Thank You, Alex

It was almost 4 years ago that my son mentioned to me one day that I should write a blog.

"What in the world is that?" I asked him.

He told me it was like having a place of your own, on-line, where you share your thoughts and write about whatever you want to. He kept urging me to do one, to do a blog. I was going to say "Little did he know" but I think it was a lot that he knew.

And then instead of just explaining the blogosphere to me, he went a step further and set this one up- the one you see here. It was all because of my son that I opened up, came out of my shell, and talked to people all over the world about the things in life that confound us, the faith we want to capture for ourselves, and the connections we want to make with people and with God- if only we knew how.

Faith Fuel began because my son introduced me to not only blogging, but the part of myself that I would find here in these blog posts. Sometimes I would start writing about something, not knowing that I was wrestling with it deep inside. Sometimes I would find a great release, like a wind under me lifting me, if I went a little deeper, shared a little more honestly and out loud and here- on this blog.

My son reads this blog and has the posts automatically sent to him every time I update the blog. One thing that I feel truly sad about- about ending this blog soon- is that this connection between my son and I, this on-line connection, is coming to an end.

Maybe in the last couple months, when I first realized I didn't want to continue Faith Fuel anymore, maybe this is why I kept writing, kept pluggin away. It wasn't- and it isn't- a chore. But it is something that has come to an end, to a close. Just like the way my son brought his high school years to a successful close, and is now away, far away, at college.

When he first left for college, it wasn't just deep sadness I felt. It was fear- because I thought I was losing him. I felt the world calling him out of my arms and into its frenzy and its fun. You can't hold a child forever in your arms- even if you can always love him.

I feel sad about ending Faith Fuel only in the sense that I don't want to lose the connections I have made with so many of you. I don't want you to think I am pulling out of your lives. I am, instead, taking a quiet sabbatical, and finding not just my voice again, but the deepest desires of my heart.

My son, Alex, knew, and still knows, about the desire of my heart to encourage others through my writing. I'm so glad he introduced me to blogging, because in reality, he was introducing me to all of you who have visited Faith Fuel.

If you leave a comment today, please leave it for my son. Tell him that you're glad he got me started on blogging. Or tell him that he has a very opinionated mother and how in the world does he stand her?! Or tell him that you wish he could get his mother to be quiet! Or tell him that he's a wonderful, insightful, loving son who makes his Mom smile even when she's holding back the tears.

What a Recipe!

It was a work of art: a triple layer, homemade apple spice cake with layers of frosting and a an extra thick coating of frosting on top. I was kinda proud of my accomplishment. And of course, as usual, I had not exactly followed the directions to a T. Which of course yielded a variety of reactions.

"Delicious!" my friend Mary Ann said (and it sounded sincere- her praise). She asked for the recipe and began copying it down.

My daughter took a bite and said bluntly, "The frosting has a funny taste to it."

My son ate it. Downed it, is more like it. And asked for seconds.

My appraisal of it? Well, come to think of it, the cream cheese frosting did have a slight kick to it. A bite to it. I didn't think anyone would notice if I added a little sour cream to the frosting when I was whipping it up. I had run out of cream cheese, and didn't think I had time to get my son to drive to the grocery store and buy some for me. So on my own (belligerently independent and crazily creative) I add a big dollop of sour cream, thinking that "it's white, thick, creamy in texture- this should work!".

I won't do that again- add a bit of sour to something sweet. At least, not if I can remember in time not to do so. But realistically speaking, I'm sure this will happen again.

Not with a cake recipe, but with a relationship. One sour remark can affect a sweet relationship. But here's where I take heart: no relationship is ever that sweet, that perfect, that it cannot withstand a bit of sour reality.

The relationships I value the most are exactly the ones that have withstood the tough times. These relationships have seen me at my best and my worst- my sweetest moments of grace and composure, and my sour moments of impatience and sharp critique.

Lately I've been valuing these dear ones in my life. They are the ones who eat my crazy botched up recipes (thanks, family), come over and hang out with my husband and I (thanks Tony and Mary Ann), meet me at a cafe for coffee and conversation that always gets me back in my saddle again (thank you, Mu).

These people share with me their painful moments so that I am not alone in mine. They let me know that as imperfect as I am, there's something worth pursuing when they see me, contemplate knowing me, and decide the sweet and the sour are all part of the recipe.

So Tell Me About Yours

It's a bit misleading: the photo, in the last post, with "Family" staring out at you, and me talking about "throw it away, throw it away". I wasn't alluding to throwing away your family- but there are times when I've wanted to run away from them. From my family. The one I grew up in- not the one I have now.

