tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38060287050164717072024-03-24T12:44:28.182-05:00The Shepherd's GirlThe Good Shepherd once directed a repentant disciple, "Feed my sheep." Though I am unworthy like Peter, He has extended to me, as to you, the opportunity to serve others the Bread of Life. I am the Shepherd's Girl.<p></p>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-25786370808881804002013-06-22T18:02:00.000-05:002013-06-22T18:03:33.075-05:00Pilgrims, Strangers, and Wanderers<i>Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than any magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration. -Charles Dickens</i><br />
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When I was younger, before the days of CDs and MP3s, my brother and I listened to dramatized stories on old records or cassette tapes, stories we would play and replay until we knew them by heart and could repeat the lines along with the characters. Fortunately, as we exhausted listening material, they continued to make more, and at some point we acquired the audio version of the abridged Pilgrim’s Progress, part two (we read the book version for part one). The allegory was so lengthy we eventually just replayed our favorite parts, usually the tapes from about the middle of the story; the most exciting parts, we felt, were the parts when the pilgrims were fighting giants, though other parts of their travels and travails merited occasional listening.<br />
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Oddly, it is one of those “other parts” that is one of my favorites now. In the series, on the last cassette, Jim Pappas adapts Bunyan’s ending by quoting Ellen White in words that have always been etched onto a little plaque on a shelf somewhere in my mind. After the narrator paints a word picture of the peaceful land the travel-weary band finally arrives at near the legendary river, he proceeds in his scholarly voice to intone: “On those peaceful plains, beside those living streams, God’s people, so long pilgrims and wanderers, shall find a home.”<br />
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Home. By my estimate and memory, the number of residences and moves I’ve experienced totals up to somewhere around 23—the same number as years I’ve been alive. I don’t even know what to call home anymore, so anywhere I stay at for any length of time starts to get referenced as “home.”<br />
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What does home mean?
It’s one of the first things we ask complete strangers when we meet: “So where are you from?” or “Where’s home for you?” Home. We all know it’s important. It’s part of our identity, the place we claim as ours.<br />
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Despite its importance, “home” is difficult to define. I not always sure if it’s quite the place or the people there or maybe it’s a combination of the two, but I feel like it must be related to happiness, security, and stability—anything less just wouldn’t be “home.” And so we long for it, whatever it is, and everything it embodies.<br />
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“So where are you from?” asked a gentleman I met at a hostel while backpacking through Europe with my husband, more or less homeless. At a loss, I explained with a smile that I don’t really know—mid-west U.S.A. is the closest I can get.
“It’s not where you’re from that matters…It’s where you’re going,” he penned on my crumpled manuscript of signatures I collected as a souvenir of my travels.<br />
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Maybe it wasn’t exactly an epiphany, but I found a moment of clarity in his words. It’s okay if I don’t know precisely what to call home, if I’m not sure where to say I’m from, because I do know the part that matters—it’s where I’m going. I'm a pilgrim, not a homeless drifter. I have a home. It’s the place I heard described eloquently by the narrator in his scholarly voice while I lay on the floor of half a dozen different houses, listening to the cassette player, while my brother and were growing up. “On those peaceful plains, beside those living streams, God’s people, so long pilgrims and wanderers, shall find a home.”
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The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-7495020897480248192012-09-29T08:31:00.002-05:002012-09-29T08:55:16.096-05:00Any Time Now<p>
There are any number of things that can go wrong on a long journey; trekking about in foreign places seems to have a way of bringing out the occasions where stress, forgetfulness, and confusion coalesce into one menacing package. For David and I, one month into a three month honeymoon backpacking trip through Europe, those occasions haven't dampened our enthusiasm for our journey, but I'm uncertain that they're quite teaching us patience either.<p>
Thursday was one such instance. After spending a day in Poland visiting Auschwitz and Krakow, we were at the end of an overnight train ride that would roll into Vienna about 6:45 a.m. The swaying, heaving motion had lulled me into a rather deep sleep despite the less than cushiony bunk beds and the fact that my husband had been booked in a separate sleeping car; the conductor unceremoniously shook me out of such peaceful slumber and announced that we would be arriving at the station in 25 minutes. Somewhere during my half-alert teeth-brushing, face-washing session, David popped in with my second, smaller backpack that he had been storing overnight, and I mumbled something unintelligible before he left--not knowing that it would be the last time we would see each other for quite awhile.<p>
There was a brief, preliminary stop at Wien Miedling where I glanced out of our window into the semi-darkness to see if we had arrived, but almost as quickly the lurching, swaying motion began again, and with some commendable will power, I snapped my mountainous luggage into place on my back instead of drifting back to sleep. Moments later we reached the end of the line--Wien Westbahnhof--and I alighted without much grace and began searching the platform for David. A few minutes passed, all the passengers from our train flowed past in sleepy parade, probably collectively pulled along by the thought of coffee somewhere nearby, but my husband wasn't among them. Though I didn't think he would leave the platform and go into the train station without me, it seemed like the next best idea, so I walked inside and looked around the upper level near the entrance. No David. <p>
I never went downstairs. If David were at the station, I was sure he would have been waiting for me where he knew I would see him; since he wasn't I had to assume he had accidentally taken the first stop. Shifting Mount McKinley on my back, I waddled my way over to the railing overlooking the escalators to the lower levels and stood for a while drinking in the sunrise through the eastern windows. Silhouetted against the pastel clouds was a cathedral tower, darkly elegant by contrast. It was picture perfect, and I started digging through the smaller backpack for my phone to catch the sight for future posterity and Instagram.<p>
Right about then I discovered that David, having collected all our various electronic devices the night before to charge them, had packed them into the backpack he gave me. I had my phone, his phone, the iPod, and the iPad--leaving him with no method of accessing the Internet (our phones are inactive for the duration of our stay in Europe, but they are useful if one can find wifi). I took a picture of the quickly brightening sky gradually enveloping the cathedral.<p>
(See photo here: http://instagram.com/p/QESwVYujOr/ )<p>
It was 7:00. I picked up some free wifi, settled down on a bench near a power outlet, and fished out my ticket. Clearly printed after the arrow from "Krakow" was the station title "Wien Westbahnhof." With a sigh of relief, I noted that I had definitely taken the correct stop and that David had only to look at his ticket to recognize that he was at the wrong stop--and know where to find me. It was just a matter of waiting until he caught the next train in.
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An hour later there was still no sign of my husband. I sent him a message on facebook detailing exactly where in the station I was so he would have no difficulty locating me when he arrived. I knew he would find a computer or borrow someone's phone or somehow find a method of contacting me to explain the delay. As time rolled by much slower than the trains breezing in and out, I sent a couple emails just to be on the safe side and plugged my phone into the outlet next to me to avoid running the battery down.
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By 9:00 I was hungry, needed to find a restroom, and still missing my husband. Reattaching the luggage I'd removed for the couple hours I'd been sitting in the same spot, I walked a few yards to the InfoPoint across from my bench. Had they possibly heard from my husband or could they call around for him? While they announced his name over the intercom I struggled over to the nearest shop for an apple strudel, and came back. They said they would call the other station, and I spent the interlude dragging my Mt. McKinley up a couple flights of stairs to the ladies' restroom. When I returned there was news: The other station verified that David had been there, but they had sent him off with directions to arrive at my station.
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This was encouraging, and naturally I expected him to walk in the door at any minute. I had no way of knowing my extended stay on the metal bench wasn't to end as quickly as I hoped, but I assured my concerned family back home that I wasn't stranded--I knew David would come find me any time now.
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But no familiar faces appeared from the masses of people who came and went in the busy station. My seat mates on the hard, metal bench changed dozens of times and still I sat, waiting. I chatted with a few--a young woman designer from Brazil, a young Austrian soldier, a couple bored security guys patrolling the station-and most of them heard about my alleged husband who theoretically was going to come get me...sometime. And before long they would leave, and he still had not arrived.
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It was nearing 12 o'clock. It had been more than 5 hours since I had last seen David, and for all I knew I could be waiting in the Vienna train station for days, sitting on the same bench, eating an occasional snack from the concessions nearby, and assuring everyone that my husband was going to come find me anytime now. By the time he did I would probably be speaking passable German and the security guards would have thrown me out half a dozen times.
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Just before my plight actually became that serious, I looked up to see the most beautiful face I could imagine coming toward me from across the room. David grinned broadly and opened his arms wide in a triumphant gesture that I might have run toward if rapid movement were even mildly tolerated by my Mt. McKinley.
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We excitedly began comparing stories to figure out what had happened. My version basically consisted of me sitting, not moving, waiting. As it turned out, so did his. He had taken the stop the conductor said was his, then immediately discovered I wasn't there. Borrowing someone's Facebook (it wouldn't let him sign in to his own) he sent me a message telling me where I could find him--and then he waited, patiently, for me to follow his directions. But I never came. At last, he had come to my train station and found me.
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In some obscure folder with no alert sat his message: "Michelle, this is David. I got off at the wrong stop. I am at Wein Meidling; I am in the hallway between/under the platforms. I will not move. Please come find me. I love you." I'd never received it.
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However, despite of hours of waiting, delays to our exploration of Vienna, and the inconveniences all that entailed, we were just happy. Relieved to be back together. And very ready to leave the train station.
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The next day we were on a train again, rolling toward Croatia and watching the beautiful Austrian countryside unfold along the tracks. With so much time to think, I couldn't help but remember that another bride is waiting for her Groom to come get her. It's been such a long, long wait, yet through all the years that have passed, she insists He will come. Any time now. She watches the eastern sky, and she waits. He will come...any time now.
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But He doesn't come, and she wonders why He delays. So she sits, and she waits. Maybe she's missed a message somewhere, where He asked her to do something other than sit still, but at least she waits--confident that He is coming soon. Any time now, they'll be reunited.
