Leslie A Lamb/Sifted Wheat

Author: lesliealamb

  • Perfect Timing

    I feel quite certain if I were living in any other time period I would be tried as a witch and sunk to the bottom of the lake. I’m also quite sure if I’d been born in any other country (say a Muslim one for instance, where women must remain quiet and hidden) I would most likely be stoned in the streets. I’m pretty outspoken. I say what I believe, I stand up for what I believe in and I hold tightly to my convictions. In that same vein, I’m not afraid to challenge the convictions of others.

    I was thinking the other day, what if I had been one of the disciples? It’s an interesting question. The romantic side of me would have most likely fallen in love with Jesus. See, to me character far outweighs looks and to be there to watch Him serve and love and care and heal – well, I’d have been smitten! I might have wrestled Mary for her spot at his feet. I’d have hung on every word He said, probably slapped the men when they got side tracked by who would be greater and no doubt I would have wept at His crucifixion. Begging my heart to remember the Truth that He’d taught but silently fearing the unknown.

    Then there is the leader in me. I almost laugh at that, me? A leader? And yet, more and more I’m realizing that’s what this passion in me is about. Reaching out, teaching, sharing, making a difference and expressing it with a voice of authority, a voice that He has given me. I wonder how I would have reacted to Peter! I no doubt might have been the woman that he warned the church against! “Tell that woman to stay silent! If she shares one more story about her long walks with Jesus and that time He danced with her, I’m gonna leave!” Okay, well, maybe not. But I wonder.

    I might have been seen as a religious heretic. I would have found the woman that was cornered in the street, the one Jesus powerfully stated, “He who is without sin should cast the first stone.” I would have watched, waiting, knowing I sat beholding the only sinless one. I would have clapped and danced when the accusers walked away and I would have run to my savior in light of His beautiful goodness. I like to think He would have smiled, because He knew I was there, and then hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Now do as you do – love her for me.” And I would have. I would have told her all I know and all I’d seen and why I would never regret placing my trust in this Jesus that had saved her.

    I wonder… Am I not doing all of that? Except, in the here and now? Where Daddy God placed me safely. Where I would not be killed or silenced or squashed or quenched. And I am reminded of Gods word that says, “He planned out each day of my life before one of them came to be.” He looked the world over and through the span of all time and He smiled and said, “Leslie goes here.” Isn’t that lovely? And I’m nothing special; He did the same for all of us! Adopted and seeking, saved and unsaved… All of us were placed where we are with a purpose, whether we realize it or not.

  • I don’t wanna gotta!

    My “gottas” are taking over my life.

    I just gotta do so much stuff! I gotta do the laundry. I gotta do my devotion. I gotta do homework with my kids. I gotta go to church. I gotta write. I gotta cook dinner. I gotta go to Bible Study. I gotta tweet. I gotta update facebook. I gotta spend time with so and so. I gotta make sure my kids are lice-free (that’s a blog for another day). I gotta get it together! Suddenly, the other day I threw my hands up in surrender and yelled, “I don’t wanna!” And there was a moment of silence.

    The words “wanna” became music to my heart so I had a dialogue with it. (David had a habit of that, too.) “Heart. Why don’t I wanna?” And it came back so clear, “Because I gotta.” Ever been there? And then my heart whispered back, “Remember the freedom of just wanting to?” And I did. It washed over me like a montage of memories. SItting at my computer, smiling, writing out a novel to my daughters and other daughters of the King not because I had to but because I wanted to. I wanted to make a difference. That picture was replaced with me sitting at the table with my daughter, laughing while we worked on homework, not because it was a chore but because it was a moment that we had to share. Then, I watched as that picture folded into another picture of me newly married, humming as I folded my precious husband’s pants, careful not to slant the seams. Then there was a vision of me joyfully pouring over cook books so that I could find something new and adventurous so that my kids would have an advanced pallet of taste, not because I felt they had to but because I wanted to introduce them to a world bigger than Mac-n-Cheese and hotdogs. And I enjoyed each moment.

    I wanna feel that again.
    I don’t wanna gotta.

