was fun then, it makes me cry now.

A year or so ago I went back to the old house. The new owners had changed everything. The house had been enlarged, outbuildings added. My old basketball goal was now home to a couple of cars. The garden my daddy had planted every year was gone, the yard swing absent, as well. A couple of things remained, however. Wonderful things that called me back again, to a time that now exists only in my mind.

Sitting beside the kitchen door was the dogwood tree I had loved as a child. In the springtime, it had large white blooms with crimson edges. My mother had stood with me at that dogwood tree and shared the story of how the bloom represented the cross of Christ. I remember how tenderly she held the flower as she explained its legend. I remember her hands. I look at my own hands now to see hers. They are the same.

As I approached the walk, I was almost afraid to look. Thirty years had come and gone since papaw had knelt with us, pressing chubby fingers into wet, gritty cement. What if they had erased the hand prints? Would proof of my childhood also be erased? I wanted so badly to see the four tangible imprints of my lost youth. I walked slowly, eyes shut tight as I approached the place where they had once been. I took a deep breath, counted to three, tilted my head forward and opened my eyes. They were there! I exhaled. Just as they had been thirty years earlier. Their imprint more shallow, yet undeniably there.

I knelt beside what I felt almost an effigy of the little girl I had been. My now wrinkled, dishpan hand, trembled as it cautiously traced the edges of a much smaller one. I looked at my sisters hands beside my own and flashes of a lifetime skittered through my mind. Tears, unchecked, spilled from my eyes as I mourned the loss of those tender, innocent years, then those tears were replaced by tears of triumph as I realized that all four of these little hands still led full, blessed lives. Not one of those children had been lost over the years. They all still loved one another, still played ‘house’ together - only for real this time, still spent holidays together, still rambled through the unchanging, beautiful hills of East Tennessee...

They all still laughed ... loud and often.

Dirt Roads

There’s a house of butterscotch

Slumbering just down the road

Often times I travel there

Just to let my mind unfold.

I sit beneath the dogwood tree,

Touch the hand prints on the walk,

If I listen close enough,

I can hear the old walls talk...

Here comes the wind, The leaves they turn.

The pictures change, Still I have learned,

That all I’ve known, Still walks with me,

Down the dirt roads.

Daddy’s mowing in the yard

Wearing high top leather boots,

Little girls play upon the swing,

In their faded summer suits.

Sweet Mama in the kitchen there,

She’s never hard to find.

My sweet constant companions

On the back roads of my mind.

Come on wind...

Years pass swift and little girls

Hold babies of their own,

They leave the house of butterscotch,

Still, they’re forever comin’ home...

So, come on wind, leaves that turn,

The pictures change, but I have learned,

All I know will walk with me,

Down these dirt roads.

BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE (The Dream)

2009-02-19T07:00:00.001-08:00

Many have asked me about the origin of the song Beautiful You Are. Some of you know it was birthed from a dream. So, I thought I would share it with you, offering only the charge to weigh everything in your own spirit, for that is what we are called to do with Spirit matters... and leave the rest to the Father.

Love you guys!

Beautiful You Are – The Dream

The room was quiet as I drew the covers up to my chin. My mother, whom I was visiting at the time, loves to keep the house cold at night so I burrowed deeper in to the downy blankets as my mind began to drift into the soft recesses of semi-consciousness. I remember thinking, God, You are so beautiful to me… beautiful, You are so beautiful. As my eyes closed and sleep came, my spirit man soared and completely explored what my conscious mind could not. I journeyed into the fierce beauty of God.

This is my testimony.

I stood as an onlooker… a silent witness to the sacred goings on around me. I knew that I slept, but at the same time knew that what I was seeing was very real; more tangible than the touchable and more fluid than water through the fingers.

The expanse of space before my eyes was completely white, yet shape and shadow, form and movement could be easily seen, or perhaps a better word would be sensed. I had a keen awareness of the center point from which all flowed in this place – life, breath, wholeness…joy. I knew without anyone telling me that the place I stood within was Holy, yet completely accessible. There was Sovereignty in communion with fragile humanity. To describe the scene in fleshly terms falls pitifully short of the profoundly peaceful, exquisitely detailed perfection of the atmosphere in which I found myself.

The Throne sat in the center of the space. I could not see it, though I knew it was directly to my right. I knew He sat upon it… though I could not see Him. I looked directly into the place in which I knew Him to be, still, my eyes were unable to see His beauty. I found Him beautiful, nonetheless. The very breathe of God filled the room with piercing clarity and reverent awe.

How can I explain what I knew, but could not see? How does one give a description of spiritual sights they did not see, but saw nonetheless?

Just as the Throne sat within the center of the space, white, yet translucent; without actual substance, but substantial all the same, so did the crowd surround the Throne. For defining purposes I will call them the cloud of witnesses. Beginning at a circumference of about 100 feet and spreading for as far as the eyes could see, this invisible, present throng stood silent, yet their praise was felt through every fiber of my being. They encompassed a limitless space, circling the unseen but known.

I watched as one mesmerized as one small person emerged from the crowd. Walking forward, head bowed, the small one approached the foot of the Throne and the One Who sat upon it. I could see that the small one held something within her hands; something which she longed to lay at the feet of The Holy One. She beheld the gift as if it might not be enough, and struggled with the releasing of it because of its smallness. The desire to give was greater than the gift she was able to bring. Still, she offered it with words I could not hear, from a heart that sang in worship to Him Who sat upon the Throne. As the gift touched the feet of God, the eyes of the giver lifted to the One Who received. An absolute liquid radiance filled her face as she beheld Him and she began to sing to the Father… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are, to me…

The crowd began to sing the song as if they had sung it for ages; their voices lifting in sweet unison with the small one… Beautiful, You are, Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are to me.

The One Who sat upon the Throne accepted the gift and the worship and He was pleased. Fulfillment, unequaled, poured through the small one as she gazed upon her Beloved. She rose slowly, eyes fixed upon Him, and began to walk away; her face turned toward Him, looking back over her shoulder as she walked... gazing upon a visage I as yet, had not been able to look upon.

I wondered what gift she had offered. Just as the thought ran through my mind, I knew the answer: “All she had.”

My heart pounded as I watched to see what would happen next. Again, I watched one leave the crowd and walk forward, hands cupped as if carrying an offering. This one walked as if wounded. His legs did not move as one in good health. Haltingly he approached, his gaze turned downward. Before He reached the feet of the Holy One, he stumbled and fell. As he fell, he made no move to catch himself, but instead, released the offering toward the feet of God. Facedown he lay, his offering tumbling over the feet of Holiness. As the simple offering touched the holy, strength came into the man and he rose to hands and knees. He sat back upon his heels and gazed for the first time into the face of the Holy One. Falling forward, this time of reverent awe, I heard the smallest sound begin to come from the lips of the man – words I could not hear, but understood. Then, just as the small one had done, he began to sing: Beautiful… Beautiful… Beautiful, You are Beautiful.

The throng joined in the awed chorus, testimonies acknowledging what their spirits knew full well… Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are…

When I looked again upon the man, he stood full height and strong backed. Muscle and sinew had formed upon what had once been weakened flesh. His voice strong now, he sang in a rich baritone, issuing forth from a deep well… Beautiful, You are… Turning, he began to walk the way of the first, turning to glance over His shoulder at The One. Whole now, I could not stop the thought, What did he bring, Lord?

