Jesus, Trials, and the Art of S'mores

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A friend once told me about about a difficult few weeks she'd been having and how she'd experienced a "meltdown" of sorts.  I was aware of only some of what she'd been experiencing and a meltdown may have been warranted even for the little I knew.

Far too often we head to the extremes.  "Meltdowns are necessary; a means to decompress from extreme pressure." "Meltdowns are sinful response to God's discipline." I offer my own unique take.

As I told my friend, I did not condone any sinful response on her part. She needed to evaluate her heart and repent if necessary.  But I pointed out that things melt when subjected to heat. And the heat of God's discipline is meant to refine our heart and character.  The Word speaks of refining gold, subjecting it to high heat so to separate the dross, leaving behind pure gold.

However, metallurgy is beyond my scope of knowledge. And not to disparage the Word, but I think there's more to this than refining gold. What came to mind as my friend and I spoke was s'mores.

I like graham crackers. I like marshmallows. I like love chocolate. In a pinch, when a s'more emergency hits, you can place a cold marshmallow between the graham cracker and chocolate bar. I know; I've tried. It solved the immediate need, but it was not as tasty as the real thing.

A good s'more needs a toasted marshmallow (I prefer mine a bit burnt). The heat from the marshmallow softens the chocolate a bit, melding the flavor of all three ingredients and creating a much more satisfying experience.

Meltdowns of the non-sinful variety serve more than to decompress. They soften our hearts, melding our emotions and minds in to laments and submissive prayers. In return, God gives a heaping serving of His grace which nourishes and satisfies our souls.

Definitions

Dedicated to my Pastor, Rev. H Leon Ben-Ezra on the occasion of his retirement

def·i·ni·tions

You taught us what those church words meant

Always pointing to the One He sent.

“Believe the gospel. First repent.”

You taught us definitions.

Through many sermons some of us wept

And I confess through some I slept

But even so, I did not forget

All those definitions.

Hope – waiting on God His promises to keep.

Joy is optimism

Glory – His beauty that runs so deep.

You taught us definitions.

“It always begins with prayer!”

You showed us to not despair

For when your life was not so fair

You lived those definitions.

And now it’s off to Illinois you go;

To Peoria and Chicago

But as you leave always know

You’ve left us with true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, praiseworthy

Definitions.

A Tribute to Julius

We were introduced in January, 2008 under extreme circumstances.  My previous vehicle, a Ford Taurus had been totaled.   I had to find a new vehicle quickly.  You were the only one I looked at and after that first test drive I knew you were the one.  If not love at first sight, it was at least an intense like.

You fit me in style, comfort, age.  Not brand new, you had a few miles on you - about 21K.  You had been around the block a few times.  You fit me in all areas except maybe color.  But I grew to love and appreciate your hue.  

Your official color is Blazing Copper.  The Barblings' dad called you the Flaming Pumpkin.  Many people refer to you as red (maybe it's a blue dress/black dress thing going here).  I see orange and thus your name, (Orange) Julius.

A 2008 Ford Escape, escape we did!  We've escaped to 12 states and 2 countries.  We've been up and down mountains, You've carried me through snow, rain, heat, gloom of night.  We've been through tornado-like winds in Indiana and a snow storm across the wiiiiddde state of Ohio.

There was Martin Luther King Day in 2013 when my normal 50 minute commute home took 150 minutes because of a blizzard. THAT trip ended with me sliding in to the back of a WalMart semi and you cracked your bumper cover.

We ran out of gas. We had flat tires. We hit a turkey (more correctly, the turkey hit us) and shattered your windshield. And there was that incident last winter where I drove you (unintentionally) in to a snow filled drainage ditch (sorry).

We've carried kids and dogs and camping gear and shopping bags. You've heard me laugh and cry and scream. You keep my secrets.

Now, after 154K miles together, it's time to put you "out to pasture". I do so unwillingly but both our safety is at stake.  I'm not sure we'd make it through another winter.

The first bumper sticker I ever placed on you was a "Longmire for Sheriff" sticker, after the Craig Johnson book series.  That bumper sticker is now in tatters, much like Walt Longmire himself.

Tomorrow, I trade you in for a new vehicle, but you can never be replaced.  You'll stay in my memories forever.  I can't imagine anyone better for me than you, Julius.

