There are certain chores around the house that I don't mind doing at all, and then there are some that I just simply do not enjoy even a little bit. Laundry is one of those that falls into a category all its own ... I absolutely, positively, completely and totally loathe doing laundry. And even though I now only have to do my own (which amounts to a couple of loads each week), I still do not like to do it. I think perhaps my strong aversion to laundry came about when I had three kiddos under the age of six, and it only increased as they grew into teenagers ... teenagers with stinky, smelly, sweaty laundry and mountains of it.
As much as I don't like to do laundry, it is one of those "musts" in life. I have no choice but to wash and dry my clothes when they are dirty ... I can't go to work in dirty clothes; I can't go to church in dirty clothes; I can't even go to Walmart in dirty clothes. I have to have clean clothes ... no choice, no option, no way out of cleaning my clothes. I simply don't want the world to see me in dirty clothing; I want to be clean and presentable whenever I leave the confines of my home and go out into society.
Recently, I've been involved in some exercises that have caused me to examine the "laundry" of my life, and the concept of clean vs. dirty has given me pause to think deeply. Just as I don't want to venture out of my home in dirty clothing, I also don't want the dirty laundry of my heart or life put on display for others to see. And yet, I've come to realize over the last weeks that each one of us possesses laundry that isn't clean, laundry that we'd rather keep hidden away in the hamper ... laundry that we want no one to see or know about.
I've also come to understand that it's not up to anyone else to make the call as to how dirty, how offensive, how smelly my dirty laundry may be. The ultimate opinion of my dirt, my sin, my disobedience, my laundry, comes only from my heavenly Father. And I'm beyond grateful that when God looks at me now, now that I have placed my faith, my hope, my trust in His Son, He only sees me one way ... washed clean in the blood of Jesus Christ. Clean ... fragrant ... worthy ... forgiven ... pardoned ... protected.
Yep, I'm beyond grateful.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Up, Up and Away
In the neighborhood I previously lived in, there was a big summer picnic each year. And at that picnic, there were always prizes and giveaways and tons of food. One particular summer, my mom happened to be visiting at the time of the annual picnic and attended with me and my children. My oldest son, Matt, decided he would put Mom's name in the drawing for a rather unusual prize ... a ride for two in a hot air balloon. And yes, you guessed it, she won the ride. Mom was in her 70s at the time, and I just assumed that she would laugh it off and the prize would go to someone else. Much to my surprise, however, she announced that she had always wanted to ride in a balloon, and a couple of weeks later, I found myself at an airfield watching my 72-year-old mother and 12-year-old son climb into a balloon and slowly rise into the air and embark on a very special journey together.
The memory of Mom and Matt and their sky adventure came flooding back to me a couple of nights ago as I was on the last leg of my nightly walk. I had my headphones in, and as usual, was a bit oblivious to my surroundings when I heard what I initially thought was thunder though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I kept walking, hearing the sound again, and wondering what in the world it could be. Exiting my land of oblivion, I noticed the trail was suddenly filled with people pointing in the direction behind me. I stopped walking and turned around and directly behind me landing in the field was a beautiful multicolored hot air balloon ... close enough to me that I could almost touch it.
I stood for several minutes watching as the folks in charge of the massive billowing creature went about their tasks as they helped their passengers out of the basket and began the process of deflating the balloon. And I wasn't the only person gazing upon the sight in wonderment ... not only was the trail filled with people, but cars had stopped all along the road as well. Guess there is something about a hot air balloon landing in a field between a walking path and a road that simply garners people's attention.
When I finally headed for home, one overriding thought kept pounding in my brain ... that balloon was close enough to me that I could almost touch it ... and I was so focused on accomplishing my appointed task that I almost missed it ... one of those memory-making experiences, and I was so wrapped up in "my thing" that I almost missed it altogether. Even two days later, I can't help but think about that event and the meaning behind it ... yet another God lesson for me on my beloved walking trail.
I wonder how many times I'm so focused on me that I miss something glorious that God puts right in front of me (or behind me, as the case may be) ... something huge and beautiful and spectacular that He so desperately wants me to see, to pay attention to, to stop and gaze upon. How many times do I just put my head down and keep on walking my own path, too busy or too worried or too hurried or too tired to take the time to turn around and look ... just look ... at what He is trying to show me. I also can't help but wonder how many times I'm the balloon ... drifting in the wrong direction, landing in an undesignated spot, ignoring the direction and guidance of my Captain, my Navigator, my ultimate Compass.