Again, I knew the answer before speaking, “The rest”.

I had no need to ask what He meant, for I have all too often heard the words of the Spirit within speaking those same words to me… What about the rest?

Finally, I watched as what appeared to be a beautiful woman, separated herself from the cloud of witnesses. Walking forward, her gaze was fixed upon Him from the very first moment she stepped out. She knew Him well. He had truly captivated her heart. She moved with a graceful rhythm to her step, almost dancing as she brought her offering. Her eyes never left His until the moment she stood at His feet. Without hesitation she fell to her knees, her arms coming around His ankles as her tears flowed over His feet. Her face resting against his calve, His garment came around her shoulders. He covered her, for He was her Kinsman Redeemer. Her tears mingled with the offering of fragrant oil she held in her hand. She began to pour the oil over His feet. The small vile became an endless supply, and its fragrance began to fill the nostrils of the masses. The woman bent forward, kissed the top of each foot and resumed her enveloped place at His feet. With tears streaming down her face, dampening the precious Kinsman garment with which He had covered her, she began to sing, Beautiful, You are… Beautiful, You are…, Beautiful, You are to me…

The oil pooled and gathered, increased and began to flow. Tears and fragrant oil began to reach the feet of the throng, and they began to sing full voiced. Beautiful, You are…

Lord, I thought, what did she bring? What could have possibly brought that would release the throng in this way? I simply heard, “Her testimony.”

I knew He spoke of her love for Him. It was her testimony. It was who she had become in Him. She was His, and the testimony of this redemption was great.

As the space filled with the purest expression of what I can only describe as the wetness of worship, the cloud of witnesses began to sing their own testimony. Each testimony was different, but as it issued from their lips, the song became the same… Beautiful, You are…

In this moment of acute awareness the unseen somehow became visible, and faith became sight. The room filled with His presence and His fragrance became a part of me.

Without seeing, I saw, and without touching, I felt, and the song began to rise within me. I heard myself singing, as my spirit stood witness to the offerings of thousands, and I knew for certain what I had always thought I’d known… He is Beautiful: Fiercely, marvelously, beautiful. He is unparalleled in every imaginable way.

The sound of my voice awakened me in my mother’s house, as I sang aloud the chorus of heaven. I could not shake the changeless rhythm of it. I reached for a pen and wrote down the words I had heard.

For weeks I carried the song of the witnesses. Everywhere I went I moved with its rhythm. I could not come out of that place. It moved within me like a living thing, this “worship that sees.” Finally, one day as I sat pondering the song within, understanding dawned. I am not supposed to lose their song and move forward. I am supposed to take their song forward. I am supposed to carry the song of the witness, sharing the knowledge that they have gained with the ones who seek this wisdom in the earth, until all come to the deep understanding of His Fierce Beauty, and can sing with one voice… Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are. Beautiful, You are to me…

And the cloud of witnesses joins the song…

Beautiful You Are – Their Song

I will not offer You that which costs me nothing

I will not come before You with empty hands

This fragrant oil of worship I will lavish upon You

As I bow at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful, You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

I lift my cup to You, give it all up for You

Lay everything out before Your eyes

Everything that I should be, could or would be

I leave at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

Oh, My Kinsman Redeemer may your handmaiden draw near

Spread Your garment over me a while

For Your song it does call me, as this threshing floor draws me

To lay at the feet of my Holy God

Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are, Beautiful You are to me

Trust Me?

2009-02-16T14:26:00.001-08:00

1 Samuel 23:23
Find out about all the hiding places he uses and come back to me with definite information.

It is a funny thing, this need to hide ourselves from others.

I sat this morning pondering an email I had gotten from a close friend. You know the kind of friend that speaks honestly and you have to receive it because you know it is done in love. In the email I had been admonished to expand my borders… come out of my comfort zone. My initial response was not pretty. It is amazing how quickly you can send a letter across wires and airspace. Unfortunately, that same technology prohibits the withdrawal of said letter once you have come to your senses. Anyway, I digress… I sent off the letter pointing out all of the ways I have expanded my borders and stepped out of my comfort zone… I will give you a brief glimpse into the letter...

“I have broadened my comfort zone about all I can handle this year. I have actually been nice to people I do not know, and opened my home to those who openly dislike me. I have prayed for those who curse me (as they curse me…), sat patiently (without interrupting) through dissertations on all of my faults – as viewed by whomever was speaking at the time (waiting until I was alone with my Father before exposing the gaping wounds). I have scrubbed toilets at Wherry, cleaned the hair of strangers out of bathtubs I would never bathe in, painted nurseries, rocked babies, been spit up on, provided taxi service to those who needed a ride to church, and even spent time under the pews seeking God for His heart concerning this body you seem to think I hide from… I have cried with the mourners, rejoiced with the giddy … I have run screaming from my comfort zone this year,- feet set on fire- just because He called me out of it. My pegs have been lengthened, my chords strengthened. If you have seen me in my comfort zone of late, it is a most rare glimpse you have caught – kind of like a sighting of Bigfoot or the Loch ness Monster. People say these things exist, but I am not so sure…”

As you can see, I was not having one of my better moments. As I recited my perceived accomplishments, typing faster than my sane fingers normally move, smoke lifting from the keyboard as I put on paper what I would not have voiced aloud, I paid no attention to the still small voice that whispered through my spirit. The Spirit’s words moved though me like a wind that twists through the trees… soft, gentle, but somehow beautifully disruptive. Typing faster and louder to drown out the Spirit wind, I stopped only when the send button clicked off in my ears, a resounding Uh-Oh echoing in the pit of my stomach.

I knew that somewhere in cyberspace a mouthy redhead had gone over the edge, and soon a friend would be forced (by her words) to tread that edge with her.

Proverbs 18:2
Fools care nothing for thoughtful discourse; all they do is run off at the mouth.

My office silent, I stared at the screen before me. The Wind-Word flowed through me again. Rustling my branches… A small risk…You know I want more… AAAAHHH! Stop it! Whistle, sing, clog… just don’t listen to the wind. (Fingers in the ears do nothing to stop the inner voice) La la la la – la la la la (most effective when done to the tune of the Twilight Zone). Shuffle the paper on the desk, make as much noise as possible. You know I want more… I distinctly hear Charlie Brown’s yell as Lucy pulls the football away and sends him flying. I picture myself laying on my back in the grass, staring at the sky… my posterior bruised, my ego tattered, contemplating the same questions he must have posed, Am I really here again?

I am not an unfriendly sort; I am more the “I like my space” sort. I can stand in front of a thousand people and talk about Jesus and never give it a second thought. But put me in a room with three people and ask me to sit down and talk, my mouth goes dry, my stomach knots, and the spirit of Lance Armstrong overtakes me and I start looking for a bicycle.

I remember one particular instance where my friend Mary and I were asked to attend a class in Nashville one evening. I was fine with it until we walked into this room full of nice people who actually wanted to speak to me. I practically sat in Mary’s lap trying to find my comfort zone. I had almost started to breathe normally when the leader said, “Let’s break up into groups of four… do not stay with the people you came with.”