The family I have now is of my own choosing, for the most part. There's my husband, Bill, and my two kids, and our dog, Harry- otherwise known as Harry Berry, Boo Bear, or just Boo. This is my family. And while God picked out the two kids He gave us, I am in complete agreement with Him that these are the two children I would most want to have out of the heavenly pickings that I suppose there were.

But the family I grew up in- well, I had nothing to do with selecting them. And they would say amen to that too. We're a motley bunch. There's five of us kids- now grown adults with kids of our own, except for my one bachelor brother who, I doubt, will ever marry and have kids. His choosin', you know. One of us is a strong choleric leader, one is a quiet gardener, one is bossy and loyal, one is tender and opinionated, and one is helpful and needy of attention.

The older I get, the more I don't really get along with them that well; we don't see eye to eye on things. But I see, now, why this is so: it's because I'm still changing and they've changed and we keep forgetting that fact. We keep wanting to see each other as we once knew each other, instead of getting used to learning who each other is becoming.

Sometimes it's a bit lonely being surrounded by people who supposedly know you, and at the same time, don't know you. With the exception of one brother, we all live within five miles of each other. But we're not the Brady Bunch or Little House on the Prairie.

I loved those T.V. shows when I was little. I have always loved the Ideal: the idea of an Ideal Family, an Ideal life. There seemed to be no end of families I knew that were ideal or almost perfect. Or so I thought. Then as the years passed, the idea of the Ideal got tarnished, thank God.

I think one reason why people tend to confide in me about their sorrows or struggles or strained homelife is that I don't ever get surprised at what can go wrong in a family. I'm not surprised, very often, at what can go wrong in any enterprise, any group or church or unit of people. If there's a bunch of people, there will be a bunch of opinions, ideas, and varying expressions of thought.

Expect variety and expect the unexpected when it comes to family life. Forget the idea of there being a black sheep in every family; cause most likely there'll also be a polka dotted one too. Sometimes I'm the rebel in my family and sometimes I'm the peace maker. And sometimes I forget who I am, when I'm with them, and sometimes I remember who I am because of being with them.

One thing I'll always be is a part of them. That's because it was God's choosing- many years ago- and lately He keeps telling me it's time that it was my choosing as well.

Throw it Away, Throw it Away

(photo by Organize.com)

I've been organizing- if you can call it that- my email in-box by trying to unsubscribe to the many emails that are coming in that I don't want. I call this pruning, or streamlining. I got an email from Organize.com which has a tag line, "Clean. Neat. Easy." and that one I decide to keep subscribing too.

It makes me feel good, momentarily, to get rid of junk and unneeded things. But this temporary feeling is just that- temporary. Soon I feel overwhelmed by clutter- both in my inbox and in my house.

I know where I get this from- this need to prune and purify my surroundings. I grew up in a small house overflowing with people: five kids, several cats, a cousin living with us, and two parents. When we moved to a larger home, when I was in second grade, it felt like we were moving into a mansion. I took deep breaths of privacy and peace. But these bits of privacy and peace were always temporary as well, because I shared a room with a sister, and because no matter how big a house is, it does not mean all will be at peace.

One habit my father developed, that I now realize was in reaction to this chaotic brood of his, was to mandate a weekly streamlining of our lives. This happened almost every Saturday, or when things started to feel crazy in our home: my Dad would make us go to our rooms and throw away 20 items,...or 100 items if he was really stressed that week! My sisters and I learned how to count a piece of thread as an item, or a rubber band, or a button, so that we could retain as many of our belongings as we could. We really didn't have a lot of stuff. We didn't own much junk. We shared our clothing. So what could we possibly need to throw away?

This need to suddenly cleanse and purify our supposedly cluttered surroundings has never gone away. I'll visit my Mom and Dad and it will usually come up. I'll be sitting in my Mom's room and smiling at here as she's resting in bed. She's so frail, now. She smiles a lot, but she sleeps a lot too. Her life long battle with depression has worn her out. She still looks heavenward, but I can see that she has an increasing connection with the Lord and a decreasing connection with us, here on earth. It's obvious that we are not going to have her forever.

And in the midst of thinking that, while my Dad is sitting there in the room with us, he'll suddenly say "Your mother's room needs cleaning. Her closet needs someone to go through it and throw away the junk. Will you do that?"

