Real Life Reflections

HOW ABOUT BOTH? The knock, knock, knock came every year, and every year, my mom would ask, "what was that?" We'd all heard it as the eight of us sat around the kitchen table eating lasagna - an interesting choice for a German family's traditional Christmas Eve dinner, but then, as my dad always said, Germans make the best lasagna (and the best spaghetti and the best chow mien and the best tacos and the best . .  . ). Of course, we knew the noise we'd just heard had to be Santa. We were all in the kitchen, so who else could have made that noise? He came on Christmas Eve at our house (our last name began with "B," and Santa had to start somewhere, right? Oh those poor schmucks whose last name began with "T" or, God-forbid, "Z!" After dinner, with the dishes cleared, we formed a train and sang Jingle Bells as we marched down the steps to find what treasures Santa had left for us. I was always so impressed by Santa - not only did the

"Don't run from suffering; embrace it. Follow Me and I'll show you how. " Luke 9:24 The Message I can recall three times in the past thirty five years when I had the thought that life was going along swimmingly. Three. That's less than once every ten years, and within a week or less of each of those three thoughts, the tide changed. Sometimes I think I spend 90% of my energy in attempts to make my life easier, to get away from whatever causes me pain at the moment. In short, I run from suffering - even if that "suffering" is, in actuality, a mere inconvenience. The passage above from Luke 9 is a familiar one. In most versions, it says something like, "if you try to gain your life, you lose it; but if you lose your life for My sake, you'll gain it." Of course, Jesus is talking about martyrs here, right? Or bringing it a little closer to home, He's talking about giving of yourself and your time to help others when you'd rather

Empty-nesters - that's what my husband and I are. For years, we giggled with glee as visions of empty-nesthood danced  before us: the utter freedom and abundance of time that would be ours when we reached that promised land; the friendships we'd finally have time to renew, the books we'd have time to read, the vacations, and on and on! Our children would be adults, on there own, responsible for their own schedules, decisions, and life. We would never have to worry about them again! Ha! The things no one tells you. We love our children. We loved raising them and having them at home with us, but honestly, the child-rearing years are stressful. I suppose it doesn't have to be that way. There are plenty of parents who simply allow their children to co-exist in the same house, but for those who pro-actively mold their children's characters, teach them, work with them, attempt to be a vital influence in their life in hopes that somehow their influence will be stronger t

They say that the first step in any healing process is the admission of the problem. Here's mine: I'm a Pharisee. Pharisees don't need God because they're so good at serving Him all by themselves. God, of course, knew I was a Pharisee before I did, and like a parent who tells their child to go to their room and think about what they'd just done, He recently put me in a time-out. I had shingles in my eye and on my face and head. It hurt so badly at times that I couldn't even watch the Cards play all their division series games (now that's pain!). I couldn't read, not only because of the pain, but because I could barely see. All I could do was lie on the sofa with either ice or a warm compress held over my eye and forehead. I was in time-out from life. This all began the first night of our vacation (and getting shingles on vacation was not our worst vacation ever. Someday I'll tell you about March, 1993). On our way home, after I'd

Last week I highlighted the story in Mark 6 where Jesus sends His disciples out across the lake while He stays on land. In the middle of the night, Jesus, who is still on land while the disciples are "far out to sea," sees them "struggling against the wind." Jesus does His walking on water thing and crosses the lake. He intends to walk right by His struggling disciples . . . Honestly, I got a little stuck right there - He intended to walk right by His struggling disciples? What?! What kind of loving Savior does that? It must be the kind who wasn't worried, who saw no cause for alarm. He knew they'd make it to the other side. He obviously intended to surprise them and meet them when they did; but as soon as He saw that they were afraid, He climbed into the boat and the winds died down. Jesus was going to walk right by them because He wasn't worried about them. The disciples were fine. Absolutely fine. But when Jesus saw that they were afraid, He went

Have you ever noticed that life can be hard? I know, amazing revelation there, but I'm pretty sure it's true. Just when you think things are finally going your way - BAM! You get hit with another one. I've come to the point where if I have that thought - that, "hey life isn't so bad right now" thought - my next thought is "uh oh. Why did I just think that?" as if not recognizing a current lack of difficulties could ward off future difficulties. In Mark 6, the disciples are out on the lake in a storm, and Jesus isn't with them. He actually told them to cross the lake without Him ( The Message translation says He insisted ), and when they're "far out to sea," the wind picks up against them. Jesus, who is waaayyyy back on land, "could see His men struggling with the oars." So He comes walking on by, and scares His disciples half to death. When Jesus sees that they're afraid, He comforts them immediately and climbs int