The room spun.

I am quite certain the fingernail scars on Mary’s arm will one day heal, but let’s just say I went reluctantly. My group of four was about halfway up toward the front of the room, and Mary’s was in the back. While I did my best to participate in the group, I found that my one syllable monotone answers did not contribute much to the discussion format. I also found out that nervously rocking your foot back and forth with great fury can actually move your chair across the floor to the back of the room without ever having to stand, and can eventually put you smack dab in the middle of the group you wanted to be with in the first place.

Anyway… let’s just say this mountain has been one I have hidden behind before.

Please do not misunderstand me. I truly do love people. I try not to sit in judgment, or walk in criticism of others. I know how weak I am, and I recognize my own frailties to the point that I would never want to walk mercilessly through life. It is probably that very recognition of self that makes me want to run from intimate encounters.

What some may perceive to be arrogance is, nine times out of ten, insecurity. We are so afraid of letting someone get to know us. We reject others before they get a chance to reject us. We have this tape that runs though our minds telling us, don’t open up… you will get hurt… you will be judged. Unfortunately, many times that is true. You do get hurt. But loving is worth the risk.

What if Jesus had withheld His heart, but gone to the cross out of duty? What if He had done what He had to do, but never touched the lives of the people? What if He had sat down during His forty day fast that preceded His ministry, and said Okay, Father, I will do what you’ve asked me to do. I will fully PERFORM my duties, but I will not love them because You and I both know they are going to break my heart.

Can you imagine the absurdity of a life spent in duty and service without love? Can you imagine Jesus lifting Mary Magdalene from the dirt and briskly saying… “You’re forgiven. Don’t do it anymore,” and turning His back on her hearts greatest need, love manifested? It’s called performance without love, duty without passion. We do it every day.

So, how do we make the decision to live in this land called Vulnerable? The answer may sound way too simple, but when I pray about this very issue in my own life I hear Him say “Trust Me.” (… And Lucy places the football on the ground, holding it with one finger… the challenge clear in her laughing eyes…) Unfortunately, my response to the Father is usually the same…Trust You? Lord, You know I trust You. It’s everyone else I have a problem with… His gentle rebuke is the same… Trust Me.

I may not be the smartest of women, but I know full well what He is saying with those two words. “Trust Me” in God-speak, is followed by the unmistakable words even when it hurts. I originally thought the phrase was if it hurts, but I am quite positive the word is when. It is inevitable. Hearts without walls are subject to the occasional arrow.

I have come to one wall shattering conclusion. My issues with people have everything to do with my trust in Him. Can you say OUCH! Hallelujah! If I trust Him and His plan for my life, I can love you in spite of the risk to myself. Self… oh, here we go…

Job 13:15 “Though He slay me, yet, will I trust in Him…, “(KJV)

Back to self …

Genesis 3:10
And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.

We have had the same problem for thousands of years. We see our nakedness and we hide. We see our own vulnerabilities and we jump behind the nearest fig tree. The only problem is, we now do it because of man instead of God. If I let you see my scars, will they be all you see? If the pedestal wobbles, and we topple to the ground, will there be hands that extend to help us up, or laughter that judges?

We all walk these roads. We all ponder these things in our hearts. We fight the urge to open up and draw close to another human being, by denying our need to do so. We do exactly what I did when I heard the Wind-Word shifting and turning in my own spirit… we put our hands over our hearts and begin to dance a dance borne of duty instead of joy. We dance and perform with tears streaming down our spirits. We sing a silent song of desperation as our hearts pound within us. We deny our need for contact by performing to the point of exhaustion. We numb ourselves by doing the right thing for all the wrong reasons. We have become much like Pinocchio, our arms attached to strings of fear; we dance about, silly smiles painted on our faces, when the cry of our heart is… I want to be real…

I want to be real. But what does that mean? The best definition I came up with was “Not fake… without the commitment of fraud.” Can we go there? Can we be who we are without fear? My answer is (Sorry) No. I know the Scriptures say that perfect love casts out fear, but I am not there yet. I am not so sure I will ever get there on this planet. It is going to take a lot of “perfected love” for me to live without fear of letting down my walls. However, that does not mean I will not let them down. I will just have to do it afraid.

I can choose to put myself on that limb if I know the limb is where He wants me to be.

Matthew 25:28
""Take the thousand and give it to the one who risked the most. And get rid of this "play-it-safe" who won't go out on a limb.

So, here I am once again, lying in the grass, the football nowhere to be seen. I can lay here fore a while and contemplate, but I do not like ants and various critters taking liberties with my being. Nor do I like the feeling of my skin being parched by the sun. If I stay here much longer I will be red faced and thoroughly chewed up (SELAH). So, I have a choice to make, the question streaks across the sky like a Lobster Shack advertisement at the beach…DO I RISK IT?..... DO I RISK IT? Do I run at this relationship thing full force and take the risk of never even making a connection? Do I move to the land of Vulnerable and pitch my tent on the banks of the River Available? I mean, this letting-people-into-our-lives business can be extremely scary. It means making phone calls I do not want to make, babysitting when I would rather not, listening when I would rather talk, and being teachable when I think I know it all. It means forgiving when I want to hide and lick my wounds. Do I really want to live there again?

I ponder a moment longer, searching the clouds above. In my minds eye I see friends sitting at my table laughing with me. I see Christine standing by my bedside holding Katie in her arms for the first time, bringing me chocolate… just because; I see Dawn standing by the piano, smiling at me, tears in her eyes, as she patiently listens to another one of my trial tunes… just because; I see Anna literally taking the shirt off her back (she had two on at the time) and loaning it to my nine year old daughter so she can wear it to school the next day, …just because Then it hits me, all of these just becauses, all of these blessings in my life, they came at a cost, and the cost was being willing to take the risk. They put themselves out there and took the risk of sharing their lives with me. I am blessed because of it. They made the decision that the reward outweighed the fear and that God-relationships were worth it. They Trusted Him and let me in.

I know the answer now. The Wind Word has completed His beautiful disruption, leaving me with the assurance that the risk is His, and love is always worth it.

I hear the faint cry of the commander of an ant army… “Over here!” Followed by the sound of ant feet running through the grass. I have to get up. I rub my eyes and glance one last time into the sky above me. There, upon the cool blue canvas, billowy white clouds shift and roll with the wind. I watch as they take on the fluffy but distinct form of (yes, you guessed it) a football.

Somewhere in the deep laughing part of my spirit, I hear His voice laced with humor say… Trust me?

Matthew 9:21
… Then he reassured her: "Courage, daughter. You took a risk of faith, and now you're well."

The Gathering

2009-02-15T16:42:00.001-08:00

I stood by the window and looked out over the field in front of my mother’s house. Acres of garden now spent and dried hay stretched before me. The Blallock’s old farmhouse stood on the hill across the dirt road, a stark white contrast to the deepening shadows of the day. In between the two aged dwellings something wonderful was taking place – something of eternal significance; my cousin was marrying his bride.