I'll look around the room. There might be a few articles of clothing on the rocking chair, and a few toiletries arranged on the dresser. Her closet has some clothing in it, all hung nicely on hangers. Where's the junk, I think? What do I need to throw away?

But I already know the answer to that. I can remember painful times, sad times ( throw them away, throw them away) and I can remember times where stress reigned in our home and not peace- in spite of the fact that there was never a family more committed to each other, more intent on being a family (throw that away, throw that away). I know why my Dad goes on these de-cluttering binges. I know why I get a momentary high after I've cleaned my house, wiped the countertops clean of crumbs and dust and the things that speak of dirt and decay.

I want peace and order in my life. I want a mind that is clean and clear. I want a heart that is free from bitterness and regret. But you don't get that from clearing your home of debris and junk. You don't even get that by going once or twice to counseling or a therapist or a priest. It takes endless forgiving and releasing, and forgiving and keeping that which is good and letting the rest go.

There's nothing wrong with a clean, organized, beautiful home. It's just that the only way it can stay perfectly clean perfectly organized and decluttered, is for people to live in it perfectly. Neatly. Robotically.

Our homes reveal our pain and our promise for hope. Our homes reveal the strain and stresses of the challenge of living. Our cluttered desks reveal that we get more information and details from bill collectors than we often do from those we love.

But this is life. And life is messy and clean, chaotic and peaceful. It all depends on where and how and who and when...and then it starts all over again. Throw it away, throw it away- the junk, the pain, the bitterness. But I can't throw away the evidence that I am alive and imperfect and hopeful, all at the same time.

I want gleaming counters and clean bathrooms. But I've decided messy kitchens are good too. And closets stuffed with gifts and mismatched clothing and odds and ends are not going to make me fall apart. I'll go for clean and order, whenever I can, but I'll also go for the grace to be able to cope with clutter and chaos- because it does happen every now and then. And I'm done with trying to make it not be so.

Next!

I really don't have anything against this guy personally. But I don't care for Wes too much. But it's not because this guy is shady or dishonest. He seems to be pretty clear about his goal of becoming a country music star. I just don't think, though, that Jillian is hearing this guy when he talks about his music career and the needed publicity and the fact that he's getting some very good publicity by being on the show, The Bachelorette.


Most of us who are watching this Reality Show are well aware of Wes' ambition. He's not exactly writing it in big letters on a billboard for Jillian to see, but he is fairly clear about his desire to be a famous singer. If he sings that song, "They say that love- it don't come easy" one more time, I might throw something at the screen! But Jillian just loves it when Wes sings. She thinks he's singing for her. He's not.

This is where the "wise as a serpent" admonition comes in. This is where we need to think on our feet, and not just let our heart beat...in rhapsodic hopes of love. This is where we need to dig a little deeper when it comes to assessing someone's intentions, their ambitions, their addictions.

My teen age daughter and I get to do a lot of discussing when we watch this show (and I get to do a lot of editing too! Not everything that takes place on the show is what we accept as normative for our lives). We talk about how you have to go a little deeper when it comes to seeing someone's true colors. And it's perfectly acceptable to be somewhat reserved, somewhat appraising when it comes to evaluating what someone wants from you, who they are, what they are offering. You don't have to hug everyone the minute you meet them. You can look for substance, depth, honesty, integrity- and when you find it, the hug you give someone means so much more.

Here's to hoping Jillian takes another long hard look at Wes. Here's to her seeing how much he wants a music career- maybe more than anything else. More than he wants her. And here's to Jillian, and every other person who has had to realize a painful truth, but then because they did, they were better off. Much better off.

Dating Advice for Anyone Who's Ever Listened to Willie

If this was Monday night, I'd be watching the Bachelorette. I'm fascinated by that reality show, even if it has some stuff in it that's not exactly kosher. I'm always interested in why people choose what they do, and in particular, why women choose what they do when it comes to dating and potential marriage. I'm hoping that the bachelorette, Jillian, will choose substance, and not flash. But these shows have not always yielded promising results. I've narrowed my list down to a couple favorites who I think are good, solid men- but I don't know if Jillian will see what I see.

Speaking of favorites, for some reason my husband is not only playing a lot of old favorites, like Kenny G and BB King, but now he's also adding in....Willie Nelson. Yup. The King of Twang was crooning to us while we ate our dinner tonight. I managed to do a beautiful pork tenderloin roast- not undercooked (oh no, trichinosis!) but not overcooked either (oh no, we're eating leather for dinner!).