    So, I asked my heart, “How do I get back to that?” Then slowly it dawned on me…by removing the “gotta”. Sounds easier than it is, actually. Just replace a word or a feeling, but maybe it really is that easy. Maybe it is enough to simply say, “I don’t wanna gotta!” Instead I remind myself that I want to because I realize what a gift, pleasure, joy, service it is! “Gotta” sounds like a chore, a hardship, a task. But “wanna” implies a gift, a privilege, a fullfillment. So that is my challenge to myself this week: “Let go of the gotta and embrace the wanna.” It might be easier said than done, but I have a feeling that it’s gonna feel a lot more productive! Like now for instance, I needed to blog…but I didn’t have to do it in my house at my desk…that’s why God invented laptops. So, I’m doing what I gotta do where I wanna do it, in the sun on my porch as I watch my dog scamper around the yard. Sighhhhh. Now, THIS is something I wanna do again!

  • “‘Til death do us part”

    “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” Ephesians 5:25

    In a world where love has become a commodity of convenience, where Hollywood has tainted it and prettied it up to the point that it has become far fetched and anything but the love that Christ intended, it’s a beautiful thing to see the love of a husband like Robin Hartrick.

    This is the man that married a divorced blind woman and took on the raising of her son. This is the man that stood beside her as she pursued the heart of God in ministry that would require much of her time and energy. This is the man that as her health failed, sat warmly and compassionately by her bed, praying for her and loving her. This is the man that as he watched his wife slowly die had the strength to say that he would never abandon her. And, when after many years of her battle with diabetes and its life changing results including leg amputations, he still stood at the celebration of her too brief life and could not regret a moment of their journey together. This is the man that meant his vows. This is the man that truly loved as Christ intends…not because it was convenient, or she was so beautiful, or things were going so well, but he loved because he vowed to love and realized that love in its truest form cannot be selfish.

    What is the level of your commitment to your spouse? If the unthinkable happened would you stand by their side in love and support and selfless compassion? It’s a question I challenge myself to answer, and in the midst of my pondering, I beg my God to give me strength if such a day should come.

    As you celebrate Valentine’s Day next week remind your spouse how very much they are loved, and how very much you don’t regret a minute of the journey.

  • The JOY Project

    I should be editing my book, but since I’m still theoretically pouting over the pulling of the word “epic” from our American vocabulary and because I happen to be seriously elated by the amazing lavishing love of Daddy God, I decided to write a blog (and start it with a seriously long, possibly run-on sentence).

    The Happiness Project. Okay, let me be honest and admit that I have yet to read the book…I’m simply stating my opinion based on what I’ve seen in the margins and what I have heard from the author which in actuality probably isn’t fair to the her but it is what it is. So, basically this lady had an epiphany on a bus that she wasn’t focusing enough on happiness and being happy, so she endeavored to begin what she calls “the happiness project” where she tests the adages of others and relates them to life. Okay…what sources does she use? Well, I am not gonna sit here and list them all but a few would be – the Dali Lama and a few Saints and Benjamin Franklin and a few other names you may or may not recognize, oh yeah, and Oprah. I mean, its the twenty first century, Oprah is BIG…(that refers to her personality, her body is of no consequence.)

    And what has she found: We need to be happier, think more of ourselves, and focus on more positive things. Okay. And? The happiness that we find, this would be relative, right? I mean, if someone gave me a bowl of rice, I would be touched and smile, but if I were a starving child in a third world country that bowl would mean more than happiness, that bowl would mean life! A clean bill of health at the doctors office would be nice, but for a recent cancer survivor, that would bring elation! The birth of a child is a happy thing, but in the case of a woman that has tried and lost several, that child is a miracle! In that happiness is relative, then basically it isn’t stringent or absolute. And if it isn’t, then it’s entirely possible that what makes me happy might make someone else unhappy…and if my happiness comes at the cost of someone else’s then that doesn’t make me very happy at all.

    Webster defines HAPPINESS as such: a state of well-being and contentment, or a pleasurable or satisfying experience. Okay…so if something makes me content, brings me pleasure, or satisfies me then I am happy? Then, happiness by definition is selfish. Let me say, I am a happy person most of the time. I revel in finding joy in the little things; like treasures masked in randomness, I look for meaning and happiness where others might not see it. Of course, I’m also a loving person so when finding such, I immediately long to share it with another because my contentment, my satisfaction, my pleasure requires others feel the same…but when they don’t…ahh…there in lies the rub.

    Happiness is a dependent variable. It is not absolute. It shifts and changes. That which makes you happy today may not make you happy tomorrow, and that which satisfies you today might not do the same next year. So when you begin a project to live a life for your own happiness and expecting that your happiness will in turn bring about happiness in others, don’t be disappointed when your theory doesn’t meet up with your hypothesis.

