The REAL Hope Diamond

This was originally posted back in August 2010.  I'm reposting because I need to be reminded of what it says. I hope you all enjoy it.

Two Sundays ago, I heard a sermon titled Chosen.  In it my pastor pointed out that like Israel, believers today (of which I am one) were chosen by God and it was not just a cold, calculated choice, but one made with loving affection for His people.

During my Monday evening walk with a friend, we talked about this sermon.  My friend asked me if I believed that I was chosen - in this manner - He could have chosen anyone, but He chose me.  I answered that I believe that I'm chosen, this is directly borne out in the Word, but I have trouble grasping the affectionate part.  God chose a lot of other people, as well.  I'm one of billions of people that Jesus chose, what sets me apart?  What makes me special?  What makes me noticed?  She responded that just as I enjoy certain aspects in one of my dogs and other traits in the other dog - just as she appreciates certain qualities in each of her individual children, there is some trait in me that God enjoys.

I pondered this for a day or two and determined...it's not about me.  Though I want to be and AM special, it is because God created me that way.  Focusing and seeking what makes me special is demeaning to He that created me.  He placed a particular trait of His inside me; inside each of us, by His own design and for His own purposes.  It is in His image that I was made, formed, sculpted.

Bu...what does that mean - in His image?

God created man in His own image - this is direct from Genesis and even many Bible-illiterate have heard this.  God has many facets to His image and He placed one of those facets in each one of us.

A facet is one face of a diamond's cut.  Facets determine the amount of light refracted.  They are what give a diamond it's "bling".  The more facets a diamond has, the more brilliant the diamond.  Skilled diamond cutters have developed diamonds with up to 221 facets, though most have dramatically fewer.  In fact, the Hope Diamond, with all it's brilliance and storied past, has only 74 facets.  These pale in comparison to God.

If each member of the world's past, present and future population has just one facet of God's image, then His glory is a diamond of billions, trillions, gazillions of facets.  Such brilliance would be more than spellbinding; it would sear your eyes.  Then it would kill you.

In Exodus (Ex 33:12 - Ex 34: 1-35) Moses asked to see God's glory.  God mercifully declined, as to do so would kill Moses.  He did, however, come to Moses under cloud cover.  And still, Moses' face radiated with God's light after spending time with Him.  A mere shadow of His glory caused Moses' face to shine!

My little facet does nothing by itself.  A diamond with only one facet is a glass splinter.  Combined with all the other facets, we shine brightly.  But even this is only because of our Creator, who inserted each facet in to each of us.  And a diamond does not have light of it's own; it won't shine in total darkness.  A diamond reflects light, just as we reflect the light of God.

Relationships are Like Meatloaf

(This was originally posted August 4, 2010, but I still find it current and releavnt)

You can’t make a good meatloaf without mixing it up with your hands. You have to dig in to the gloppy mess up to your wrists, bread crumbs under your fingernails, grease coating your hands.

Some cooks will try to mix everything with a spoon, but this creates a splotchy, not so appetizing product.

Other cooks are only willing to get their hands so dirty so the various ingredients never really blend together and the end result is inconsistent and not as flavorful as it could be.

When a cook plunges their hands in to the meat and eggs and seasonings, being sure to spread everything around, the resulting loaf is a savory delight. This messy amalgam becomes a fulfilling meal and produces leftovers for days to come. In fact, the leftovers are better the next day once everything has had a chance to meld. Good meatloaves hold up well in the freezer, as well reminding the diners of the chef’s great skills, long after the initial meal was enjoyed.

Relationships are like meatloaves. The best ones can be very messy, at times. Those who keep their distance with the spoon find meatloaf bland and not to their liking. Those who only half-heartedly mix things up never experience the satisfaction a great meatloaf.

Those who are willing to dive in with both hands, who fully commit to the work involved, they get to enjoy this full sensory feast. Sometimes onions may produce tears, salt may sting a previously unnoticed cut, a hidden piece of eggshell may lodge itself painfully under a fingernail. But still the end result – the ultimate in comfort food – is worth it, with leftovers and memories  feeding the soul for many meals.