Goodbye my faithful friend. You've served me well.

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.

The Suck It Up Sisters - Part 1 Vacuums vs Milkshakes

Recently, I had a disagreement with a very dear friend.  There was a function neither of us was looking forward to attending. I sucked it up and went. She cancelled out at the last minute, which I did not find out until I got there.

Angry, I sent her a text from the party that said if I could suck it up then she should have as well and shown her face. I was wrong - for being angry and for my mean-spirited text (and for all the evil thoughts I had that no one ever saw or heard or even knows about).  I went to her and apologized - to her and to God.  Both gave me their forgiveness.

A few days later she and I exchanged texts:

ME:  I'm going to order us t-shirts that say "The Suck It Up Sisters".  Should our logo be a vacuum cleaner or a straw?

SHE:  Ha! Ha!  Definitely vacuum We suck up all our garbage. :) Plus straws make me think of milkshakes and now I want a milkshake. :D

With all due respect to my friend, she's wrong,  The logo should be the milkshake. It's not our job to do the cleaning because Jesus already has. For example:

"Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow..." (Is 1:18)

And then there's:

"For all of us have become like the one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy garment..." (Is 64:6) BUT...  "He spoke and said to those who were standing before him, saying 'Remove the filthy garments from him'.  Again he said to him, 'See, I have taken your iniquity away from you and will clothe you with festive robes.'" (Zech 3:4) (emphasis mine)

To support the milkshake, there are these verses:

"Taste and see that the LORD is good! Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him! (Ps 34:8)

"How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!" (Ps 119:103)

"Your words were found, and I ate them; and your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart, for I am called by your name, O LORD, God of hosts." (Jer 15:16)

Certainly, there are times when we're called to "suck it up".  There is:

"Then Jesus told His disciples, 'If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me."  (Matt 16:24)

And:

"Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."

Yet, all too often I suck it up in the wrong manner for the wrong reasons.  I put on a mask of happiness because "God loves a cheerful giver" (2Cor 9:7) or at least that's the reason I tell myself. In fact, it's more likely I don't want people to think badly of me or I want people to think I've got it all together.

Removing my mask makes me vulnerable.  There will be people offended or who won't like the real me (ouch);or some will try to comfort or help me, bruising my self-reliant pride (double ouch); or they will confront me on some sin they see (oh, just kill me now!).

In so many instances, my reasons for sucking it up are sinful. Yet, as my pastor often says, once something is identified as sin it's easy because we know the remedy for sin - repent and believe in the gospel. Yes, I know it's easier said than done; but it's true and well worth the effort

The Promised Land was described as a land flowing with milk and honey. The Word speaks of fruits of repentance (Matt 3:8).  I see a strawberry milkshake there, folks!  Or banana smoothie whatever your pleasure.

It's really hard to suck up the milkshake through a mask.  The little mouth holes aren't big enough and they knock the straw around. To fully enjoy what God has offered us through Jesus we need to remove our masks.  Some of those around us might be surprised by what we really look like, some will be frightened away.  But those that know and love us best already knew what we looked like anyway.  And none of them know us better or love us more than Jesus.

A Eulogy for Grace

Found beaten and abandoned to the streets, she was taken in by Because You Care, a local pet rescue organization.  She was a Yellow Lab/Beagle mix – a “Leagle”, I like to say.  BYC named her Natasha and adopted her out to a local couple.  This couple renamed her Sasha and promptly dispatched her to their backyard, where the neighborhood kids threw stones at her.  In addition, she was only fed table scraps and cheap dollar store treats.  With poor nutrition, no exercise and limited human interaction (abusive, at that) her weight ballooned to 72 pounds on her short beagle legs and she withdrew in to herself.

BYC’s mission was to keep animals out of shelters and place them in loving homes.  In Natasha/Sasha’s case, the home had become no better than a poorly run shelter.  True to their mission, BYC removed Natasha/Sasha from this home and brought her back in to the program.  It was in their “Pet of the Week” newspaper ad that I first laid eyes on her.