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And when Christ has waited as long as He can for the church, at last He will come for her, right where she waits, so ready to leave this station. He will smile the most beautiful smile and open His arms wide, triumphantly, to greet her. Any time now, it will all be worth the wait.The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-10690233713944992132012-07-14T18:05:00.000-05:002012-07-14T18:20:17.330-05:00Strong.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It may well be the thing we most hate to love in America. Everyone praises it and extolls its benefits, but no one wants to actually do it. The majority of the adult population energetically writes it on New Year's resolution lists, only to find no energy left to actually follow through. You know what I'm talking about: Exercise...going to the gym...working out...becoming more active.<br />
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Magazines tell us why we should love it, and we know we want to, but after putting so much effort into acting like we aren't jealous of those annoyingly fit slimsters* who easily jog endless miles, somehow there just isn't any energy left to get out and go to the gym. And even if you <i>do</i> somehow work up the motivation to drag yourself into a room full of buff, compact, human energy bullets who blithely push around more pounds at once than you have moved in the last few weeks combined, the sheer depression resulting is likely to haunt you the next time you think of darkening the door to that jungle of muscles. No wonder everyone prefers going on a diet in America instead of going to the gym--it involves less action in general and zero interaction with those depressingly fit and muscular ones who make you feel like gorging on an entire bucket of donuts. With ice cream on the side.<br />
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This week, finding myself to be one of those Americans who wants to work out but doesn't really want to exercise, I went to the gym for the first time in months. Normally I rationalize myself out of this because I work with David doing landscaping and general yard work and, therefore, assume I'm getting all the exercise I need. Also, I don't exactly need to lose weight, so it seems even less necessary. However, recognizing that--like most American jobs--our work consists of finding the easiest, most efficient way to accomplish the project with minimal effort, I finally had to concede that working outside every week doesn't necessarily equate to "working out" and that, since landscaping doesn't seem to offer quite the degree of physical torture that the gym does, I probably need more exercise.<br />
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Monday went well, and for that first day I was under the happy delusion that it was going to be easier than I'd thought. Though somewhat sore, I felt satisfied with my achievement and the fact that I could still move without moaning or experiencing overt pain. By Wednesday, something about the 75 lb. bar weighting my shoulders as I did squats made me suspect seriously that there might be a rebellion brewing not far under my skin. As it turned out, I've been limping up and down stairs and wincing at attempts to sit down for the last few days.<br />
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Being ridiculously sore and achy has reminded me, though, that there are other ways to exercise aside from going to the gym. As Paul wrote to Timothy, <i>"...exercise yourself toward godliness."</i> (1 Tim. 4:7) And if physical exercise is important for good health and strength, how could its spiritual counterpart not be doubly crucial to our spiritual well-being?<br />
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This week I realized that working out consistently could save me the pain of making my muscles get reacquainted with exercise, and that building strength won't happen without some intentional effort. Ordinary daily work is good, but sometimes it's not enough. In the same way, I suspect, godliness won't just happen to us. Sure, instead of exercise we might prefer to go on a spiritual diet and avoid the bad stuff, but that alone won't give us the strength of character that we need as much as Timothy did.<br />
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I hope you'll join me in the spiritual gym to work with the Master Trainer. He knows where we are weak and just how to make us strong.<br />
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<i>"Only be <b>strong</b> and very courageous, that you may observe to do according to all the law which Moses My servant commanded you; do not turn from it to the right hand or to the left, <b>that you may prosper wherever you go</b>." Joshua 1:7</i><br />
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*Yes, that might be an imaginary term, but you know who they are.<br />
<br /></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0Springfield, MO, USA37.2089572 -93.292298937.1077867 -93.4502274 37.3101277 -93.134370400000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-31891617143520004942012-06-30T14:54:00.000-05:002012-06-30T20:13:24.000-05:00Marital Bliss and a Library Trip<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCgAau6rU-pe-W0bypL0UYAysT5OaMQJVY32TzBjQFFrh8Uqr5PKtn1ouLxJi1Y_jpnhM-9GVEI_QtYLt2ox8gml_Llm1RHFf-TVsbu17aSjg8vVXOXpjZlN2wu37dzl0e-YysfTTFVQ/s1600/532727_10150903407882880_671918543_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCgAau6rU-pe-W0bypL0UYAysT5OaMQJVY32TzBjQFFrh8Uqr5PKtn1ouLxJi1Y_jpnhM-9GVEI_QtYLt2ox8gml_Llm1RHFf-TVsbu17aSjg8vVXOXpjZlN2wu37dzl0e-YysfTTFVQ/s320/532727_10150903407882880_671918543_n.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I've been married now for three weeks and three days, and it's mostly just what I thought married life would be. Granted, people say the whole magical aura is supposed to fade gently (or not so gently) with time, and clearly time isn't really our marriage's strong point at this juncture, so I have no substantial argument as to why I think we are bound for "happily ever after." However, I have high hopes for the lifetime of happiness everyone so emphatically and repeatedly wished upon David and me the day of our wedding. In spite of hosts of well-wishes, most married people seem to expect that newlyweds are headed for some seriously surprising jolts by matrimony; I, for one, am convinced they are completely correct.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">David and I waited in the chilly reception area of the chiropractor's office, seated in straight-backed chairs with the sort of padding and contours that ensure that, by the time the doctor sees you, back pain will be a resounding 'yes.' We had just finished discussing the lack in the English language for a feminine version of the word 'emasculating' when he informed me that he wanted to stop by Aldi on the way home since it wouldn't be out of the way. Now, empirically speaking, the nearest Aldi store was definitely <i>not</i> located "on the way" home. Not empirically speaking, Aldi is not out of the way if that's where your husband wants to go and he is driving (Wife Rule #1: Don't correct your husband's sense of direction, even if it is wrong, and especially if he knows it). I resigned to a trip to Aldi.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Soon we had steered east, taken a couple right turns, and arrived at The Library Center, which, while located on the same general side of town as Aldi, looks absolutely nothing like it once you get beyond the category of "buildings constructed after the turn of the 20th century." David grinned, "See, I said Aldi was on the way home. Now it is!" Now, empirically speaking, making twice as many stops on a detour doesn't suddenly negate the 'detour' factor of that route. Not empirically speaking, a second stop out of the way doubles the purpose of taking that purposeless route (Wife rule #2: Don't correct your husband's math, even if he thinks that 0 x 2 = 2). I was increasingly glad I had no particularly serious reason to be home soon.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Walking past small knick-knack stores, the Mudhouse coffee shop, and various other things I didn't expect to find inside a library, we approached the "check-out desk" that dwarfed most of the furniture in our house, combined. David smiled at the curly-haired girl behind one of the computers, "We need to get my wife a library card."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Suddenly heaven dawned. Of course, how had it not occurred to me that I had moved within the city limits of a town with a library?! I had lived out of city limits (where library access costs $60/year) for so many years of my life that it hadn't even creeped across the stage of my mind that <i>now</i>, wonderfully, buildings full of books were at my full disposal. 'Giddy' would scarcely describe how I felt, but fortunately there were several aisles of references books available to relieve my quandary. One of them would surely house a thesaurus where dozens of similar words would tell me exactly how to describe my excitement, likely advising me that 'giddy' is really the best descriptor, though 'reeling' is a close second.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Does it cost <i>anything</i>?" I asked David as we prepared to check-out with the nine books I had selected. I'm pretty sure he laughed at me. Apparently, introducing a bookworm to the library is a bit like taking a shopaholic to the Mall of America for the first time, except cheaper. David seemed rather amused at my inordinate excitement over library access and perhaps confused that I considered city residency the single greatest boon of married life. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So everyone was right--married life is full of surprises. Great ones, in my opinion. The best part about it, though, is the part that I was aware of from the minute I said "yes" to David's proposal; the most awesome part of married life hasn't been one of those unexpected surprises along the way. It is the privilege of having someone to love who loves you and of getting to spend every day with the most amazing person you can imagine. City residency and library cards are wonderful, but really, the single greatest boon of married life is being with my husband.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sitting in church today, I almost didn't turn to the Scripture reading for Pastor Rester's sermon--the passage was familiar enough I could repeat it by heart. "<i>Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."</i> (John 14:1-3)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><font-family: 'times="" 16px;"="" font-size:="" georgia,="" new="" roman',="" serif;=""><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></font-family:><font-family: 'times="" 16px;"="" font-size:="" georgia,="" new="" roman',="" serif;=""><font-family: 'times="" 16px;"="" font-size:="" georgia,="" new="" roman',="" serif;=""><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is one of the most heart-warming promises, and we love to repeat these passages, these beacons from eternity. The mansions Jesus is preparing for us, the streets of gold and gates of pearl John saw in vision, the lion and lamb napping peacefully together in a country Isaiah depicts in perfect harmony--these glimpses of heaven are all throughout the Bible. Paul (often with sage insight in spite of not being married) assures us that, even with all we have been told of heaven, there are still surprises in store. He assures us that no earthly eye has seen, nor ear heard, all of the unimaginable things that await us in that land of utopian happiness. </span></font-family:></font-family:></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><font-family: 'times="" 16px;"="" font-size:="" georgia,="" new="" roman',="" serif;=""><font-family: 'times="" 16px;"="" font-size:="" georgia,="" new="" roman',="" serif;=""><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></font-family:></font-family:><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But the very best part of eternity isn't a surprise at all. No shocking, new revelation will give us the ultimate "what makes heaven, heaven." Jesus already told us the climax, the grandest dream come true: <i>"I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." </i>The most beautiful part of heaven and a new world is the privilege of having Someone to love who loves you the most...and getting to spend every day with the most amazing Person you can imagine.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The mansions will be wonderful, the scenery spectacular, residency in the most incredible city ever built...phenomenal. But no privilege--not even a library card--that comes with living in the New Jerusalem will ever, ever equal the pure ecstasy of finally spending eternity with Love.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"...and as the </span>bridegroom rejoices over the bride, so shall your God rejoice over you." Isaiah 62:5</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<br /></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-40288837588652364052011-12-31T14:42:00.002-06:002011-12-31T14:51:35.972-06:00Under the Sun<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="240" src="http://www.quickcert.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/istock_000013644242xsmall.jpg" width="320" /> </div><br />
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Last day of 2011. I'm in Houston, TX to attend the Generation of Youth for Christ 2011 convention. Somehow, in all the bustle from hotels to meetings, from meetings to meals, from meals to more meetings, it occurs to me that I haven't updated my blog in months and in a couple days...tomorrow...today...<i>this</i> is the last day I can do it this year.<br />
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2011. I've never been so glad to see a year end. There is no way to over-emphasize how drastically I have come to loathe the year 2011. Many times I've said I would trade this year in on any other year in the book and not look back; there is nothing to make this year worth the time.<br />
<br />
Yet here we are at last; having survived 2011, now we face 2012. I'm bringing it in at a Christian youth conference that stimulates a lot of thought and reflection, and I'm sure, no matter where you are, the realization that one chapter in time is closing and another is opening will give you pause to contemplate as well. We all like to think of it that way--an ending and a beginning; wrapping up the previous and starting fresh. Really, though, no year stands completely alone, unattached on either end, with a stark beginning and finish. It invariably borrows from the previous year some jagged attachments and loans its successor the remnants that remain.<br />
<br />
What are you carrying from the old year into the next 365 days that lie ahead? Have you thought about where this year has taken you, what it has changed about you, and what of it 2012 cannot change? That's the thing about this world--old things never quite go away even if you want them to, and new things are never essentially new even if they are new to you. Solomon knew what he was saying when he wrote that there is nothing new under the sun.<br />
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So here we dwell, under the sun, the land of repetitious life, where one year blends into the next seamlessly. Despite all our fresh starts, the new leaf we attempt to turn, and the disappointments, pain, and hurt we try to put behind us, life reminds us that each unwanted reminder always hides there in the shadows of this land under the sun. Move on? It will follow. Embrace the new? Don't be surprised if it feels a lot like the old. There is nothing new under the sun.<br />
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Before you find this as depressing as I do, look beyond life <i>under the sun</i>. There is One who isn't trapped in this land under the sun, and He holds the power to make all things new. Above the sun He reigns supreme, He holds the past and the future, and He holds the sun and the shadows. Someday soon, maybe before 2012 threads itself into yet another new year, He will visit our land under the sun just to pull us out of this old life and give us a new one.<br />
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He promises, "For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: And the former shall not be remembered or come to mind" (Is. 65:17). A newness that finally eradicates the old; a fresh start without a hint of the pain left behind. Aside from the new heart God promises to give us, the only thing absolutely and totally new we can expect while living here under the sun is the promise that one day, someday soon, our existence under the sun will give way to a new life, in a new land, where there is "no need of the sun...to shine in it, for glory of God illuminated it. The Lamb is its light" (Rev. 21:23).<br />