I wonder how many books have been written, how many sermons have been preached, and how many retreats have been offered on the subject of prayer. I haven't done the research, but I'd venture a guess that it's more than a few, much more. I began to read a book on the subject a couple of days ago, but I found that rather than encourage me, it weighed me down. With each page, I felt the burden on my back grow heavier. This morning as I read, I pondered the problem and realized that the whole book is based on how I should pray. Virtually every chapter has a checklist. The author lines everything out for you from the proper time of day to pray (morning) to your physical posture (on your knees) to the types of prayer (praise, thanksgiving, petition, etc) to your attitude while in prayer (submission). No wonder I could feel my burden grow more weighty with each paragraph! I don't know about you, but my life already overflows with "shoulds." There are days wh

The second chapter of Mark begins with the story of a paraplegic who is lowered through the roof by his friends in order to see Jesus. There's much to be said about this story, but for today, I'll just reflect on the friends of the paraplegic. I wondered today as I read that story how different that man's life would have been had he and his friends not been so bold. What if they'd seen the crowd and given up? Turned around and gone home? Decided that they didn't want to be a bother? I mean, obviously, Jesus had his hands full with a crowd that size. I'm sad to say that that's probably what I would have done. Mark says that Jesus was "impressed by their boldness," and He not only healed the man's soul but his body as well. I'm not naturally bold or tenacious. I tend to think I should absorb whatever life hands my way and accept it as God's will, but lately, I've begun to see I'm a little off-balance in that regard. There

"The gospel is absurd and the life of Jesus is meaningless unless we believe that He lived, died, and rose again with but one purpose in mind: to make brand-new creations. Not to make people with better morals, but to create a community of . . . men and women . . . who would live in ever greater fidelity to the omnipresent Word of God, who would enter into the center of it all, the very heart and mystery of Christ, into the center of the flame that consumes, purifies, and sets everything aglow with peace, joy, boldness, and extravagant, furious love. This, my friends, is what it really means to be a Christian. Our religion never begins with what we do for God. It always starts with what God has done for us, the great and wondrous things that God dreamed of and achieved for us in Christ Jesus."     - From The Furious Longing of God by Brennan Manning: Life. Christianity. Faith. They're all about Him, the One who loved you enough to suffer the penalty that should h

I was hungry and you fed me. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was homeless and you gave me a room. I was shirvering and you gave me clothes. I was sick and you stopped to visit. I was in prison and you came to me. Matthew 25: 35-36 ( The Message ) Do you ever read the Bible and feel condemned for who you're not ? Me too, and this is one of the major culprits. I'm not sure how many times I've read these words or heard them spoken from the pulpit or referred to in a book, but it's been more than just a few times, and each time, something inside me cringes. When do I ever do any of these things? I don't work in our church's benevolence ministry. I don't go downtown and hang out with the homeless, bringing them food, clothing, and offering our home as shelter even on the coldest of days. I don't visit prisoners. Therefore I'm a failure. A selfish pig. At least that's how I feel when I take these words at face value. Yet I know that be

I had a teacher in high school who had his doctorate in English. He was the only teacher in this school of 2,000 students that had his PHD, and I was uhhh fortunate enough to have him as my instructor, not just one year, but two. As in most large schools, our class of 500 had been divided up into several learning levels. English had always been my strong suit, and so I managed to make it into the honors level English class. I don't recall much of what Dr. Joe (as we not-so-affectionately called him behind his back) actually taught us (or tried to teach us), but over the course of those two years, there was one phrase he said repeatedly and often to this class of honor students, "God! You're so dumb!" We would sneak sidelong glances to each other and grin. Hopefully without him seeing us. I don't think any of us took it personally, and yet, thirty something years later, I still recall his words. Several weeks ago I began to read the book of Matthew. I've r

Perhaps you've heard of the young adult novels by Scott Westerfeld, The Pretties and The Uglies ( I could go on to tell you what they're about, but I think that might be obvious), and perhaps you've heard the terms, "the haves" and "the have-nots?" While these refer to appearance and financial position respectively, I have some terms for two basic personality types: "the all-or-nothings" and "the balanced." I belong to the latter group (sometimes I think I'm the poster child for it: I'm so balanced, I could send my personality to walk a tight rope over the Royal Gorge - note, my personality , not me!), but I have an extensive list of close relationships to people in the former group: my husband, my son, two of my sisters, and my boss to name a few. Without exception, their hearts are huge. They're passionate and relational. At work, they're the ones who have vision. They look towards the future, towards improvement,