Nine months before I’d had to have my dog, Coach put down and after a few months of grieving, I began the process of looking for another dog.  But not any dog, it had to be the “right” dog.   For a few months I’d scanned newspaper ads, gone to shelters a couple of times, followed up leads from friends but none of the dogs were “right”.   Taking in a pet is a lifetime commitment – lifetime of the pet, at least.  This decision needed serious consideration.  But when I saw Sasha’s picture I knew she was the one.

Her newspaper portrait was anything but a glamour shot.  It was obvious she was seriously overweight, sad and withdrawn.  In the ad they referred to her as “plump”, which struck a nerve with me.  Having been more than “plump” at one time, I thought it mean for this to be pointed out.  I felt a kinship with Sasha and called BYC to apply to adopt her.

The application required more than name, address and adoption fee.  I had to provide a veterinary reference, have a fenced in yard (which in my case they gave an exception) and sign an agreement that if I ever had to give her up, I would not put her in a shelter but give her back to BYC and provide financial support until she was adopted again.  Like I said – a serious commitment.

I did all this and we arranged for a meet and greet.  The woman from BYC (Joyce) said she’d bring her over and introduce us.  Since I worked close to Joyce’s home I volunteered to go over there to save her the trip.  Joyce cheerfully declined, saying it was no problem for her to come over. 

Joyce and Sasha came over one evening.  Sasha was so overweight that her belly almost touched the ground and she had a bit of trouble climbing the four steps in to my house.  I showed them around a bit, Sasha cowering behind Joyce.  Sometime during the tour, I realized Joyce was doing a home inspection and screening me; BYC takes their job seriously!  Eventually Joyce and I sat on the couch to discuss the adoption procedure.  Sasha tried to climb up on the couch behind Joyce.  She tried to stop her, explaining to me that they don’t encourage foster families to allow dogs on the furniture since it might be a problem with their final adoptive families.  I have no problem with animals on the furniture (in her abode in heaven, my mother is scowling at this) and since I planned on being the final adoptive home, I let her sit up there with us.  It was a bit of a struggle due to her weight, but she made herself comfortable.

The only potential issue I had with the adoption was no one knew if the dog was good with kids.  Normally, BYC screens this information or gathers it from foster families.  Since she’d just been brought back in to the program and given her experience with the neighborhood kids at her last home, no one really knew.  Because of regular Barbling visits, this was a deal breaker.  The Barblings were on vacation at the time so there was no way to find out.  Joyce and I agreed to have Sasha stay with me for a trial period and if after the Barblings returned from vacation we discovered issues, I could return her with no problem.

So Sasha had a sleepover at my house for a few days.  To increase the chances of success with kids, I headed on over to the Barblings’ home and took some of the girls’ dirty laundry from their bedrooms.  I left the laundry on my living room floor so the dog had many opportunities to sniff and get to know them.

She and I spent the next few days getting to know each other.  I fed her healthy food.  I took her for walks around the neighborhood – short walks, which wore her out.  She slept on the couch, she slept in the chair that eventually became her chair, she looked out the window that eventually became her window identified by the hundreds of snout prints on the glass.  She quickly settled in.

When the Barblings returned, everyone was introduced.  The dog shyfully sniffed everyone and tentatively accepted the hugs of three excited little girls.  We took a brief walk and the girls got her running, tongue lolling from her mouth, ears flapping, a look of pure joy in her eyes!  There was no doubt she was good with kids; she was good with everyone!

Now that she was a permanent fixture in my home, I wanted to change her name.  The name Sasha is a perfectly acceptable name, but it didn’t flow with my last name.   I mulled over a number of possibilities, but one time I looked in to her soulful eyes, dug past the fear and pain and saw…grace.  And so she was renamed and reborn – Grace.

To look at her, she was not the typical picture of grace.  She had the long Lab body on short Beagle legs.  Overweight, out of shape, shy and withdrawn, her grace was not readily apparent; covered in layers of fat and fright, her true character hidden.  She did not have the lithesome body of a dancer but the solid, wide-shoulder look of the working dog she was designed to be.  She lacked the agility and speed of a runner; she lumbered and plodded, but she plodded with enthusiasm!

From healthy food, regular exercise and overdoses of affection Grace quickly shed pounds and apprehension.  Her beautiful personality began to emerge.  So did a bit of willfulness, too I must say.  Considerate of her abusive past, I was gentle in my training of her, but Grace still needed to know the boundaries of our household; I still had to discipline her.  Any sharp word or scolding from me would send her slinking away in fear.  It broke my heart and I wondered if she could ever recover from her sad past.
 