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What are you looking forward to in the New Year? I'm looking forward to a new year, knowing it takes us one year closer to life with the Son, no longer under the sun. Only God can create anything anew, and it is my prayer that the coming year brings you and me both of the only truly new things we can hope for--a new heart, and a new life in a new land not blighted by the curse of the land under the sun. I want to see the first real end--the end of sorrow, sin, and suffering; I want to see an absolutely new beginning.<br />
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It will come, if not this year perhaps the next. If not that one, perhaps the one following. But it will come. We will hear with John the long waited for announcement, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End" (Rev. 21:6)The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-7204442391752757222011-09-03T16:22:00.002-05:002011-09-03T16:26:43.591-05:00Red-Light Syndrome<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://kevindags.com/images/red_light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://kevindags.com/images/red_light.jpg" width="228" /></a><br />
Some people text at red lights. Others mutter impatiently under their breath, look for something under the passenger seat, or pass along ageless wisdom to the kids in the back seat, such as “The more you ask ‘Are we there yet,’ the longer it will take us to get there.” The list of possibilities is endless.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My own personal stop light pastime is watching the other vehicles and their drivers around me. This, which I have discovered is also a common pastime for others at red lights, has yielded other observations of dubious relevance and led me to believe that one could learn a great deal about humans simply by analyzing our driving habits (and I am not solely referencing their ability to reveal those with anger issues).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was spending a blazing hot summer day in Springfield behind a red light. Actually, not the whole day, but clearly everyone else wasn’t as at peace with the A/C blasting and music flowing while they waited for the light to change. I watched the lane of traffic stopped to my right as the car behind the first car in line rolled forward, closer to the other’s bumper. Looking up at the light, I noted that it was nowhere near our turn; I glanced back at the right lane. Behind the second car, the third car rolled up a few feet as well. Not to be outdone, the car behind it immediately moved up as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The car in front of me rolled forward. I almost let off the brake. By this time it had occurred to me that this rolling-forward-at-stop-lights phenomenon had never occurred to me before. Somehow I never really paid attention to it—I just tended to roll forward too. Now I was puzzled as to why, since it struck me as completely illogical.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why roll forward? It won’t get you through the light any faster. In fact, closing the distance between your car and the one in front could be a really bad idea if a car coming up to the light happened to rear-end you…and there goes the bumper of the car ahead of you. I really can’t think of any good reason to roll forward at a red light, and yet most of us do it. Consistently.<br />
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Apparently there is a good reason that Jesus is called the Good Shepherd, making those following Him His "sheep," like the woolly little creatures that follow almost unquestioningly. We have some nagging, innate need to follow after what we see. Whether that means following the example of the cars around us at a red light, getting an iPhone, pretending to hate Justin Bieber, or whatever else is currently the popular thing to do. Even a group of the most anti-conventional rebels might as well be carrying a banner declaring, "Let's be different--together!" The urge to follow something or something is almost impossible to resist, and while many are eager to stand out, most are reluctant to stand alone.<br />
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The question, then, isn't so much <i>if</i> you will be a follower. The question is <i>what</i> will you follow. You can follow what you see, what is popular, or what is familiar. You can follow what is wrong, what is right, what you're unsure of. You can follow the world or Christ.<br />
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Whatever you follow, remember the Red-Light Syndrome--when you follow something, the ripple of your influence makes you as much a leader as a follower. If you move forward, chances are that others will follow your example as well...and that doesn't just apply to red lights.</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-7633647930600482522011-08-13T20:31:00.005-05:002011-08-13T20:56:52.072-05:00Our Deepest Fear<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.keychangesmusictherapy.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Fear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://www.keychangesmusictherapy.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Fear.jpg" width="200" /></a><i><span class="apple-style-span">Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Actually, who are you not to be?</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You are a child of God.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Your playing small does not serve the world.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">There is nothing enlightened about shrinking</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">so that other people won't feel insecure around you.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">We are all meant to shine, as children do.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">It is not just in some; it is in everyone.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">other people permission to do the same.</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">As we are liberated from our fear,</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">our presence automatically liberates others.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><i>~Marianne Williamson</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><i> </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span><span class="apple-style-span"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I like this quote; it's very poetic. That’s not what I like about it though, since I don’t enjoy most poetry. I like this quote because it’s one of those sappy, inspirational quotes that begs for mutilation, which I am happy to provide. Really, I mean no disrespect to the author, or anyone getting warm fuzzies from reading her quote, but the premise is flawed at the most basic level and then a few decent ideas get thrown in the mix on top for a cheap finish. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">From a religious standpoint, however, I have an issue with it for more than just its lack of logic. The illogical premise of the poem by itself should render the quote nonsense, but the way it’s twisted with seemingly wholesome, motivational Christian sentiment makes it downright dangerous. The underlying fallacy is a sinister one because it is shrouded in more warm fuzzies than a Johnson & Johnson cotton swab factory. After all, who didn’t find it inspirational when film writers included in the script for <i>Akeelah and the Bee</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">First, though, think about the opening line: </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i>Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.</i></span><span class="apple-style-span"> Just think about it for two minutes and define for yourself what makes you afraid of anything. To find that root of your fear, it might help to consider what, if it were changed, could eliminate that fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The bottom line is: our deepest fear <i>is </i>inadequacy. </span><span class="apple-style-span">A fear of inadequacy is at the root of every fear, without exception; it underlies any phobia you can think of. Seriously, is it even possible for you to be afraid of something if you feel competent to handle it? Without being at all presumptuous, I think I can say that you can’t find a single instance where you were afraid of something without feeling inadequate in some way. The fear of inadequacy in coping with any given situation is fundamental to every fear, making it our deepest fear. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">If we fear being powerful beyond measure, it is because we fear being inadequate to control our own strength. If we are afraid of our light, it is because we feel i</span><span class="textexposedshow">nadequate to know how to use it. If we are afraid to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented or fabulous, it is because we doubt our ability to manage it. If we are afraid of anything positive, it is just as much because there is an underlying inadequacy as when we fear failure. There is never a need to fear unless one feels an inadequacy of some sort.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow">So what could remove your fear? Anything you think of that even theoretically could remove the fear is probably something to compensate for an inadequacy: a gun to protect against those more powerful than you are physically, a photographic memory to retain everything you studied for a test, social skills to keep you from making enemies among those envious of your abilities…the list goes on. I don’t know what world Marianne Williamson lives in, but on Planet Earth, fear means being filled with apprehension, intimidated by something you don’t have the ability to control. Inadequacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow">This, I think, is why the Bible says "Perfect love casts out all fear..." and "God is love." Therefore God, being omnipotent and without any inadequacies, is the only One who can displace fear. While He, love personified, lives in our hearts, His strength defies our inadequacies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="textexposedshow">Ms. Williamson says that “</span><span class="apple-style-span">We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.</span> <span class="apple-style-span">It is not just in some; it is in everyone.” She goes on to say that this glory, “our own light,” then liberates ourselves and others from our fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">If God, being love, is what casts out all fear, there is something amiss in the notion that this “glory of God…is not just in some; it is in everyone.” Does God—His perfect love—abide in everyone? Or is she saying there is something God-like in everyone, the innate compensation for any inadequacy, which means we have no inadequacy to fear? I hope I don’t have to point out the New Age leanings of this idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The sentiment certainly tends toward some feel-good, motivational, “the light is within you” philosophy; but the premise is bogus because we <i>are</i> inadequate. We are human, not divine. We are weak, lacking, insufficient in more aspects than most of us want to admit, and therefore we fear. To pretend that we have no fear of inadequacy is a farce, and more likely to get us into dangerous or embarrassing situations than actually empower us.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I’m not preaching defeatism, don’t misunderstand. We can conquer fear, but not through “our own light.” When Jesus said, “In your weakness, My strength is made perfect,” He made a statement that may not sound as appealing as “Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure,” but it contains a lot more truth and reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">There isn’t anything wrong with fearing our inadequacy because we are, in fact, weak. The real inspirational, motivational actuality, though, is that we don’t have to be crippled by it if we allow Christ to compensate for our inadequacies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">Perfect love casts out all fear…and God is love.</span><o:p></o:p></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-62803624145509736752011-07-16T18:28:00.001-05:002011-07-16T21:15:41.405-05:00Under a Rock<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="240" src="http://antiherogaming.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/livingunderrock.jpg?w=300&h=225" width="320" /></div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">"You don’t know what the Muppets are?! Have you been living under a rock?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“P!NK, you know, like…‘Glitter in the Air?’ No?! Have you been living under a rock?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Jim Carrey, you know, from ‘Dumb and Dumber’…Oh, right, you’ve been living under a rock.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know there’s this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Family Guy</i> episode where…Never mind, you wouldn’t—I forgot you live under a rock.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I hear that phrase about living “under a rock” several times in the same week. I find it amusing, and sometimes I just answer “No, I don’t know…I’ve been living under a rock. It's okay, you can call me an <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ingénue</span>.” Then I smile while I wait for them to decide whether or not to ask what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ingénue </span></i>means.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s true, I still can’t quite remember what Muppets are, in spite of the fact that I’m sure at least three different astonished people have described them to me. I couldn’t name a single song by the Backstreet Boys, haven’t seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grease</i>, and never did get fractured fairytales since I’m not sure how Cinderella let her long hair down so some handsome prince (who was a frog before she kissed him and Princess Aurora) could climb up and bring her back her slipper, which the Seven Dwarves returned after it was found by Little Red Riding Hood…or whatever happened. Those stories never made it into our library of books or videos when I was growing up. If any of that suggests that I have been living under a rock, then yes, I guess I have.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Granted, I’ve picked up a lot more pop culture in the last few years—in fact, I’m pretty sure I could sing along with the radio at least once every half hour if you put it on scan. These days I’ve seen a lot more modern media than I even care to, but none of it has convinced me that I missed out on anything growing up “under a rock.” Occasionally I just wonder if kids today are aware that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rock</i> can actually reference a hard object found outdoors as well as a music genre…let alone know how to spell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">genre.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t mean to criticize all the kids raised with all the knowledge that I freely admit is foreign to me; I fault them for nothing except perhaps faulting me for not knowing the same things they do. Really, I simply want to reassure concerned parents that their kids won’t necessarily grow up hating them for having raised them under a rock. In fact, they might even be grateful for it. I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">See, my parents didn’t raise my brother and me watching Barney. We watched Janice’s Attic, where I learned what caused condensation, what a kimono was, and that if Jesus made even the elephants to be kind to each other then I could be more thoughtful too. We didn’t read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cinderella</i>, but I still know the names of dozens of missionaries and great men and women—Mary Slessor, John Paton, David Livingstone, Josephine Cunnington Edwards, Moses, Narcissa Prentiss, F.A. Stahl, Joseph, William Booth, Wycliffe, Roger Williams, Corrie Ten Boom, Uriah Smith, Eric B. Hare, Martin Luther, Esther, Daniel Boone, John Bunyan, Joan of Arc, the Wesley brothers, Ellen G. White, Abraham Lincoln, Adoniram Judson, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Jesus Christ—because I read their stories or listened to their dramatized biographies on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your Story Hour</i>. We didn’t sing along with Britney Spears, but we did sing this song at church called “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So when people ask me if I’ve been living “under a rock” I have to smile at the irony. My parents weren’t raising me to be living “under a rock;” they raised me to live <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on the Rock.</i> Sure, they made plenty of mistakes and didn’t raise my brother and me in some blissfully picture-perfect family that could probably find its simile in some TV sitcom I’ve never seen, but I can’t regret for a minute the many things from which they sheltered me, all in an attempt to build the house of my character firmly on the Rock of Ages. Every positive aspect of my life I can trace back to the foundations laid in my upbringing, foundations that could have been built on the world’s shifting sand, but instead were painstakingly grounded by my parents on the unmoving Rock, the Cornerstone many builders are still rejecting (Acts 4:10-12).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you’re a parent, I want to reassure you that building your children on the Rock is worth it; at least, I’m so grateful that my parents took the effort. If your parents raised you in such a way that you occasionally get asked if you’ve been living “under a rock,” I hope you smile and aren’t at all embarrassed by it. After all, someday—when the Rock cut out without hands returns to bring this world to an end—no one is going to ask you how many episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Simpsons</i> you missed out on growing up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Living under a rock? No. Living on the Rock? I pray it will always be so.</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-3294684947290030792011-07-09T21:05:00.003-05:002012-06-30T16:00:08.878-05:00Circumstantial Evidence<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