I was so enjoying the old crooner. He can really sing. But when Julio Iglesias joined him on that song "To All the Girls I've Loved Before", I started to notice the words. The chorus, in particular. Then I was laughing. Then I was disgusted. Then I thought of all the women who've bought this type of ridiculous reasoning, and I was mad.

There's nothing I hate worse than to be taken. Fooled. Like the way Eve was fooled by the serpent. Like the way men "worm their way into homes of weak willed women". Like the way people actually buy the stupid reasoning, which Willie and Julio sang, about why there were so many girls in their life and why they couldn't stay with one of them:

The winds of change are always blowing And every time I try to stay The winds of change continue blowing And they just carry me away

The thought of the wind sweeping a 200+ lb. man out the door and away from a loving woman is...well, ridiculous. I don't think the man tried hard enough to stay.

Love stays. Love sticks it out. Period.

Now, there are winds of change. That part of the verse is true. People change. Our ideas change. Our plans change. But what does that have to do with sticking it out with someone you profess to love?

Don't know why I'm ranting and raving about this, except to say that for almost 25 years I have been married to a man who does a lot of beautiful loving things to show he loves me:

He washes the dirty pots and pans that I hide in the oven (and there are some there, right now, as I write this!).

He listens to me- really listens to me when I talk to him.

He sees me as capable of doing anything I set my mind to.

He is patient when I'm not, and silly and humorous when I'm cranky.

He loves our two kids fiercely and fathers them in such a way that I don't think they'll have issues trusting that a Father God loves them eternally.

He does a lot. He loves me a lot. And most of all, no matter how the winds of change are blowing, he doesn't have to work hard to try and stay with me. He's practically glued to my side. He's a keeper. He's a Lover. He's my Everything.

And I didn't see all this when I first met him. I didn't know the depth of his character and his staying power....not right away. Not at first. But over time, it became clear what this man of mine was made of.

So here's a little dating advice for any single people who might be reading this: Hold out for the one who stays and keeps staying. Hold out for someone who wants to keep drawing nearer, who wants to get to know you. Look for sincerity not only in his words but in his actions as well.

Hold out for someone who will stay with you through thick and thin. Because any man who lets the winds of change carry him away is too much of a light weight for you.

What a Relief!

My daughter and I have been watching the Masterpiece Theatre production, Wives and Daughters, and for me, it's the second time I've seen it. Besides the gorgeous scenery and costumes, this time I am enjoying "seeing" the character of Molly Gibson.

If I liked her last time I saw this, I like her even more so now. Molly Gibson is a truth teller. And in an age of discreet and tedious social protocol, she stands out as a pure light of simple honesty. She says what she thinks- when the situation warrants it. And when the situation calls for her to bite her tongue, so to speak, she does. She knows how to do both.

I'm impressed by this kind of practical and social wisdom. It's no small thing to "be yourself", blend in with the social mores, stand on an issue, keep within a social group, build relationships, cut ties when you have to. You don't need the patience of Job for this kind of accomplishment- you need the wisdom of Solomon here. And even in that department, Solomon himself did not fare that well.

According to Wikipedia, Mores (pronounced /ˈmɔːreɪz/) are norms or customs. Mores derive from the established practices of a society rather than its written laws. They consist of shared understandings about the kinds of behaviour likely to evoke approval, disapproval, toleration or sanction, within particular contexts.

I recently discovered- don't know why I didn't see this before- that there are no social mores with God. When it comes to prayer, or coming to God with your concerns, there are no intricate, unspoken but implied, paths you have to navigate. For the Christian, the plain and spoken reality of the cross of Christ is clearly seen as the means we have, the access we have, to come to God.

But there are no social customs, no snickering snide remarks made by angelic bystanders, about the way we are supposed to come to Him. You won't hear an angelic whisper admonish you, "Oh, didn't you know? You're supposed to kneel three times, cross yourself twice, and look as pious as you can. That's the way we do it here in this realm".

The plain, welcoming truth is that I don't have to figure out any incidental customs that would invoke disapproval or disdain if I inadvertently said the wrong thing to God at the wrong time. There are no social mores with Him. What a relief.

There are social mores in the church, in relationships we have with other people of faith or Christian beliefs, though. There are preferences in certain sub-groups for how to present yourself or how to pray, even, or how to express your thoughts. That's reality. It's just that many groups don't even realize they have these preferences. This can cause a bit of a problem. Sometimes relationships suddenly reveal that we've had our preferences and our likes and our dislikes as guiding rules- and sometimes a rule gets broken in the relationship. Now the relationship has a problem- but what exactly is the problem?