Duck Hunting

I've never seen the show Duck Dynasty so I speak as an observer, not as a fan or combatant.  Since I live in a country where free speech is still allowed, here are some of my random thoughts on the topic:

1. We live in a country where free speech is a right protected by the Constitution.
2. Phil Robertson has the right to express his opinion.
3. We live in a country where freedom of the press and other media is protected by the Constitution
4. GQ magazine has the right to publish Phil Robertson's comments.
5. A&E has the right to set their programming schedule or discipline, hire and fire whomever they want, within contractual or regulatory requirements.
6. Citizens and residents of our country have these same rights to express their opinions on Phil Robertson, A&E or whatever.
7. With every right comes a corresponding responsibility.  In this case one of the responsibilities is to respect others' rights and to express opinions in a manner showing consideration of others' rights in a mature manner.
8. Duck Dynasty is a reality show, with "reality" defined by the producers, directors, editors and network.  A&E did not like Phil Robertson's "reality" so they're trying to change it to suit their business needs.
9. A&E is owned by The Hearst Corporation and Disney, who's job it is is to make money for their shareholders.  Entertainment is a means to an end. Own any Hearst or Disney stock?
10. Are you willing to forego a trip to Disney to support Phil Robertson?  Are you willing to subscribe to Hearst publications or watch other A&E programs to support A&E?  Put your money where your mouth (or keyboard) is.
11. Is A&E's beef with Phil Robertson about his opinions or that these opinions were expressed in a GQ interview, which is owned by Conde Nast, and not a Hearst Corporation publication?

If Money Had Been No Object

On this date last year my sister, Cassie died.  At that time, I was tasked with the responsibility and the privilege to write her obituary.  Because of space and financial considerations (you have to pay the newspaper for extra words), I was limited in what I could publish.  If I'd had unlimited funds, this is the obituary I would have written.  And this is the obituary she deserved.

Mary Catherine (Cassie) Best Kraus King died in her sleep on June 9, 2012 at her home in Odessa, Texas.  She was born on August 15, 1956 - a Wednesday.  "Wednesday's child is full of woe..." and Cassie had her share of woe.  But on that day in 1956 her parents, John Edward and Jean Shirley Hammerton Best, greeted her with joy and much love.

She was named Mary because August 15 is a Catholic Holy Day - the Feast of the Assumption  of Mary.  Her middle name Catherine was after her paternal grandmother, Catherine Carney Best.  The name Cassie came about because her sister Jean (Jean Wright) couldn't pronounce Cathy.  Her parents called her Cassie Assie, but because she wasn't allowed to say "ass" she referred to herself as "Cassie Bum Bum".

She was the third of four children - Bruce Best, Jean Wright and Barbara Best.  In addition to her father and siblings, she is survived by her son Steven Michael (Julie) Kraus and two grandchildren, Damian and Skylar.

Family was important to her and so she would have liked to include all her aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, great nieces and nephews, steps-, friends who were as close as family, etc in this list. And she could have named every one, along with their birthdays and anniversaries!

She attended St Lawrence O'Toole Elementary School, Ursuline Academy, and for a time, Clarion State University.  She graduated from Allegheny County Vo-Tech with a degree in Practical Nursing and was a Licensed Practical Nurse.

As a young teen Cassie had thyroid problems that were possibly thought to be cancerous.  She was finally diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis and had to have her thyroid surgically removed.  It was serious surgery for it's time and a cause of great worry for her parents.  The surgery was successful and the experience may have fueled her nurturing skills.

From an early age, Cassie demonstrated great nursing skills.  She often tended to her siblings and parents when they were sick or hospitalized.  Highly intelligent, she understood medical science, but her best professional skill was her compassion and desire to ease people's pain.  Prior to her nursing career she worked at a church bingo refreshment stand, as a Laundromat attendant, a hospital food service worker  and a waitress, always serving people.  She was an advocate for her patients and any downtrodden she thought were being disrespected and ignored.  You would not want to be the Customer Service representative who was rude to a hapless customer!  Cassie would have had no problem coming from the back of the line to dress down said representative for the sake of a total stranger.  And if the customer happened to be rude to the person behind the counter, she'd take them on as well.

Cassie had a variety of interests.  Her musical taste ranged from Elvis to Elton John to... (gasp) Barry Manilow.  She loved to read - anything from Best Sellers to gossip rags.  It was the latter that made her a killer Trivial Pursuit player, especially in the Arts & Entertainment category.