I stood at the register desk and examined the breakfast vouchers. They were obviously photocopied, the writing traced a second and third time to the point of distraction, and cut jaggedly like a first-grader’s end-of-the-day craft project. The two waitresses waiting for my reply glared at the specimens skeptically.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The restaurant within a hotel where I supervise attracts most of its customers from the voucher system; that is to say, the hotel provides free breakfast passes to regular guests, groups, and so forth. Usually these are on pre-printed cards that the front desk personnel simply fill out with the group code, guest name, room number, etc., however on the rare occasions when they run low on the cards they sometimes neatly copy a blank voucher.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These were different. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was working Sunday after a couple days off, and my staff had already regaled me with tales of the family of vandals that had descended on our restaurant in my absence. With so many kids of all ages and so few manners to go around, the family had single-handedly decimated the buffet room and left their tables in a state of chaos to rival the combined force of Katrina and Rita. According to the waitress who had their section, they had exited a side door without even leaving enough vouchers for everyone. Having been amply warned, I waited for the demolition team to arrive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And they had, presenting me with the suspicious vouchers. As they filtered through with to-go boxes to carry out their spoils of war, I stood analyzing the vouchers while the waitresses looked on, justifiably critical of the jagged vouchers’ validity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Julie* shook her blond head, hands on hips. “These are photocopies…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I agreed, “Yes, but occasionally we do get photocopied vouchers from front desk. It happens.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> look like this!” she protested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, I had to agree. Both girls adamantly pointed out that the vouchers always were cut with the guillotine paper cutter in the office, never jaggedly with scissors; they weren’t scrawled all over multiple times, and the account codes usually matched on each voucher within a group or family—these didn’t. I couldn’t deny a word of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turning to one of the voucher-wielding conquerors, I asked who at the front desk had given them the vouchers and when. “The girl with the long dark hair in the ponytail…on Thursday.” Conveniently, Hannah* wasn’t on duty Sunday to vouch for the vouchers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Julie shook her head again and declared that Hannah never would have given out vouchers that looked like that, she was much too careful and precise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I handed the vouchers back to the waitresses. “We have to accept them. Yes, they look for all the world like phonies, but we can’t prove that they are. Maybe front desk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>photocopy them, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> the guillotine paper cutter was missing or dull so they had to use scissors, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> for some unknown reason Hannah scrawled over the writing a couple times.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My staff stared at me doubtfully, conveying the clear message that they would sooner believe Casey Anthony was innocent.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No matter how unlikely that sounds, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> possible…” I finished in a whisper, “Even though they look guilty as sin, the evidence is all circumstantial, and we can’t know for sure that they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aren’t</i> authentic.”</div>
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Neither of the waitresses appeared even slightly convinced, and, honestly, I wasn’t either.</div>
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The next morning Hannah came breezing through for some coffee, and I stopped her with the incriminating vouchers in hand and the staff listening on the side: “Do you remember if you guys gave these out at the front desk Thursday?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Hannah glanced at them quickly. “Oh yeah, they just had so many of them that I copied some instead of handwriting everything out again. Some of it was in red pen, though, so I went over it again with a black one since I wasn’t sure it would copy.”</div>
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Ever since that incident I’ve thought how often we jump to conclusions about people, especially when we think they are just the sort of people to do whatever we assume they did. When Jesus said, “Judge not, that ye be not judged” it was clearly not because humans have a great track record for open-mindedness. For some reason we have a natural tendency to critique, categorize, and convict everyone around us. And, not surprisingly, we are often completely wrong in our conclusions.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Christians certainly aren’t exempt. It might sound like I’m beating a dead horse, but seriously…what’s with all of us judgmental Christians? I’m including myself because I know better than to think I haven’t ever done it too, and I hope you think carefully before assuming that you aren’t guilty of it. What makes any of us so holy that we feel adequate to pass judgment on anyone else? Maybe it’s just that much easier to see a mote in our brother’s eye than to deal with the beam in our own. </div>
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Cliché? No doubt. You already knew all of that, and so did I. For some reason, though, it just hit home when I realized how something that looked so clearly guilty wasn’t what it seemed at all…and how easily in our finite wisdom we can be very wrong. Jumping to conclusions and passing judgment have far-reaching consequences, and I’ve resolved that I would rather err on the side of caution.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Let’s leave the judging up to the all-knowing God who never errs.<br />
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*Names changed.</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-57721981448868169532011-06-25T14:04:00.000-05:002011-06-25T14:04:47.504-05:00"My Christianity Sucks!"<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyP9wUtpKoQBSacI_WOgLh-Ij8jY8VBSDq_ByfyQknzdMbsnYDM4sg1syLClj7G2edgBcLP5W6CtHM8z6EPww' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“My Christianity sucks!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was a moment of supreme transparency, and I couldn't help but feel a kinship with my friend's sentiments. Several years have passed since that conversation, and that’s the only sentence I recall from it, but those words sunk down deep. Though I'm reasonably sure I've never expressed it quite that way, there have many days when translating my soul’s spirituality into electric impulses would have transmitted the weakest of vital signs. If there had been some device to electronically connect my heart to the keyboard of my laptop, Microsoft Word would have received very little communication. In fact, it probably would have typed just one sentence: My Christianity sucks!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Perhaps you've never felt that way, but I would be bold enough to guess that at some point, during some spiritual dry spell in your life, you were tempted to doubt the validity of your whole experience as a Christian. You know the time. Maybe you put on your church face and no one was the wiser, but when you peeled it off in the mirror at home after the sermon there was that vacuous stare from the eyes on your soul. You didn’t think your prayers would get past the ceiling, even if you could think of anything else to say. You didn’t voice, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Christianity sucks.</i>” But you felt it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">If you’re hoping for some cushy, feel-good , “this too shall pass” dénouement for the “My Christianity sucks” crisis, you will have to look farther than my blog. I don’t have that kind of solution to write for you because, when you are in that valley, some glib, poetic, philosophical resolution is almost entirely useless. “My Christianity sucks” rarely resolves with beautiful, dramatic closure.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">One thing kept coming back to me, though, as I pondered my friend’s exclamation: “My Christianity sucks!” The word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my.</i> Is it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your </i>Christianity? Could that be the problem? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My</i> brand of Christianity could be lacking if I acquired, designed, and fitted it on my own. No wonder it sucks—I suck at creating beautiful things out of the unlovely. But wouldn’t you know…God doesn’t. He’s a master at that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Does your Christianity suck? Maybe it’s time to exchange it for Christ’s brand of Christianity. Throw out all your failures to attain, all your notions of what you must do, and be an empty vessel for Christ to fill. After all, that’s what He is waiting on anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Yes, it’s harder to do than it sounds. It’s humbling to plead with David through the darkness “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me.” (Psalm 51:10) But it’s certainly better than wearing the façade of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> Christianity, hiding behind some past spiritual high and hoping you can revitalize it before it withers. Just let go of it, and ask Christ to give you a new Christianity—His version of Christianity. It may actually be more demanding than yours was, but it will also be more rewarding and less fickle. Take <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His </i>yoke upon you…and you <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">will</b> find rest for your soul.</span></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-7268095819880428102011-06-20T15:52:00.001-05:002011-06-20T15:54:45.788-05:00Pages!In a brief departure from my usual blog posts, I wanted to point out that I now have pages listed across the top of the blog to link you to pages including About Me, Quotes, Recipes, Contact Me, Fainting Robins, and Know the Song. "Recipes" has been recently updated with a recipe for Blackberry Cream Cheese Coffee Cake (and a picture ;-) Please check them out at your leisure...Hope you enjoy!The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-66395933646034838032011-06-18T17:54:00.004-05:002011-06-19T14:44:11.340-05:00The Way...sans maps or GPS<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSzhToV6J4Zv6x9mAa87lnxUujDfjx5RDx2R_TFmnyXH2uf8AuwfQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSzhToV6J4Zv6x9mAa87lnxUujDfjx5RDx2R_TFmnyXH2uf8AuwfQ" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In general, I have a distinct aversion to using a GPS. The invention was possibly the summit of brilliance and annoyance all rolled into one fantastic and pricey package that offers the opportunity to get given incorrect directions in a voice that conveys less personality than the slam of my car door. Personally, I'd much rather just go the old fashioned way and use a map when necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bad directions aren't unique to using a GPS, however. In fact, there are times when I might prefer to capitulate to popular choice and use a GPS rather than attempt to follow people's directions. Case in point...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Scenario: Meeting a friend at the Battlefield Mall. Texting upon arrival.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Me</i><i>:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>Hey, where are you?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Friend:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>The mall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shook my head and tried to quell the responses coming to mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Me:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>Yeah, you're also in Springfield, MO, but I could use something a bit more specific.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Friend:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>Macy's<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my experience, department stores like Macy’s on the mall have only slightly fewer entrances than the catacombs. There are dozens of departments, entrances in the mall, out of the mall, upstairs, downstairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Macy’s. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really?!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I finally got enough clues in the hunt to locate my friend, and by the time we were going to meet to leave I got a text asking where to pick me up. The golden opportunity to reply "outside the mall" fleetingly danced around in my brain, but I resisted the urge and answered, "Could you just pick me up on the east side at the north end by Hu Hot restaurant? I will be outside on the sidewalk."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Am I asking too much to request reasonable, detailed directions? Probably so. It’s probably why I can identify with Thomas’ question to Jesus in John 14. Right after one of Jesus’ most beautiful promises of going to prepare mansions, a place for each us, Thomas has to pipe up. Listen to the dialogue:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span">“And where I go you know, and the way you know,” Jesus tells the disciples.</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <span class="apple-style-span"><b><sup id="en-NKJV-26670"><o:p></o:p></sup></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span">“Thomas said to Him, ‘Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way?’”</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.</span>’”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The sad part—I can just hear myself asking the same question Thomas did. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I want to know exactly where we are going and how we are getting there; is that so unreasonable? Do you have a map, Lord? I’d really like to know the ETA…What about a GPS? I know you know the latitude and longitude coordinates, so just plug those in and I’ll be ready to go. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can see Jesus smiling sadly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They missed it</i>. He had been showing them The Way and telling them where He was going for three and a half years, ever since His initial command “Follow Me,” recorded in eleven different places throughout the Gospels. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You see, if there is one thing better than detailed directions, it’s having someone lead you directly to your destination. No worries about taking a wrong turn, confusing one exit for another, or accidently entering the wrong end of a mall’s department store. Just follow the one who knows the way already.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Jesus asked anyone to follow Him, it wasn’t merely “Let’s go this way today and see what we can find to do.” It was a calling that went far deeper. As they followed Him literally and figuratively He was showing them The Way; they saw it each day, like a map written in the dust of Capernaum or Nazareth or Jerusalem, and so, as Christ’s ministry drew to a close, He knew they had seen where He was going…and they knew The Way. It was simple—all they had to do was keep following Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So long after the days of the Apostles, I have a little Thomas inside me persistently wanting further directions. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord, don’t you know I could get lost if I don’t have step by step instructions? Where are you going, and what is the way? </i>Maybe you, like me, find yourself demanding detailed directions from God for your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can just see Jesus smiling sadly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You missed it. Where I go you know, and the way you know. Remember that I said to follow Me? Just follow the One Who knows the way already.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-59260165166906272332011-06-13T21:57:00.002-05:002011-06-13T22:10:17.727-05:00Remember Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I pulled into a parking space at <a href="http://www.friendsofthegarden.org/discover/visit">Springfield's botanical gardens</a> Sabbath afternoon, and Daniel roared his motorcycle into a spot a couple spaces over. Since we had both driven into church that morning and were planning to attend the evening program, we decided to save the gas expense of a trip home and back again. The somewhat less gas efficient alternative to simply waiting at the church was my idea--spending the afternoon at an awesome park.<br />
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We wandered down the paths toward the lake which separated us from a couple in wedding attire being posed and photographed by two zealous photographers. The paths divided trees and carefully chosen plant life until they led into a clearing centered with a figure on a bench. At first glance I thought it was a woman watching the geese at the edge of the lake, but the plaque on the back of her bench revealed that it was a statue, a memorial to a lady I had never heard of before.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/248386_10150277249038420_715338419_9004200_6111875_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit to M. Daniel W. Wilson</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
For a while we sat on the bench with her, took a few pictures, and moved on. Down the path was a spread of plants and flowers framing another bench with the inscription, "Sit Awhile With John and Mary." I was beginning to understand why the botanical gardens were also collectively referred to as the Memorial Park. It was an odd sight, all the life humming and growing around silent memorials to individuals who had passed away, all of them complete strangers to me.<br />
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The lesson I have been discussing for the last couple weeks with the youth class that I lead at church has been about the Lord's Supper, and somehow I found Christ's choice of words oddly striking--"This do in remembrance of Me." (Luke 22:19) Never was there a life of more significance than Jesus' life, and the same is true of His death, so it makes perfect sense that there should be a memorial to Him of equivalent significance. So I wondered how it was that He chose the memorial that He did...the observance of His final supper, from the foot washing before to the exact meal that followed.<br />
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It's not the typical memorial, to be sure. Lincoln has his memorial, Washington his monument, and Sojourner Truth has a statue to commemorate her as well. I've seen them all. Historically, even the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, chose a massive golden statue as a tribute to his achievements. When Jesus chose a memorial He might have had any kind of monument He wished; if He wanted a statue of Himself calming the waves, or a crucifix, a nativity scene--perhaps made of gold or marble or pearls--He could have commanded it to be. But instead He gave us something alive: an experience. It's an experience involving emblems of sacrifice, a living testimony to His undying love. Every time we observe the Lord's Supper we can experience His love and forgiveness in a new way, which is infinitely more moving than a statue and far more meaningful than a plaque, picture, or commemorative phrase.<br />
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"This do in remembrance of Me," Jesus said. And then He led His disciples from the upper room to a garden...If it had been the botanical gardens instead of Gethsemane perhaps there would be a bench under some trees inscribed with the Savior's plea, "Tarry ye here, and watch with me." (Matthew 26:38)The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-48513597676005333472011-05-28T20:19:00.000-05:002011-05-28T20:19:03.680-05:00False Advertising<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://wwhnl.com/wwffhh/2008/september/images/images/wrinkle-main_Full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://wwhnl.com/wwffhh/2008/september/images/images/wrinkle-main_Full.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I get so annoyed by things that are advertised as something they are not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My scotch tape dispenser proclaims “invisible” tape...and I always thought invisible meant “not able to be seen.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would suggest they try terming it translucent, but they are probably still working on making it invisible so renaming it might put a damper on progress.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then there is the beauty parlor that offers a permanent for my hair. Oddly, I've had close to ten of those permanents and none of them were. Seriously, isn't that false advertising?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I must be the only one who has stared at a wrinkle in a purportedly “wrinkle-free” shirt and said, “Okay, what are we going to name you since you're not supposed to be a wrinkle?” Actually, I haven't said that, but it seems like a fair question for a wrinkle-free shirt that has more wrinkles than a pug.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While we're talking about calling things what they're not I am not going into Taco Bell's “Mexican” food offerings, but only out of respect to my friends who oddly enjoy its...er, hmm...fine cuisine. Or Chinese restaurants that serve French fries and play country music (yes, I have had the misfortune of encountering numerous such establishments). The list of false advertising that I’m not going to address could go on and on. And on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wonder if God has the same annoyance. Does it bother Him to see things and people stamped with the description of “Christian” when, in reality, they don't merit the title? If the performance doesn't validate the claims, it sounds suspiciously like false advertising to me. And I think I might be guilty at times—sometimes I might be more of an invisible Christian than Scotch can make their tape. And hair permanents are really no worse than I am about maintaining a lasting transformation. As for Taco Bell's scrumptious “Mexican” food...well, can I complain if it's not authentic? After all, I call myself a Christian—but there are times when I am sadly unlike Christ.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This seems to be a primary complaint of many who object to Christianity—it’s the hypocrisy, our religious word for “false advertising.” I’ve heard many people say, with some sort of accomplishment, that they are bad—but at least they don’t hide it under some veneer. In fact, there seems to be a lot of virtue associated with accepting your inadequacies instead of trying to alter them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I beg to differ. That makes about as much sense as applauding those clothing companies for shifting their advertising to “We Will Not Lie—Our Shirts Wrinkle Stupendously!” or “Wrinkle-Free is for Wimps—Get the Ones That Wrinkle!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead of renaming wrinkles maybe it would be better to just actually be “wrinkle-free.” The solution isn't to call myself what I am, but to become what I call myself. In life we can either pretend to be something we’re not, just accept what we are and demand accolades for the virtue of being transparent, or start producing products to match the description, so that the advertisement is justified. Sadly, too many of us, Christians included, find the first two options more appealing because they seem to require less effort.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let’s not forget, though, that we don’t have to do the work alone. It is Christ working through us to transform us, and He promises that “He who has begun a good work in you will complete it” (Philippians 1:6). I’m glad to know that not only do I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> have to settle for my weaknesses, but Christ doesn’t leave you or I to do the work alone. He will transform our characters into authentically wrinkle-free Christianity. </div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-84740042900609113612011-04-30T15:15:00.001-05:002011-04-30T15:20:10.991-05:00He Saved Others<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>In honor of Mother's Day, just around the corner, and Easter Sunday that is just behind us, I thought this story would be appropriate. Quotes that I have italicized are verses directly from the Bible, but all other references in the story are accurate to the Biblical location and time frame, though I've put my own imaginative spin on it...Hope you enjoy.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="200" src="http://wordincarnate.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/good-thief.jpg?w=298&h=300" width="199" /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The woman stood on Calvary’s hill, transfixed by the scene before her. It was not the first time she had witnessed a crucifixion, but it was the first time someone she loved had been the victim of this brutal punishment. She more than loved the dying man—she had given life to him, and in all his growing up years she had believed in his potential. He had a good heart and she cherished the thought that he would be a great leader. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> However, his life did not meet the plans a fond mother’s heart had laid out. Despite her attention and concern, he drifted with the wrong crowd, slowly losing respect for Jehovah, the religious ceremonies and traditions, and at last even ignoring the civil laws imposed by the Romans. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> As reports filtered back to her of debauchery, thievery, and riotous living, her heart ached for her son. Often she searched herself for some explanation, some mistake that she could attribute his actions to. Where in his upbringing had she failed? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In spite of the accounts of his wickedness, she who knew him best could not believe that the boy, who even now occasionally displayed affection for his aging mother, was entirely beyond hope. Her discerning heart saw in him opportunity for reform.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">But all reflections on the past seemed meaningless now—this was the end. Her son had been condemned to death in the most degrading and cruel fashion of the day by the civil authorities who were anxious to crush all lawlessness and rebelliousness in their subjects.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">What could she tell them? That her sweet boy was merely a misguided youth? That he had fallen in with the wrong company, but was not beyond hope? Never could she persuade them that an apparently hardened criminal was not as callous as they supposed. It was true that he had stolen, murdered, and committed a host of other hideous crimes that left her aghast. Nevertheless, she felt he needed a second chance—if he were given a clean slate, surely her boy would never again sully it with another wrong act. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> That was purely wishful thinking, she realized bitterly, for it was obvious that even God had rejected her son. The Pharisees’ and Sadducee’s teachings offered no hope for one who led a life apart from Jewish beliefs and customs, and even she could not defend his lack of interest in the synagogue. The lack of Divine intervention in this case could only mean that her son’s conduct had pushed him beyond the limits of God’s mercy. Her son was doomed, and she had no recourse but to resign herself to his fate—and her own. For what could she blame his decisions on, but the upbringing he had received in her home? The mother knew that the dark cloud already weighing on her soul would stay with her until her grieving heart was stilled by death.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Her thoughts were interrupted by an outburst of jeers by the priests and rulers nearby. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“He saved others; let Him save Himself, if He be Christ, the chosen of God.”</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The mother turned her eyes for a moment from her son to the Man beside him, the object of the priests’ and rulers’ mockery. With a start, she recognized Him as the Galilean teacher—purported healer and miracle worker. Many had even said Jesus might be the Messiah, and in spite of His hopeless circumstances, some onlookers were even now whispering His deeds and words among themselves as if unwilling to accept the finality of His situation. Was He not being murdered in the same ruthless fashion as her son? What made His condition any different from that of her son?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Watching Jesus, however, the mother knew immediately that there was something different about Him. He was not angry or rebellious; He did not curse the guards, priests or rulers that were taunting Him. His face expressed pity and concern for…could it be for those who were tormenting Him?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Does Jesus truly not hate these people who so obviously are reveling in their brutality?” She asked almost unconsciously.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No, he doesn’t,” a tense voice beside her spoke. It trailed off thoughtfully, “Did you hear Him say, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do…’</i>”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She turned to see the speaker, an older woman who was obviously agonized by the scene. Forgetting her own grief for a moment, the mother put her arm around the other woman in an attempt to console her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Perhaps you shouldn’t be here, watching this spectacle,” the thief’s mother whispered. “I can see it is upsetting you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why is life so harsh?” Tears formed little rivulets down the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">As her own pain rose to the forefront, the mother sobbed, “My son is the young man dying on the right, and my heart breaks to watch him suffering. Is your anguish even a portion of mine? I cannot expect you to sympathize, but if you only understood…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She fell silent, her tears flowing unchecked. The older woman at last replied, “I do understand. You see, my son hangs in the middle. His sign reads “The King of the Jews” in mockery, but I believed with all my heart that He is the king, the Messiah we have been seeking.