Give Me Also Springs of Water

I have been sitting in my living room, sorting through journals and scraps of paper upon which are written many “great and precious promises.” I am wondering what has become of the girl who collected them. For, I have been struggling lately to reconcile my circumstances with what I am convinced that God is speaking to my heart. Almost to the point of Sarah’s incredulous laughter.

You see, it’s been awhile since I saw a miracle. I know I’ve seen the everyday faithfulness of God. Money still comes when I have a need. Just the right doctors are there at just the right time. I am safe, protected, surrounded by blessings. But what I am in the middle of now, requires a miracle that can only be recognized as such. It is a need that God alone can meet. And that voice that says “Can God prepare a table in the wilderness?” is loud and persistent.

But, I have faced times like these before. I have it written in these journals and notebooks before me. I have a reminder of the day I sat at the foot of my bed weeping over Isaiah 41:10 as the time to leave for college loomed closer and closer. I had no money, no job, and too few clothes. Circumstances were against me. But didn’t He come through! I have a prayer of thanks for a time that He sent a friend to show me the way out of a bad decision that was clinging to me like a shadow. I have the memory of migraines disappearing after one prayer of faith, never to return. I have spades of evidence that God hears me and comes through.

I suppose part of my struggle is in wanting to accept whatever God has planned for me. Because I know that growth comes from trials, I do not want to miss what might be God’s way of building my faith or pruning out things that hinder my walk with Him. Nor do I want to spend my time in a desert place moping and complaining. Dying in the wilderness, when a land chock-full of milk and honey is just an attitude adjustment away, is not the way I want to go. While I long for deliverance, I do not want to be guilty of overlooking what God has already done on my behalf.

While on my journey aboard this train on thought, I began to think of Achsah. She was a girl who was not content with dwelling in a desert. Upon her marriage to Othniel, she had been given a piece of southern land by her father, Caleb. Though the Bible doesn’t specify what type of land this was, commentators say that the southern land was a dry desert-like region. I suppose this land could have provided them a sufficient living. But I think it would have been back-breaking work. And Achsah knew it. She also knew that her father owned springs of water and would provide them if she asked. When Caleb heard her request, he didn’t rebuke her for being ungrateful, he simply gave her what she asked. Springs of water! To change a land that could provide life into a land that could provide abundant life.

Just now, I do feel as though I am dwelling in a desert land. I do not forget those blessings with which He daily loadeth me. I thank God for my job, my doctors, my opportunities to minister. But I’ve a yen for springs of water. For green growing things. For healing and promises kept. While I desire to accept with grace His will for my life, my health, and my circumstances, I do not want to forget that the desert is not all there is. I do not want to “have not because I ask not,” and I have not been asking.

Somewhere, in these old journal pages, is the girl that refused to accept circumstances over faith. She would have been face down on the altar surrounded by her “vessels not a few” saying “Give me also springs of water.” And as I roll it over in my mind, I find it fitting my need very well. I shall dust off my “vessels not a few” and once more leave them out all over the place where I shall trip over them everywhere I turn. For falling on grace never has hurt me.

Painting With Beautiful Light

“My husband painted that.” Annie told me with a girlish giggle that denied her 70 years. Turning to look behind me, I saw a large painting gracing the wall across from her bed. It was a portrait of Annie in a faded blue house dress and a radiant smile. Annie is not a classically beautiful woman, and none of her faults are omitted in the painting yet, in this picture, she is one of the loveliest women I have ever seen. Suddenly, I am fascinated.

I went back many days to consider the mystery of Annie’s painting until I understood. When a person looks at that portrait, they see her the way that her husband saw her- beautiful. Every flaw is painted in, from the veins on her hands to the way that little lines play around her mouth and neck, but we see only how lovely she is. Because he loved her, he painted her in a beautiful light and now there is no doubt in the mind of anyone who sees her that she is indeed a beautiful lady.

I decided then that this was how I wanted to be loved. Love that sees me just as I am, yet uses a beautiful light to “paint my picture.” I want the man who loves me to believe what he is painting so much that everyone else sees it, too. In spite of the flaws and mistakes and even the sins, I’d like at least him to use that lovely indescribable light to portray me.