Her taste in food was far from refined.  Cassie's favorite Italian meal was Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-O's.  She liked Potato Buds over homemade mashed potatoes and LaChoy over any Chinese restaurant.  However, she was quite particular about stuffing.  It had to be homemade - her mother's recipe; StoveTop was no substitute.  Cassie's culinary skills were not top-notch, either; but she WAS able to duplicate Mommy's stuffing (for which there is no written recipe, it's totally by "feel & taste") like no one else in the family.

 Her greatest love was for her son, Steven - her "Bunny Boy", and his family.  She adored her granddaughter, Skylar or, as she referred to her "Skylab".  She wanted for Steven every experience, every advantage.  She scraped together money for him to take a few flying lessons, and took him on a trip to New York City.  And there were also the numerous trips to Cedar Point...  Steve inherited his love of roller coasters from her.  Though she enjoyed coasters, she would still try to protect Steve and any one who was riding next to her, by putting her arm up in front of them to stop them from falling out - again, sometimes total strangers.

It would be easy to ignore or gloss over the "full of woe" portion of Cassie's life, but it was part of what made her - and she would be angry if I didn't acknowledge it.  Throughout most of her life, Cassie struggled with substance abuse and suffered the physical, emotional, social and legal ramifications.  It may have been what killed her, we don't know.  At the very least, it contributed to her way too early death.

I don't know what caused her addictions.  I wonder if maybe it was her great compassion and empathy; her ability to feel others' pain.  Perhaps Cassie was so sensitive to everyone's hurt that she was overwhelmed by it and sought relief in drugs and alcohol.  I don't know.  Nobody does.

In January, 2012 I read the book "A Praying Life" by Paul Miller and was struck by the need to pray for my sister in a regular and very concerted way.  The verse that came to mind when I prayed for her was Matthew 11:28 - "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  I did this quite often over the next few months.  After she died, I was sorting through the prayer cards I kept for various people and thought to myself wryly, "Well, I don't need this one anymore". 

(Yes, it's a sick joke; but Cassie would have liked it.  She would have laughed at it...hard.  Her only complaint would have been that I'd said it before she did.)

Thinking about my prayers, I realized God had answered this prayer.  This wasn't the rest I'd expected Him to give her, but Cassie is at rest.  As a teenager, she'd made a commitment to Christ; she knew that her own good works were not enough to please God; she couldn't do enough of them to earn salvation.  And at that time, she'd done quite a few good works.  To look at her life afterwards - the stints in rehab, the times in jail, and all the other ugly acts - it didn't look like she was "living for Jesus".  But pull back the curtains that cover our lives and our selfishness, greed, anger, malice, impatience and pride (to name a few) would be revealed for all to see. We all fall short; which is why we need Jesus in the first place.

So, Cassie is at rest; she is in heaven with God, healed of her addictions.  She is not in hell because of her addictions and crimes any more than she is in heaven because of her good acts.  For all of us, our sinful acts and attitudes far outnumber our "saintly" ones.  Cassie is living in heaven because Jesus took the punishment she (and we all) deserved and she accepted His free gift of eternal life.

On this, the first anniversary of her death, I say with confidence in God, who answered my prayers that Cassie is Resting in Peace.

Red Neck Grocery Shopping...

...or "Why I Shouldn't Buy Bras at the Same Store I Purchase Food"

I ran in to WalMart for a quick trip. I wanted to get my hair trimmed in the salon.  Once inside the store, I was told it would be a 45 minute wait so I decided to head home.  But while I was there, why not be efficient and pick up some Diet Coke?  Since I only had  one item to buy I didn't bother with a cart.  If I take a cart during these escapades I end up spending a small fortune; so in an effort to be frugal I abstained.

I was in a hurry so I took the diagonal short cut through Ladies clothing.  I passed a cute skirt (black a-line with a splashy white rose print) that was inexpensive.  I did a quick check and the size and the price were right so I took the hangar off the rack and proceeded towards the grocery section with my spontaneous acquisition.

A few rows later I saw some tights that might look good with the skirt but there were none in the right color or pattern so I refrained, proud of my budget discipline.  I then continued forward to the food, which was why I entered the store in the first place.  Because of some people standing in the aisle on my route, I had to detour.  I then found myself in the lingerie section.  In desperate need of bras and remembering that I'd found an inexpensive, utilitarian model a few months ago, I scanned the racks looking for the proper size that would support my rack.  I found it, grabbed it, and then speedily walked towards the food.  I was congratulating myself on my quick progress through the store. 