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Mary’s dim eyes glazed over with a thousand question marks as she looked up at the other mother. “Why then is He on the cross? If only I knew the explanation. I do not know why He is being crucified. What I do know is that He has given sight to the blind, healed the broken hearted, brought the dead to life and preached deliverance from sin. He does not deserve to die this death, but somehow it is as if He knew all the time that this day would come.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She looked away from her son’s tortured face, and gestured toward the temple gleaming in the light of the setting sun. “Thirty-three years ago I stood in that temple to give an offering for my newborn son, and a holy prophet gave a blessing, spoke of my son’s great destiny, yet warned that a sword would pierce my heart. When Jesus stood in that same temple twenty-one years ago and said that He must be about His Father’s business, I never would have thought this would be part of it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The old woman tearfully looked back at the thief’s mother and reached for her hand. “I wish I could be back in the temple with Him, watching Him preach and heal…but Jesus has done nothing except be about His Father’s business. I believe somehow this is a part of the plan…though I do not understand it at all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The mother looked in amazement at the Man on the center cross. Could it be that Jesus’ mother was right—or was she only a biased, grieving mother? Was He the promised Savior, or only another false Messiah? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Her thoughts were again interrupted by another taunt, this time by the thief hanging on the left. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She ached for Jesus' mother beside her. The jest seemed so cruel to a dying man.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Suddenly she was astonished to see her son struggle to speak, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.”</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Her heart leapt at his words. He was the same soft hearted son she knew and loved, but more than that, he recognized the folly of his ways and was repentant. If only she had the power to offer him another chance! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She also wondered at his statement, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“…this man hath done nothing amiss</i>.” Even her son recognized that this Man, this Jesus of Nazareth, was a good and just man. Perhaps the woman beside her was right…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Her boy was speaking again, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A dying Man to return with a kingdom? Hope burned in her heart as the ancient prophecies came to mind. This gentle, calm Man might truly be divine—the Son of God. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Now Jesus was responding to her dying son’s request, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Verily I say unto thee today, thou shalt be with me in paradise.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Suddenly, darkness enveloped the throng on Golgotha as an earthquake shook the scene of execution, but a light brighter than any she had ever known glowed in the mother’s heart. A beam from heaven itself had shone from the cross into her despairing soul to say that her son was not lost. He had strayed, but God had never forgotten him. In his darkest hour, her son had received the promise of eternal life from a Man who was dying, but still was divine. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Tears of relief mingled with the tears of sorrow as the mother looked at the older woman beside her. Even in the gloom, she could see the other mother’s face glow with the light of peace. Her Jesus had come for this purpose, not to save Himself, but to save others in darkness. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-80838155553633693882011-04-16T17:02:00.002-05:002011-04-16T17:14:47.840-05:00The Insurance Policy<i>The promised second installment to the Theodicy post...</i><br />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://qvhdev.myhyve.com/assets/Policy-document.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://qvhdev.myhyve.com/assets/Policy-document.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br />
</i></div><div>During my time as a Bible worker I spent a considerable amount of time giving surveys to gauge the religious interest in different communities. Among the questions I routinely asked was: "Have you ever wondered, if God is so good, why does He allow so much suffering?" That one in particular generated a plethora of engaging responses, and I often found myself choking back the urge to respond too adamantly.</div><div><br />
</div><div>That temptation came most strongly when the person answering my survey would stare off blankly toward some distant horizon and say, "No, I think we really just bring it on ourselves, you know. I mean, it's the choices we make." Or perhaps, "It's just part of life--it's how we appreciate what is good."</div><div><br />
</div><div>It's a fairly common sentiment, the idea that some sort of bad is a good thing--that it keeps things in balance. I never did really see much value in that concept. I don't have to have food poisoning in order to know how delicious cake and ice cream are. It isn't necessary to have the bad before you can enjoy the good.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Newsflash: There is <i>bad </i>evil in this world. By <i>bad</i>, I mean that you can't always define some cause and then isolate the effect to the perpetrator alone. I completely agree that humanity has brought evil upon itself, but don't pretend that you can take every instance of evil and tell those involved that they brought it on themselves. There are children starving in Africa who are no more at fault for being born into famine than your child in America, England, or Australia was prudent for choosing to be born in a more developed nation.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So deal with the question. Why does God allow <i>bad</i> bad? The kind of bad that doesn't invoke some good moral lesson. The kind of bad that won't be dismissed with "just give it time." The kind of bad that leaves damaged people and damaged places. The kind of bad that demands to be called evil and nothing else. It does exist. But why?</div><div><br />
</div><div>I've asked that question, though I know I haven't seen a fraction of the <i>bad </i>bad in existence on Planet Earth. I've seen enough to know I don't need to see the rest. Somewhere along the line I discovered that bad is really <i>bad</i>. There is nothing good about it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>That's when I realized why God allows <i>bad </i>bad. When He pressed that long term plan "stop evil button," He knew it would never be effective if He filtered out all the serious evil that comes along with sin. Giving us the watered down version would merely teach us that the devil's alternative wasn't so bad after all. If He sheltered us from all the consequences of living in a world where sin permitted evil to mar perfection, we might have some mistaken illusion that bad wasn't really so bad.</div><div><br />
</div><div>However, that can never be the case with Solution X's insurance policy. After thousands of years with unabashed evil acting out in the worst of its nature, humans finally have the knowledge of good and evil that Adam and Eve so unfortunately bestowed upon our race. And that is the only thing that ensures that when God finally eradicates evil forever...it will be forever. There will be no resurgence because humans have known <i>bad</i> bad. Sin will finally have no attraction for them because they were, mercifully, not shielded from its very worst effects.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It's a very expensive insurance policy, but at least it will never expire. Besides, what price can you really put on a perfect eternity?</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-89428134696918972472011-02-20T14:31:00.003-06:002011-02-20T14:37:21.750-06:00Danger Or Rescue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://delargy.com/images/2003_8_CostaRica/frog_on_road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://delargy.com/images/2003_8_CostaRica/frog_on_road.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A fat, little frog squatted on the asphalt, enjoying the summer night. There was nothing to disrupt his evening hop across the countryside except the occasional lowing of cattle grazing in the field on the other side of those odd, evenly spaced iron rails that dissected the asphalt trail the fat, little frog was traveling. It was such a peaceful evening that he almost forgot to break the stillness with croaking calls to other frogs that might be taking their evening jaunts.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the distant lengths of the iron rails, a rattling rumble came tumbling into the fat little frog’s quiet evening. He held tightly to his spot on the asphalt as the rumbling intensified, and in a moment a massive, thunderous machine pounded past him, just 10 feet away, in an eternal procession. The vibrations reverberated in the poor creatures lungs, but couldn’t make the fat little frog quake any more than he already was from sheer fright. If he could think, he was probably wondering if he would live long enough to hatch a plan of escape from the monster machine. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alas, his evening took a worse turn, if that were possible. Another metal machine with glaring, blinding lights in front was approaching on the asphalt, hissing as it ground to a stop. The fat, little frog blinked as a living creature many times his size left the machine and—horror of horrors—walked toward him. It seemed intent on driving him from his little refuge on the asphalt where he still had not concocted an escape plan, so, in desperation, he fled before the oncoming feet of the advancing creature. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the fat, little frog disappeared into the grass on the side of the asphalt road, I watched the train blast off into the night; the cross arms blinked goodbye as I strolled back to the car. Listening to the croaking in the grass while I drove across the spot recently vacated by a particular fat, little frog as he had fled before my prodding, I could nearly have imagined his beady eyes bulging from the excitement of his recent escape as he regaled his fellow frogs with the tale of his night of terror.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It amused me that the fat, little frog couldn’t tell danger from rescue. For all he knew, I was just as dangerous as the thunderous train and the hissing, glaring car—in fact, I must have been more frightful, since he held his ground in the presence of those monsters. In his mind, he had narrowly escaped death; and he had. His frantic hopping away from those approaching feet took him out of the path of all the cars waiting to pile over the railroad tracks as soon as the train rumbled into the distance once again.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some days I feel like thundering monsters are flying by, much too close for comfort; in every other direction it seems like other monsters hiss and glare, while, worst of all, mysterious feet advance, intent on driving me off the little plot of ground I still hold as my own. You know you’ve had those days too, when the obstacles just keep mounting to dizzying heights. Do you, like me, try to pull together some solution, only to find yourself running away from yet another terror?<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The amusing part is…we can’t tell danger from rescue either. The most horrifying experiences, the most terrifying of obstacles, might be our safety net from something worse—but, in our finite vision, we never even recognize it. God stands near us, directing us out of the way of pain, difficulty, or sorrow, and our hearts pound with fright because His instrumentalities are lost on our perception. Later we squeak out the tale of our narrow escape from utter ruin and breathe a sigh of relief for having survived the day. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I think He must smile a bit sadly knowing that the peace we lost through our fear was unnecessarily sacrificed. Another day He may let the terrors fly by us again as He tries to give us faith’s vision that can perceive the difference between danger and rescue.</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-49317608897497532722011-02-05T20:34:00.002-06:002011-02-19T14:38:46.357-06:00Your Local Garbage Dump<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">While picking over the remnants of some ancient writings of mine, I found this story and thought it might be of interest...</span></i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I picked my way gingerly past mounds of fly-infested garbage towards something that could only be called a house in purest flattery. Actually I would call it a dump in the form of a trailer-house. The odor greeting my nose confirmed that my eyes and ears had correctly reported dogs and cats in abundance. Honestly, the aroma was about to knock me over. The “door” of the “house”, which I suspected might formerly have been capable of latching decades before I was born, was pushed open to reveal a happy colony of roaches going about their business in the door frame.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> A stained and wrinkled face greeted me in the doorway. Dirty hair hung around a little old woman’s face as she stared at me behind cloudy glasses. A dog lunged past her and through the screen-less screen door. Betty * and her retinue made quite the welcome party.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Smiling, I held up a bag of food. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Hi, Betty,” I said as she took the bag. “I was just bringing you some lunch. Is there anything else you need?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> This was not my first visit to Betty’s hovel. Ever since the week before, when a customer in my mom’s restaurant where I worked had told me about this poor woman’s living conditions, I had been delivering whatever I could to supplement her diet of bologna and coke. The sights I had seen (and odors I’d smelled) on these daily deliveries defied any level of poverty I could have imagined in all my 17 years. I was amazed that anyone could live in the sort of filth and squalor I had seen only on TV before this.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> This particular day Betty needed to contact a lady who stopped by to run errands for her sometimes. She hadn’t been by in several days, and I wasn’t surprised to find that Betty didn’t have a phone. Cringing, I handed her my cell phone. One grimy hand pulled her hair aside as my phone was pressed to her equally grimy ear. For a fleeting moment I wondered when she had bathed last, and then recalled that she didn’t have running water. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Betty handed me back my phone. Gazing off absently, she said, “She didn’t answer.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What did you need her to do? Can I help?” I inquired, mentally scouring my cell phone with disinfectant.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “I was going to have her bring my dog food into the house. The delivery man was scared of the dog and left it out there,” she said, pointing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I looked in dismay at the 40 lb. bag of Beneful near the road on the opposite side of her small “yard.” It had endured the morning’s rain shower—and unlike everything else about this place, it <i>didn’t</i> actually need the bath.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Oh, I’ll bring that in for you. It’s not a big deal. Where do you want it?” I volunteered. And carrying it in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wasn’t</i> a big deal; the bag wasn’t that heavy. Setting foot in a veritable garbage dump wearing tan jeans was my greater concern. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> After the dog food was relocated (miraculously, <i>without </i>thoroughly staining my jeans), I ran to the local gas station for a few items Betty needed. I had serious suspicions that the money she gave me with which to purchase those items was probably coated with more germs than would be needed for germ warfare on three continents.