Over the years, I would occasionally whisper her old names to see if she would react.  “Natasha”, I’d speak; “Sasha”, I’d quietly say.  Sometimes I’d get a bit of a response – a flick of the ears, a jerk of the head.   It might have been my imagination, but at times I thought the reaction was a fearful one.  About three years after her adoption I called out Natasha, Sasha again.  There was no reaction; her ugly past was forgotten.

 About two months after her arrival, I reprimanded her for something when she walked away to her crate.  She turned around, slumped down and started muttering under her doggie breath.  “She’s sassing me!” I thought.  I knew then that she’d shed her Natasha/Sasha self.  She was now truly Grace.

She was full of grace in her gentle and kind bearing, her quiet demeanor, the manner in which she approached new friends, two- and four-legged.  Those who experience grace understand joy better and joy Grace exhibited at the mere mention of the words walk, treat, biscuit, or ride.  At the jangle of her leash or the crunch of a lunchmeat bag she’d practically do backflips.  We made many walks up to the local Dairy Queen often times with a Barbling at the end of her leash.  She liked trips to the playground across the street and Barbling #3 even got her to go down the slide a number of times.  Grace enjoyed the simple things in her life, perhaps because she’d known depravation.

Because grace had been extended to her, Grace extended it others.  A number of other dogs (and a couple of cats) have stayed with us over the years.  Atticus, Daisy, Tin, Bella, Buddy, Phoebe – they were all welcomed in to our home. But in every interaction, Grace had to be top-dog.  Most of the time this was a given, but occasionally a skirmish broke out as her dominance was established and reestablished.  She was gracious, but not a doormat!

About four months after her arrival, I was contacted by BYC to foster another dog.  “Sissy” had been found wandering the streets and she was extremely frightened and skittish.  Joyce had to drag her in to my house.  Like Grace and the “plump” and “portly” comments, I thought it cruel to call this dog “Sissy”, highlighting her weakness and so I renamed her Dora.  We became a two-dog, three-bitch household.

From her behavior it was clear Dora was traumatized, but she slowly came to be a bit more trusting of humans.  I think this was because she saw the two-legged being treated the other four-legged being pretty well so she didn’t have to worry so much.  Though they never became playmates or best buddies, Grace and Dora had an understanding.  And as top-dog, Grace took her role seriously, on occasion facing down another dog who might try to go after Dora.  Other times, Grace would place herself between a stranger and Dora, offering a layer of protection.  And Grace bestowed the greatest of kindnesses to Dora by allowing her to sleep on our bed – albeit at the foot, saving the honored place at the pillow beside my head for her own.

After over nine years of faithful service and loyal friendship Grace left this world on Friday,      September 27.  Almost twelve, age and arthritis ravaged her body, but her graceful heart remained strong until the very end.

That last day, as we both lay on the floor of the vet’s office saying our goodbyes, I whispered “Natasha, Sasha” and she had a little twitch, as if she was spending some time reflecting of her life, a trip down memory lane.  I was doing the same, speaking to her about how much I loved her, how she’d been a good dog and done her job so very well.

Years ago I read the book “Heaven” by Randy Alcorn in which he biblically answers people’s questions about what heaven will be like.  When I first got the book, I saw that the format was each chapter answering a specific question.  I quickly looked up the question “Will animals, including pets, live again?”  Alcorn’s answer was that though there is no definitive biblical answer, some noted theologians allude to the fact they will be.  In fact, Alcorn quotes a poem by John Piper in which he refers to seeing his old dog, Blacky in heaven.  If one so noted as Piper believes his pet will be in heaven, then there’s a pretty good possibility of this being true.

My pets in heaven – Priscilla, Dusty, Lucy, Coach – this isn’t a deal breaker between God and me.  He gave me more than I ever deserved just with their presence on earth, let alone heaven.  I’m just so very thankful to have been blessed with the most amazing, Grace.