Have you ever wanted to quit - maybe your job or your parenthood? Your family? Your spouse? Maybe even your life? Yeah. Me too. As a matter of fact, I've been feeling that way quite a bit lately - about my job anyway. Without going into the nitty-gritty details, the past two years have just about pushed me over the edge. I've had to force my square brain into a round hole. I've had to learn to think like a particular computer program rather than an accountant. I've never professed to be fond of computer programs. I prefer to do most of my thinking on my own. I like to problem-solve just not the kind of problem solving that has to be funneled through only one question "how does this program think?" I'd rather use my brain to actually work through the problem itself, but that's just me. And that's my problem. I'm not the boss, and I don't get to choose the type of problems I work on. I can accept my job as it is and plow through, train my squ

My husband and I had dinner the other night with some dear friends. Our conversation didn't exactly meander to the topic of God. It was more like it burst into it with both guns blazing, although now, I can't stop my thoughts from meandering back to one simple phrase that our friend said: Christ in me . Several years ago I went through a season of reading the works of some Christian mystics, desert fathers and mothers as they are sometimes called because they separated themselves from their culture and lived in the desert to more effectively spend time with God without the distractions of city life. I read quite a bit of Jeanne Guyon. She obviously loved God deeply, and I learned a lot from her writings, but there was one phrase that she couldn't seem to emphasize enough, and it always bothered me - look within yourself to find God (sounds a little new-agey, doesn't it?) Honestly, the thought has been repulsive to me. It's so contrary to our modern Christian thoug

Aaahhh . . .  Memorial Day. The official start of summer: a three-day weekend, picnics, pools, family, and friends.We spent ours with our family in Tennessee at our son and daughter-in-law's: six adults, two dogs, and a baby. Guess who ruled the weekend? Don't get me wrong, she's not bossy. She's just, as my daughter likes to say, particular. Cuter than a koala but particular. She likes to eat at certain times. She likes to sleep at certain times, and she really likes her mommy. She's past the infant sleep-anywhere-through-anything stage and into the one long morning nap, one long afternoon nap, and to bed by 7:00 stage. I remember my own kids on that schedule. It's great for getting stuff done around the house but not so great for going anywhere. By the time you get them changed and fed and changed again after each sleep session, there's barely enough time to drive somewhere much less do anything once you get there. So other than a couple of meals out and

She heard the loud rumble of the street sweeper before she saw the massive machine's steady progress towards her. At eighteen months, she was understandably frightened. She sensed danger. She sensed power far greater than hers. She turned to run, but my daughter grabbed her little hand and stopped her. "Look at me." She told the frightened toddler, but the toddler refused. Her fear was too great. Her only thought was that of getting away, getting far away from that thing, that monster coming at them. My daughter persisted, "E, look at me." She squatted down to be at her level and turned her ward so that she had no choice but to look. The child stopped struggling and looked straight into her guardian's eyes. Having her full attention now, my daughter said to her, "You are okay. You're okay. The street sweeper is not going to get us. It is not going to come up on the sidewalk. We're safe. It will come close to us, but it won't hurt us. You&#

I read a devotional this past week that I'm sure was meant to encourage, but had quite the opposite effect. The writer said that if we aren't close to God, it's all our fault. The author ended there: if you're not close to God, it's your fault. He gave no words of hope or grace. My husband and I have dear friends that we've had for thirty to thirty-five years - since high school and the early days of our marriage. We consider these people dear friends - not just friends, yet we don't talk to or see any of them on a regular basis. When we get together with them now whether individually or as a group, it's as if no time has passed. We are as comfortable with each other as we had been when we would see each other daily. Our hearts were knit together years ago and neither time nor space can unravel them. So it is with God. He isn't bound by time or space, so although we may turn our eyes from Him; although our lives may get hectic and we may get stres

My husband and I recently took a trip. We flew to our destination. With a connecting flight each way, we attentively listened to the stewards on each leg of our journey as they gave their spiel regarding safety in case of an emergency. Per usual, they told everyone on each plane that, if they had small children with them, to take care of themselves first and then see to their child. Picture this: the plane is flying along smoothly - la dee da dee da. We hit some turbulence, a few pockets of rough air - no big deal. Then the wind picks up, lightening flashes. A little turbulence turns into a major storm. The plane begins to vibrate, to shake. Something goes terribly wrong. The cabin loses pressure. We're headed down. The oxygen masks fall. My granddaughter is with me - screaming, frightened out of her little mind. What do I do? I put her oxygen mask on her of course and then, if I haven't passed out, I take care of me. Wrong-o. If you watch certain TV shows or read almost a