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> With a final check to see if there was anything else she needed, I waved goodbye to Betty and climbed back in my car. As I pulled out of the driveway, savoring a fresh, clean environment once more, I felt the same incredulous feeling that I always did after a visit to this poor woman’s “house:” How could anyone live, and be satisfied to live, in a place like that?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> From talking to the woman who first told me about Betty, I knew that the poor old woman had lived like this for years. There were people who might have helped her, but she was so accustomed to her way of life that the places that she might have moved she thought were “too good for her.” She was content to live in a run-down dump, leading a filthy, miserable existence with her mangy pets. It wasn’t such a bad place, she seemed to think. After all, this trailer was better than some of the other places she had lived.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Pulling back into the driveway at my mom’s restaurant, I hurried in the back door and went immediately to wash my hands. I was still mulling over how a person could live in conditions like that, when suddenly I understood. Betty was satisfied with her living standards because to her they were normal. I couldn’t comprehend living that way because I saw those conditions as totally unacceptable—it just wasn’t normal!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> It was right about then that I saw a picture much larger than poor Betty and her filthy little dump. I realized that the whole world was made up people like her, just in a different way. And you and I, more than likely, are living in a worse garbage dump than she is. The problem is that, just like Betty, we don’t know it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Our garbage dump is sin in our lives. Before you stop reading because you think I’m referring to non-Christians, wait. I mean you—and me—all of us wonderful Christians who think we’re doing just fine. That is exactly where our problem lies, in the same place as does Betty’s—we believe our life is just fine, normal in fact. Somehow because the world is permeated with this kind of filth, we just don’t notice that it isn’t normal. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> King Solomon knew our biggest problem isn't choosing to do something blatantly horrible and filthy; usually it's just something that seems perfectly normal to our sin-blinded eyes. He say in Proverbs 14:12, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Our mind is the “house” we live in all the time, but do we really know just how dirty and full of germs it is? Like Betty’s house, I think we leave the door to our mental house wide open for all kinds of diseasing elements to enter by what we listen to and watch. We just let the cobwebs build by dwelling on thoughts we know are wrong or savoring feelings of envy, anger and prejudice. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> We have a lot of mangy pets running around like pride, dishonesty and selfishness, but we don’t see how filthy they make our lives. Instead we spend energy feeding these habits until they are healthier than we are. When I am critical of how Betty spends much of her stipend on food for all the little varmints crawling around her place, instead of putting it into some basic necessities like food, clothing and shelter for herself, I have to look at myself and realize how often I am willing to waste the gift of my energies on things that tend to feed those nasty habits. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Did you ever notice how easy it is to give a few minutes to hunting down some piece of juicy gossip to pass along? Or maybe you tend to use energy carrying a grudge against someone who has wronged you. Perhaps a quick temper likes to raise its head frequently in your life. There are so many of these favorite little “pets” in our lives, and we like to justify them, thinking we have them so well chained up or fenced in that they won’t affect us, but we keep them around because we’ve become quite attached to these pet habits.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The diet we like to feed our spiritual life is totally unbalanced, just as I know Betty’s diet was not very nourishing, but so long as we aren’t hungry we don’t notice that we have dined on “fillers” that aren’t going to make us spiritually healthy. As Christians, sometimes we are content to make our spiritual menu consist of whatever we learn at church, perhaps what we have been told in school or been taught by our parents; yet our diet is lacking the essential nutrients we can only get from daily personal study.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> I thought about Betty’s life compared to some other conditions…It could be worse. There are people with only a grass hut or no roof over their heads, and many people wouldn’t even have the money to get the bologna and coke. At least she has friends who will run her errands and help her if she wants it. That sort of reasoning makes her situation look better, and that is exactly what we like to do in our lives spiritually. If we can compare ourselves to someone with a worse “garbage dump,” we can even make our situation looks superior, not just a normal, average dump—Why no, ours is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christian</i>…dump. Yes, it is still a dump. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> At last I had finished disinfecting my cell phone, my purse, the steering wheel of my car, and, of course, my hands. But I still felt dirty, just in a different way. I realized that we all need much more than disinfectant. We need to realize that we live in a garbage dump, not a house. We need to see that our filthy animals, in the form of habits, are diseasing our lives. We need to discover that spiritual food must be nourishing, not just something to fill us. We need to recognize that flies and garbage are not supposed to be normal in our lives, and that spiritually we can be clean. We need to see that no matter how average we think we are, we might have the wrong idea of what is right. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Only God can show us the true condition that we are in, and make us truly horrified to imagine that we could be satisfied with such a filthy situation. When we see the true standard of living, the way Jesus was, we realize how terrible our garbage dump really is. And our garbage dump may look like a normal Christian life to us, but does it meet up with the standard? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> So that day I began to see a little bit of Betty in me, and if you look hard you might find her hiding inside of you. She might make you think you’re doing just fine, but don’t be fooled by that mentality. You have a garbage dump too, and disinfectant won’t do any good as long as you think you are living in a normal house. Maybe it’s time we asked Jesus to compare our living standards to His and see how they add up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">*Not her real name</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-45202947609099540532011-01-22T17:56:00.001-06:002011-01-27T20:10:20.779-06:00The Stop Evil Button or Solution XDavid looked at his class studying the issue of a good God and a bad world and added another point to the theodicy: If there was a "stop evil button" that you could walk up and push, making all the bad in the world cease instantly, would you do it?<br />
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I was watching Theodicy, a Scripture mysteries documentary by Anchorpoint Films. Among the interviews, David Asscherick and Clifford Goldstein's comments took me back to seminars of theirs that I had been in and books of theirs I had read that discussed this issue of the problem of evil. The "stop evil button" illustration particularly intrigued me. More than likely, any of us would do it. Yet, ironically, God--the only One who could push the button--hasn't. Why?<br />
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As David Hume so succinctly formulated the problem of a good God and a bad world, "Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then is he impotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then is he malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Whence then is evil?" (Hume). The youth class I teach at church discussed this question last week. We talked about the Biblical accounts, especially in Isaiah 14 and Ezekiel 28, of the perfect angel who chose to rebel and wreak havoc on the universe with his accusations against God and his thirst for power. All of that explained how evil originated, but it still didn't answer the question of why God didn't stop it.<br />
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Many people I have spoken with have used this as an impenetrable obstacle to any argument that God is good, fair, and just. There seems no intellectually honest avoidance of the question of what possible good reason could exist for why God has allowed horrific things to occur on this planet. Is there any way of justifying it?<br />
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Whether it is entirely new or valid theologically, the question and answer I put to the youth class was similar to the "stop evil button" illustration: Think of all the horrors and atrocities on Earth that you abhor, and imagine that there was one penalty that could be paid to end it all--forever. Nothing bad could ever resurface on the radar screen of human existence if you gave the "okay" to this <i>one</i> solution. But there is <i>only</i> the one solution. The solution, whatever it is, likely won't be pleasant in the performance, however it will be permanent. We'll call it Solution X.<br />
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Now try to calculate the cost of Solution X. You don't know what it is, so make it as terrible as you can possibly imagine it to be. Can you think of anything that would be too costly an exchange for the permanent eradication of evil? Philosophically I think the question is fairly easy to answer; selfishly, perhaps not. I'm not under the illusion that all, or even most, would honestly be willing to say "yes" to whatever Solution X might be because there are those who would not take a personal sacrifice for the ultimate good. However, many have done so and most, I hope, can appreciate that, logically, there could not be anything worse than eternal evil. Anything less to pay for a permanent solution would probably be better.<br />
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So the punchline is...that God <i>did</i> hit the "stop evil button." When He looked at the rebellion the devil had started and knew that destroying him would only eliminate the instigator, but not his rebellion and the issue of evil, the omnipotent and omniscient Creator already understood Solution X. The price was high--it meant letting evil mature so it could be destroyed completely. It meant allowing every horrific thing to happen in the great controversy that would forever convince the universe that the devil was wrong. It meant permitting a part of Himself, His own son, to leave heaven to live, suffer, and die on Earth to redeem humanity from sin. It meant allowing evil its day of power so that it could be eternally terminated. It was Solution X, the only remedy that wouldn't just treat the symptoms but would heal the underlying problem.<br />
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God said Solution X was worth it. He hit the "stop evil button," but sometimes, because Solution X requires more time than any individual lifetime, it's hard to appreciate the delayed effect. Someday we will, though, and I'm reminded of this when I read what John wrote in Revelation 21:4 of the end of sin and suffering: "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."<br />
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<i>Note: This is the first part of a two-part post on the topic of theodicy.</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; line-height: 32px;">Hume, David. <i style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion</i>. <i style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Project Gutenberg</i>. Web. 22 Jan. 2011. <http: catalog="" http:="" readfile?fk_files="1456362" world="" www.gutenberg.org="">.</http:></span></i>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-70684874715148297552010-04-10T17:07:00.004-05:002010-04-10T17:20:21.084-05:00Happiness is...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8dJ_jV9db7XC9pm1lwLIzFHNv6Zkmd1ZWYz5m_5JGQIyWX6xdHdVQDpSEgWKaadP_8vz39Up9kkJG8d4IZGtgLDedhIiVvHAXTkZz-iE-KHGNowdfxZKYm4Kapx7cwtllOkQnGsP3W4/s1600/happiness+soft+drink+cups.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8dJ_jV9db7XC9pm1lwLIzFHNv6Zkmd1ZWYz5m_5JGQIyWX6xdHdVQDpSEgWKaadP_8vz39Up9kkJG8d4IZGtgLDedhIiVvHAXTkZz-iE-KHGNowdfxZKYm4Kapx7cwtllOkQnGsP3W4/s320/happiness+soft+drink+cups.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458636861683362882" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">There it was again...decidedly one of the most superficial billboards I'd ever read in my life. A popular fast food chain had the audacity to proclaim "Happiness is...$1-any-size soft drinks" in big, bold letters next to an image of a large Styrofoam cup undoubtedly full of all the empty calories you could want for a dollar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was immediately struck with the idiocy of the notion: Happiness is a $1 soft drink? Who do they think they're kidding? If that were true then the whole Revolutionary War probably actually started over soft drinks not tea, since we were simply trying to guarantee "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." $1-any-size soft drinks--was that too much to ask of the British?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, the pursuit must be over; anyone in the United States can afford a $1 soft drink--<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">any size</i>, no less! By the logic of this fast food chain, literally the entire United States should be devoid of suicides, heartbreaks, and sadness. All you have to do is run down to the store for a $1-any-size soft drink and--presto!--the world is rosy once more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Newsflash: We are not all happy. Not even if we've guzzled ten"$1-any-size soft drinks" in a week (or maybe especially not then). In fact, I would hazard a guess that the vast majority have significant amounts of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">unhappiness</i> that not even a gallon of soft drinks for ten cents could negate. Though some may attempt to drown their sorrows in any number of things, from food and drink to clothes, cars and houses, many will testify that none of it produces any more lasting happiness than a $1-any-size soft drink.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That doesn't mean happiness can't be found--it just means it isn't in material things. To put it in the words of a song by Ira F. Stanphill, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:0in;margin-left:.5in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-align:center; line-height:normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; font-family:";color:#333300;">“Happiness is to know the Savior,<br />Living a life within His favor,<br />Having a change in my behavior,<br />Happiness is the Lord.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">King David would have agreed: "Happy are the people whose God is the LORD!" (Psalm 144:15) I guess that children's song back in primary class had more depth than at least one multi-billion dollar advertising department.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Notice that the psalmist doesn't say life will always be rosy. He doesn't say we will never have trials and difficulties. He simply says that we can have happiness as long as we have God--because happiness is the Lord.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He fleshes out this philosophy a bit more in Psalm 16:8, 9: "<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;">I have set the LORD always before me; because</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color:black;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="color:black;">He is</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color:black;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;">at my right hand I shall not be moved.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color:black;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color:black;">Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices; </span></span><span style="color:black;">m<span class="apple-style-span">y flesh also will rest in hope."</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'm glad that even when I don't <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">feel</i> happy, knowing the Lord gives me hope to know that happiness is mine, and it doesn't even cost a dollar.