Slow me down, Lord, slow me down and make me look at the wonders you set before and behind me. Control the winds of my life, and keep me flying with You.
The memory of Mom and Matt and their sky adventure came flooding back to me a couple of nights ago as I was on the last leg of my nightly walk. I had my headphones in, and as usual, was a bit oblivious to my surroundings when I heard what I initially thought was thunder though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I kept walking, hearing the sound again, and wondering what in the world it could be. Exiting my land of oblivion, I noticed the trail was suddenly filled with people pointing in the direction behind me. I stopped walking and turned around and directly behind me landing in the field was a beautiful multicolored hot air balloon ... close enough to me that I could almost touch it.
I stood for several minutes watching as the folks in charge of the massive billowing creature went about their tasks as they helped their passengers out of the basket and began the process of deflating the balloon. And I wasn't the only person gazing upon the sight in wonderment ... not only was the trail filled with people, but cars had stopped all along the road as well. Guess there is something about a hot air balloon landing in a field between a walking path and a road that simply garners people's attention.
When I finally headed for home, one overriding thought kept pounding in my brain ... that balloon was close enough to me that I could almost touch it ... and I was so focused on accomplishing my appointed task that I almost missed it ... one of those memory-making experiences, and I was so wrapped up in "my thing" that I almost missed it altogether. Even two days later, I can't help but think about that event and the meaning behind it ... yet another God lesson for me on my beloved walking trail.
I wonder how many times I'm so focused on me that I miss something glorious that God puts right in front of me (or behind me, as the case may be) ... something huge and beautiful and spectacular that He so desperately wants me to see, to pay attention to, to stop and gaze upon. How many times do I just put my head down and keep on walking my own path, too busy or too worried or too hurried or too tired to take the time to turn around and look ... just look ... at what He is trying to show me. I also can't help but wonder how many times I'm the balloon ... drifting in the wrong direction, landing in an undesignated spot, ignoring the direction and guidance of my Captain, my Navigator, my ultimate Compass.
Slow me down, Lord, slow me down and make me look at the wonders you set before and behind me. Control the winds of my life, and keep me flying with You.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Just Sam
My dad always called me Sam. I have no idea why, but he always called me Sam. That's one of those questions I have tucked away to ask him when I get to heaven ... one of those questions I wish I would have asked him before he died. I've talked about my dad often in this blog, so those of you who are faithful readers know that he was truly an exceptional man ... a loving man, a giving man, a compassionate man.
Daddy taught me many lessons, far too many to recount in this blog post, but I'm certain future posts will be sprinkled with them as I continue to write. One particular lesson, however, has come back to me recently in full force. I recall once when I went to work with Daddy at the railroad, there was a group of homeless men huddled around a small fire near the tracks at the back of the train yard. Daddy didn't hesitate as he grabbed his lunchbox, Thermos of coffee, a bag of chips and some cups and walked deliberately toward the men. I hustled to keep up with him, more than a little frightened as we drew nearer to the dirty, smelly group. I watched in amazement as my dad greeted the men by their names and then opened his lunchbox and took out several sandwiches and began to distribute them along with the chips to the hungry men. He handed me the strofoam cups to hold as he poured coffee into each one and passed those as well to the men. And then ... then Daddy did something that I've never forgotten. He went around that circle of homeless men, and he hugged each and every one of them, not caring how they smelled, what they wore, or how they lived.
Three years ago, I sat at my desk and listened as some of my co-workers made fun of a homeless man who was struggling outside on the sidewalk in front of our building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I heard the derogatory commentary and the laughter directed toward the poor man on the street. As I listened, I suddenly saw my dad ... handing out sandwiches and coffee, and wrapping his arms around those whom mainstream society had rejected and discarded. I practically leapt from my chair that day, grabbed my lunch, filled my water bottle, ran down the stairs and bolted out the front door. After I got past the smell, I handed the man the supplies I was carrying, and then ... then I asked his name. "My name's Sam," he said. "I'm just Sam."
What began as an impulse that day has grown into meeting Sam once every couple of weeks. I give him food, yes, but I also give him God's Word, some of my time and a listening ear. Every couple of weeks for three years ... until three weeks ago. I usually stop after work on Thursdays at the place where Sam makes his "home," under a railroad bridge off of the boulevard, to drop off water and some food. As I pulled up, I noticed Sam's best friend Marcus, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rolled down my window and handed the water, lunch meat and bread to Marcus and asked where Sam was. Marcus often has a hard time communicating, and today he was really struggling to speak. "Sam left me. He went away." My heart skipped a beat and my breathing quickened as I questioned Marcus further. "Where did he go, Marcus? Where did Sam go?" "His boy, Tony, came and took him to home," Marcus said. "To Tony's home, Marcus? To live with Tony?" "Yes, Sam, he go to home with Tony."