I grabbed my intended purchase (Diet Coke) and headed towards the checkout line purchases in hand, as I had wisely forgone a cart.  Again, due to shoppers, I was forced to take an especially circuitous route, this time through the grocery aisles.  Diet Coke and skirt weighed down my right hand at my side, while in my left was the new brassiere, moving in cadence with my step.  Back and forth, up and down the double-barrelled slingshot swung and bounced with abandon.  My speed and tempo was akin to a running back, dodging shoppers right and left, the checkout line my only goal.  The over-the-should-boulder-holder in hand, it brushed against a few shoppers.  Only when the ample, empty cups nearly collected a few canned goods off a shelf did I realize I had been swinging a bra all the way through WalMart!

Next time, I get a cart.

PS - In the "it could have been worse category" I had originally been eyeing up a (tasteful) black lace model but decided to be practical and bought the beige model instead.

A Christmas Far More GloriousThan Grand

For the first time in many years I put up a Christmas tree. Nothing fancy, just a humble (live) table top tree purchased at a local grocery store - originally $19.99 but marked down to $4.99. One strand of mini lights was more than enough. I woke a few ornaments from their hibernation in the dark dusty recesses of my attic.  The rest of the house was supplemented with a wreath on a door, a few holiday knick knacks here and there and some candles for additional ambiance. 

The gifts I received were just as simple – a shawl, a candle, handmade earrings (Barbling #1 custom-designed earrings), to name a few.  None were of great expense.  No diamonds or furs or trips to Europe; no big toys or electronics.  Just modest presents from people who love me – and who I love back.   

I don’t know why I chose to decorate this year.  There was no surge of holiday cheer in my heart.  This Christmas has been no better or worse than others.  In years when I decked the halls more extravagantly, I didn’t necessarily feel more of the Christmas spirit then, either.  I think at that time I was trying to manufacture glad tidings – “fake it ‘til you make it” – hoping to acquire some holiday cheer.  I was trying to keep up appearances; I didn’t want to be thought of as the sad lonely spinster -  Ebenezera Scrooge.

This Christmas Eve I attended a church service with friends.  It was informal – some reading of scripture and singing of carols.  Lots of singing!  Some of the hymns chosen were upbeat – “Hark the Herald” and the like.  Some were soft, ballads – the ever popular “Silent Night”.  Others were almost mournful and pleading – “Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel” and “I Wonder as I Wander”.  It wasn’t an emotional or inspiring affair; nor was it uninspiring.  It was enjoyable and it was…reverential.   

At times, during the singing I felt moved to stand in worship to my King.  I felt happy without being giddy.  No enthusiastic shouts came from my mouth and I didn’t feel compelled to buy a gigantic Christmas goose for the Cratchit family, a la Scrooge.  Though stirred emotionally, amazingly (for me) I didn’t tear up. 

What I felt was joy.  Not delight or bliss or ecstasy – those aren’t joy; not really.  They’re too circumstantial.  Those feelings are contingent on events and environmental conditions.  No, joy is the full knowledge that everything I will ever really need is provided for by my Creator because of what His Son, Jesus began on that first Christmas and finished on Easter, thirty three years later. 

I haven’t felt “joy” in a very long time and when I have, it’s been fleeting.  This was partly because I had wrong assumptions on what joy was and because my expectations of what would give me joy were overblown.  This year, I just wanted to mark the occasion of my Savior’s birth in some way. 

My simple Christmas decorations are not Martha Stewart-caliber.  No one will feature my home on their Pinterest boards.  My wreaths and tiny tree didn’t win any contests.  A line from the song “The Lord’s Bright Blessing” from the holiday cartoon classic “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” comes to mind.  The Cratchit family tells of their modest celebration singing: 

We’ll have the Lord’s bright blessing
And knowing we’re together
Knowing we’re together heart and hand

We’ll have the whitest Christmas
The very brightest Christmas
A Christmas far more glorious than grand 

My Christmas 2012 was not grand but it was Glorious – with a capital G.  The glorious part gave glory to God in the Highest.  Not because of anything I did – no impressive gestures of generosity.  Most definitely NOT because of some magnificent decorations or gourmet baking.  It was Glorious because for a time, sin and sorrow did not reign in me. He replaced it with His grand joy. 