I watched as men in overalls and women in gingham dresses made their sojourn across the field, not to an arbor or a lace covered gazebo, but simply to the center of the field… the same field that had grown their crops, fed their families, and resounded with the feet of running children. The tender circle began to form. There was no wedding coordinator to lead the way, or ushers to seat grand ladies, there was simply a gathering. A gathering of good people.

As the country minister made his way to the center of the circle, the father of the groom threw a stone at a barking hound dog, prompting it to head back to its lazy perch upon the worn rug which graced the weathered plank front porch. Then I saw them – the bride and the groom – walking hand in hand toward the gathering. She wore a simple white dress, and he – well, he shone brightly in his dress white uniform; the same he will wear when he leaves for Iraq this week.

As the couple drew near, the circle opened to receive them, then closed once again around them. They were encircled by generations of faithful hearts and strong backs, generous souls with calloused hands. And as I watched, generations bowed to thank their Creator for the blessed bounty of this day. A day without crystal goblets and chandeliers. A day without string quartets and satin slippers. A day when cotton dresses and work boots would stand witness to God’s goodness.

Men and women, hand in hand, turned and made their way across the field and down the road to their own dwellings. Life resumed… and the field brought forth life, once again.

I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion. I will betroth you in faithfulness, and you will acknowledge the LORD.

Hosea 2: 19 & 20

Great Things

2009-01-26T06:00:00.001-08:00

I spoke with a friend this evening who was quite frustrated. She had various things going on in her life and I sat down to talk and pray with her. After I prayed for her, she brought my attention back to the words of my prayer. She said, “You know, so many people have spoken that over me. They have said I would do great things with my life; things that I cannot even see.” She shook her head as if to say, well, it hasn’t happened yet. She looked at me and said, “I don’t know what He’s waiting for. I mean, I am ready! When am I going to start to do these great things?”

I looked at this sweet, sweet, woman and thought to myself, she doesn’t see that she is already walking in the great. You see, asleep on the seat next to her was a baby – not her own – that she has taken to heart and loves like it is her own. As she talked with me about those future “great things” her hand unconsciously went to the tiny arm of the baby and patted. As she vocalized her concerns, her hand adjusted the little covers on the child… a child whose mother was not around. The baby’s soft curls strayed toward her little lips and the woman gently brushed the curls back. “When will God use me to do great things?” My heart melted.

Oh, my precious sisters, can’t you see that the great is in the small. Great is found in selfless acts that are automatic and unplanned. Great is found in this very moment and lasts for eternity. Great is picking up tiny socks and putting them on tiny flat feet. Great is kissing a cheek that has tootsie roll on it and not making a face or running your hand across your mouth. Great is in touching the hand of a friend who just needs to know you are there. Great is found in compassionate tears and empathetic groanings. Great is found in the places we never think to look; here and now… in the small, silent, unremarkable moments.

My friend is a woman of greatness. She is selfless and generous of spirit. She is kind and gentle in nature and everything she does is done for others. Her life is spent in the great… only she does not see it. Perhaps that is best, for when we begin to see our works as great, they quickly become quite small in the eyes of the one who truly matters.

Live a life of greatness… today… now! But remember: start small.

Luke 22

²⁴Also a dispute arose among them as to which of them was considered to be greatest. ²⁵Jesus said to them, “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those who exercise authority over them call themselves Benefactors. ²⁶But you are not to be like that. Instead, the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves. ²⁷For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one who is at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.

A Good Pair of Sneakers

2009-01-19T11:34:00.001-08:00

Sometimes it’s so hard to do what you know you should do – especially when it comes to your body and your health. You might walk past a bakery, and suddenly all your good intentions are defeated by the aroma of butter cream frosting. I’m quite sure I have startled a few bakers with my sudden and desperate entrance into their domain. My fingerprints (and a few drool spots) can be found on glass display counters across the Southeast. Fortunately, you can also find skid marks outside a few of those same establishments, as I made my hasty exit. You see, I knew if I allowed myself to linger in the presence of temptation I would soon have powdered sugar on my lips, a dreamy look in my eyes, and a popped button or two.

Temptation will always come at us, but we must learn to actually tell ourselves no. Believe it or not, it can be just that easy. We really don’t need all of the things we think we need. If children are given whatever they want, whenever they want it they become spoiled and demanding. The same is true of us. If we expect our every desire to be met, if we allow ourselves to think that we must have whatever we want – that we somehow deserve it – it shows up in our attitudes and sometimes our waistlines. We are very spoiled. Not good.

Ah, but what good God we have. Listen to what He tells us in 1 Corinthians 10:13 - The only temptation that has come to you is that which everyone has. But you can trust God, who will not permit you to be tempted more than you can stand. But when you are tempted, he will also give you a way to escape so that you will be able to stand it.

He is the One Who makes it possible for me to leave those tennis shoe tracks outside the walls of my greatest temptations. God always gives us a way out.

Whatever your temptation, food, drugs, alcohol, pornography, laziness, lying, apathy… God leaves an open door for you to come out. My advice? Keep a good pair of sneakers on hand!

The Coat

2009-01-12T06:19:00.001-08:00

A couple of years ago I had a GREAT coat. Long, black leather, all the way to my ankles. I loved that coat. I looked good in that coat. You could wear that coat over your pajamas and drive your kids to school and no one would know it. It really didn’t matter what you wore – as long as you had THE COAT. You could not wear that coat without strutting just a little bit, without tossing your hair and catching a glimpse of yourself as you happened by mirrors, glass doors, pieces of aluminum foil… I wore the coat proudly – and often. I wore it to the mall, wore it dinners and parties. Why, I even wore it to church…

That’s where it happened. If I had just not been quite so eager to look COOL at church. I should have worn the plaid cardigan, or the nice warm fleece that Wed. night – but no…. No, that just wasn’t cool enough.

I walked up the isle feeling … cool. As I sat with my husband I still felt Cool… As the missionary got up to speak, I sat back against my leather coat and thought – this is cool. Everything was ultra cool, right up until the time I heard the Holy Spirit say, “I want you to give your coat to the missionary’s wife.” I shook my head to clear the obviously insane ramblings. Give away my coat? HA! Boy, that devil sure is getting good at disguising his voice…

“Give the coat to the missionary’s wife.”

But God, I began. My voice trembling… This coat makes me cool. People look at me and think, “Man, is she cool?". This coat makes me feel good. This coat is ME…

I argued – still He prompted. This went on throughout the service. I would love to say that at the end of the service I rushed to where the woman stood, alas, it was not to be so.

My boots peeled rubber on the foyer carpet as I hit warp speed and found myself sitting in the front seat of the car. Where is my family, I thought? No time for fellowship tonight! Why… just look at the time! We have to get home! This is a school night, ya know! I mean, the inconsideration!

“Take the coat to the missionary’s wife.”

Where are those kids? Those kids know they are supposed to come straight to the car…

Hal somehow appeared in the drivers seat, the kids piling in behind. As he started the car and we began to leave the parking lot, I ever so casually mentioned… “You know, (laugh, laugh) I kind of felt, for just a moment, min you, that just maybe I was supposed to give my coat to the missionary’s wife (more nervous laughter).”

I expected (hoped) that Hal would turn to me and say, “That is an expensive coat! You can’t give that coat away.” I should have known better!