    I have another project worthy of reflection…I’m going to call it “The Joy Project,” and I promise I’m not gonna write a book about it using obscure and tempered sayings to prove it. My theory is this: “Joy isn’t limited to our happiness.” First of all, if you were to look up the word “happiness” in a concordance you will find but a few references. In fact, Solomon considers it a chasing after the wind… (not to be confused with the answers that are believed to be blowing in the wind). However, JOY, and I used capital letters because it is a more important word, is all over the place…It is often tied to happiness but it isn’t dependent on it. (Okay I lied, I actually am about to insert a saying or two from the Bible.) “Count it all joy, my brothers and sisters..” Why? Because you won the lottery? Because you shared in the laugh of a little child? Because you ate some amazing food and traveled the country? “When you face trials and tribulation of any kind…” Wait. What? That’s not cool. Trials and tribulations do NOT make me happy. David admits “Though I was anxious and depressed, you brought me joy.” In the midst of anxiety and stress, joy? Numerous other times in so many other ways the Bible talks of joy and there is one static nature and one stable source, care to guess? I know you want to? Yes. God. Paul continues that “Count it all joy” statement with…because Jesus suffered just like this. David confesses that God is his joy in the depth of pain and uncertainty. And the Word admonishes the people time and time again to bring joy to the One that is joy, for as David calls Him, “My God, my joy and my delight.” The angels told Mary that Jesus would be the joy that they were looking for. Jesus tells us that “In me your joy will be made complete.”

    Happiness can be had without a saviour. Happiness is but a passing fancy that glimpses hope but doesn’t fully claim it. Happiness is shallow and consumable. Joy is deep and strong. Joy can be seen in the eyes of a starving child without a bowl of rice when he understands the Love of his Father. Joy can be experienced in the heart of a young mother even as she watches her child slip through her fingers, because she knows those terrifying beeps and racing monitors will soon be replaced with the Father’s embrace. Joy can be cried in the tears of a cancer patient that has been told that after 5 years the disease is back, because he or she realizes that there was life lived in fullness between. Joy is abiding and rich. Joy finds us when happiness isn’t even a thought. Happiness is what feels good to me…joy contains that which IS good.

    I end my project with this blessing: “May your JOY be complete” and happiness… well, by all means, enjoy it when it comes, but don’t be obsessed or depressed when it is fleeting.

  • Hook, Line, and Sinker

    So, I have this horrible problem of reliving past mistakes, I know I’m the only one in the world guilty of such habits so I won’t go into exhaustive detail about what and why. Suffice it to say that I don’t want to let myself off the hook, for any offense I’ve committed. I have this stupid lie that surfaces that says I must relive the pain, rethink the action, confess the sin over and over and over… well, you get picture. This morning was no different.

    I woke up chastising myself, angry with myself, hurt again over what I had thought to be dealt with at the cross, but giving into the taunts of the evil one, I started to believe that I needed to submerge myself in the mire again, take back up the cross, the sin, the shame and become the sinner once more. Mercifully, Jesus met me, before light, before another tear could fall, or lie implant itself and offered a hand to take my pain, my sorrows, my regrets. He met me with one line – “Cast it to me.” I read more heart into that. “Leslie, throw it over here! Don’t gingerly lay it in my hands and walk away looking back, throw it long and high! Don’t place it gently down, show me that you mean it – mean it in your heart. Cast your cares, your worries, your fears, your anxiety to ME! Because you holding onto it only serves to do one thing, imprison you, and whether you want to admit it or not, your lack of faith is at root here.”

    Wait. Hold up. Uh, say what?

    Again, without any condemnation He repeated, “Your lack of faith.” Then, with wonder still in my heart, I heard Him say, “Cast it and I’ll catch you – hook, line, and sinker.” Okay, I’m human and a little dim witted at times, so I’m not too proud to admit that I had a spiritual “duhhh” moment. How did we go from casting my cares to fishing? The thought wouldn’t subside and in like thirty seconds I went through a mental concordance to gain understanding. Casting nets, fishers of men, cooking fish, Peter and the twelve, Judas, the betrayal… I was getting off the mark so God intervened in my spiritual ADD.