Broken: Ruptured; torn; fractured; disconnected; divided; ruined; to remove a part from. We're broken people living in a broken world. Most of us think of sin as an infringement of one of the ten commandments, but it's so much more than that. Those are just general guidelines for living a whole life. They aren't the end-all of sin. Sin is that which separates us from God. Sin is the evil within us and in our world. Sin expresses itself in our words, our actions, and our attitudes. Sin is our brokenness. Sin is the brokenness of our world - the people and nature itself. Most of us don't really want to admit that we're broken. That's admitting a weakness. That's admitting that we're imperfect, that we don't have it all together, but we see it in each other every day. We see it and experience it in ourselves every day. We affect others with our brokenness and others affect us with theirs. A son's relationship with his father is strained and pain

When our children were young, every scrape, bruise, and bump were grounds for tears. The offended appendage held aloft like the rings on a ring bearer's pillow as the child ran in search of that miraculous kiss from a mother's lips that heals all boo-boos. As they grew, the causes of their tears grew too. They no longer ran to me with their every day scrapes, bruises, and bumps. An ice pack here, a band-aid there - who needs a kiss from mom to heal a paper cut? As their worlds expanded to include friends and teachers, some of those scrapes, bruises, and bumps that previously had only been lacerations of the skin now pierced their hearts. Oh how I wanted to protect them from the pain of rejection, the pain of being mocked, the pain of failure. When I couldn't prevent the pain, I wanted to heal their hurting hearts with my words, my touch. I wanted to make everything better in an instant. Of course, I couldn't do that, and they had to learn to deal with the emotional

Christ with me. Christ within me. Christ behind me Christ before me Christ beside me Christ to win me Christ to comfort and restore me Christ beneath me Christ above me Christ in quiet Christ in danger Christ in hearts of all who love me Christ in mouth of friend and stranger The above is a Celtic prayer. I say it every morning to remind myself that God is with me and will be with me this day wherever I go, whatever I do; but there's one line that I've always had trouble with. It doesn't quite fit with the others. You may have caught it - "Christ to win me". . . Christ to win me? Huh? It finally clicked yesterday morning. I put two and two together: For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross (Hebrews 12:2)   Christ to win me.  I am - you are - the prize He set out to win when He became a man, fully knowing what He would endure. Still He came, because for some reason, He wants a relationship with us. I am - you are - the joy set before

Suffering. I hate it. Who doesn't? I'd like to hate it through and through, but I can't because it does come with benefits. Knowing that makes it easier to accept it in my own life and in the lives of those I love. I'm currently reading, Andrew Murray's The Master's Indwelling . It's not one of my favorites, but he has a number of potent passages. In the chapter I read this morning, on being crucified with Christ, he says: "What are the marks of a crucified man?...humility...impotence, helplessness. When a man hangs on the cross, he is utterly helpless, he can do nothing. As long as we Christians are strong and can work or struggle, we do not enter the blessed life of Christ, but when a man says, 'I am a crucified man, I am utterly helpless, every breath of life and strength must come from...Jesus, then we learn what it is to sink into our own impotence and say, 'I am nothing....When a man goes down to the grave...it means this: that he cries

My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary a few days ago - twenty nine years (we were all of 5 years old when we got married). I remember waking up that morning in March, my mother's home transformed from its typically peaceful existence to one full of life and the flurry of activity that is found in the home of every bride on her wedding morning. Excitement laced the air. The butterflies in my stomach refused to rest. I couldn't eat, didn't want to eat, but mother knows best and somehow I got down a piece of toast with grape jelly. I don't remember what time I awoke or how many hours I'd actually slept, but I do remember sitting on the edge of the bed in a room that my sister and I had shared once upon a time. As I looked out the window, snowflakes began to fall. My heart sank. It wasn't supposed to snow on my wedding day! The sky should be a clear and brilliant blue holding the sun, warm and inviting! But I'm getting married today! I thought.