Then I considered some of my own artistic triumphs. I haven’t always pained others in a favorable light before others. I’ve let anger magnify faults and disappointment color people in ugly shades. I’ve let misplaced humor portray others as ridiculous. I’m ashamed of some of the portraits I have made and even more ashamed that I have put some of them on display. Especially, I am ashamed, when I consider what light has been shed over me by the grace of God. “All glorious within” has He called me? Certainly, I am not. Yet, the Savior says that it is so and paints me in shades mixed with grace and His own righteousness.

I think that it must take a lot of work to paint a portrait like Annie’s. Years of practicing forgiveness and patience. Lots of lessons in preferring others above ones self. Studying one’s subject until it is understood and then studying some more. One day, I hope to leave behind me better pictures. They will be the kind of pictures that make others see the best in their subjects. I can’t erase her flaws, but I can focus on what a sweet spirit she always practiced. I can’t change his past, but I can show others how insignificant it is compared to the magnificent things God did with his life. Doesn’t love cover a multitude of sins? I think if I keep practicing, soon I will access that light naturally and use it easily. And something is whispering to me that it isn’t too late to dust off some of my old portraits and restore them with love instead of ill-feeling as a light to see by.

I am determined to clean my brushes and mix up better colors. You may join me if you would like.

My Thoughts on Going and Staying

"The command has been to "go," but we have stayed - in body, gifts, prayer and influence. He has asked us to be witnesses unto the uttermost parts of the earth…But 99% of Christians have kept puttering around in the homeland."
- Robert Savage

After having been back east for a conference, I have very mixed emotions. I was so very blessed by fellowship and by the many people that I met. I was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of able ministers and lay people that surrounded me. Their company and their ministering did me so much good.

But at the same time I was grieving my heart out. I haven’t been many places in the world. But I have been enough places and talked to enough people to find the contrast between the availability of the Gospel in the Bible belt and other parts of the world quite vast. Tribes that wait decades for a Bible in their language. Tiny villages that say to a missionary “We have prayed for many years to meet God.”

I can’t remember who said “No one has the right to hear the gospel twice while there are those who have never heard it once.” but it kept running through my mind.

To the best of my knowledge, Montana has one holiness Pentecostal church, and while I am not so delusional as to believe that this is the only denomination of merit, I do feel the lack of it’s influence in society overall when it is not present. South Dakota has none. Arizona has one. I sometimes feel selfish remaining in a state that has even as much access to the Gospel as that while many countries have never heard the Gospel at all. Yet, I meet some even here who know the name of Jesus as just a curse word. And I am asked a surprising number of times what a Christian believes.

Whenever I am in a group of people, especially young people, who appear to be ministry minded, I try to remind them of the places where need is great. I will encourage every last young person in every last church to consider the great commission beyond their four walls if they seem interested. I’ll encourage those who are older as well, but I find the young generally have less reservation about abandoning their lives. I love to encourage mission work and pioneer work. I like to remind those who feel the call of God of the places that have few or none to meet the need of spreading the Gospel. But there is always someone listening from a corner who interrupts my suggestion of “Maybe God is calling you to do this.” with “No. he isn’t.” or “Not everyone is called to do that.” or “We need them right here.”

The last comment is the most irritating to me. I have driven your streets and seen the churches on every corner. I have sat in your pews and know that some of the called have nothing to do. The churches and towns in the Bible belt are overflowing with ministers, workers, and competent teachers. As well as with those who will be such in the very near future. I wonder what is meant by “We need them right here.” To do what? Fill a pew so that the doors can stay open? It would not be a bad thing, in my opinion, if one or two holiness churches in a town closed down because it’s members suddenly took hold of the great commission and flooded the corners of the world that have not heard. What a great story that would be! And there would be plenty of room in churches still there to absorb those who God truly called to stay home and work. No, you do not need every last one of your members. Send the ones who can go and consolidate those who cannot into a better unified body. You have too many. Share with those who have none.

As for “Not everyone is called.” I like what Ion Keith-Falconer says "While vast continents are shrouded in darkness…the burden of proof lies upon you to show that the circumstances in which God has placed you were meant by God to keep you out of the foreign mission field." Or without a call, a ministry, an outreach of some sort.

To those so quick to say “No. He isn’t calling her/him.” Why would that be one’s immediate response? Why would we begin with the assumption that one is not called? Why do we not say instead, “What a wonderful opportunity to serve God! Pray about that!” Hudson Taylor made this statement "It will not do to say that you have no special call to go to China. With these facts before you and with the command of the Lord Jesus to go and preach the gospel to every creature, you need rather to ascertain whether you have a special call to stay at home."