    A picture surfaced. I was standing on the edge of the pond, my grandfather with a smile at my side. “Cast the line, Leslie.” I looked at him unsure. “Just raise the rod, push the button, and let the line go.” Believing his advice, and loving him so very much, I took his word…but being a fearful, insecure child, I pushed the button too soon and a yard of line came streaming out of the rod at my feet. Pouting, I placed it back in his expectant hand. After he fixed the mess, he handed it to me again. After about three such episodes, I got it right. I watched in amazement as the line arched high into the bright sky and landed ten or fifteen feet away. Smiling and satisfied, he settled his line close, but not too close, to mine.

    In a matter of seconds I felt a small tug, eager and ready I snatched the rod up, and the line came whipping out, fishless. Frowning and disappointed, I handed the rod to my grandfather. He wouldn’t take it. “Cast it again.” It took another three tries but again the beautiful, freeing arch and gentle landing. This time he talked me through the initial nibble and told me to wait. Biting my lip in anticipation, I held through the initial nibbles until the line went tight, and then, looking to Papaw for permission and getting a smiling nod, I yanked. To my ultimate pleasure and delight there was weight on the line, there was definite, grunt requiring weight! I remember the thrill as I watched the most wonderful brim jump to the surface still caught tight by the hook! Clutching tightly to the rod and reeling with all of my might, my grandfather was laughing, directing me to slow down, and begging me to be careful.

    After a squeamish unhooking and his beaming approval, I placed the fish in a styrofoam cooler. And there it was – my fish. Squatting by the side of that cooler I watched and marveled while Papaw continued to fish. Initially it lay limp, almost playing dead, but then it began to stir and swim, slowly at first and then more confidently. I was fascinated. I then noticed the hole in its lip. Cocking my head to the side, I realized I’d put it there. The fish soon to be released again was forever altered.

    And that’s where my memory rested. “There.” Ahhh. My duh turned to an aha; I understood. “Cast it and be caught.” I am both the fisherman and the fish. What if I hadn’t persevered? What if I’d simply thrown that rod and reel with its pile of line down on the ground and given up. It would still be at my feet. Useless. But, instead, I listened, I trusted, and I cast with success a line that captured a gift. My fish. All because I casted. I get that. I’m slow but eventually I do surface. But what about the “be caught” part…what about me being the fish? Well, a fish that nibbles, isn’t altered. It’s a fish that is caught by the hook, pulling on the line and drowning the sinker, that is forever changed.

    So, I’m casting my line…and I’ll return from the trip with a hole in my lip. Not what any one would call a fisherman’s dream, but it certainly has been a revelation from the pond.

  • The Best Christmas Pageant EVER.

    I don’t like admitting that my heart hasn’t been in the season this year; in fact, it pains me to say it. Heart not in Christmas – that just sounds wrong. Heart and Christmas are two very ingrained words… up until this year they seemed intertwined and mutually exclusive to the point of synonimity. (If that were a real word.) This year feels different. I can’t explain it, can’t put my finger on it, call it out, or really make sense of it, but it is…different.

    I was wrestling with this feeling. Trying to push past the bahhumbugishness and embrace the holiday spirit, my attempts seemed forced and fake. Like I was trying to take something dull and lifeless and transform it into something shiny and bright. Like I was taking the ordinary humdrum wool stockings of life and hanging them by the fire place next to a painted Christmas tree with lights. It wasn’t working, and I was getting more and more confused the closer Christmas got.

    My daughter belted out, “10 days til Christmas!” with all the anticipation the season deserves, and I sighed and pulled out my list looking at the names left unchecked. Friends laughed and talked of caroling and sadly, I was relieved that one of the neighbors got sick and it got called off. Is that horrible? Yes. It is. But, it’s honest.

    So, today when Maddie woke up with a fever on the day of the Christmas Program, I can’t say that I wasn’t surprised. It seemed about right. We went through the motions of preparation, making food and picking out clothes, but all the while it wasn’t very deep. Pretty much the pre-performance to the program…and my heart again played it’s part in isolation, hiding from the joy.

    Then, we got to the church. The atmosphere was dull and dark, no big production, everyone seemed to sigh their hellos and cut off their hugs. My soul was sad. I sat down next to a dear man in the church and finally said out loud, “I’m just not feeling it this year.” He seemed surprised as he looked at me as if to say, “You?!” I nodded. He let out a sigh of relief, “I was afraid it was just me.” He went on to tell me about his stress and his strain and how distant his heart seemed to be, and all the while the Spirit of God in me echoed, “You are not alone.” And, I found my ADD mind wandering to others and to more and thought perhaps there was much more to this apathetic spirit toward Christmas.