I'm hopeless. Smitten. Devoted. Enamored. Fanatical. Infatuated. Wildly in love. My husband and I will celebrate our 29th wedding anniversary this Sunday, and while I can honestly say that the above list still applies to my love for him (yes, there are times when I look at him and still feel the fluttering of butterflies one would have thought long gone), I'm talking about someone I met just this past summer. She's of average height for her age (which isn't saying much - munchkins would have to look down to see her), thin, bald, and has eight tiny teeth barely poking through her gums. Her only form of communication right now is through facial expressions and strategically-tuned vocals. She can't enunciate words. She can't walk, much less ride a bike or drive a car. She can't even feed herself. And yet I'm beside myself in her presence. When we're apart, I have to tear myself away from pictures of her and make myself be a mature, responsible adu

My blog has been silent for a few weeks - partly due to the fact that I've been sick and partly due to the fact that I'm not sure how to put my thoughts into words that encourage rather than words that bring guilt. So I pray that as you read these words, it's not guilt, but conviction, that you sense and that you are drawn closer to the Lover of your soul. I recently read Judges 19 and 20 - the story of the Ephraimite whose wife left him (whether or not she was unfaithful or just angry with him seems to be up for debate). He traveled to her father's house to bring her back, and on their way home, they stopped in Gibeah where she was raped and murdered. It's an interesting cast of characters: the wife, for whatever reason, leaves her husband and returns to her father's house (not so lightly done back then); the man who opens his home to the travelers also offers his virgin daughter and the man's wife to the men of the city; the husband shoves his wife out

Nelson Mandela. My guess is that you've heard of him. How about Immaculee Ilibagiza? Probably not, but then again, maybe you have. She survived the Rwandan genocide of 1994. I won't tell her story here, you can read it in her books, Left to Tell and Led by Faith . Invictus, the movie that depicts Nelson Mandela's successful attempt to unite South Africa, just happened to be the next movie in our Netflix queue and I just happened to pick up Led by Faith at the library a couple of days before Invictus showed up in our mailbox. These stories blow my mind. I honestly can't comprehend the magnitude of pain in each story. Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for twenty-six years because he fought for the oppressed. Immaculee Ilibagiza lived in a bathroom, unable to move or speak for ninety-one days while she listened to the screams of her friends, neighbors, and family as they were brutally raped and murdered. Yet both Mr. Mandela and Ms. Ilibagiza speak of forgiveness - not of r

Have you ever taken your cues from Gideon and come up short? Gideon was a little freaked out when God told him to lead the Israelites into battle. He didn't exactly relish the idea of going into battle without being absolutely positive that God was with him. So He gave God a couple of tests. Day one: he lay a wool fleece on his threshing floor and told God that if He really wanted him to do this thing then have the dew fall on the fleece alone. In the morning, he had to wring out the fleece because it was sodden with dew, but the ground around it was dry. Day two: he told God that if He really wanted him to do this then do the opposite the next morning - let the fleece alone be dry but the ground around it wet. It happened just as Gideon requested. God was pretty obvious in what He wanted Gideon to do. My turn: I have an idea for a project. It promises to be fairly time-consuming and likely emotionally taxing. Like Gideon, I don't relish the idea of doing this if God isn't

I watched the birth of a friendship this weekend. Whereas in past encounters the two parties merely observed each other with distant curiosity, a few days ago, one reached out to the other and bridged the gap that had existed between them. In an instant, a bond was forged. Our five-month old granddaughter stretched out her little dimpled hand as she tried (in vain) to catch the tongue of our six-year old cockapoo. In that moment, everything changed between them. Marje (the dog) interpreted this gesture as one of friendship. This creature who had been nothing more than an interloper in Marje's world, a distraction that had stolen the attention that had previously been hers alone had just indicated that she wanted to play (at least that was obviously Marje's interpretation). Marje skittered out of the room and retrieved her ball. As my granddaughter sat on my lap, we threw the ball and watched Marje chase after it time and time again. Later, long after the game of fetch was over,

by Paul Miller. Our pastor has recommended this book a number of times. I finally bought it. Now, according to my Kindle, I've read 58% of it. Over the years, I've read a number of books on prayer. This one is in my top three. As I've read, I've realized that I often ask God's advice as if God is my life-consultant rather than my God. As I talk to Him about a given situation, my brain will continue to churn through possibilities and what-if scenarios. I'm asking but I'm not listening for an answer. I think that's not really praying. It's saying words - empty words - words without any meat in them. Have you ever tried to talk to someone when they're watching TV or reading the paper? It's pretty frustrating because it's obvious that they're not listening to you. One of the associate pastors at my church once told the story of his toddler who was in exactly that situation: Daddy sat on the sofa as he read the paper. She sat next to him a