The call is not as hard to recognize as we have made it. Sometimes, recognition of a need and the realization that you can meet it is the call.

Isabel Kuhn said “I believe that in each generation God has called enough men and women to evangelize all the yet unreached tribes of the earth. . . . No it is not God who does not call. It is man who will not respond.” I believe it, too. Nothing else aligns, to my way of thinking, with Jesus’ command to “Go ye into all the world” (Mark 15:16) and His declaration that “ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria and unto the uttermost parts of the earth.” (Acts 1:8) If God is not willing that any should perish, it follow that He has someone in mind to tell everyone.

Some are truly meant to stay at home. Good examples are needed at home. “God has called every Christian to international missions, but He does not want everyone to go. God calls some to be senders.” (David Sills) I know some excellent people who are meant to stay at home and are doing a tremendous job of it. They are senders, supporters, encouragers, just good examples of Godly living at their jobs and in their communities. I would not dream of trying to get them to leave. But far more, I think, are staying than should.

Every time I pray for my Sunday School class, I pray that God calls them and sends them. May their parents forgive me, but I do. Every week, we choose a country to pray for and these small children, when asked to pray in church, never fail to mention missionaries. The same desire that I strive to kindle in their little hearts, with God's help, to see all the world reached, I also hope is kindled in the heart of someone who reads this today.

Thought From My Infusion Chair

This disease sometimes seems strong to me
Much like a fiery furnace or
Eowyn’s midnight cage.

And this IV line that ties me to this chair
Feels like the voice of a Babylonian King “Now see
If your God can deliver out of my hand.”
It tethers me here
While this dream and that desire
Waltz through jungles, soar over seas.
Until I, too, pour out my fear into the bitter watches of the night.

And I have gathered enough strength,
Logically compiled data from experience that says
“Oh! My God can! He can! He has! He does!”
I’ve even, on my braver days,
Taunted back that dreadful phrase
“But if not, know this: I’ll never bow.”
Your claim of sovereignty above Him is not sound.

But these three children, furnace bound,
Were men.
Who deal so well in logic. Seem to find
Their fate acceptable. Glory in a death with honor.

Princess with your sword,
I find you more relatable.
Answering a monster’s fearsome claim:
“No living man can kill me…..”
With “Surprise! No living man am I,”
As I let down my hair,
“You look upon a woman!”
Did not our desperation and our need
Once raise the dead?

Oh, hemmed garment, I follow hard behind
With hand outstretched.

Keepers of the Springs

This sermon was delivered many years ago by Peter Marshall. I once had it in a little book, but gave it away to a girl who is getting married in April. It's rather long and a little old fashioned, but it's rich and wise and well worth reading. Maybe reading twice.

"Once upon a time, a certain town grew up at the foot of a mountain range. It was sheltered in the lee of the protecting heights, so that the wind that shuddered at the doors and flung handfuls of sleet against the window panes was a wind whose fury was spent. High up in the hills, a strange and quiet forest dweller took it upon himself to be the Keeper of the Springs. He patrolled the hills and wherever he found a spring, he cleaned its brown pool of silt and fallen leaves, of mud and mold and took away from the spring all foreign matter, so that the water which bubbled up through the sand ran down clean and cold and pure. It leaped sparkling over rocks and dropped joyously in crystal cascades until, swollen by other streams, it became a river of life to the busy town. Millwheels were whirled by its rush. Gardens were refreshed by its waters. Fountains threw it like diamonds into the air. Swans sailed on its limpid surface, and children laughed as they played on its banks in the sunshine.


But the City Council was a group of hard-headed, hard-boiled businessmen. They scanned the civic budget and found in it the salary of a Keeper of the Springs. Said the Keeper of the Purse: "Why should we pay this romance ranger? We never see him; he is not necessary to our town's work life. If we build a reservoir just above the town, we can dispense with his services and save his salary." Therefore, the City Council voted to dispense with the unnecessary cost of a Keeper of the Springs, and to build a cement reservoir.



So the Keeper of the Springs no longer visited the brown pools but watched from the heights while they built the reservoir. When it was finished, it soon filled up with water, to be sure, but the water did not seem to be the same. It did not seem to be as clean, and a green scum soon befouled its stagnant surface. There were constant troubles with the delicate machinery of the mills, for it was often clogged with slime, and the swans found another home above the town. At last, an epidemic raged, and the clammy, yellow fingers of sickness reached into every home in every street and lane.