    Then, it happened. The program got started as kids nervously mumbled their lines and looked for confidence in the faces of their parents. Slowly the story progressed until we arrived at the angels…the heralding, good news messengers of old, that sang the birth announcement to the shepherds in the fields. It started alright, each angel with his and her part, until there was a break down in communication. The angels huddled and regrouped figuring out the speaker and the lines. It was obvious that everyone was pointing to one little girl, the youngest of the group, the precious grand-daughter of the man I’d just been speaking with, and she was terrified. The other angels were getting antsy, and she stood there – silent. A bigger angel in the back tried to tell her her line, hoping to encourage her to speak, but she still stood there, eyes wide, incredible denial filling her face. Realizing everyone was waiting and her line could not be taken by another, she gave in, and like a rush of wind in utter defeat, she said with a sigh, “Jesus is born.” I could not control my laughter! None of us could. It was art imitating life. And, we were entertained!

    I laughed so hard I cried (and felt horrible when the sweet girl put her “Angel Song” booklet over her face.) She didn’t understand what many of us were feeling; she had captured our lack of excitement in her bland statement, and something was happening in me. I realized that I was grossly overlooking Christ. He was treated as a commonplace statement filled with exaggerated sigh while I had been focused on all the other things that held no value or hope.

    AND IT HIT ME – I had taken Christ out of Christmas. I had seriously forgotten that this season is all about the mundane becoming special, the invaluable being shown as a treasure, and the commonplace finding remarkable meaning in the Light of Christ’s birth. The darkness I was feeling, the lack of joy and spirit, the absence of hope was a child of God succumbing to the “holiday.” I’d like to say that I got up from that pew and I walked out of church with a new perspective and with the heart of a insomniatic Scrooge, I ran from the sanctuary singing and dancing! I’d like to say that, but it simply wouldn’t be true. The truth is, I’m trying. I’m gonna attempt to remember Christ everyday in some special way… and I’m praying for His peace and His joy in my heart because I really could care less about the “holidays” – it’s Christ I want.

  • Are you kidding me?!

    Bear with me, I’m a little upset.

    What part of “Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” aren’t we getting?

    There is a serious curve that is emerging in the church, and we used to point our fingers and talk behind the backs of a specific group of people who were artistic and edgy…but now the margin is thinning and the compromise is rampant. Only we don’t call it “compromise” we call it “relevant”. We use the words of Paul in his address at Mars Hill – basically where he says, “I have become all things to all people so that I might save some.” But, it’s not a legitimate translation of that passage; it’s a misrepresentation to justify partaking in the pleasures of the world. (And, I realize that I just lost readers and ticked some people off, but I’m not too concerned.) I don’t know where the “relevant” movement will end, but as one called to lead and impact this generation…I’m having a hard time following suit.

    Leaders are immersing themselves in the culture – drinking, smoking, cursing. They say, “We’re trying to be relevant, to reach out, to be a part of the crowd.” What crowd, any real reason why? Because we are afraid to be called “hypocrits?” And yet, it’s exactly what we are. Because we want them to embrace Jesus? So we are helping them by lighting up and tipping the bottle and spilling expletives, oh yeah, because I totally remember in Mark 28:8 where Jesus got a little tipsy at the party and started cursing the Pharisees. Um, no. The excuse I often hear is: “Hey, it’s okay. Even Jesus ate with the sinners.” Yeah, He did. He reached out to them with a voice that said, “Come to me all of you that are weary and burned out, and I will give you rest.” But I don’t recall him passing the hookah.

    This “shock and awe” witness is getting old. I’ve actually heard people say, “I think it is so cool that pastor so and so cusses. He really understands.” What does he understand? That his use of the English language is so limited he has to resort to slang to get his point across. I’m pretty sure that you can say those things without getting vulgar. The truth is that those that are listening to him, even those in the world, might actually have more respect for him if he spoke out of a heart of compassion and sensitivity…just saying.