My eyes filled with tears and I breathed a prayer of joy and relief as I drove away and headed for home. You see, Sam often said his son Tony would come and rescue him one day and take him home. Whenever Sam would say that, I often wondered if he really meant an earthly home or a heavenly one, and on this day, I couldn't help but think of the day that Jesus will take those of us who are His home to be with Him ... safe, secure, cared for, protected, warm, dry, fed, clean.
Coincidence that Daddy always called me Sam? That a man that God placed in my path who was in need was named Sam? I don't think so ... I don't think so at all. And Sam, should you ever read this, I want you to know something. You are so much more than "just Sam," my friend ... so much more ... to me and to God.
Daddy taught me many lessons, far too many to recount in this blog post, but I'm certain future posts will be sprinkled with them as I continue to write. One particular lesson, however, has come back to me recently in full force. I recall once when I went to work with Daddy at the railroad, there was a group of homeless men huddled around a small fire near the tracks at the back of the train yard. Daddy didn't hesitate as he grabbed his lunchbox, Thermos of coffee, a bag of chips and some cups and walked deliberately toward the men. I hustled to keep up with him, more than a little frightened as we drew nearer to the dirty, smelly group. I watched in amazement as my dad greeted the men by their names and then opened his lunchbox and took out several sandwiches and began to distribute them along with the chips to the hungry men. He handed me the strofoam cups to hold as he poured coffee into each one and passed those as well to the men. And then ... then Daddy did something that I've never forgotten. He went around that circle of homeless men, and he hugged each and every one of them, not caring how they smelled, what they wore, or how they lived.
Three years ago, I sat at my desk and listened as some of my co-workers made fun of a homeless man who was struggling outside on the sidewalk in front of our building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I heard the derogatory commentary and the laughter directed toward the poor man on the street. As I listened, I suddenly saw my dad ... handing out sandwiches and coffee, and wrapping his arms around those whom mainstream society had rejected and discarded. I practically leapt from my chair that day, grabbed my lunch, filled my water bottle, ran down the stairs and bolted out the front door. After I got past the smell, I handed the man the supplies I was carrying, and then ... then I asked his name. "My name's Sam," he said. "I'm just Sam."
What began as an impulse that day has grown into meeting Sam once every couple of weeks. I give him food, yes, but I also give him God's Word, some of my time and a listening ear. Every couple of weeks for three years ... until three weeks ago. I usually stop after work on Thursdays at the place where Sam makes his "home," under a railroad bridge off of the boulevard, to drop off water and some food. As I pulled up, I noticed Sam's best friend Marcus, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rolled down my window and handed the water, lunch meat and bread to Marcus and asked where Sam was. Marcus often has a hard time communicating, and today he was really struggling to speak. "Sam left me. He went away." My heart skipped a beat and my breathing quickened as I questioned Marcus further. "Where did he go, Marcus? Where did Sam go?" "His boy, Tony, came and took him to home," Marcus said. "To Tony's home, Marcus? To live with Tony?" "Yes, Sam, he go to home with Tony."
My eyes filled with tears and I breathed a prayer of joy and relief as I drove away and headed for home. You see, Sam often said his son Tony would come and rescue him one day and take him home. Whenever Sam would say that, I often wondered if he really meant an earthly home or a heavenly one, and on this day, I couldn't help but think of the day that Jesus will take those of us who are His home to be with Him ... safe, secure, cared for, protected, warm, dry, fed, clean.
Coincidence that Daddy always called me Sam? That a man that God placed in my path who was in need was named Sam? I don't think so ... I don't think so at all. And Sam, should you ever read this, I want you to know something. You are so much more than "just Sam," my friend ... so much more ... to me and to God.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
God and Grammar
My oldest son has always had a thing for nicknames, and he graciously bestows them on every person and creature in his life. It would take far too long for me to even begin to give you a list of the various monikers he has blessed many of us with, but suffice it to say that his brother Brad was for many, many years known as Cletus; Meghann was christened Jiggy Bock Rock; and I received the honor of being called Larry for much of Matt's teenage years.