The tires squealed as he practically stood the car on its side hanging that U turn in the parking lot. The car came to a screeching halt right outside the foyer doors… “Well?” He said, looking pointedly at my cool coat.

Fine! I thought. Just great! Better be careful what you pray for! “I want a husband who is sold out to you, God” I mimicked in my most sarcastic voice, as I reached for the door handle.

I accepted my fate. As I stepped out of the door I am pretty sure I heard the funeral dirge begin to play in the background. I could have sworn I heard taps coming from the front of the sanctuary as I carried “THE COAT” toward the little lady standing by the table in the foyer. I walked forward, the COAT held before me as if I were offering gold, frankincense and Myrrh. I mentally saw myself kneeling, head bowed as I as I offered the precious garment. In actuality, I may have shouted something like … “Here! God said I had to give this to you!” as I threw the coat at the woman’s head.

I expected the flower petals to begin falling softly around me and choirs of children to begin singing HALELUJAH…. HALELUJAH. What I got instead was a very puzzled look from a little missionary lady, who appeared to be thinking… what in the world do I want with a heavy leather coat in the middle of a tropical climate?

I turned, slinking slowly away. Looking very UNCOOL. No more pajamas to school. No more cool visions in aluminum foil.

As I sulked into my room, I just could not get the coat off of my mind. I had to bring it up one more time with my Father… Whom I was not too happy with at the time.

“Fine, God. You wanted her to have the coat… she’s got the coat. I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she wanted it.”

“Child,” He spoke very patiently, with a tinge of laughter in His voice, “that is not the point. I wanted the coat.”

“Why, God? Why did you want my favorite coat?”

“Because, child,” He spoke softly, for my ears alone, “it is time for a new one.”

Tears slid down my cheeks, as the impact of this mirror-moment hit me. I wept over this stubborn heart of mine, and repented of a nature I hadn’t known could be so selfish. As my hard heart broke, I began to pour out its contents before Him. “Oh, Father, forgive me… change me… create in me a pure heart…” As the tears began to slow and the heart began to cleanse, I turned my eyes once again to my Father.

“I really am sorry, Lord.”

“I know, Daughter.”

And the coat of a child became the mantle of a Daughter, and it slid firmly onto repentant shoulders.

2 John 1:6 And this is love: that we walk in obedience to his commands. As you have heard from the beginning, his command is that you walk in love.

The Music Box

2009-01-05T10:40:00.001-08:00

When I was little girl my mother bought me a music box. It was your standard little white, flowery, square box that I presume most little girls had at one point or another in their childhood. When you opened the lid of the box a small spring held ballerina would arise and begin her twirling dance. I loved that music box. For years I could hear the tune playing in the back of my soul.

What I could not get out of my mind was not the simple plinking away of the tiny notes, but instead, the sound of my mother’s voice she would wind the tiny box and begin the tucking in process… Around the world I searched for you…sheets and blankets clean and crisp from hanging in the sunshine on our clothesline, now deftly drawn up to my chin; I traveled on when hope was gone…sides tucked in close, now safe and sound, the smell of ivory soap still clinging to her skin; I knew somewhere, sometime, somehow… hand upon my forehead, she’d push the unruly curls back and lean in and kiss me right between the eyes and smile… You would look at me, I’d see you smile… “I love you, Barbie…” She would turn, wind the box one more time, click off the light, and I would watch her chenille bathrobe clear the door frame as her house shoes patted down the hallway into the living room.

Though no longer in the room, still she remained; the touch, the aroma, the love, flowed through the song and dance of the ballerina and the toy tones of the inexpensive box. Around the world I searched for you…I was loved and comforted.

That phrase always made me feel wonderful on the inside. So wonderful in fact that I would keep rewinding the music box until my mother would finally call out “Last time, dear.” I believed that my mom had chosen that music box specifically for me and this was her way of letting me know she had longed for me all of her life. In those moments I felt unbelievably special. I mean, I must have been for her to say that she had searched the world for me.

Time after time in the lonely stillness of the night, I would slide the music box deep beneath my covers and wind the tiny key… releasing my mother’s love into the dark recesses of the room, Around the world I searched for you…, and I would close my eyes and rest.

Even today, the tune winds through my heart and tears halt just beneath the surface of this child-turned-woman’s eyes. But now, in my advancing years, a deeper, more profound voice has been added to the song. There is now a peaceful tucking that has nothing to do with blankets but everything to do with linen cloths. A leaning in and rustling that has nothing to do with unruly curls, but everything to do with my rebellious nature. A kiss that still hits between the eyes and goes straight to the heart.

In inky blackness and starry night He sings over me. Always about His ministrations He hovers and covers and sees to my well being. His goodness and His constant song remind me that I am His and He absolutely did search the world for me.

And in this moment, the song continues... I feel unbelievably special...and sought.

Nothing to Offer

2008-12-30T11:00:00.001-08:00

Do you ever have times when you just can’t figure out for the life of you what it was that God thought He was getting when He chose you? Do you ever wonder if He regrets His choice? I probably shouldn’t admit to such thoughts, but I can’t help but wonder if there are others out there, who, like me, know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they got the good end of the deal in this exchange with God. Today’s society scorns such a deal as the typical, “If it sounds too good to be true...”

Ah, but it is that good and it is most definitely true.

Maybe that is why we struggle so hard with the idea that we can do absolutely nothing to make things come out even. We push and push, and perform and perform, attempting to be good enough to receive what He has already freely given to us. It is so ‘human’ to think we will ever be good enough to earn this gift of God.

I am awed by the simplicity of salvation. It is so elementary it confounds the wise men of this world, just as God said it would. Free gift, without price, lavishly bestowed upon you and I. He gives all, we give nothing.

Yes, our lives should be changed; our actions altered in conformance to His perfect will, but never as an attempt to ‘earn it’. We are changed because of His love for us, and readily conform because of our love for Him. Our deeds are not payment; they are in service to the one we love, just because we love. We reach out because He asks it of us, not because we must in order to be saved.

I have been saved from this life of death. You have been saved from this life of death. All He wants is to help us live in the fullness of this wondrous eternal life He has gifted us with.

What a wonderful, wonderful, Savior.

Yes...

You can still get something for nothing...

Nothing To Offer

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

My hands are empty.

Anything I might ever attain would be as nothing before You.

I try and try to be good,

To reach the point of miserably less than perfect,

Only to find that I am miles away from even that poor measure.

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

I wonder at times if You did not look closely enough...

before choosing me.

Yes, Father, I know nothing eludes You,

Still, at the risk of belligerence, may I please ask why me?

Did You see something in me that I have yet to see?

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

My faith weakens when provoked,

My hands fail to perform the most menial of tasks when prompted.

I see all of the wondrous works You do through others,

What have I to give My Master in return for this good fortune?

How can I repay what I do not understand?

Father, I am bowed by the awesome grace I have received.

I have nothing, Lord, to offer You.

This, then, I suppose, must be what I offer...

Nothing...

Nothing of the old me that wallowed in pride and pity,

Nothing of the shell that purposed to find her own way in this world,

Nothing of the shadow I used to be.

Nothing of the faithless, angry creation I was before you found me.

Oh Lord, I have nothing to offer You,

Please receive my nothing and make it something in Your hands.