    But, truth be told, I’m frustrated for another reason. I’m frustrated because in being lackadaisical about our habits and our actions, we are missing the bigger picture. In being nonchalant about our indulgences we are making an impact greater than we realize. In slinging cuss words and consuming alcohol and smoking nicotine we are saying “This is okay.” We are saying to the younger generation, “Indulge, enjoy, live it up!” All the while, we are exchanging our witness for our release. This is not okay. It’s not. And, when I’m paying the rehab bills to help my alcoholic daughter get over her addiction because some idiot said that she could drink because Jesus drank and that gives her the license to do the same, I’m gonna be furious! When my daughter is in the hospital with emphysema because some youth pastor decided to prove a point to the church by smoking in front of his kids, I’m really gonna have to spit in his face! No. I won’t actually spit. But I will be sure to show him this blog, this post, this warning and my child and say, “Do you think this is what Jesus meant when he said to feed His sheep?”

    I beg of you. Let’s not set aside our witness to let out our steam. It’s a problem, and as cool as it is becoming, it’s not cool. It’s not cool when mentors of young girls now become confusing to them because where they are going to Bible Studies and they are doing mission trips, they are dropping the “f” bomb and are drinking more than just occasionally. These are the same ones that tout, “Be all things to all men so that we might save some,” but if you are doing these things in the privacy of your home, on the back porch with a shade up, are you doing it for “all men” or are you doing it for you? Has your release become more important than your witness?

    Jesus says, “Come as you are.” But, those that have been pitiful and dirty and scarred, desperate and dark and scared know that He doesn’t want you to stay that way. It’s a process. I will be the first to admit that I have a ton of issues that need to be rooted out and dealt with, but He is faithful to gently and passionately show me what they are and as He does He transforms those places…by the renewing of my mind, not by my “relevant” living.

    The hope is in the changed life, not the compromised one.

  • Life is but a dream…

    I had a dream last night. It was fantastic, a love story, drama, suspense, fantasy, all in one. I thought to myself, “This would make a lovely book.” And, maybe it will one day. But one part of the dream is standing out to me, has stood out to me all day…I will explain.

    In this dream, the main character was a man…he lived in this elaborate but very art nouveau house; the whole place was like an art gallery. One part of the house that stands out significantly was this staircase, and all along one side of this staircase were bookshelves with thousands and thousands of books…all in hard back, all with gold pages. It was beautiful, and for a writer and reader, like myself, it was intoxicating and irresistible.

    Immediately, I began to thumb through each one, marveling at its pages and tracing the words on the binding. I didn’t know that the man was observing me. I was enthralled in this world of books. Suddenly I noticed one book that was simple…the pages were simple, the lettering simple, and it seemed pristine. I picked it up, the title was something about streams or deserts…I know, two very different pictures, but for the life of me, I cannot remember which; it was, after all, a dream. But, perhaps the truth in that statement lies in the fact that I casually glanced it over and replaced it, uninterested.

    It was then that I noticed the man, in the corner, watching me. He was a lovely man, beautiful in every way…and I was drawn to him. It took me but a second to see the glistening tears in his eyes, not yet dropped but shining. Confused, I ran to him seeking to wipe his tears, to understand his pain, but he turned from me and said, “That was the story of my life.” I was even more confused so he continued, “That book that you clearly had no interest in…was the story of my life.” I was deeply regretful, sad, and upset. I had hurt this dear, precious, lovely man by my disregard for his life, his book, his story.

    I ran, far and fast…and eventually I woke up. Broken hearted over my choice, and my casual dismissal of a life that I had come to love. I would like to have that dream again…and choose to love that book.

    But tonight…I’m feeling that dream again…but in a different vein. I’m thinking of another book, lying on my bed stand. I’m thinking of a book that sits unmoved since yesterday. I’m thinking of a book that tells an amazing story of amazing lives that reveal the life of One and One alone…the life and character of my God. I’m thinking about how often I dismiss it, or casually glance at it and replace it on my bed stand. I’m thinking about the many times that I have pulled out one or two verses only to disregard the full meaning of the Word. And, I am picturing a man…a beautiful man, a lovely man, an innocent man that died so that I could read and understand and love those words. And, how he must feel as he sees me disregard His book. And I want to run, far and fast…but instead, I will cease my writing and I will choose His book…and I will read His book…I will love His book. And, in the end, I will find myself, not regretful, but safe once more in the arms of grace.

    It really was a beautiful dream.

  • In the face of fear

    Fear.