Haven't figured out all the social interpersonal stuff yet. I may be 100 before I figure all that out. But I have discovered that there is a very direct route of communication with God. I've discovered there are no social mores with Him and that I don't have to weigh myself down with concern over possibly breaking any so called unspoken but spiritual rule of how to talk with God, how to be myself with God. I just talk with Him, any time I want to. He hears me.

And if I have to take up my cross to follow Christ as a Christian, and thereby suffer some things, one thing I do not have to suffer is a burdensome, tedious route to talking with God. The coast is clear. My mind is clear. And it's very clear that it's all because He made a way for me to come to Him.

Home Sweet Home

I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I've been traveling. Lots. That's why I haven't posted in a while.

Bill, Abby, and I drove 14 hours down to Kentucky on Friday and picked up our son at his college and drove 4 hours the next day over to Nashville for a weekend of wedding festivities. My oldest niece, and godchild, got married. Talk about highs and lows, smiles and tears, stress and a test of your equilibrium! It was wonderful. It was beautiful. It was a lot of family (and friends) together- so that always makes it interesting.

Then we drove- well, we were going to drive 16 hours all the way home to upstate New York but heaven poured down its emotions as well. It rained. And it poured. And though we got onto the road Monday morning at 6:30 am, by 6pm we were still on darkened wet highways wedged in between massive trucks on a mission to get someplace. I was pressing my foot to the floor looking for that imaginary brake, calling out to Bill "Watch out! Slow down!" and the kids were having a blast seeing me squirm under the pressure. (They sat in the backseat, and sometimes things look a lot less dangerous when you don't have a full frontal view of whats coming at you).

Sometimes the journey is long, mercilessly long. And sometimes a kind neighbor or brother will step in and let you know, "You're running dry. Stop here. Refresh. Refuel."

And that's what we did. We wound up staying the night in Pennsylvania at my oldest brother's home. We walked into their beautiful home with shaking knees (okay, just mine were shaking) and bloodshot eyes. They made a fire in the wood burning stove, put sheets and blankets on the beds, and we dove in. I was a wreck.

But I woke up and the sun was streaming in. My heart wasn't racing anymore. The second leg of the trip awaited us, but now I felt ready to go on.

So we're home now. In one piece. Sound in mind and body. Harry is delirious with joy at our return for him. (He was staying at my in-laws. He only tried to creep up into their bed one night. What can I say? He's needy).

What We Will Be

This morning I could not settle down with my journal and my thoughts. I penned a few words and then stopped. I stared at Harry and wondered why he is prancing around so much lately, why he suddenly wants to play, now, more than he ever has. He has turned from couch potato into Mr. Frolic and Fun- and just at a time in my life when I feel as interesting as a cold pancake left on a plate.

So I skimmed through my old journals, forgetting that this always jars me. I hate to remember so vividly what I struggled with. I hate to look back and see how things floored me, when I know they should have sailed right over my head with me smiling and saying, "Oh, I'll just let God deal with that." I hate to see how I struggled to just get trusting before God and open to the people He brought into my life. The Introvert in me rears her head loudly in my journal.

Is there such a thing as the sin of guardedness? Cause I think I may have trouble with this. I am not an easily trusting person. And while I may quickly smile at you if we meet for the first time, that doesn't mean I am open to getting to know you. It's nothing personal. It's that I'm guarded. Very very guarded. Like I have a sentry posted about my heart and they've been ordered to shoot if anything invades this delicate area.

If the fact that I am a Christian as well as guarded seems like a conflict of interests, it is. I know that. God is interested in loving the world through me. I am interested in not getting hurt, not getting walked on, not getting used.So this is a problem. For me. Not for God. Because He tells me continually that I have no right to be guarded, not since I gave my life to Him.

But if you were once guarded and now you know Him, what should you then be? Free as a bird when it comes to loving people and trusting them? Vulnerable and naive as a two year old prancing out into a busy road, unaware of the opposing nature of the cars racing toward her? Beloved, now we are children of God, and it has not appeared as yet what we will be. We know that when He appears, we will be like Him, because we will see Him just as He is. 1 Jn 3:2.

So I'm sharing this with you just so that you, dear reader, don't give me too much credit for sharing what I do with you here on this blog. I've been honest about what I write but I still have been guarded and reserved. I like to call it being wise and prudent. But God has been telling me, lately, that I'm just being guarded. Selfish. That I need to open up and stretch further when I share what I do. That's called giving of yourself.