Sunset

2008-12-20T10:59:00.001-08:00

My friend, Mary, is beautiful… both inside and out. She is everything you think a woman should be. Petite, olive skin, dark hair and eyes… she is quite lovely. I probably could have handled all of that if she wasn’t so sweet, gentle, compassionate, merciful and genuinely anointed.

Anyway, for some reason God chose to link our hearts and our paths for a season, and I found myself constantly comparing myself to her. I wanted to look like her, speak like her, and even minister like her.

I remember quite vividly the day when the Lord pointed out the vast difference between us. We were both ministering at a women’s gathering when a woman approached me concerning some family issues. Her son, a habitual wife abuser had been placed in jail for some other offense. I looked at her and said, “Good. This may be just what he needs to straighten his life out.” I meant it. I truly thought it was good that he was in jail and could think about his actions.

I watched as later in the evening the same woman approached my friend, and I knew she was telling her the exact story. To my dismay, Mary threw her arms around the woman and said, “Oh, I am so sorry you are going through this…”

In that moment I knew we were quite different… physically, fundamentally and definitely in spiritual inclination. Her driving anointing was mercy, mine was and still is prophetic. She is compassionate. I see things black and white for the most part.

Do I think I was wrong? No. Do I think Mary was wrong? No. Do I think people like her approach better than my own? Oh, definitely. Am I okay with that?

Finally.

God paints us in varied colors… and oh, what a Master He is.

Sunset

Why do you spend your life admiring someone else’s sunset?

You think it is so very beautiful,

You behold the pastel colors and sigh with envy.

“Why must I walk under these clouds?” you ask.

“Why do you love her so much more than I?

Why did you make her thus?”

You are childish in so many ways.

If I placed upon your brow the most beautiful countenance,

Were I to hold a mirror in front of your face,

You would still see a tainted visage,

For you do not see with My eyes.

You see what others have taught you to see.

You wish and pray and hope for what you already have.

You cry for beauty when you posses it in plenty.

You weep for losses that you yourself have cast away.

You believe lies when I shout the truth from the housetop.

Prophecy given says you were painted in bold colors.

You hide behind the brown and wheat.

You want to blend, when I have said stand out.

Her sunset would never satisfy you with its pale hues.

Though peaceful and quite serene.

Look well to your own sky.

I Am the lifter of your head.

When I lift your head, no soul can cause it to drop again in shame.

When I lift your head, you will see your sunset.

Reds, blue, purples, gold’s,

Flashes of fiery beauty,

Blazing across a canvass prepared for you and you alone.

Look up, Daughter!

The Master is painting!"

Let It Go

2008-12-08T11:02:00.001-08:00

As a child I was forever falling out of trees, off of swings, into ditches, off of bicycles. To say I was not the most feminine flower in the garden would be quite accurate. During all of these "adventures" there were inevitable scrapes, cuts and bruises. As I would hobble into my mother's kitchen, hands clenched over the offended area, the first words from my mother's mouth were always, "Come here and let me see what has happened." She would lift me onto the counter and I would open my grimy fingers to reveal the wound. Her next words were "Oh, see, that's not so bad." She would take a soft washcloth, run it under warm water and gently cleanse the area. She would then hold the warm cloth against the wound until it started to feel better. Her final act was to apply a healing balm and seal the wound with a bandage to keep out infection. Her instructions were to leave the bandage on and not to keep opening and closing it. The only time that bandage was to be removed was when mama said so. "You keep opening that bandage up and looking at it and it's gonna get infected."

I don't have to tell you where I'm going with this. The first step in the process is always going to be removing our clenched hands from the wound and letting the Father begin the healing process.

Let it Go

You carry a wounded heart in hand,

You've done it now for years.

From time to time you take it out,

To mourn and shed your tears.

What should have healed so long ago,

Lays fresh and bleeding still,

For you refuse to lay it down,

Though oft you say you will.

Bound tight by cords of bitterness,

The pain a living thing,

It consumes your days, directs your ways,

Talons in your mind, it clings.

Flashes from your past do play,

You long so to be free,

But, child, you cannot do alone,

What must be done by Me.

Only I can cleanse your mind,

Heal the scars you hide.

Daughter, lay all at My feet.

Forget all you have tried.

Complete and whole, My plan for you,

No ties to wounds of past.

Cease ups and downs, walk stable, sure,

For child, My healing lasts.

Still, one thing will I need of you.

Oh Yes, I'm sure you know.

If I'm to take the hurt away,

You must choose to let it go!

A Beautiful Falling

2008-11-19T13:30:00.001-08:00

I do not even know where to begin. To say that this has overtaken me would be a grave understatement. For, I cannot begin to fathom and fully plumb the depths of what God has been doing in this battered heart of mine. I am humbled and exhilarated, weepy and caught up in hilarity; I shake my head at what I cannot put my finger on but know full well is there. I suppose, most plainly put, I have fallen in love with Him. I know, already there are those taking issue with the words fallen in love, for that implies an eventual rising out of love. Ah, but this falling has taken some forty-one years, and I do not feel the rising as of yet. Quite to the contrary, I feel the wind on my face as I fall faster and deeper. The world spins by me as my gaze locks with His and I no longer fight this pull toward My Beloved.

I have never wanted anything like I want Him; never longer for anything like I long for His Presence. I did not mean to. I did not set out to lose myself. I merely thought to like Him enough to make Him like me. Too late I learned it does not work that way. A gentle wooing, birthed of profound love has set a fire within these bones, and I would have been consumed had I not finally found my face to His chest, my ear to His heartbeat, my breath mingled with His.

Though I do not wish to frighten you with words that evoke such intimate images, I must tell you what I have found in His Presence… this purest of intimacy. His is the take-your-breath-away kind of touch. His is the voice that speaks and drenches your soul with Myrrh, leaving you quite undone. His beauty, fierce and humbling, is that of which dreams could never be made, for He is beyond human dream and thought. He is piercing in intensity, yet completely consuming in His loveliness.

Oh, my friend, I do not know how to write about tears that fall because of unseen beauty, or breath that catches at fragrances no one else can smell. My personal command of the English language is sorely inadequate when attempting to paint the eternal, still I have no recourse but to try. I have no choice, for love compels me to make you painfully, startlingly aware of this life-altering plunge into intimacy with Christ.

Beyond the precipice of pews and platforms, hymns, choir lofts and vestry, there is a tender beckoning. The Beloved voice is drawing, whispering, inviting, welcoming… and when we step forward with genuine abandon, we find ourselves in the heady grip of the One our soul does love. We are captured and sent deeper into Him.

It is a beautiful falling.

There

2008-11-03T09:27:00.000-08:00

At the end of last year while studying for a class series, I literally felt myself tap into something in God; somewhat like the nurse who is looking for a workable vein and finally hits it. In a very spiritually visceral sense, I believe that is what took place. I felt something surge in the Spirit when I touched on one simple point, that of hungering for all of God. I began to sense His voice speaking to my inner man and my pulse took flight, as I heard Him whisper through my Spirit… Do you really want to go There?

Yes, God, I automatically responded. But, in my mind, I was thinking… Oh, no you didn’t! You did not just go There!

