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.

The Checkout Line

I stand expectantly

In the checkout line

Waiting for my turn to come;

Biding my time. 

Many others have gone ahead of me

They waited for their turns.

I understand their places in front

They previously had earned. 

But some have come from behind

And pushed me aside.

The jumped the line ahead of me

My good manners they did deride. 

I wonder should I join them,

Taking others’ places?

Ignoring their positions?

Ignoring their pained, hurt faces? 

I still hold my place

Respecting others’ stations.

I accept my circumstance

But I’ve become impatient. 

 

My legs are weak, my feat are numb

My spot in line has not moved.

I've worked so hard, I've waited long

But my place has not improved.

I worry that when I get to the front,

Where the shelves were once so plenty

My turn will come and I will find

The shelves are all now empty.

Waiting for Christmas

Remember as a child, waiting for Christmas to come?  We were distracted and occupied by the excitement of Halloween, then the preparations for Thanksgiving.  But after the turkey was eaten and the leftovers wrapped and packed away, Christmas and all it's trappings were dead in our sights!

The days on the calendar were checked off.  As each block was counted down, the pile of gifts stacked  up proportionally.  Every day one more house on the block was bedecked in lights and garland.

The wait was excruciating.  Curiosity was painful; the anticipation was like an electric current running throughout our bodies, making us tense and excited.  Trying to complete schoolwork was next to impossible, distracted by the thoughts of what was in all those decorated boxes.  The closer Christmas came the worse it got with the anxiety and "what-ifs" and "what-if-nots" stampeding through our emotions.

I've been waiting for "Christmas" to come for a long time.  Earlier in my life, I was distracted by work and activities that kept my mind, body and emotions busy.  But they no longer work.  I'll be 52 in a few months, all the major "holidays" behind me.  The only one looming is "Christmas".  Only this "Christmas" doesn't have a specific date on the calendar on which I can pinpoint being able to open my gift.  There's no way to countdown.  Every day is painful, as I look for signs that "Christmas" is coming.  I don't know if it ever will come for me.

My pain is compounded by the fact most all of my friends have already had their celebrations.  Now their children are enjoying their holidays, as the parents look on sharing in their joy and remembering their  own "Christmas".  I'm still anxiously waiting, wondering if there is a gift for me or am I not supposed to ever celebrate my own "Christmas".  I've had a gift waiting for someone, wrapped and ready; but no one seems to want it.

Every moment I'm on edge - curious, wondering if and when...and why.  At this age, after so long a wait, it's mostly "why?".  My prayers usually consist of two words - my heart not able to voice anything else but "Why?" and "Please!"  I repeat them over and over again, almost like a mantra.  Only this mantra does not bring comfort or peace.

Is this how Jesus feels - the gift He has to offer so many don't notice or outright reject?  Is this what it means to share in His suffering?

To climb out of this vat of self-pity I need to remind myself of the first Christmas 2000 years ago, when the King of Kings lowered himself and volunteered for a messy human birth followed by a messy human life, ending with a humiliating death reserved for criminals, not innocent Kings.  I need to remind myself that though I do not know the date or time or even if "Christmas" will come, the King of Kings knows the plan He has for me.  His plan ends with a great celebration that surpasses any Christmas that we can plan on earth. 

I wait with electric anticipation.  

Miracle Man

Thinking about Jesus' miracles, I realize He didn't perform His miracles to say "Hey, look at what I can do!"  He didn't perform His miracles to say "Hey, you can't do this!"  He performed His miracles to say "You can't do this, so let me do it for you.  Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest."

Remember Me - A Psalm and a Prayer

The sound of my heartbeats
   echo in my empty soul;
Their percussive waves
   shake my being like aftershocks;
A continual reminder of it's desolate state.

Their voice mocks me
"No one wants you."
"There is no one for you"
No one.

I cry out ot my God,"Help me.
Stop the noise,
Fill the void."

But no sound comes back.
My pleas are sucked in to the vacuum of space.
Heaven does not answer me.

So many around me are crying out the same prayer.
The same prayer I've prayed for myself, I've prayed for them.
You hear their prayers.  You hear my prayers for them.

You answer.
You remember them.

Remember me, now.

Please.

Thirty One Days of Joy - Days 1-7

A friend invited me to participate in a Facebook Event, "31 Days of Joy" where participants posted daily throughout the month of January different thoughts on joy.  God has been blessing me with a lot of insight on joy, a topic on which I am woefully inexperienced.  Allow me to share some of these thoughts with you here:

Day 1:  "For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere."  Ps 84:10a

Joy is not dependent on my physical circumstances but on the condition of my spirit.  As long as I am in the secure confines of His walled courts, I know my eternal soul is safe.  It is the condition of my eternal spirit that determines the eternal condition of my mind, body and heart.