The City Council met again. Sorrowfully, it faced the city's plight, and frankly it acknowledged the mistake of the dismissal of the Keeper of the Springs. They sought him out of his hermit hut high in the hills, and begged him to return to his former joyous labor. Gladly he agreed, and began once more to make his rounds. It was not long until pure water came lilting down under tunnels of ferns and mosses and to sparkle in the cleansed reservoir. Millwheels turned again as of old. Stenches disappeared. Sickness waned and convalescent children playing in the sun laughed again because the swans had come back.



Do not think me fanciful, too imaginiative or too extravagant in my language when I say that I think of women, and particularly of our mothers, as Keepers of the Springs. The phrase, while poetic, is true and descriptive. We feel its warmth...its softening influence...and however forgetful we have been...however much we have taken for granted life's precious gifts, we are conscious of wistful memories that surge out of the past--the sweet, tender, poignant fragrances of love. Nothing that has been said, nothing that could be said, or that ever will be said, would be eloquent enough, expressive enough, or adequate to make articulate that peculiar emotion we feel to our mothers. So I shall make my tribute a plea for Keepers of the Springs, who will be faithful to their tasks.



There never has been a time when there was a greater need for Keepers of the Springs, or when there were more polluted springs to be cleansed. If the home fails, the country is doomed. The breakdown of homelife and influence will mark the breakdown of the nation. If the Keepers of the Springs desert their posts or are unfaithful to their responsibilities, the future outlook of this country is black, indeed. This generation needs Keepers of the Springs who will be courageous enough to cleanse the springs that have been polluted. It is not an easy task--nor is it a popular one, but it must be done for the sake of the children, and the young women of today must do it.



The emancipation of womanhood began with Christianity, and it ends with Christianity. It had its beginning one night nineteen hundred years ago when there came to a woman named Mary a vision and a message from heaven. She saw the rifted clouds of glory and the hidden battlements of heaven. She heard an angelic annunciation of the almost incredible news that she, of all the women on earth...of all the Marys in history...was to be the only one who should ever wear entwined the red rose of maternity and the white rose of virginity. It was told her--and all Keepers of the Springs know how such messages come--that she should be the mother of the Savior of the world.



It was nineteen hundred years ago "when Jesus Himself a baby deigned to be and bathed in baby tears His deity"...and on that night, when that tiny Child lay in the straw of Bethlehem, began the emancipation of womanhood.



When He grew up and began to teach the way of life, He ushered woman into a new place in human relations. He accorded her a new dignity and crowned her with a new glory, so that wherever the Christian evangel has gone for nineteen centuries, the daughters of Mary have been respected, revered, remembered, and loved, f or men have recognized that womanhood is a sacred and a noble thing, that women are of finer clay...are more in touch with the angels of God and have the noblest function that life affords. Wherever Christianity has spread, for nineteen hundred years men have bowed and adored.



It remained for the twentieth century, in the name of progress, in the name of tolerance, in the name of broadmindedness, in the name of freedom, to pull her down from her throne and try to make her like a man.



She wanted equality. For nineteen hundred years she had not been equal--she had been superior. But now, they said, she wanted equality, and in order to obtain it, she had to step down. And so it is, that in the name of broadminded tolerance, a man's vices have now become a woman's.



Twentieth-century tolerance has won for woman the right to become intoxicated, the right to have an alcoholic breath, the right to smoke, to work like a man to act like a man--for is she not man's equal? Today they call it "progress"...but tomorrow,oh, you Keepers of the Springs, they must be made to see that it is not progress.



No nation has ever made any progress in a downward direction. No people ever became great by lowering their standards. No people ever became good by adopting a looser morality. It is not progress when the moral tone is lower than it was. It is not progress when purity is not as sweet. It is not progress when womanhood has lost its fragrance. Whatever else it is, it is not progress!



We need Keepers of the Springs who will realize that what is socially correct may not be morally right. Our country needs today women who will lead us back to an old-fashioned morality, to an old fashioned decency, to an old fashioned purity and sweetness for the sake of the next generation, if for no other reason.



This generation has seen an entirely new type of womanhood emerge from the bewildering confusion of ourtime. We have in the United States today a higher standard of living than in any other country, or at any other time in the world's history. We have more automobiles, more picture shows, more telephones, more money, more swing bands, more radios, more television sets, more nightclubs, more crime, and more divorce than any other nation in the world. Modern mothers want their children to enjoy the advantages of this new day. They want them, if possible, to have a college diploma to hang on their bedroom wall, and what many of them regard as equally important--a bid to a fraternity or a sorority. They are desperately anxious that their daughters will be popular, although the price of this popularity may not be considered until it is too late. In short, they want their children to succeed, but the usual definition of success, in keeping with the trend of our day, is largely materialistic.