Forgiveness & Grace (the Dog)

In the past year, I've noticed my dog, Grace slowing down.  She's had trouble jumping up in to the car, had to consider whether a trip up or down the stairs was worth the effort, lagged behind on the occasional walk to the Dairy Queen.  She's 11-1/2 years old  so this is to be expected.  In the last two weeks though, I noticed a steep decline.  This came to a head on Thursday night when I arrived home late and found her panting heavily, and a panic-stricken look in her eyes.

I had no idea what was happening.  She'd been panting heavily all summer, but I thought it was related to the heat and humidity and though the weather was cooler, this panting episode was heavier than ever before.  I though maybe she was having lung or heart problems.  It was only after Googling "canine+heavy panting" that I discovered this was a symptom of pain.  It finally registered to me the look in her eyes was not panic but one of intense suffering. 

I researched how to treat her symptoms and realized I had none of the over-the-counter remedies available at home.  About 10:30 pm I made the decision to take her to the Emergency Vet office where they examined her and described all her joints - hips, knees ankles, neck - as "crunchy".  The very word makes me cringe.  The vet gave her an injection for her pain and some oral meds which helped slightly.  On Friday evening I followed up with our regular vet office, where they gave me additional meds which seem to alleviate her pain somewhat, but not nearly enough. 

As I reflect on the past 12 months I see so many signs I missed, where I could have had Grace treated earlier, possibly forestalling the "crunchy" joints and the pain that accompanies them.  At one time I had been giving her Glucosamine to keep her joints lubricated, but ran out and never got around to buying more.  When I was unemployed, regular vet visits fell victim to budget cuts.  When I was more gainfully employed, I just never made it a priority.  I used to walk my dogs often, which keeps their joints flexible; but when I got a job with a long commute I settled for just letting them run in my backyard.  Dog care took a backseat to "Barb-care".

Many of my reasons for putting off the dogs' care were legitimate, financial and time constraints being two of the biggest.  But, truth be told, in my own self-absorption I ignored the needs of both Grace and Dora and now they (Grace, primarily) are suffering because of it.

Sin is like that.  It causes us to see only our selves and our own needs, blinding us to the needs of others.  Much has been written about the story of the Good Samaritan. A priest and a Levite walk by, see the injured traveler and ignore him.  The Samaritan sees him and stops to take care of him.  But I wonder, how many walked by and never noticed the injured man.  How many were too busy thinking about their own troubles that they never saw the bleeding, beaten man on the side of the road? 

In Genesis, God gave man charge over the earth and all that was in it.  With this authority came responsibility to care for it.  In this most recent case with Grace, I flunked.

Lest you think I am beating myself up over this, I am not.  There is forgiveness for the repentant and I have apologized to Grace and to God.  Because of Jesus, God has forgiven me... and so has Grace.

Theologically speaking, it's said dogs do not have souls.  Only man was created in the image of God and only to man did God breathe in His breath of life.  But I have a theory on this.  Note:  my theory has no biblical basis.  In addition, in case you haven't noticed, I am totally biased in favor of dogs.

Knowing dogs the way I do, I think that after God created them, they followed Him everywhere.  Sure, they chased the squirrels and the occasional cat in Eden, but they ran back to their Creator,  happily napping at His feet as He sat on His throne. 

So, when God created Adam, the dogs were all there milling about.  As God formed Adam from the dust of the earth dogs were watching excitedly saying, "Wow, it smells like dirt!".  Being the curious and obtrusive beings they are and loving dirt as they do, they were right there surrounding Adam when God breathed His breath into Him.  I think they might have caught a bit of His draft, an overspray you might say; which is why like God, dogs are able to forgive so easily and so often.  Maybe that's why dogs find such joy sticking their heads out of car windows.  They're trying to re-experience that invigorating, life-giving breeze from so long ago!

Lesson learned, I will be paying more attention to Grace, administering her meds, trying to make her comfortable, alleviate her pain and prayerfully considering the next steps.  Deciding when my beloved dog has had enough is a great responsibility, one for which I seek His guidance.

I thank Him for giving me grace and for giving me Grace.

Bathroom Humor

The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.  For the record, the identifying numbers are in no way indicative of their level of friendship to me; the numbers were just assigned in the chronology in which they appeared in the story.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went camping at a local State Park with four families from church.  Our campsite was what is called a "walk-in" site; that is, we had to walk over a small bridge, on a path, over another small bridge, and up another path littered with exposed tree roots.  Though not too dangerous, you still had to pay attention when walking.  The washrooms were located just a short distance from our site, but across the road.  Therefore, you had to navigate the aforementioned bridges, hill and tree roots each time you needed/wanted to use the restroom.