    It is our strongest opponent. It has the power to cripple and annihilate. It is the antithesis of hope and faith. It awaits our slightest slip.

    It finds us at unexpected places… Expectedly. In the hospital waiting on a diagnosis, a treatment, a test result. At school in the hallways, in the principals office, in the face of a bully. In our homes in the confines of a closet, on the floor of a bathroom, in the security of our beds. It finds us. It doesn’t have to try.

    It is an enemy we create, with our minds, in our hearts, and with our consent. It is the thing that keeps us from dreaming, hoping and, for too many of us, living. It is the one thing that can and does separate us from the love of God…the love of others…the love of self.

    It is a faithful opponent, an intimidating foe. It finds me fragile and scared; broken and scarred. It finds me; try as I might to elude it’s onset, it finds me. And when it does it ravages me. In a matter of seconds it rips away my security and dares me to raise my chin. I tremble in it’s wake, and it gloats darkly.

    Then I get in it’s face and I speak. I speak to my fear. Ridiculous, huh? But, it is forced to listen, and as I speak I am forced to hear…I am not alone. I am not the sum of my mistakes, my aggressions, my assaults. I am not crazy or a victim or a fraud. I am not afraid! And finally I speak the words that makes fear cower. I am NOT afraid! I speak it again, louder and with more strength. I AM NOT afraid! And suddenly my fear takes a backseat to my indignation. Greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world! I am more than a conqueror! I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me! Perfect love casts out ALL fear! And, i feel it…I’m alive and well and equipped to face whatever comes my way … Until it finds me again, face to face.

  • Musical Interlude

    I have a natural affinity for Southern Gospel music. True, there is some underlying history there, but the fact is, if I’m gonna spend an hour and half listening to music, it’s not gonna include a song titled, “Don’t let the sandals fool ya.” Just being perfectly honest. Living in the deep south this poses a bit of problem as apparently it is the commonly selected entertainment for church homecomings…in fact, if you have more than five Saints in your church over the age of sixty, chances are you’re going to come face to face with a gospel singin’. And, yes, it’s a singin’ or a sangin’ depending how far in the country you go to hear said music.

    It can be nasally and twangy and yet, oddly enough for many it is still considered hand clapping, foot stomping, hand raising good entertainment. Once a year is about my limit. And amazingly, God has given me two occasions in one week to bear witness to this Southern phenomenon. But, before I get accused of being calloused and cruel, let me get to my point. Whether or not I like it, doesn’t matter…God is still using it to channel His message to His people, young and old, town or country.

    I don’t have to enjoy something to hear the word of God in it. I don’t have to listen with raptured interest to the bass as he belts out a verse that is almost too low to catch it’s meaning, but when he starts to speak the name of Jesus…there is a power in his words and his voice that without that element would cease to exist. I don’t squeal with delight when the tenor passionately sings what I feel to be unnatural octaves far above any man’s range about the Living Water. I don’t get chill bumps at the end of the song when four men pair up in four part harmony so that you don’t know where one voice ends and the other begins, but I do appreciate their excitement for what they do to bring worship to their Lord. I may not like the music, but I believe the message.

    I’m also not crazy about Screamo or Heavy Metal, or Grunge rock, or Hard Rock or any other veneration of the word “Rock” that they have come up with in the last ten years and I have not been privy to. But, I know that God has touched hearts that do, and He will continue to use that form of music to impart a message of peace and redemption in a world of chaos and shame. It’s not about what I like, it’s about what they’ll listen to, and God is a great respecter of persons…He really does know what we like and tries to meet us with a message in a method that we will actually listen to.

    A few years ago I read, “90 Minutes in Heaven” by Don Piper. There are many things that have fancied my imagination about that book, but something that I find fascinating and look forward to experiencing first hand, is the fact that heaven is filled with music…all kinds, all genres, blended in perfect harmony reflecting praise and honor for the King. Can you imagine? Heaven, the place where Brian “Head” Welch and Demon Hunter play simultaneously with the Gaither’s and classical music!? But, I believe it is true. Because it is the message that the heart hears; it is the message that blesses God…and that message can come from a man or woman covered in tattoos singing out of a skull shaped microphone or it can resonate in four part harmony with a Southern twang or echo through the fingers of musicians the world over, who long to impart the message and hope of Christ with the gifts that they’ve been given! Beautiful, amazing grace…that finds us…everyone.