The result of all this is that the modern child is brought up in a decent, cultured, comfortable, but thoroughly irreligious home. All around us, living in the very shadow of our large churches and beautiful cathedrals, children are growing up without a particle of religious training or influence. The parents of such children have usually completely given up the search for religious moorings. At first, they probably had some sort of vague idealism as to what their children should be taught. They recall something of the religious instruction received when they were children, and they feel that something like that ought to be passed on to the children today, but they can't do it, because the simple truth is that they have nothing to give. Our modern broadmindedness has taken religious education out of the day schools. Our modern way of living and our modern irreligion have taken it out of the homes.



There remains only one place where it may be obtained, and that is in the Sunday School, but it is no longer fashionable to attend Sunday School. The result is that there is very little religious education, and parents who lack it themselves are not able to give it to their children--so it is a case of "the blind leading the blind," and both children and parents will almost invariably end up in the ditch of uncertainty and irreligion.



As you think of your own mother, remembering her with love and gratitude--in wishful yearning, or lonely longing, I am quite sure that the memories that warm and soften your heart are not at all like the memories the children of today will have... For you are, no doubt, remembering the smell of fresh starch in your mother's apron or the smell of a newly ironed blouse, the smell of newly baked bread, the fragrance of the violets she had pinned on her breast. It would be such a pity if all that one could remember would be the aroma of toasted tobacco or nicotine and the odor of beer on the breath!



The challenge of the twentieth-century motherhood is as old as motherhood itself. Although the average American mother has advantages that pioneer women never knew--material advantages: education, culture, advances made by science and medicine; although the modern mother knows a great deal more about sterilization, diets, health, calories, germs, drugs, medicines and vitamins, than her mother did, there is one subject about which she does not know as much--and that is God.



The modern challenge to motherhood is the eternal challenge--that of being a godly woman. The very phrase sounds strange in our ears. We never hear it now. We hear about every other kind of women--beautiful women, smart women, sophisticated women, career woman, talented women, divorced women, but so seldom do we hear of a godly woman--or of a godly man either, for that matter.



I believe women come nearer fulfilling their God-given function in the home than anywhere else. It is a much nobler thing to be a good wife than to be Miss America. It is a greater achievement to establish a Christian home than it is to produce a second-rate novel filled with filth. It is a far, far better thing in the realm of morals to be old-fashioned than to be ultramodern. The world has enough women who know how to hold their cocktails, who have lost all their illusions and their faith. The world has enough women who know how to be smart. It needs women who are willing to be simple. The world has enough women who know how to be brilliant. It needs some who will be brave. The world has enough women who are popular. It needs more who are pure. We need woman, and men, too, who would rather be morally right that socially correct.



Let us not fool ourselves--without Christianity, without Christian education, without the principles of Christ inculcated into young life, we are simply rearing pagans. Physically, they will be perfect. Intellectually, they will be brilliant. But spiritually, they will be pagan. Let us not fool ourselves. The school is making no attempt to teach the principles of Christ. The Church alone cannot do it. They can never be taught to a child unless the mother herself knows them and practices them every day.



If you have no prayer life yourself, it is rather a useless gesture to make your child say his prayers every night. If you never enter a church it is rather futile to send your child to Sunday school. If you make a practice of telling social lies, it will be difficult to teach your child to be truthful. If you say cutting things about your neighbors and about fellow members in the church, it will be hard for your child to learn the meaning of kindness.



The twentieth-century challenge to motherhood--when it is all boiled down--is that mothers will have an experience of God...a reality which they can pass on to their children. For the newest of the sciences is beginning to realize, after a study of the teachings of Christ from the standpoint of psychology, that only as human beings discover and follow these inexorable spiritual laws will they find the happiness and contentment which we all seek.



