Real Life Reflections

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...