Day 2:  Joy through tears.  Interesting concept that I began to understand when I listened to Page CXVI sing their version of "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..."  Normally a rousing chorus, they sing it as a dirge.  Joy is possible through tears when you define joy as Webster's 7th Collegiate Dictionary does - "the prospect of possessing what one desires".  Because of Jesus, believers have the prospect- the good outlook - the sure hope of receiving our hearts desire - eternity with Him.

Day 3:  "Joyful, joyful we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love"
Hearing this song does NOT bring me joy.  It just musically expresses what God, in His great mercy placed in my heart.  My heart unfolds "like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above".

Day 4:  I read a Tweet by Paul Tripp - "When you work to convince yourself that you're okay, you tell yourself that you don't need the grace that is your only hope."  Knowing that the Graceful God, who is my only hope, is also very merciful when I try to tell myself I'm okay.

Day 5:  Joy immeasurable.  This idea brings to mind a picture of overflowing joy; a tsunami of joy!  But immeasurable things can be small, too.  So small they're almost imperceptible.  Sometimes joy is this small.  Sometimes it's so teeny, teeny, teeny tiny you'd need a microscope to see it.  BUT, it's still there.  Even in the darkest times I know there is some iota of joy deep within the recesses of my soul where Jesus still resides.

Day 6:  Having trouble finding joy today.  But because of God's word, I know it's there.  Today is one of those days where I have to allow mind over matter.  I have to believe what I read and know, and not how I feel.

Day 7:  Joy unspeakable.  "Though you do not now see him, you believe him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory..."  1Peter 1:8

How often I rely on that verse that says the Spirit is able to translate those deep painful groanings that I cannot put to words - usually when I'm not getting something I want.  In this verse, there's a joy so complex that I cannot wrap my finite brain around it - here I have something I do not understand.  But the Spirit again translates for me to God's glory.  And I'm able to move forward with quiet confidence.

 

Land of the Giants

Every day I face giants.  Giants who are prettier, younger, smarter and more successful than me.  How can I compete?

Every day I drag myself to the battlefield and plunge on in.  I march through the muck and the mire, evading their blows and dodging their enormous giant feet trying to keep from being crushed under their heels.  Every day. 

Each night I crawl back home to tend my wounds.  My muscles ache and new bruises begin to form on my heart while yesterday's bruises have not even begun to heal.  Every night.

I hurt.

The battle belongs to You, LORD.  Your word says it; I believe it.  I just don't know if I'll be there at the victory celebration.  One day I might trip and be trampled.  One morning I might not be able to drag myself to the battlefield.

But...

When Moses wondered about his ability You told him "Who has made man's mouth?  Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind?  Is it not I, the LORD?"

And...

When the spies returned to the people of Israel to report what they'd seen in Canaan, though the Canaanites were much stronger, Joshua and Caleb said "If the LORD delights in us, he will bring us into this land and give it to us..."

And...

You who began a good work in me will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus.

You created me, LORD.  And because of Jesus, You delight in me.  And You finish what your start.

So tomorrow and any day you ask, I will show up at the battlefield.  I will fight and duck and dart my way through the army of pretty, smart, young, successful giants.  Because when the war is over, there is a place of eternal peace.  There will be no more tears, no more pain, no more bruises.  No more lonlieness or inferiority complexes.   And no more giants who scoff at and ridicule me.

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.

Significance

"To me, one of the proofs that God's hand is behind and all throughout this marvelous Book we know as the Bible is the way it continually touches upon this very fear in us - the fear that we are so insignificant as to be forgotten.  That we are nothing.  Unconsciously, His Word meets this fear and answers it."
                                                                                                    -Amy Carmichael

Am I a Writer? I Am a Writer.

Just because I like to write, does that make me a writer?  Just because I can string together a few words and form a coherent sentence on a sheet of paper (or computer screen, as is the case), does that make me a writer?  Just because I maintain a blog, does that make me a writer?

I think of all the people who list their occupation as “Actor” who wait tables.  Am I writer who happens to work as a Purchasing Manager?

I write a lot.  I have computer files and folders of various writing projects.  As I’ve cleaned out some storage boxes and drawers lately, I keep finding paragraphs and essays I’ve written through the years with which I (still) cannot part.  But none of this, in my opinion, makes me a writer. 

Just because I’ve not submitted anything to a publication does not disqualify me from claiming the title “Writer”.  Just because I haven’t had anything published or sought an agent does not disqualify me from declaring myself a writer.  I deny myself the privilege of “Writer” status because I have not been open about my pieces.  I’ve been selective about what I’ve published on my blog and even more selective about revealing (via Twitter, Facebook, etc.) that I’ve even blogged; leaving the possibility of acquiring any sort of readership to a chance “Google” encounter.