A minister tells of going to a hospital to visit a mother whose first child had been born. She was a distinctly modern girl. Her home was about average for young married people. "When I came into the room she was propped up in bed writing. 'Come in,' she said, smiling. 'I'm in the midst of housecleaning, and I want your help.' I had never heard of a woman housecleaning while in a hospital bed. Her smile was contagious--she seemed to have found a new and jolly idea. "'I've had a wonderful chance to think here,' she began, 'and it may help me to get things straightened out in my mind if I can talk to you.' She put down her pencil and pad, and folded her hands. Then she took a long breath and started: 'Ever since I was a little girl, I hated any sort of restraint. I always wanted to be free. When I finished high school, I took a business course and got a job--not because I needed the money--but because I wanted to be on my own. Before Joe and I were married, we used to say that we would not be slaves to each other. And after we married, our apartment became headquarters for a crowd just like us. We weren't really bad--but we did just what we pleased.' She stopped for a minute and smiled ruefully. 'God didn't mean much to us--we ignored Him. None of us wanted children--or we thought we didn't. And when I knew I was going to have a baby, I was afraid.' She stopped again and looked puzzled. 'Isn't it funny, the things you used to think? She had almost forgotten I was there--she was speaking to the old girl she had been before her great adventure. Then remembering me suddenly--she went on: 'Where was I? Oh, yes, well, things are different now. I'm not free any more and I don't want to be. And the first thing I must do is to clean house.' Here she picked up the sheet of paper lying on the counterpane. 'That's my housecleaning list. You see, when I take Betty home from the hospital with me--our apartment will be her home--not just mine and Joe's. And it isn't fit for her now. Certain things will have to go--for Betty's sake. And I've got to houseclean my heart and mind. I'm not just myself--I'm Betty's mother. And that means I need God. I can't do my job without Him. Won't you pray for Betty and me and Joe, and for our new home?' And I saw in her all the mothers of today--mothers in tiny apartments and on lonely farms...Mothers in great houses and in suburban cottages, who are meeting the age-old challenge--' that of bringing up their children to the love and knowledge of God.' And I seemed to see our Savior--with His arms full of children of far-away Judea--saying to that mother and to all mothers--the old invitation so much needed in these times: 'Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God.'"



I believe that this generation of young people has courage enough to face the challenging future. I believe that their idealism is not dead. I believe that they have the same bravery and the same devotion to the things worthwhile that their grandmothers had. I have every confidence that they are anxious to preserve the best of our heritage, and God knows if we lose it here in this country, it is forever gone. I believe that the women of today will not be unmindful of their responsibilities; that is why I have dared to speak so honestly. Keepers of the Springs, we salute you!



Our Father, remove from us the sophistication of our age and the skepticism that has come, like frost, to blight our faith and to make it weak. We pray for a return of that simple faith, that old fashioned trust in God, that made strong and great the homes of our ancestors who built this good land and who in building left us our heritage. In the strong name of Jesus, our Lord, we make this prayer, Amen."

~Peter Marshall,minister and former U.S. Senate Chaplain

Wiley Coyote and Meek, Quiet Spirits.

Wherein my writing reflects who I want to be more than who I actually am.

I am lying on my stomach on a quilt, with Wiley Coyote chasing Roadrunner in the background, while I cough and contemplate the value of a meek and quiet spirit. The irony is not lost on me, for it is that part of me that wants to drop an anvil on someone with which I struggle. The part of me that wants to cling to it’s right to be offended.

(I have also just killed a beetle that was guilty of nothing more than being a beetle. And looking like the type of beetle that might crawl into my nose while I sleep.)

This lesson is a hard one for me. I often wonder if I will ever be able to retain it without having to get out my notes and study every time a test comes up.

Often, instead of opening my mouth with wisdom a la Proverbs 31, I open my mouth with witticism. And my tongue is possessed of the law of criticism rather than of kindness.

I begin to realize that a meek and quiet spirit is formed through the choices I make. Habits of speaking wisely and kindly are developed through constantly choosing to do so. I cannot always choose how I feel about something. Wronged, unjustly accused, overlooked, undervalued, hurt, disrespected. But I can choose what I do with those feelings, how I react to the other person or to the situation, and what I say to others about it.

Choosing to be witty often fans the flames of offense, for it invites others to take part in my emotional tantrum. Wisdom lends a point of view that infuses clarity and quietness to a situation or a heart that is boiling like water for chocolate. Wisdom seeks to sooth and make peace.

Choosing to criticize, which essentially amounts to looking for faults to latch onto in others so that my own part in a misunderstanding can be excused, only strengthens my negative outlook. Now, not only am I disquieting my spirit, I am introducing strife and tension into the relationship. Choosing kindness, which has some wonderful synonyms (compassion, gentleness, grace, patience, understanding, accommodation, service, generosity, relief, succor, hospitality), produces wonderful results. Kindness (meekness) has compassion and forgives. Kindness seeks to heal and relieve suffering rather than adding to it.