This joy did not happen because I decorated a tree.  The tree was decorated because of the joy I felt.  It’s been a long time coming.  I pray it stays around awhile.

Bad Management

I've written a lot about my love of lists.  So much that I should probably write a list to keep track of them.  A nice orderly index.  Ah, but should the list be alphabetical or chronological????  But I digress...

Digression is not unusual for me in conversation or activity.  One reason I like lists.  I like making and achieving goals. They are my attempts to keep myself focused, on track and organized.  Feeble attempts.

I have many projects that I need to complete (home repairs, bills to pay, doctors appointments) and things I'd like to complete (paint my bedroom, quilt).  I have goals to improve my health, my mind and my spiritual life.  Not bad goals at all.

I 've realized, however, that I never really ask God for his advice on any of these.  I presumptively thought that since they weren't sinful that He approved.  It's not like one of my goals was to rob a bank!  These were all good things.

But this thinking takes authority away from God.  I ask Him to bless my goals, I hold Him responsible when things don't go right, but I don't let Him set the goals or make the list.  Any management book will tell you that giving someone responsibility without the authority to carry it out is a disaster.

Maybe This is Why

"Let thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee." (from Come Thou Fount)

Maybe I have such a heart that wanders more than some that I have to be kept on short leash, never allowed to run.  Because of Jesus, I have the sure hope of heaven and will appreciate the leash at that time. But for now I look longingly at those who can be trusted to run off leash and wish I could join them, be one of them.

A Christmas Carol and then some

Some random thoughts on Christmas Carols...

• My favorite Christmas Carol is "Hark The Herald Angels Sing".  I still tear up when they sing it at the end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas". 
• My favorite line from my favorite Christmas Carol - "pleased as man with men to dwell".  Despite knowing what the future held for Him, Jesus - King of Kings, Lord of Lords, God incarnate was pleased to humble himself and come to earth to dwell with us. Pretty amazing stuff.
• From "Silent Night" - "Jesus Lord at thy birth".  THIS is what makes Jesus different from all the other gods and prophets.  He was Lord from birth.  He wasn't appointed; He didn't earn the job; He didn't have some divine revelation in grad school.  He was Lord from the beginning.  He was God, sent by God.  Begotten not created (from "O Come All Ye Faithful")
• A friend posted this on his blog Did Jesus Cry on Christmas?.  It reminded me of a TV Christmas movie from about 30 years ago, "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever".  During the pageant, Mary picks up Baby Jesus and starts to pat him on the back.  A snotty little girl remarks "Look at her.  She's burping him like he has the colic".  I realized that God Almighty might have had the colic!  And He had messy diapers, too.  And (you're right, Joe Fornear) He cried.  How humbling and humiliating it was for Him to take human form - and for what?  For who?  Me!?  Again, I say, pretty amazing stuff.

The Lottery

Dedicated to RJL (Barbling #2) who's lovely innocence inspired me.

Eight years ago, I went to a King Arthur Flour baking demonstration with my friend Brenda and her three daughters, who I lovingly refer to as my Barblings.  Upon registering, we all were given tickets for door prizes that were to be drawn at the end of the class.  Each of the Barblings was given her ticket to hold.  Barbling #2 clung to hers as if it were gold and asked me when the prizes would be given.  I told her she had to wait until the end.  She said ok and took her seat next to me. 

While her sisters colored and drew pictures, Barbling #2 sat attentively, tightly gripping her ticket between her thumb and forefinger, quietly reading off the numbers to herself and watching the clock.  Her childhood excitement pinged my heart and I said a quick prayer that God would fulfill this wish of hers to win a prize.

Periodically, she would turn to me and asked how much longer it would be until the drawings.  I checked the agenda and gave her a rough estimate of when I thought the raffle would begin.  She then turned back in her seat, still grasping her ticket, a look of anticipation on her face that only one so young and inexperienced in disappointment could display.

This happened a few times throughout the show.  While her sisters played and mom and I casually remarked on some newly learned dough fact, Barbling #2 sat there waiting quietly with anxious patience.

Finally!  The demonstration had ended and the time for the door prizes to be awarded arrived.  We all pulled out our tickets with some degree of wishful hope that we might win some trinket or maybe even the grand prize, a highly treasured King Arthur Flour cookbook.