Writers must be open and authentic in their craft.  Fiction writers must be honest about their characters if they want to persuade their readers to take interest in them.   Essayists must be willing to reveal a part of themselves if they want to compel their audiences to feel and understand their points.  Writers of Non-Fiction take the chance readers will mock their assertions; but they still have to reveal them.

Composing at a keyboard; writing in a journal; scratching out a phrase or sentence on a Post-it does not make one a writer.  Writers need an audience of more than one.  Writers must be willing to put “put themselves out there”.   Writers need to click the “Link to Twitter and Facebook” options on their Blogs and then hit “Send”.

Let’s see if I’m “write” about this.

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.

Bohemian Rhapsody

Yesterday, I got my first (and probably my last) tattoo (yes, it hurt).  It is a Celtic Motherhood Knot, a symbol of the unity of Mother/Child/Faith/Heritage displayed on the big toe of my left foot.

For a long time, I've wanted a tattoo but could never go through with it.  I couldn't justify the cost.  I thought it was sinful.  I worried that I would change my mind on where or what I wanted -a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist; before long, my body would be awash in tattoo ink.  And so I put off that dream, satisfying myself with temporary henna tattoos - a circle of flowers on my ankle, a wreath around my wrist...

I have what I call my "bohemian" streak.  It's this part of me that wants to break free from conventional behavior; to satisfy the artistic side of my being; to be adventurous.  It's the part of me that paints my toenails purple and dyes my hair red and wants to bungee jump and sky-dive.  Getting my tattoo indulged this bohemian streak.

After my friend Adiel got a tattoo, I made plans for my own inking and she agreed to join me for moral support and courage.  The date was planned, I chose the design and for the next three weeks I waited excitedly.

The symbol I chose was for many reasons.  First, it's Celtic like much of my own Scotch/Irish and even German heritage.   Second, the Mother/child symbol is in memory of my own Mom, who I miss intensely.  Third, the Celtic Trinity symbol is intertwined within the mother/child hearts, reflecting my identity with Christ.

By the time Adiel picked me up for our adventure to Buddha's Tattoo Parlor, I understood my desire for a tattoo was more significant than some artistic whim.  A tattoo is a commitment.  It's permanent.  If my "bohemian" side is a simple streak, my desire for permanence and commitment is as wide as a six-lane highway.  I look at my tattoo as a "wedding ring" of sorts.  I look at it and know that I belong to someone.  I belong to the Celts.  To my mom.  To Jesus.

The Battle Scarred Princess

There once was a princess on a journey to return to her home to be with her Father, the King.  All her brothers and sisters, princes and princesses in their own right were on the same journey, though they’d all been given different paths.  Their paths were fraught with danger and each had to fight many battles along the way but everyone was amply armed and provided for by their Father.  Their wise and wonderful King also made sure they gathered together one day each week for rest and renewal in each other’s company. 

This princess’ path, she travelled alone much of the time, with none of her brothers and sisters available for help.  It was frightening and very lonely but she tried to faithfully follow the path she’d been given. However, she tripped and fell many days.  Her path also forced her in to numerous battles where she sustained many bruises and hurts throughout the week.   By the time she met up with her family on their weekly R&R, she was weary and in great pain.  Her brothers and sisters were all happy to be together and shared stories of their adventures that week.  The princess listened and tried to rejoice with them and for them but she was so tired.  As her family danced and played around her, they often jostled and bumped in to her causing her great pain; bumping her bruises and opening wounds.  They did not intentionally hurt her, but It got so the princess could no longer leave her battle armor at the door, she had to wear it in to the place of sanctuary to keep from reinjuring herself.

The princess loved her family and deeply desired to be with them on these days of rest.  She attended them regularly because she knew it pleased and honored her beloved Father, and what she heard there helped her prepare for the battles in the coming week.  But these meetings were painful and carrying her armor seven days a week with no respite was exhausting her.  Her arms were weak having to hold up her shield and sword so much.  Her head hurt wearing the helmet every day.  And her feet were aching and weakening having to stand battle ready all the time, with little opportunity for rest.  As the day for the weekly family gatherings drew near, she would start to dread the meetings.  Her defenses would start to rise, her anxiety heightened, her resent at being alone to fend for herself grew.  The mornings of each  gathering day, she would prepare but anger and rage would build inside her because she was in such pain.  There was no escape from the suffering and she was afraid she would no longer be able to wield her armor for battle.  Then she’d be overcome by the enemy and would never get home to her Father. 

(I don’t know how to end this story.  I seek solutions but no one really has any.)

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.

A Lament of Loneliness and Broken Down Cars

God will restore, confirm, strengthen and establish me (I Peter 5:10) He WILL make up for all I've suffered here on earth.  But, oh how I wish He'd do it soon because life is to very hard here.

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.