Someday, I hope to be like Amy Carmichael’s cup of sweet water that cannot spill even one drop of bitter water, however sharply jolted.

For tonight, I am just glad to have escaped the coyote’s fate- caught and uncomfortable in a snare of my own making, trying to chew off my own foot to get away. Even if it took some will power.

Pink Dresses and God's Redemption

A while back, I read a book that certain of my friends were raving about and that others were ready to burn as blasphemy. Much of it bothered me and I do not recommend it at all. In fact, I don't recommend reading controversial pieces of writing out of curiosity as a general rule unless you are steadfastly fixed in your faith and sure of your theology.

However, one conversation between the main character and "God" arrested my attention.

During the sequence of events, the main character says to God, "I just can't iimagine any outcome that would justify this." God replies to him "We are not justifying it; we are rdeeming it."

Now, I know that this is something that I write about a lot, but I cannot help it! You do not know he cost of the oil in my alabaster box!

When I was a little girl, I got a pink dress that I loved. It was my favorite dress. Somehow, it got a hole in it and I thought that it was ruined forever. I remember crying my eyes out over that hole. But my father went and bought a little patch shaped like a pink and white lamb and ironed it on over the hole. I thought it made my dress even more beautiful that it was before.

God has given you your life, beautiful and perfect. But because we live in a fallen world, things happen to damage or to "ruin" our lives, either by choices we make or the actions of others. God doesn't hurt you or plan for things to hurt you (just as my father didn't tear my dress or plan for it to happen). But when tears happen, he works the damage into part of the final, beautiful design.

That hole was not part of the plan for my dress. It should not have happened and, in a sense, was not justifiable. But it was redeemable and became the thing I loved most about the dress. In fact, the fixing of the dress became one of my favorite memories. I like to tell people about it.

Satan can't ruin your life. Any tear he makes, any pain he causes, any mistake that you make will become part of the good design for your life if you will let Jesus Christ have it. The pain or the mistake may not be justifiable or even understandable, but it's redeemable. It can be bought back and made beautiful. "Look what my father did for me!" you will say.

I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten. Joel 2:25

Save the Last Dance

Having talked myself, with the help of a couple friends, a bit of chocolate ice-cream, and an hour or two of prayer, out of the blues or the reds or whatever they were, I am ready to be myself again. I would like to share with you something that made an impression on me as a teenager. Now, it’s going to get sentimental and mushy in here, so this is your last chance to escape if you need to.

About 14 years ago, (hold on while I adjust to hearing myself say such a thing) I had a friend who taught me a wonderful lesson. She was married to one of those men who never meets a stranger. One of those people who is an instant friend to everyone. A comfortable man who, even in the ranks of holiness, had no concept of the 6 inch rule. (I’m not even going to go into how I feel about the holiness paranoia of physical contact. That weird mental attitude that makes a guy watch you fall on your face instead of giving you his hand over a rough spot. Immaculate conceptions do not occur anymore. I have a rock-band drummer friend with more manners....OK, I’m really not going into this.)

Anyway, one day as this man was joking around with people and just being his artlessly friendly self, a woman asked my friend if she ever worried or was ever bothered by her husband’s outgoing ways. She looked in his direction with a joyful smile and said, “No, I’m wearing his ring.” The inquirer raised her eyebrows in that way that says “I don’t believe you.” and walked away.

But I believed her. When she said “I’m wearing his ring,” she meant “I have his heart.” That was enough for her. Let others enjoy his company, laugh at his jokes. Let him grasp onto the hand of whomever he was talking to. She’d even wait while he chatted with friends who had called to talk with her. She knew she had his heart. I watched her rest securely in this knowledge and tucked her comment away in my pocket. I took it out every now and then and turned it over and over until it made perfect sense to me. She knew he loved her and colored all of his actions in that light.