</p>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-69306047817163707932010-04-03T22:29:00.004-05:002010-04-04T19:58:51.139-05:00"Don't catch me..."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulvmx4cM02B69QUi3eM9bWDMWTdPhF9LcbgqDD8QLpqv5JI-NbDSl2yFt3coeR7J2LUrUYJBeos39Ngip-ZPSoa0CqbY821ZrA7CA3VZVh4bX0vqAfTBkuPY0ivPwFgdor7a1a5ubGRA/s1600/young-girl-jumping.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulvmx4cM02B69QUi3eM9bWDMWTdPhF9LcbgqDD8QLpqv5JI-NbDSl2yFt3coeR7J2LUrUYJBeos39Ngip-ZPSoa0CqbY821ZrA7CA3VZVh4bX0vqAfTBkuPY0ivPwFgdor7a1a5ubGRA/s200/young-girl-jumping.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456451421067160530" /></a><br />The four little girls were thrilled when I suggested we take a quick trip to the park before doing our Bible study, and even more excited by a game of "catch me." It consisted of them climbing as high as possible on the the climbing tower and taking turns jumping off into my arms (yes, my limbs and back complained about it loudly the next day).<div><br /></div><div>After one child got bold enough to accomplish the stupendous feat of leaping the short distance to the ground <i>alone,</i> Carrie* decided she would try it too. As I stood with arms outstretched, she waved me away, saying, "I'm going to do it by myself." I smiled and moved to the side; she fidgeted with obvious trepidation, preparing to jump.</div><div><br /></div><div>Looking at the ground, then back at me as I moved closer to allay her fears; her blue eyes large with concern, she appealed, "Don't catch me...but don't let me fall."</div><div><br /></div><div>How can children be so unintentionally profound? For the rest of the evening that sentence kept churning in my mind. While her statement seemed humorously paradoxical, it made me think along more serious lines. </div><div><br /></div><div>It seems to sum up those independent prayers we pray, when we come to God with plans of our own design, asking more for His approval than His direction. We boldly declare, "I'm going to do it by myself," but a little voice somewhere cautions that maybe we really do need Him, and so we compromise a bit, bravado yields slightly to timidity, and we add, "Don't catch me...but don't let me fall."</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps, as I did with Carrie, He smiles at us and thinks, "Exactly how did you have in mind for me to that?" And that is when He says to us, <i>Without Me, you can do nothing. If you don't let Me catch you, you will, inevitably, fall.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>We studied the Easter story and talked about the meaning of Jesus' death and resurrection. The youngest girl clambered into my lap and, not understanding the discussion, looked up at me and simply stated "God loves you." I smiled at her and replied, "He loves you too."</div><div><br /></div><div>How can children be so unintentionally profound? </div><div><br /></div><div>*<i>Not their real names.</i></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-78640746888531616592010-02-06T21:19:00.004-06:002010-02-06T23:13:15.628-06:00My Favorite Spelling Bee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.morningguyed.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/chalkboard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 460px; height: 276px;" src="http://www.morningguyed.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/chalkboard.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The Bible study for six little neighborhood girls had finished, and two of them asked if I would help them with their homework that evening over at "my church." Giving it long and careful consideration, weighing the pros and cons of getting the neighborhood children accustomed to being at my church, it took me about 2.725 seconds to agree to the proposition.<div><br /></div><div>While Dahlia* was down the hall on a bathroom break, Meghan* strictly forbade me from coming into the Sabbath school room where she was experimenting with the chalkboard. Complying, I stood out in the hall and waited on both girls. </div><div><br /></div><div>"How do you spell your name?" came a query from somewhere near the chalkboard.</div><div><br /></div><div>"M-I-C-H-E-L-L-E...that's two 'L's," I explained.</div><div><br /></div><div>Silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>"How do you spell God?" the voice questioned me again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I started to move toward the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meghan caught me: "No, you can't look!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Stifling my curiosity, I dictated slowly for the 1st grader, "G-O-D".</div><div><br /></div><div>Silence. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay, you can look now!" called the grinning voice near the chalkboard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stepping nearer to the doorway, I read the carefully etched message in bright chalk..."I love Michelle and God." Just five words, only one sentence, but they etched themselves in my brain more permanently than on the chalkboard. </div><div><br /></div><div>When it seems like my work is hollow, my efforts shriveling with my heart in the biting Illinois wind, I pull out a mental picture, drawn on a chalkboard in childish innocence, and I fancy a small voice asking, "How do you spell God?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Some days I feed the lambs...and then, some days, they feed me.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>*Not their real names.</i></div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-81286116446539237122010-01-25T21:58:00.001-06:002010-01-25T22:01:19.826-06:00Falling Sparrows and Missing KittensMy heart throbbed with abject terror and anxiety. The worry stood out on my brow in knit furrows, and tears threatened to come. Knowing the only One who could bring a solution for my predicament, I knelt down, attempted to regain my composure, and began to send an urgent plea for help.<br /><br />I was five years old and my cat was missing. This may not seem like such a serious matter to you, but five-year-olds and runaway cats are very important to our heavenly Father; or at least so I thought, and hence I was kneeling in our backyard, hands grasping the chain-link fence, pouring out my troubles to the Creator of small girls and wayward kittens.<br /><br />If you grew up in a Christian home, you probably remember doing similar things as a child-praying for some small, insignificant detail that was very important at the time. We’re taught that God hears our every prayer, and we take it very seriously. Through childhood years the Lord hears frequent petitions for everything from “Don’t let Mom get mad about that broken vase,” to “Please help my kitten find her way home.”<br /><br />But somehow, growing up often alters our view of prayer. We still know that God hears our every prayer; however our outlook on the world has changed. As children, our world consists of Mom, Dad, siblings, more distant family, and a few friends. We usually know little of distant continents and diverse populations, let alone the colossal size of the universe.<br /><br /> The older we get, the more we learn and the broader our horizons become, we begin to realize the enormity of life—and of God. For God to be able to create and control such a massive operation, He becomes more of a distant Mastermind, rather than our loving Friend and Brother. Of course, He is really both, but growing up seems to change our emphasis. It suddenly seems very childish to pray for such insignificant and simple needs. <br /><br />Maybe for you, adulthood hasn’t changed your discernment of prayer. Perhaps you escaped the customary effect growing up has on our perception of communication with God. If so, congratulations are in order. But more likely, you’ve found it hard to have that childlike simplicity that will pray for silly things like kittens. Do you still believe that God can do anything, but a questioning mind continues to whisper “Doesn’t God help those who help themselves?”<br /><br />For instance, when was the last time you thought it too trivial to ask your heavenly Father for help with finding a parking spot near the door in the pouring rain or to help you remove that ketchup stain from your best shirt? Have you thought that with all the war and suffering in our world, He is too busy to keep guard over the purse you left in the parking lot! <br /><br />I was driving back from Michigan, the car full of sleeping skiers worn out from a very active weekend. My brain replaying scene after scene from the weekend, I was blissfully inconscient of my surroundings as the Trailblazer whizzed across the bleak and deserted scenes of the Illinois winter until suddenly the realization that I had not checked the fuel level in caused me to look at the gas gauge. My worst fears took a record leap to become reality in the nanosecond that my eyes took in the needle…lodged perilously below the ‘E.’ <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If only I’d checked the gauge sooner, if only there were an exit nearby, if only it wasn’t winter, if only</span>…But wishing would do no good, so I turned to prayer. For the next ten minutes I prayed and drove, until at last we reached an exit where, as I stopped to get gas, I fervently thanked God that we had not arrived there on foot. <br />Was I being childlike again? I hope so. It reminded me that God wants me to talk to Him about everything that concerns me, no matter how big or small the issue may appear to me or anyone else.<br /><br />If our God is powerful enough to create all the wonders around us, and loving enough to send His Son to die for us, then it follows that He would be powerful and loving enough to listen to, and answer, our smallest, most insignificant prayer. In spite of all our mistaken ideas about God being too preoccupied to notice every little need of ours, Jesus said, “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:29-31)<br /><br />God doesn’t hear and answer our least prayers exclusively because He loves us, but also because as we observe His faithfulness in our everyday problems, we’ll begin to trust Him for more significant and important choices. When we see His providence in what we might term “minor” things, it becomes easier to rely on God for the major dilemmas we may face. How can we expect that future crises will bring us to Christ in complete confidence and faith, if we’ve never experienced His intervention on account of our petitions for past difficulties? <br /><br />Mrs. E. G. White says, “We have nothing to fear for the future, except we forget how God has led us in the past.” This is how our “insignificant” prayers become very important! Because of them, we will have a past of answered prayers, no matter how small they were, that increased our foundation of faith in God. <br /><br />“Meow,” sounded a guilty voice behind me. Tears forgotten, I happily cuddled the furry prodigal; and a five-year-olds faith was confirmed once more. <br /><br />“I’ve been worried about you!” I exclaimed. “Now where have you been?” <br /><br />Probably out plotting the fall of some poor sparrows!The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-90668641763885443252009-12-20T00:13:00.009-06:002009-12-20T20:23:04.914-06:00I crouched next to the concrete patio, dressed in my slacks, heels, and a scarf that matched my blouse and coat, wishing vainly for a hammer. All I had was a metal rod, and I hoped it would be strong enough to do the job. What option did I have anyway? There was no one around to help me; I took a deep breath.<div><br /></div><div>Brenda,* a shut-in, Bible study drop-offs contact who used to be connected with the church in another state until some sort of misunderstandings pulled her away, she has been warming up to me over the past few visits. Every week I find her sitting in the same chair, facing her apartment's north-side sliding door that opens onto the patio. It seems she sits there most of the time, taking in the never-changing view.</div><div><br /></div><div>As with my other contacts, I've tried to pay attention to any little clues about her interests; two large bags of birdseed gave that one away, so I asked if she was a birdwatcher. Usually, yes, however she explained that her bird-feeder had been taken down a while back for some repairs to be done to her apartment.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so it was that I came to be crouched down beside Brenda's concrete patio, dressed in my high heels and matching professional attire, pounding one metal rod into the hard December ground with another metal rod for the bird-feeder pole. Maybe it was an interesting sight; I don't know. Maybe Brenda will enjoy reading her study guides when she is not watching the birds; I don't know.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do know that it was precisely one week before Christmas, and I realized that sometimes smaller, ordinary, every day gifts of caring can mean more than the most beautifully wrapped package under a tree. Sometimes you don't need to deck the halls, you only need to hang a bird-feeder.</div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3806028705016471707.post-56521469774901779732009-12-08T23:06:00.007-06:002009-12-09T00:24:56.151-06:00"Logic is one thing and commonsense another..."<div>So said Elbert Hubbard...what a pity we can't all at least possess one of the two.</div><div><br /></div>The epitome of the word "counterproductive" was walking down the street--literally. She pulled my eyes away from the road in front of me as I maneuvered my car along the street that was being steadily pummeled by relentless raindrops. In the pouring, freezing rain, a woman in her slick, work-out, exercise outfit was ambling down the sidewalk...smoking. Perhaps she assumed that, as long as she was smoking to keep down her weight, keeping a regular rate of speed or a fast-paced walk was unnecessary --and she didn't really have to worry about the cigarettes stealing years from her by means of lung cancer since she was about to contract pneumonia anyway. <div><br /></div><div>Sometimes peoples' logic utterly baffles me, I must admit. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was about 4:00 p.m. as I pulled my car into one of the many vacant parking spaces at the end of the parking lot for a local business. It was a small neighborhood and I was headed to a house down the street to give a Bible study, however I first needed to get into the trunk and retrieve the lesson guide. The less than busy parking lot won the bid for convenience.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walking to the back of the car, I saw some people standing up by the building, but (unobservant soul that I am) it went in one brain cell and out with the other. By the time I turned to go back to the driver's door, however, a large dog was walking somewhat parallel to my path, and I turned to see a couple burly men approaching. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What are you doing here?" One of them asked. The other stood there.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>"I just needed a place to park...am I in the way?" Since there were only about 25 other empty parking spaces and no other apparent customers, my car certainly presented a serious inconvenience. I smiled. He didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Who are you with?" The same one asked. The other one still stood there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Confusion wrinkled my forehead into a question mark for a second. "Who am I with? Well, I work for the Seventh-Day Adventist church over on ___th Street." </div><div><br /></div><div>He nodded his head. "Just push along out of here," the same one motioned. Mr. Mute still stood there.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Alright," I said in as amiable a voice as possible, attempting to offset the rather hostile tone of the conversation. </div><div><br /></div><div>It struck me as funny since leaving was exactly what I was trying to do if they hadn't detained me to play 20 Questions. It also struck me as incredulous that they, standing and watching me get out of my car in a long skirt and long hair, had labeled me some sort of religious worker; hence they deemed my car in their near-empty parking lot a significant annoyance. And the need for two burly messengers and a beefy pit bull to order a 98 lb. teenager away was, of course, undeniable. I mean, my car is a veritable tank and intimidating, I know, but seriously...</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes peoples' logic utterly baffles me, I must admit. </div>The Shepherd's Girl?http://www.blogger.com/profile/07715434532826797592noreply@blogger.com2