The weather for our trip was wonderful.  Not too hot, not too cold, and little rain.  However, rain from the previous week had made parts of our wooded campsite a bit boggy.  On Friday night there were brief and gentle showers, but not a soaking rain.  The paths were a bit muddy and slick, so more care had to be taken when travelling to the bathrooms. 

About 2:00 am Saturday morning, I woke needing to use the bathroom.  I put it off as long as I could because I really didn't want to walk "over the river and through the woods" to the bathroom.  Finally, I could no longer ignore nature's call so I threw on a pair of shorts under my nightshirt, slipped on my sandals, grabbed my flashlight and carefully walked in the dark of night over and around the tree roots to take care of business.

The next morning we women compared notes on our prior night's sleep.  Friend #1 mentioned that she had had to get up in the wee hours to - umm, well...wee.  Friend #2 said she too had to avail herself of the facilities because her preschooler had to go number one.  I shared my own precarious travels through the pitch dark woods when Friend #3 piped in "I had to go, too but I just went out behind the tent by a tree." (For the record, Friend #4, pregnant and camping with a toddler was still deservedly asleep in her tent during the conversation).

It was a shock and awe moment for me.  I was in awe of Friend #3's guts and openness.  I was in shock that she would boldly expose her behind at camp with - well, not total strangers but certainly not real family, either.  And these were church people, at that.  What would have happened if one of the kids or husbands had gotten up at the same time???

Saturday was a beautiful, fun-filled day.  We hiked, we swam, we ate a fantastic meal cooked over the campfire (Garlic Rosemary Pork Loin thanks to Friend #1, and venison steaks thanks to Friend #4 and her husband).  However, during s'more time it began to rain.  It wasn't a very hard rain, but it was steady and we all got a good soaking.

After we packed up the food,  put various equipment under cover and secured camp, we all turned in for the night.  In addition to being wet from the rain, I was also pretty sticky from sweat and humidity.  It's hard enough to undress when sticky, but to do so in the confines of a small, two-man tent is next to impossible so I decided to go to sleep in my clothes - a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

About 2:00 am, nature again tapped on my shoulder.  Well, actually she pounded on my bladder.  I tried to ignore her, but she was persistent.  I had no desire to walk the dark, tree-root strewn incline to the bathroom.  At that time I remembered Friend #3's boldness and decided to follow her example.  It was still raining, and I dreaded getting wet once again and having to go back to sleep in damp, sweaty clothes so I brazenly stripped off my shorts and carefully snuck out of my tent to the nearest, most private tree, in the darkest of spots.

Mid crouch I had a horrible thought.  What would happen if some cheeky raccoon came along and bit my exposed cheeks?  What if one of my camp mates came along on their way to the facilities?  What if it was one of the kids?    The thought terrified me and I started to have an anxiety attack, at which point my legs got a bit weak and shaky.  This brought on an even more horrible thought.  What would happen if I fell over and broke a hip?  Should I yell for help and bring everyone running or should I just lie in the mud until someone (hopefully only ONE, not many) got up?

As usual, I worried for nothing.  I completed the necessary task, returned to my tent and redressed, tucking myself safely in to my sleeping bag, leaving no part of me exposed.  I had exposed enough for one night.

Drifting off to sleep, I thought about what had just happened.  Camping with these friends, I was seeing more of their real selves; their faces sans makeup (the women) and unshaven (the men), faults and foibles being revealed.  Had Friend #3 not been so open as to mention her exploit of the prior evening, I would have stomped through mud and tripped over tree roots, getting rained on and feeling miserable.  Her transparency made my life a bit easier.

In fact, living with these folks for only a weekend I was able to see some of their true selves emerge.  Their frustration, impatience and weariness were on full display; like the proverbial elephant in the room, these couldn't be easily covered up in this venue.  I even saw little 2-year old ZW, a child with whom I am enamored, throw a temper tantrum or two.  But I also witnessed many acts of patience, kindness and generosity.  Our little campsite was a community much like our home neighborhoods and churches should be.  In a tent community, privacy is limited; there are no doors or windows behind which to hide or keep people out.