And I intend to practise this new understanding I have of "Give, and it shall be given unto you". In fact, I am going to get radical about giving of myself, being open to new relationships, new ventures with people I have yet to meet (Deep breath here). This may cause changes in my blog, and maybe changes in who reads my blog. But it won't change the fact that God has always been the radical One when it comes to loving people and giving His all for them. I'm just trying to keep up with Him as He opens His arms, wide, to the world.

Bull Riding and Bridal Bliss

Bill said the dog followed him around the house like a shadow the whole time I was gone. It was only three days that I was gone, but I think the dog understood that I was miles away, in another world- a world of bull riding and bridal bliss.

I flew down to Tennessee to be with my niece and god-child, Jennifer. We spent Friday talking and catching up, planning her wedding, dreaming out loud. Then I watched my niece try on bridal gowns. I oohed and awed over the beauty of it all, the glowing face looking at herself in a mirror and seeing herself soon walking down the aisle. She picked THE dress of her dreams and we rejoiced over being one step closer to that glorious day when she will say "I do."

Then in the evening we geared up for something on the other side of the spectrum. We were going to a PBR Event and seeing our first Professional Bull Riding Event live and in color and up close. We were not close enough to see the bull snot fly as the riders fly off the backs of the bulls, but we hear there is a lot of it. We yelled and cheered and roared our admiration of these bull riders along with the crowd.

Saturday, we walked around town, talked more, and I took in the sights and the sounds of the South. I loved every minute of it. On Sunday I visited the church she and her fiance go to, and I participated in the Sunday School class. Of all things to be studying, they were doing the book by John Ortberg, If You Want to Walk on Water, You've Got to Get Out of the Boat. And I heard the message loud and clear.

I nodded my head in agreement as different people in the class shared their fears and their concerns about getting out of their comfort zone. While they were sharing, deep inside me I heard the whisper of the Holy Spirit, "Get out of the boat, Get Out of the Boat". And when you get out of the boat, you can sink or float, but you'll definitely be in His Will if You're walking toward Him, away from what holds you down and what holds you back.

“Lord, if it's you,” Peter replied,
“tell me to come to you on the water.”
“Come,” he said..."

Matt 14:28,29a

Amazing, Truly Amazing

Just found out it may rain off and on most of Sunday, and that's when I'm having over fifty people over to celebrate our son's high school graduation. I had hoped there would be sunshine, flowers blooming, music playing, people strolling over the grounds with a cold soda in hand, teenagers playing volleyball in the backyard. But no, I think we may instead hear rumbles of thunder, see the rain pour down, and feel very very connected that day- perspiring, hot people crammed into our small house, balancing a plate and a drink in hand, smiling and sweating and intently trying to celebrate this milestone in our lives. What loved ones do for each other- it's amazing.

But loved ones also often hurt each other. We bicker, quarrel, bring up the past and resurrect certain "issues"- hot spots if you want to call them that- and these issues can resurface and have to be dealt with over and over again. It can be a hurt from the past, a memory of someone failing you, or a sensitive spot in your heart when a certain word is brought up. Sometimes Family Get Togethers are like volcanoes that decide to suddenly erupt- and you thought it would, you tried to warn those around you that you had a feeling it would erupt- and then, sure enough, it does. What loved ones do to each other- it's amazingly painful.

I keep telling myself- sometimes in a voice of wonder and sometimes in a trembling voice- "God can handle it." I know He is never shocked by outbursts and break downs and fights and fears. He is the One you can go to and say, "I feel a volcano in me about to erupt, and I know its better that we talk first before I talk with anyone else." That's when you'll feel God's hand of approval on you: not because you came to Him all clean and perfect and in complete control, but because you came to Him with a mess on your hand and fear in your heart and stumbling feet...but you came to Him nevertheless. You came to Him because that declaration of faith was running though your mind, firing up your heart in belief- "God can handle it." What God does for us- it's truly amazing.

"I am the LORD, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?" Jer. 32:27

Into the Treasure Chest

You should have been there. You have have thought they were giving away a thousand dollars to the first 100 people that arrived. But no, what they were giving away was simply the privilege of a 45 minute head start before the crowds of book buyers arrived. (Some of these book buyers are people who scoop up hundreds of books at once and will go home and sell them on e-bay or something like that. They are not readers but business people. Not that a business person can't be a reader but...I digress).