At work, I have found myself the recipient of a plethora of nicknames as well ... Grammar Guru, Queen of Grammar, Eagle Eyes, Momma T, and the list goes on and on. I'm a senior editor for an advertising agency, and my primary responsibility is to read every word that is written for grammar and content. While I am human and therefore not perfect, I do have a high accuracy rate and am quite the stickler for correct spelling and usage when it comes to the written word.
Something happened today that I simply cannot explain, that has left me a bit freaked out all day, that I can find no other explanation for other than God. And having come to the conclusion that the event was indeed God, I tonight know what I have long suspected ... God is all powerful, and He most definitely has a sense of humor.
Without going into a grand amount of detail, I left during church this morning because I was experiencing some blood sugar issues. I came home, tried to get enough glucose into me to keep me in the land of the living, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and went to bed. I know ... not the smartest thing to do, but sometimes it's either lie down or fall down, and I most often choose the first option. When I didn't show up to teach my Sunday School class, one of the gals texted me to see if I was OK. I need to say here that I always put my phone on vibrate when I am in church, and I never even thought to switch it back when I left. I never knew the text message came in and never heard the calls that buzzed my phone.
Enter the weirdness ... the freakiness ... the Godness. The gal who sent the text asking if I was OK received a text back telling her to find a specific person who has a key to my house and knows how to help me. She called her and she came in, woke me up, helped me get into dry clothes (from the cold sweat ... I stopped wetting the bed a few years ago!), and got some food into me. What's weird about that, you ask? Please allow me to explain. I never heard that text come in and didn't send the text in reply ... and, get this ...there is no record of the reply on my phone whatsoever. I even called the phone company to have them check it for me. And yet, the text is on the gal's phone just as plain as day.
As the day has worn on, I've gone from being freaked out and uncertain to believing and amazed. Today is just another much-needed and valuable lesson for me on the mighty, incredible, far-reaching power of my God, and how I so greatly underestimate that amazing power. When Jesus ascended into heaven, He promised that He would send the Holy Spirit ... the Helper ... to lead and guide those who are His followers. I serve a God who can do anything He chooses at any given time ... even send a text message when necessary. I speak about that power; I teach about that power; and today, I've witnessed that power in living, breathing, full-blown expression.
And God's sense of humor? The friend who sent and received the text said the reply had no caps, no spaces and no punctuation. Obviously, God cares a lot more about me than He does about grammar.
At work, I have found myself the recipient of a plethora of nicknames as well ... Grammar Guru, Queen of Grammar, Eagle Eyes, Momma T, and the list goes on and on. I'm a senior editor for an advertising agency, and my primary responsibility is to read every word that is written for grammar and content. While I am human and therefore not perfect, I do have a high accuracy rate and am quite the stickler for correct spelling and usage when it comes to the written word.
Something happened today that I simply cannot explain, that has left me a bit freaked out all day, that I can find no other explanation for other than God. And having come to the conclusion that the event was indeed God, I tonight know what I have long suspected ... God is all powerful, and He most definitely has a sense of humor.
Without going into a grand amount of detail, I left during church this morning because I was experiencing some blood sugar issues. I came home, tried to get enough glucose into me to keep me in the land of the living, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and went to bed. I know ... not the smartest thing to do, but sometimes it's either lie down or fall down, and I most often choose the first option. When I didn't show up to teach my Sunday School class, one of the gals texted me to see if I was OK. I need to say here that I always put my phone on vibrate when I am in church, and I never even thought to switch it back when I left. I never knew the text message came in and never heard the calls that buzzed my phone.
Enter the weirdness ... the freakiness ... the Godness. The gal who sent the text asking if I was OK received a text back telling her to find a specific person who has a key to my house and knows how to help me. She called her and she came in, woke me up, helped me get into dry clothes (from the cold sweat ... I stopped wetting the bed a few years ago!), and got some food into me. What's weird about that, you ask? Please allow me to explain. I never heard that text come in and didn't send the text in reply ... and, get this ...there is no record of the reply on my phone whatsoever. I even called the phone company to have them check it for me. And yet, the text is on the gal's phone just as plain as day.
As the day has worn on, I've gone from being freaked out and uncertain to believing and amazed. Today is just another much-needed and valuable lesson for me on the mighty, incredible, far-reaching power of my God, and how I so greatly underestimate that amazing power. When Jesus ascended into heaven, He promised that He would send the Holy Spirit ... the Helper ... to lead and guide those who are His followers. I serve a God who can do anything He chooses at any given time ... even send a text message when necessary. I speak about that power; I teach about that power; and today, I've witnessed that power in living, breathing, full-blown expression.