Ticket #1 was drawn.  They read off the number and everyone checked their tickets.  And…Barbling #3 won!  Her prize was a baseball cap and a dough scraper.  All the audience members clapped and congratulated her on her good fortune.  Many even cooed over her cherubic six-year-old glee.  Then everyone’s attention returned to the remaining drawings.  More tickets were pulled, more numbers read off.  All the while, Barbling #2 silently checked her ticket, carefully listening as the numbers were read off.  She followed along on her ticket as each number was called; double checking, though by this time she had to have had the numbers memorized.

A few prizes later, Barbling #1’s number was called (she won a dough wand).  Mom and I looked at each other with surprise and happiness on our good luck.  Two of the kids had won!  Just as quickly, though, dismay registered on our faces as we realized, “Oh.  Two of the three kids had won.” While people were congratulating #1 on her prize I was quickly composing some consoling words that I could say to #2 when she was let down.  I’m willing to bet mom was as well.

After congratulating #1, #2 again turned forward in her seat, still clutching her ticket, that same look of wishfulness on her innocent face.

That face radiated such hope and excitement. There was a brightness that comes from childlike simplicity.  At seven, she didn’t have frown lines or wrinkles.  Furrows were not etched in her forehead from the plows of sadness.  She was beautiful, and her lovely innocence frightened me.  I was worried about how her mother would pick up the pieces when disillusionment crashed down on her.  I was scared for her, how she would handle the disappointment.  My heart ached for her naiveté and I wanted to cry then for the pain she was going to have to endure shortly.  She would be left out of the winner’s circle – the circle in which her sisters were welcomed in to that day.  I was powerless to protect her and I could not think of any words of comfort that would soothe her pain.  So I just sat there preparing for the tears that would flow.  Or at least I hoped there would be tears.  Silent disappointment would be worse.  Tears can be wiped away.  I didn’t have access to comfort her bruised heart and aching soul.

The time came for the grand prize to be drawn.  The excitement in the room could be felt.  The announcer slowly and clearly read each number on the ticket as audience members checked their tickets.  Barbling #2 followed along.  When the final number was read we saw that she had won!  The excitement she expressed was akin to that normally reserved for birthdays and Christmas.  She shook with excitement.  And so did I.  I remember feeling such joy for her and gratitude to God for answering that prayer.

I have a ticket to which I’ve been clinging for 51 years.  I grip the ticket so hard my fingers ache along with my heart. I was raised with the notion that the prize was pretty much guaranteed.  Well-meaning friends have told me for years to be patient, my time would come.  I’ve sat by as family and friends around me have had their numbers called.  I watched them march down the aisle to be awarded their prizes (some more than once) while I still wait.  Now as their children are starting to have their numbers called, it’s getting harder to  share their joy.  I wonder if maybe my ticket expired, maybe my part in the drawing ended and I don’t know it.  Still, I hang on to the ticket.  It’s worn, its numbers are faded; it’s tear-stained.  But I still have it.

I’ve thought of just tossing the ticket in the trash and getting on with my life.  Then I hear of someone in similar straits as me whose ticket has been called.  I hear one or two numbers called that happen to be on my ticket and I get my hopes up again.  There’s no expiration date on the ticket that I can see.  If I hang on to it just one more day, just one more drawing, then maybe my number will come in.  My heart is still beating, so the raffle is still active, isn’t it? 

I don’t know why I’ve had to wait so long when so many others have won, some more than once.  I’ve seen people who stole their prizes, who didn’t wait their turn for their number to be called.  Why were they able to “win” when I’ve had to wait?  Why was I even given a ticket in the first place if there was never any chance it would be redeemed?  Why do I have to be disappointed over and over again—what purpose does it serve?  I have no answer to these questions.

But…

The same God who bestowed that gift on Barbling #2 is the same one who gave me my ticket 51 years ago.  But He gave me another ticket as well; one whose reward is not determined by chance or some random sweepstakes.  This ticket is really an engraved invitation; its ink is the blood of Jesus.  Possession of this ticket grants me eternal life and entrance to God’s royal throne room.  But I’ve mishandled it and taken it for granted way too often.  Instead of clinging to it, I’ve tossed it in my purse or on my desk, forgetting it existed until I’m in some desperate straits.  Then I find myself tearing through the house on a frantic, anxious search for peace.  I see the invitation, wrinkled, curled, torn in spots.  But that doesn’t matter to God.  He still accepts my invitation and I’m given passage not only into the throne room, but also access to Him who sits at the throne.