I stood in line waiting for the door to open, feeling like I was being allowed entrance into a large treasure chest. An older couple of retirement age stood behind me chatting.

"Oh, what a cute little boy," she murmured to her silver haired husband as a youngster went running by them.

"You don't like little boys," he retorted. "You never wanted one." They talked about their grown daughter and her pregnancy. "Maybe she'll have a boy," he added as a concession.

"Oh I hope not!" she said vehemently. "That would be terrible!" This was the same woman who just thought a little boy passing by was cute. I was confused. So I inched a little closer. I heard her add,"Little boys grow up and they leave you.But daughters stay close to you forever."

So that's what is happening with my son and me. He's "leaving me"- physically, emotionally. He's dis-attaching. But Abby is staying close to me, close to my heart, her hand literally always in mine. Yet Alex is not trying to hurt me by dis-attaching. He's just doing what he has to- he's a man on a mission, and mothers don't generally appear on the scene of great missions of exploration and discovery.

We finally got into the room and people went crazy. Many kept boxes at their feet, throwing books into the box and then pushing it along as they filled it. I headed toward the Christian/Inspirational section, then went to Decorating/Crafts, then went to the room with all the fiction- loads of paperbacks and hardcovers of big name fiction authors and then all the romance publishers.

I filled my bag with about twenty different books. But as I went through them, just before I checked out, I discarded many. I had prayed earlier, as I drove to the Library Book Sale, "Lord, please show me the books that will speak to my heart, the books that will send a message from your heart to mine." I knew God could speak through fiction, through an intriguing or romantic story line. I also knew He speaks through the direct messages of non fiction, Bible Studies, deep theological expositions of the workings of God.

Here's what I wound up with at the end of it all: just four books. Four books that I am delighted to dig into. Four books that I know are somehow related to each other in the message God is sending me- even if they seem to talking about different things.

And these four books are....going to be shared with you next post!!

Just Checking to See If You're Okay

An incident with the police, yesterday, made me think about how many people are lost or in trouble. Some people can be burdened, lost, and going astray- but they're not going to shout out for help. They may keep a smile plastered on their face even while their soul is plunging into an abyss. Then there are others who look lost, look like they're not doing that well- and well, they're just fine. Really.

My son drove his car to the dentist appointment I had scheduled for him and his sister yesterday morning so that he could leave when his appointment was done and I would stay with Abby and take her home. This was the first time my son was driving into this city where our dentist practises. I had to give Alex written directions so that he could leave from there and get to his school where he was meeting a teacher to help him with a power point presentation.

Right after Alex left the dentist, I got a phone call from him telling me he was lost and asking for directions. I explained how to get to the main highway from where I thought he was. Then Abby and I finished up at the dentist and drove home. Later in the day I got another phone call from Alex. He wanted to touch base, let me know where he was, and when he'd be home.

"By the way, I got pulled over by the police," he said.

"Alex!" I clutched the phone and wondered if he had been speeding. He's a pretty good driver,not crazy, not known for racing or anything. What had he done wrong?

"Mom, I got lost after leaving the dentist. I pulled into a parking lot and that's when I called you. But just after I hung up the phone, a cop drove by, saw me parked there, and then circled around and came back. He came up to my window and asked me what I was doing. 'What you got there, son?' he said. He thought I was smoking pot or something like that!"

"That's what cops are always on the lookout for: teenage boys partying in cars. Where exactly were you parked?" I asked.

"Well, it looked like a warehouse or closed up store. I was the only car in the parking lot."

"No wonder the cop was suspicious. What did he say next?"

"After he suggested that I was smoking pot and I told him No, that I was just talking on the phone with my Mom because I was lost and asking for directions, he smiled as if to say, 'Sure you were, kid'. Then he looked at the blankets in the back seat of the car and asked me if I was living out of my car. I told him, 'No, they're there because my Mom makes me keep blankets in the car in case I ever break down and get caught in a blizzard or something."

At this point I was smiling, thinking that the cop must believe my son is an incredible story teller or that my son has an obsessive-compulsive , protective mother!

"Did he believe you about the blankets?" I asked.

"I'm not sure he was getting it, yet, that I'm not that kind of kid. But then he asked me where I was heading, and I told him I was on my way to my school, told him the name of my school- XXXXX Christian School- and that I was going to be helping my Math Teacher with a computer project for his ministry presentation. I think that's when the Cop finally realized that it was all adding up. I really was just a teenager who was lost temporarily. That's all."