For, you see, between He and I, There has been painstakingly predetermined. We have been talking about There for quite some time now. It has been a topic of much conversation and the source of plenteous tears. He has known my desire to go There, for it is He who has placed that hunger inside of my heart. There has always been the gravity point, the Bermuda Triangle of deeper spirituality. Some go There never to return, and those who do, well, it is their stories that fly under our Spirit radar and take out the defenses… the ones that protect us from deeper hungers and higher loves.

Let me whet your appetite and stir you just a bit about There. There is a place in Him that consumes the breath and refills the lungs with God-Life. An illusive Atlantis that one speaks of but cannot walk upon, an aroma wafting past the nose, never to be recaptured. There both frustrates and entices. There is a place of intense spiritual intimacy and heart-pounding challenge, a place of more than we dream possible, but have always known exists. There is profound potential and deep grace, churning spiritual waters and personal revelation. There is where He becomes all and we become less… and less is the most glorious of goals.

I know, it makes no sense to the flesh, but oh, in the Spirit, it is a kid-in-the-candy-store kind of arrival. It’s all There, everything God has to offer and I can scarce make a decision as to what to taste first.

Oh, friend, I feel like He is taking me on the journey of a lifetime. I get this sense that I just cannot move fast enough. It is like searching for someone in a game of midnight flashlight tag. You know what you are looking for is just around the next tree, the next corner and your heart races at the thought of that uncharted encounter.

That is where I am at this point and time in my pursuit of There, my pursuit of Him. I know He is There… even though I have found Him here. I know He is calling. I feel an enormous sense of anticipation, a woeful groaning of Spirit laced with joyous pain-song, the highs and lows of searching with full expectation of finding and no time frame of doing so.

God said when we seek Him with our whole hearts, He will be found. Ah and that, yes, that is the challenge, is it not; that whole heart business? For, we know with absolute certainty that all of our heart is not available. There is much heart-space offered to lesser gods and smaller pursuits, mundane and trivial holdings, trite servitude to thief lords, leaving us to seek Him with partial hearts, and find Him in part only.

And now, fellow travelers, we must determine if here is enough, or if There is worth the labor of un-dividing our hearts.

The Sound of Love

2008-03-14T07:01:00.001-07:00

Corinthians 13 ¹If I speak in the tongues^[1] of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal

I personally believe that love makes a sound. I believe it has a resonance that reverberates through the spirit realm. I can’t prove it, but I still believe it. I catch glimpses of it in scriptures like the one above. The sound of music in verses about love…

I must begin with a question. If the amount of love you carry truly did make a sound, (based on the level of love)… you know, a song or musical peel that would ring through unseen places, what would your love sound like? When you walk into a room full of people, does the music swell or decline? Do you add to the love level or take away from it? When you walk into a room with someone who has hurt your feelings, does the song of love continue to sound, or is it conspicuously silent? Just a couple of things to think about as we get on our way…

I was reading in first Peter this week. I went there because I kept coming face to face with trial and conflict. Friends in pain, neighbors in the hospital, loved ones in crisis… I kept thinking about all of the trials and tests that seem to be taking place. So many people are sick, so many are struggling. We are surrounded by human suffering. The enemy has raised his head with strife and general mayhem. As I though about all of the why’s and what’s… why is this happening God, when will it stop? Who is responsible? What is the answer? I heard Him gently speak to my spirit… First Peter. First Peter?

I know what first Peter says, I thought to myself. Yes, it talks about the trials that test our faith to prove if it is real or not. But God, I don’t really think all of this is a test of our faith. (Do you ever just sound things out with Him like this?) Then I heard Him speak to my spirit. “What if I am testing your love?”

Testing my love? God, you know I love your people. Wrong answer. Wrong on many levels. I’ll simply point out three.

1. I stipulated a love for HIS people, not all people - His love is bigger than that.

2. I used the words “You know,” which He does, but I try not to think about because if He really knows… I’m in trouble. Our love level is revelatory. It reveals our hearts to God. (Need some work here, for sure.)

3. I know me well enough to know that, while it is true, I love people… I am nowhere near where I need to be in exhibiting His love the way I should.

I Peter 1:22 proves that.

²²Now that you have purified yourselves by obeying the truth so that you have sincere love for your brothers, love one another deeply, from the heart.

Sincere – Pure, free from adulteration, genuine, honest, true

Deeply extending far from some surface or area

From the heart - one's innermost character, feelings, or inclinations: the central or innermost part: the essential or most vital part of something

So, in light of this, we are supposed to love purely, genuinely, honestly, extending far beyond the mere surface, with our innermost character, feelings and inclinations. Our love for our brothers and sisters is supposed to be an essential and vital part of who we are in Him,

It makes me tired just thinking about it. That is a little beyond the “Hi, how are you?” we extend as we bolt past sons and daughters of God on Sunday morning. You mean we have to really love one another… not just say we do? That’s what it looks like to me.

But, my friend, if I am right, and love truly does make a sound, what an absolutely breathtaking sound this kind of love must release. The scripture infers that loveless acts are a mere tinkling of cymbals, so what do you think real love sounds like?

What kind of melody does the love in your own heart make? Does it sound anything like His love?

Is your love bigger than you expected it to be? Do you love the church family He has placed you in the middle of… or do you merely tolerate them? Do you come to church because of, or in spite of the family housed within the walls?

Some of my most life-altering spiritual moments have taken place far away from prayer lines and altar services. They have been moments when the Father, for the briefest of moments, allowed me to glimpse and experience a tiny taste of His love for His children.

I remember standing in the Edward Jones Dome in St Louis, looking out over thousands of women and feeling His love for them absolutely overwhelm me. I stood there and I cried until I could cry no more. His compassion, His insight into their hearts, His longing for restoration in them, shook me to the depths of my soul. It literally took my breath away. I remember saying “Father, how can You take this? How can you know this deep compassion and carry these burdens all of the time? How can you stand the pain humanity? How?

His answer was profoundly simple… “Because I love them.” Because He loves us. He can carry what He carries because of a love that overrides the pain, the consequence, the rejection; everything. Oh, that we would love like that. That we truly can lift one another’s burdens and overlook the petty, fruitless, trivial strife issues that dull the sound of God in the earth..

How distorted we become in our defining our Christian level, in knowing where we stand spiritually. It is not about the position you hold or the miracles you perform. It is not about how eloquent you are or how many people know you name. It is not about a ministry, a following or a title. You can be elevated to the highest ranks and positions in the land or in the church and still be merely a clanging cymbal, for your truest height and deepest depth is found in the level of love in your heart.

You want to know your spiritual maturity level? Check the love.

Do you hear a clanging cymbal? Do you hear an orchestra?

I do not know how to teach this without being really transparent here.

This has been a struggle for me. I did not trust people easily. I thought I did. I thought I was very giving, very loving, but I was wrong. I opened my heart to very few, but was able to fake my way through the rest of it. I could serve you, pray for you, wrap my arms around you and listen, but that was the easy part. I knew how to minister to you. Years of practice taught me how to do the right thing. I was raised in a pastor’s home and I knew all of the things I was “supposed” to do. I knew which scriptures apply to which problems. I knew how to meet your need when it came to teaching or standing on a platform. I knew how to go through the motions of ministry. It was easy because I could do it all from a distance.