Despite possession of this invitation, I still would like to be able to cash in this raffle ticket”.  In the event that number is never called, though, I know Jesus has a “prize package” awaiting me in heaven that more than makes up for not winning this earthly lottery.  It will satisfy the longings I feel.  It will heal the many hurts I’ve endured.  I need only wait with the same patience and faith that Barbling #2 exhibited eight years ago.

Love at First Sight

The only time in history when there truly was "love at first sight" was in Genesis, when God looked on His creation and saw that it was good.  All other instances were just "like" or "lust" at first sight.

Please Don't Tell Me I'm Wrong

As I try to make sense of this life I have - that God has given me, I struggle.  I'm not an unintelligent person.  I'm also not a genius.  And I know God confounds the most genius of geniuses.  But I've always thought I should be able to make some sense of things, with God's help.  When I don't, I figure God's help is eluding me.

But today (at least for this moment) I think...

1. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for the furtherance of the Kingdom of God.
2. The things I experience (or don't experience) are for my good.
3. Items 1 and 2 are not mutually exclusive.  That is to say, when God is furthering His Kingdom, I'm not necessarily taking second place.  I'm not being pushed to the side for something or someone more important.  Somehow, I fit in to God's plan for His Kingdom.  Somehow, by His grace, I'm important to His plan.
4. The "I'm important" part is NOT an egotistical position.  I AM important, because God made that way through Jesus.  It's nothing I did.
5. I have no idea of how this all fits together.  I just pray it's biblical and that I can believe it two hours from now.

What's in a Name

Dear God,

You named me Barbara.  It means "stranger".  Looking back over the 50 years You have thus appointed to me, I have been a stranger.  Always on the fringe.  Never really included.  Never really connected.  I have to believe You have had a bigger reason for doing this.  Your word says you know the hairs on my head, you set out my steps before me, you love me as your child.  You have a plan for me - for my good, not harm.

When You did great things to people in the past, you changed their name - Abram to Abraham, Saul to Paul, etc.  Change my name.  Please.  Change me.

Some refer to times like this as being in the desert.  It only fits - the Israelites, Jesus - all experienced a desert, a dry time.  I different.  If the wet kleenex in my trash are any indication, I'm far from dehydrated.  I'm a flood of tears and emotion. 

Your word is true, I know that.  It is because of this that over 30 years ago I was able to commit my life to You.  But sometimes, as I recite these promises, they don't ring true.  They sound like just words.  I cling to the life preserver of Your Word and I stay afloat, but I'm still afraid as the waves of loneliness crash over me.  I'm looking for the rescue plane to fly overhead.

Honesty and Sincerity

In addition to this blog, I’ve begun submitting some of my writings to a writer’s blog, The Write Practice.  The comment that I regularly receive on my writing is that it is honest and sincere.  I am complimented when I hear this, as that is my goal when I write – to be truthful and open.

My proclivity towards sincerity has been with me since birth.  Like the little girl with the curl on her forehead – when I’m good I’m very, very good and when I’m bad, I’m horrid.    I’ve been sincerely kind and sincerely mean; I’ve been sincerely happy and sincerely sad.  But always sincere.

I don’t know if this quality came from nature or nurture; I just know it’s always been there.  I consider this one of my better qualities, but it’s also opened me up to a great many hurts.  Like an open book, I’ve been exposed to rough handling, coffee stains, rips and scribbles in my margins.  But I’ve also experienced the loving touch of someone turning my pages to read my next paragraphs.

Honesty is another story.  Though I’d like to believe my honesty comes from some deep morality within me, really (honestly???) it’s because I’m such a lousy liar.  I always have been.  No poker face here.  You never want to tell me about someone’s surprise party.  I’m able to keep a secret…unless confronted by a direct question, at which point my “Who me?  I know nothing.” expression reveals everything.

I believe this quality came from God, more for my protection than as a reward.  This was His way of “leading me not in to temptation”.  Since I know I won’t succeed in lying, it’s not worth the effort.

In my writing, I try to be honest and sincere in order to help people.  I spent much of my life feeling strange, the only one like me.  Through much reading, listening and observing I’ve discovered I’m not all that different.  The rest of humanity is just as screwed up as me.  It’s just that I’m more open about it.