Isn’t this how the church is supposed to be?  Isn’t this how we’re supposed to be with each other?  And aren’t we supposed to give and expect compassion and forgiveness from our Christian brothers and sisters when (not if) we fail?  We keep our mistakes and sins to ourselves due to pride; our own and that of other Christians.  We’re afraid of facing judgment – justly and unjustly.  In trying to save face we deny ourselves the opportunity to experience grace.

As I think of all the embarrassing possibilities of what could have happened to me that dark night in the woods, I think that had any of those horrors come to pass those are the people with whom I would care to share my mortification.  They would have laughed – at me, with me, whatever (hey, it’s funny).  Because of their love for Jesus, I know they love me.  It is with these people I bare my soul; it for these people that I will bear their burdens.  But I hope to never bare my bottom again.  I think we all are of one mind on that!

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.

Bizarro Barb

A few months ago, curious about my web presence, I Googled myself.  There were many references to Barbara Best.  Most were something like Santa Barbara Best Vacation or Barbara's Best Cheesecake, etc.  However, one hit really hit home.  It was another Barb Best - a REAL live person, with my name, with her own blog and everything.  I now follow her on Twitter and we are Facebook friends.

Reading her Blog and getting to know her, I'm reminded of the Bizarro Superman comic book.  Or for a more recent reference, the "Bizarro Jerry" episode of Seinfeld.

The other Barb Best appears to be opposite me, from a parallel universe.  From her pictures, she appears to be short; I'm tall.  She's blond; I'm brunette.  She lives on the West Coast; I live on the East Coast.  She won the 2010 Erma Bombeck Global Humor Award; I think I could be a finalist in the Erma Bombeck Housekeeping Award.

It's confused me quite often when I see a Tweet or Facebook Post by the other Barb Best.  My first reaction is that someone must have hacked my account and posted as me.  I wonder if she has the same reaction.  I wonder if my friends think I've suddenly become funnier or her friends think she's having a dry spell.  She hasn't unfriended me, yet so I must not be detrimental to her career.

Recently I saw from her Twitter feed that the other Barb Best is going to be at Lucy Fest in Jamestown, NY.  I work in Jamestown, NY!  I immediately messaged her when I saw this and we plan on meeting; I'm looking forward to this unique experience.  I have only one concern.  Which one of us is Bizarro?

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.

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.

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

Consider the Lilies of the Field

"And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."(Matthew 6:28-29 ESV)

Over my 40+ years I've heard or read this verse hundreds of times. Yet, since I've been hanging out with Seedling #1 it's taken on new meaning. Now, when I think about "lilies of the field" I picture Seedling #1 running, dancing, playing...a big smile on her face; her curls bouncing, eyes flashing. Add in to the equation child-like faith and I've got the perfect picture of how life should be for believers...not a care in the world, with total trust in their Father. Now, when I hear this verse, I always smile. I feel a certain warmth in my soul when this picture enters my mind.

When I was her age and younger, I'm sure I felt this way, but I don't really remember those carefree days. I long for heaven when those days return and I get to live them out for eternity - along with Seedling #1 and all the others.

Tending the Garden(ers)

It's no secret that there are a lot of children in my life, though none of them belong to me. I often blog about the Barblings. As explained in a previous post, they are my best friend's daughters. I refer to them as Barblings because it's easier than typing a lengthy explanation of who they are each time. In addition, understanding the possible dangers associated with revealing names (especially those of children) on the internet, I choose to respect their privacy and use a pseudonym.

Now, during my unemployed state, I've been spending more time with a friend/neighbor/sister in Christ and her four children. They've given me some fodder for possible posts, but I needed a name for them. Today the thought struck me - Seedlings. Those of you who know me well and travel in the same circle should understand the name. If you don't, let me know and maybe I'll explain it to you.

Blessed Be the Tie that Binds

Dedicated to the Kriebel Family

Blessed be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love.

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

-John Fawcett

This hymn was on my mind during a recent visit with my friend Emily. We hadn't seen each other in over 10 years, keeping in touch via informal emails, Christmas letters (hers, not mine. I've never written one), and Facebook. But our meeting just picked up where we'd left off. Our conversations were not just filled with anecdotes and current events, but with some intimate revelations, thoughts and spiritual insights. It was such a blessing seeing our Lord at work...in each other's lives and in our relationship.