And God's sense of humor? The friend who sent and received the text said the reply had no caps, no spaces and no punctuation. Obviously, God cares a lot more about me than He does about grammar.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
It's a Jungle Out There
It has been really hot and humid here in Kansas City for the last few days; in fact, I think the heat index today was like 500 degrees. Just stepping outside felt like walking into a sauna, and I was instantly hot and sweaty. I decided to wait until almost dark tonight to go for my walk on the trail, which, quite honestly, is a tiny bit creepy to me. J.R.'s back is still bothering him a bit, so he hasn't walked with me in several weeks, which means I'm all alone on a very dark trail when I walk so late in the evening.
Tonight as I walked, I could hear the nighttime sounds even with my headphones in and Chris Tomlin blaring in my ears. I wasn't too far along on the path when a voice within me began to say, "Turn off the music, and listen to the night." As I often do, I argued for a while with that voice ... "I don't want to listen to the night; the night is scary." But the farther I walked, the stronger the voice spoke to me. "Turn off the music, and listen to the night." I turned off my music and started listening, really listening, to the sounds of the night.
The crickets were in full force tonight, along with the cicadas, and I soon found myself walking in rhythm to their chirping song. I heard the croaking of frogs in the creek, the sound of the wind in the trees, the meow of a cat across the street ... I even heard the hoot of an owl from high up in a tree. I said out loud to the night, "It sounds like a jungle out here tonight." As the words left my lips, a thought stomped its way into my brain. I am in a jungle ... a jungle filled with wild beasts and uncharted territories. A jungle where there are tasks that seem insurmountable, issues that seem impossible to overcome, where wild beasts lurk around the bend ready to devour me at any moment.
As I made my turn to head home, I suddenly had the overwhelming desire to stop and pray ... right on the trail in the now very dark and sticky night. In fact, I had the urge to stop at a bench, get down on my knees and pray ... to pray for my children ... to pray for my friends ... to pray for my brother and sister ... to pray for my church and its leadership ... to pray for myself ... that God would make His will for my life crystal clear to me, that He would take me out of the jungle I so often find myself in and place me in the safety of His well cared for garden of love, redemption, forgiveness and grace.
When I rose from my knees and started for home, I better understood why I felt so driven to listen to the sounds of the night. It is a jungle out there, but in the shelter of God's loving arms, covered by His mercy, I'm always safe, always cared for, always protected. And suddenly, the sounds of the night weren't so scary any longer ... they were music ... sweet, sweet music for my soul.
Tonight as I walked, I could hear the nighttime sounds even with my headphones in and Chris Tomlin blaring in my ears. I wasn't too far along on the path when a voice within me began to say, "Turn off the music, and listen to the night." As I often do, I argued for a while with that voice ... "I don't want to listen to the night; the night is scary." But the farther I walked, the stronger the voice spoke to me. "Turn off the music, and listen to the night." I turned off my music and started listening, really listening, to the sounds of the night.
The crickets were in full force tonight, along with the cicadas, and I soon found myself walking in rhythm to their chirping song. I heard the croaking of frogs in the creek, the sound of the wind in the trees, the meow of a cat across the street ... I even heard the hoot of an owl from high up in a tree. I said out loud to the night, "It sounds like a jungle out here tonight." As the words left my lips, a thought stomped its way into my brain. I am in a jungle ... a jungle filled with wild beasts and uncharted territories. A jungle where there are tasks that seem insurmountable, issues that seem impossible to overcome, where wild beasts lurk around the bend ready to devour me at any moment.
As I made my turn to head home, I suddenly had the overwhelming desire to stop and pray ... right on the trail in the now very dark and sticky night. In fact, I had the urge to stop at a bench, get down on my knees and pray ... to pray for my children ... to pray for my friends ... to pray for my brother and sister ... to pray for my church and its leadership ... to pray for myself ... that God would make His will for my life crystal clear to me, that He would take me out of the jungle I so often find myself in and place me in the safety of His well cared for garden of love, redemption, forgiveness and grace.
When I rose from my knees and started for home, I better understood why I felt so driven to listen to the sounds of the night. It is a jungle out there, but in the shelter of God's loving arms, covered by His mercy, I'm always safe, always cared for, always protected. And suddenly, the sounds of the night weren't so scary any longer ... they were music ... sweet, sweet music for my soul.
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