Certainly, many say they’re confused and unsure of things, but I don’t get the sense they believe it. They say the words, but they don’t complete the thought.  They don’t reveal the honest, down and dirty examples.  They’re not being sincere.

In these instances, I don’t think people are trying to deceive, as much as they’re trying to protect themselves.  They want to keep their book in pristine condition, revealing only the dust jacket version of their story.  It looks good on the bookshelf, but it’s not really of any use.

I want to be of use to people.  I want everything I’ve seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched to be of some use – the sweet and the sour, the melodic and the discordant.  I want my life to have some purpose beyond just myself.  I want to be an opened and read book from which people learn and are entertained.  The only way I know how to do this is by being honest and sincere. 

Like Siamese Twins

"Our prayer must not be self-centered.  It must arise not only because we feel our own need as a burden we must lay upon God, but also because we are so bound up in love for our fellow men that we feel their need as acutely as our own.  To make intercession for men is the most powerful and practical way in which we can express our love for them."

  -John Calvin

Obituary

Today, my dream died. It was a long and painful death. It has taken years and the dream lived well past it’s prime. By the end it was just a shadow of the dream it was when I was a little girl and it was sapping me of my strength and my joy. Preserving it robbed me of so much emotional energy and adversely affected my other relationships.  It had turned ugly, rotted and had actually infected and was killing ME as well.

When my mom died, when friends have died, when my dog died, I knew they’d gone to a better place; someplace/someone better was waiting for them in heaven (yes, even my dog.  One as wise as John Piper agrees). I knew they were with God. What about dead dreams? Where do they go? What happens to them? I have to believe my dream will be fulfilled by my Father – at least the essence of it, the need in me it was meant to satisfy. But it’s hard. There is an emptiness inside me right now.

When people die there is a grieving period. What about when dreams die? Am I allowed to grieve for a bit?  How is one to mourn a dead dream?

Tieing One On: The Real Consequences

While dressing for work today, I was inspired by a fashion magazine to use an old, seldom worn scarf as a belt.  A proven scientific fact...there is a direct correlation between the tightness of the knot tied to the urgency one has to go to the bathroom.

The Insight of Emily Dickinson

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering.

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

  -Emily Dickinson

(Unedited) Writing Project #3

She ran in to Wal-Mart to pick up a printer cartridge, but as often happened, she found herself taking the circuitous route to the needed aisle, winding her way through the Baby department. Today she looked at car seats and swings and toys. Checking the labels for the ages, 0-3months, 3 -6 months, 6+months. She imagined what toys she would pick out for her baby – today it was a son she was imagining, so her fantasy purchases were either neutral or boy colors and characters – Winnie the Pooh, trucks, tractors.

Not too long ago, people watching her might think the purchases were for her own child, but now, 4 days shy of her 50th birthday, people would think they were for her grandchild. It was cottonwood season; the white fluffy things were all through the atmosphere, so if anyone caught her with teary eyes, she would make some offhand remark about allergies.

The emotional pain she felt took on a physical sensation, such that she found her hand unconsciously rising up to her heart. Anyone watching her might thing she was having a heart attack. What excuse would she make up to cover that?

Really, she was having a heart attack of sorts. Just not one that medicine could treat. Her heart was under emotional attack and she had no defense. There was no weapon she knew to wield against these assailants. She was a helpless victim.

She’d read articles about how many infertile women cried when their periods started because once again they were not pregnant. Every 28 days, she found herself anxiously looking for traces of her cycle’s beginning; evidence that she was still able to conceive, if any man would ever find her desirable enough for a relationship.

Afraid she’d run in to someone she knew, she found her way to the printer supplies and bought the required cartridge and proceeded to the checkout. By the time she left the store and got in her car, the tears had welled up. Fortunately, it was dark and so no one would see her crying. She wouldn’t have to use the allergy lie and could save it for another day.

Friday Funnies

1.  When I was in high school, I worked at church bingo pushing the refreshment cart through the aisles.  The ladies referred to me as "pop girl".  Yesterday, at the nursing home where I work, I was pushing a cart filled with incontinence products when a resident referred to me as the "Attends Lady".  So, is this a promotion or a demotion????

2.  While distributing the aforementioned incontinence products, the following conversation took place:

• Resident:  "How long 'til you retire?"
• Me:  "About 20 years."
• Resident:  "Holy sh*t!"
• Me:  "That's what I say to myself every morning."