When I first got to her house, I met her son, Joe (11) who chatted a bit and played piano for me. Later, while she and I sat at the dining room table catching up, her son, David (15?) played guitar while daughter, Christie (16?) sang. Then husband, Wayne (age not revealed) joined the concert. Later, I met James (12/13?) and Will (~22?). Jon (20/21?) and Katie (19) were unavailable. Despite the time lag of our last visit, there was no awkwardness or shyness. And her family welcomed me and went about there home life quite naturally, as if strangers visit and sleep on their couch all the time. I felt at home in a place I'd never been.

I'd refer to Em as a college friend, but during our visit I realized we'd never attended college together. Emily had transferred to PSU's Main Campus by the time I was at Behrend. It was through mutual friends in the Behrend College Christian Association that we met at a fall weekend retreat. Then, those mutual friends might refer to Em or me in conversations. So it just seemed like we'd always been friends all along.

When she graduated, Emily moved to Erie for about 6 months. We hung out a bit during that time. Then I visited her when she moved to North Carolina. I went to her wedding in Virginia and visited she and her husband a time or two again. But thinking back, our real connection, the tie that binds us is Jesus. It's He that allowed us to pick up our conversation as if no time had elapsed. It's He that allowed us to meet again without stumbling and stammering, having to reintroduce ourselves, deciding on how much we could trust each other or how personal our conversation could be.

Heaven will be like this. I will meet people like Rahab, Sarah Edwards and Corrie Ten Boom and not feel inadequate. I will sit down and drink tea with CS Lewis and not be afraid of saying something stupid. Of course, I'll say something stupid but we'll both have a great laugh and he'll tell me about all the stupid things he said, as well.

Thank you, Kriebels for that taste of heaven here on earth.

Spring Has Sprung

The calendar may show it's still winter, but according to my dogs, spring has sprung. This is evident by the constant twitching of their noses, taking in all the new scents freed from their icebergs.

Grace & Dora's noses seem to be acting as light switches for their eyes, which brighten with every flutter of their nostrils. The lights are powered by the swishing of their tales, like the cranks on old automobiles.

Canine senses are much more finely tuned than mine, but watching their reactions gives me an appreciation and excitement for God's creation, though I cannot see, hear or smell what they do. Sharing our spiritual experiences- trials as well as triumphs-is like this. One may not understand what I'm feeling, but they can see that God is working and they can rejoice. Just as I rejoice walking with Grace & Dora as they sniff out our Father's world.

My Feeble (but Sincere) Attempt at Haiku

Dedicated to A.G.

Cool air Warm conversation A break in the clouds

Adopted

I was reading an old journal entry where one of the Barblings had asked me if I was a friend or family. I replied that I was a friend since I wasn't a blood relative, when their mom came in the room and corrected me saying that Barbling #1 wasn't a blood relative either (she's adopted) and she's family.

It's no secret that I would love to have a child of my own but during a conversation with a friend I confided that I was also afraid that if I did have my own child that all the other children in my life would feel they'd been replaced, and I would never want them to think that. I couldn't love a Barbling, et al any more if they were my very own.

This is how God, my Father, views me. "For all who are being led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God. For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out,"Abba! Father!" The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God..." (Romans 8:14-16).

Some days, when I think of the children in my life I'm filled with such love my heart feels like it will explode. If anyone tried to do anything to hurt them I could easily become violently protective. I would run in to a burning building, jump in to a raging river, throw myself in front of a bullet for any and all of them.

Today I realized that my heavenly Father feels the same towards me. It was through Christ's death that I became a "blood" relative. I might be one of His billions of children, but He knows my name, remembers my birthday, etc. His heart fills to the point of explosion at the thought of me (!?!), and He threw Himself in to the line of fire for me.

...because family sticks together.

Barb & the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The weather today is very hot and humid. Work was busy, with people demanding things of me right and left. I left work late, stopped for a few necessary groceries at the crowded grocery store. When I arrived home I found my home had been vandalized.

These vandals were especially heinous and brazen. They signed their work and included their children in on their vicious act!