I don’t have a husband (So I should probably kick whoever that is on my couch watching the Matrix out. And make him take his pop can with him.) But I do have friends. Some I have had for many years and some are rather new. I could easily ruin one of these wonderful friendships with suspicion and jealousy. I could become the pestering friend who is always asking “Are you mad at me? Because you haven’t talked to me since Thursday.” Yes, even at my age this happens. I could become jealous of other friendships and demand attention. (And I do love attention. It’s my sanguine half.) Or I can choose to believe that whatever time has passed, or whatever things have come between us, I have their affections as they have mine. When they marry and homes and children take up their time, I say “I have their heart.” and rejoice with them. When I move far away and communication is hard because of jobs and the fact that no one lives in my time zone, I believe that I am loved and remembered as I love and remember.

There’s a song sung by some very bad ladies that I really like. It says that you can spend all the time you want with others. You can give them your smile and dance till dawn with them, as long as you save the last dance for me. And I know I’ve mixed my metaphors a little and thoroughly blurred the platonic and romantic, but you can overlook it, yes? (We’ll just blame that on my melancholy half.) I’m trying to make a point here about true affection. It doesn’t mind sharing and it trusts the one upon whom it has been bestowed.

So, old friend, here’s to you. You have my heart today, tomorrow, a thousand years from now. New friend, you have it, too. Save me a dance or a cup of coffee or a chair at you kitchen table and I’ll be by to get it when I can. I’ll be saving one for you, too.

She Prays Like a Girl

One of my favorite lines in the Bible is in the book of Hebrews "Women received their dead brought back to life again." To me, this epitomizes the power that is in the prayers of women. They, through faith, received THEIR DEAD back to them. All through the Bible, God has answered the impossible prayers of women. I believe that three things in the make-up of a woman make her prayers irresistible. Three of her potential faults are turned to great strength when she applies them to prayer.

First, she is able to completely disregard logic. People sometimes say she is crazy because rationality is often left out of the equation when she calculates her faith. She only sees that something has gone wrong that should be right. My favorite incidence of this is with the Shunamite woman. When her son died, she was unshaken in her belief that all was well; she set out for his life with no intention of returning without it. Illogical, irrational! But death forsooth! The situation was contrary to all that she had been promised and all that she had prayed for, therefore it was unacceptable. Sometimes logic and rationality get in the way of faith. You won't walk on water with logic. A rational mind will never ask for miracles. God has neither compunction nor requirement to fit into your diagram. Possible and impossible are words that people use to describe their own limitations; they are irrelevant to God and so they are irrelevant to my faith.

Second, a woman cries. She is not afraid to become emotionally invested. A woman is not afraid to cry when she is grieved, or when she is thankful, or when she loves. I can't say for sure that the Shunamite woman was crying as she traveled to the prophet's house, but I imagine that she was because the prophet recognized something that made him say "Her soul is vexed within her." Tears are physical evidence of serious need and they arrest the attention of God. They are so precious to him that he puts them in a bottle. I used to be a quiet crier. I didn't want people to see me as weak or easily broken. But there are things over which should be easily broken. That gentle tear that slides silently down the calm face may be admirable in the painting of a saint, but it's empty. Like Hannah, who cried so hard the priest thought she was drunk, I want God to hear me so badly that I don't care who else hears also.

Third, a woman is persistent. She won't just let things go. Lack of persistence is often what keeps us from seeing an answer to prayer. People may get irritated with the one who keeps coming back and coming back and coming back and then.... coming back again. God never loses patience for there is power in a ceaseless prayer. You have no idea what is being accomplished by your assault on the gates of hell, for victory is first won in the spiritual realm. Persistence pays off, sister of mine. They are things over which I am so burdened that I doubt an hour passes between my prayers. I have often said to God, "You know me. You know I won't leave until you hear me. Evening, morning, and at noon I will be here with my petition." Just like the Shunamite woman who would not go home until the prophet went with her.

Tennyson wrote a poem that I like very much. Part of it says "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Therefore let your voice rise like a fountain for me night and day." If you love someone, pray. If you are grieved past bearing, pray. If the night is too long and the battle seems lost, pray! Let your voice rise like a fountain day and night, without reserve or shame, full of passion and sincerity.

Don't be dismayed by what seems impossible. Cling to faith and persist in hope. Wear your heart on your sleeve before the throne of God, for He is not offended by your emotions. Let there be no silences where there should be speech. You will stop the mouth of lions. You will receive promises. You will tear down strongholds in the name of Christ. And you will receive your "dead" brought back to life again. A woman of prayer is a woman of power who makes a difference.

Satan groaned and said to his hell's angels,
"It's that sort of light sprung Lazarus.
Unstoppable. This'll be big, big
Trouble, all sorts of bother
For the lot of us..."
~William Langland