I could hold you in my arms and pray for you, but never let you into my heart. I could offer you comfort, but never feel your pain. I could give you the Word, but never touch your life. It is easy to tell someone you love them if you never have to back it up with follow-through. As the scriptures tell us, we can tell Him we love Him with our lips, but our hearts are still far from Him.

I Peter tells us to prepare our minds for action. I feel like we need to take that scripture and apply it to our love walk. We need to prepare our minds for this thing. Because truly loving someone is not a about a feeling, but a decision. We make the decision to let someone in or keep them away. We make the decision to embrace or to deny. Loving like Jesus loved is a decision we make, not a feeling we feel.

I know, I just burst a couple of bubbles. Most of us would rather base everything on how we feel. Do you want to work in the nursery? No, I really don’t feel called to the nursery. Do you want to prepare a meal for the sick? No, I really don’t feel this is my area.

May I ask you what a calling feels like? Jesus was called when he felt the thorns rip through his forehead. Jesus was called when He felt the whip cut into His flesh. Paul was called when he felt the cold stone floor of a prison beneath his head. So, what does it feel like to be called into one area or another? I somehow doubt that it feels like we want it to.

Well, my brothers and sisters who are looking for their calling, just know that are called to love as Christ loves; no matter how the calling feels at the moment. Not only love, but love others so much we want them to have their needs met before our own. We are called to love each other so much that we set our own wants and needs aside.

Wait just one minute there missy! Heresy! Oprah and Dr. Phil said we must “take care of ourselves, so that we can take care of others,” Okay, back it up with scripture. Where does it say that? Because all I can find are scriptures like:

Philippians 2:3
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.

John 15:13
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends

Hebrews12:2

Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Can you see the distortion? Can you imagine Jesus saying to the Peter, “Love yourself Peter, you cannot nurture others until your own needs are met…”? Oh, please! Jesus did what he did not want to do, because He was called beyond His feelings. He desired that the cup would pass Him, but submitted His feelings to the will of the Father and lay down His life for humanity. He lived beyond Himself. We were always first with Christ. He never placed Himself or His needs above others, yet He was still capable of pouring, healing, touching.

For God so loved the world that He gave.

The greatest of these is love…

What would Jesus do?

Love.

Full hearted, deeply and passionately, beyond the point of death into eternity.

Your calling is love.

Your level is checked by it.

The music of it plays around you… Let your song be beautifully loud!

Eternal Conversations

2008-03-12T06:10:00.001-07:00

God is calling His children closer to Himself.

I know this, not because someone told me, but because I am experiencing it my own life. I used to think that God just wanted me to be good. Now I know He just wants me close to Him. Period. The rest will take care of itself.

It would be great to be good enough to approach Him, but if we wait for that… well, it just isn’t going to happen. I keep thinking, if I could work out the whole perfection thing…, but both He and I know that is not going to happen on this side of eternity. So, what we have covenanted to do in the interim is to stay as close to one another as possible. From here to eternity, so to speak.

He is staying as close as I will let Him.

I am staying as close as my disobedient flesh will allow.

I pray every day for more of Him and less of me, then stand amazed when a fiery trial comes along that burns away a tad of flesh. Indignant, I turn accusing eyes to Him.

“What’s going on here, God?” I ask in my most perplexed voice.

“You asked for more of Me and less of you…”

“Yeah, but you never said it would hurt!”

“Oh really? Have you heard of Peter?”

(I Peter 4:12 to be exact… ¹²Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you.)

“Okay, but can I have more of You without less of me? I mean, I can make lots of room for you.”

“No, Child. You really are too full of yourself…”

“Ouch! That hurt!”

…do not be surprised

And the perfecting process goes on…

Water, water, everywhere...

2008-03-10T07:26:00.001-07:00

I cannot get this picture out my head.

I see beautiful waters many miles wide, glistening on the surface, but as shallow as the beginnings of a blade of grass. Standing by those waters I see many, many people. Thirsty people, who dive in and are hurt because of the lack of depth. I see people lying in the water, but unable to get drenched. There is great frustration amongst the people. It looks like a lot of water, but there is no depth.

I know God is speaking. I know He is trying to tell me that He should be more than a surface reflection in our lives. The waters must be deep or we will only frustrate the world.

Second:

Some time ago I asked someone I deeply respect spiritually about the place that the church (in general and specifically) is in right now – hungry, but not hungry enough. Thirsty, but not really thirsty. Wanting, but not desperate enough to push past the obstacles. The answer I was given took me by surprise – “It is as if there is a vast ocean of Glory and the deep waters of God just in front of us, but we are content to dance around the puddles.”

Let me tell you, I do not want the appearance of water. I want water. I do not want to look like I know God. I want to know God. I do not want to serve you with dry pitchers; I want to serve you His Living Water.

Genesis 1:20 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly…

Psalm 65:10 You water the field's furrows abundantly…

Psalm 104:16 The trees of the Lord are watered abundantly…

Are you one of the desperate people standing on the perimeter of the water, caught up in great frustration? If you are, dear one, I promise you there is a river…there is a vast supply. Your church is not your source… God is. You do not have to wait for your pastor to lead you to the waters on Sunday morning, nor do you have to wait for choirs and angels to usher you in. You do not have to perform well to receive it. You cannot buy it, you cannot work for it. It is free. It has been paid for. It is yours for the asking.

Isaiah 55
¹WAIT and listen, everyone who is thirsty! Come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Yes, come, buy [priceless, spiritual] wine and milk without money and without price [simply for the self-surrender that accepts the blessing].

Fresh, pure, unending supply of His Holy Spirit, His power and strength, His provision… all for the “self-surrender that accepts the blessing.”

Surrender... and accept the waters.

A Maasai Prayer

Lord, sweeten the waters
Lord, sweeten the grass
Lord, sweeten and swell all the rivers
Lord, thicken all forests
Lord, sweeten all animals.

Lord, give us land
Lord, let the land be green
Lord, give us rains
Lord, give us fruitful lands
Lord, sweeten all rivers.

And I add:

Make them Deep, O God.

BARBIE LOFLIN

ADMISSIONS

Unbroken

Sandswept

WILLOW

In the Mist

Angels and Ice Cream

Nothing to Offer

Still Waters

The Night-Ocean

Turning Stones

Dreaming of Cats and Bathtubs...

PERSPECTIVE

ACT LIKE IT

Us and We

THERE IS ROOM

And They Danced

What’s my point?

In Process

The Wedding

FOCUS

THE INVITATION

UNRAVELED

ENOUGH

Water to Me

When You Know

A DIFFERENT INTERCESSION

The Biggest Change of All

Tarry With Us

A Simple Life

In This Season

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

Healing Hands

Silent Lunch

Still Answering

Dirt Roads

BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE (The Dream)

Trust Me?

The Gathering

Great Things

Luke 22

A Good Pair of Sneakers

The Coat

The Music Box

Nothing to Offer

Sunset

Let It Go

A Beautiful Falling

There

The Sound of Love

Eternal Conversations

(I Peter 4:12 to be exact… 12Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you.)

Water, water, everywhere...

(I Peter 4:12 to be exact… ¹²Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you.)