"Alex, you're a good kid," I said, choking up with emotion. He could have been a lost teenager- really lost. I would still love him and fight for him to get back on track if he was spiritually and emotionally lost. But as it was, he was just temporarily, physically lost. But this is how it first looked to the cop: a lone car, parked in a deserted parking lot, a teenager in the car, maybe a teen running away, on drugs, living out of his car. But it wasn't that way. Alex's situation looked worse than what it was.

But there are some who look like they're doing better than what they are, yet they're not doing well at all. They're heavy hearted, frightened, or overwhelmed. Some are in a crisis. You may not see them parked alone in a parking lot. You might see them instead rushing to work, partying at a fraternity, working out at the Gym or volunteering at their kids' school. You might see them bringing home a fat paycheck, but also bringing home a heart burdened beyond belief.

I'm glad that cop was just doing his job- checking out a scene that could have been a different story. If someone I love is lost, I want people to help find them. I want to know that people are asking questions, lovingly investigating something that looks suspicious, or something that seems...well, not right.

You may be doing just fine, yet temporarily be lost and confused. But you know you'll be okay if you stay connected with a loved one, if you keep talking to a friend and asking for directions, asking for help, for prayer.

But if you're not doing that well, I know you're not going to wear a sign that says, "I'm in trouble. Please Help Me Out." We are not good at asking for help when we are starting to fall down. And many of us are afraid to ask if we can be of any help. We don't want to intrude. We want to respect people's privacy. We think someone will be offended if we ask how they really are doing.

Ask anyhow. Somebody who is really lost, really hurting, is waiting for you to investigate the scene of their trouble. They need someone who cares and shows they care. But it's not because you're a cop that you're looking into the scene. It's because you're a friend, a mother, a teacher, maybe- and you see that someone might possibly be going down, stumbling, falling. There are not yet obvious signs that they are, but you think you detect a look in their eye of desperation or pain. You see their shoulders sagging. Something isn't quite right. Ask them, "Are you doing okay? Cause if you're not, I care that you're hurting. And I want you to know that."

They may wave you on, laughing that they're just fine. And they may be. Or they may get quiet and then with a deep breath, start to tell you what's wrong. But if they shrug off your concern, or even act like they're offended that you think they are not appearing strong, don't be alarmed that they walk off rejecting your concern. One thing they will not mutter to themselves is "No one cares about me at all"- they can't say that. And it will stick in their mind and heart- that someone really cares about them- even if they're not yet ready to accept it.

Austen Mania Explained

Masterpiece Classic, February 10, 17, & 23 at 9 p.m. EST

I only watched part of Masterpiece Theatre's Pride and Prejudice last night. I've seen this movie so many times I can repeat the lines from several scenes, word for word. Next to Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, this movie is one of my favorites.

Whether you're into Jane Austen's books and regency romances or not, you should notice that there's a bit of mania going on lately about this world of quiet romance, bucolic countryside, and grand houses filled with people dining or dancing. I've read a couple of Austen-like novels recently. And I think there'll be more coming- more books and movies and maybe even T shirts that read "Austen Addict" or "Give me Mr. Darcy or I'll Die!".

I'm not saying that I'm an Austen Addict, but I can see why people are flocking to these books and these movies, eager to escape this world we are in. In our world, houses are not filled with beautiful sculptures and long dining room tables with the help waiting to serve you your tea. In our world, we don't have men in white ruffled shirts who know how to politely converse with a woman, watching their language and their tone of voice lest some damsel feel distraught.

Yes, there were a lot of horrific things happening in the days of Jane Austen, but those were not highlighted in her books. Instead, we see scenes of lively conversations and strolls through the vast fields behind grand houses. We feel the love that is expressed between a certain two who are aware of something between them. We get to be enveloped in a beautiful world where it is quiet, at times, and slower paced.

Maybe,more than anything, it's this quieter life that we long for. Whispered conversations while sitting on a bench, chatting with a friend while walking arm in arm, sipping tea with a loved one and not having to rush off to our next appointment.

As it is, it's supper time and there is no hired help, so off I must go to make the meal. Harry is barking loudly, outside, wanting to come in. I have to do several loads of laundry. And I promised I would make a banana bread for Bill and the kids. So no more musing here about Jane Austen's blissful world.

Besides, true bliss is having your future secured, your past forgiven, your today covered with His overflowing grace. I'm sure that the Lord is the One I should turn to- not Jane Austen- to get what my heart is longing for.

"He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul..." Psalm 23:2,3

Lessons from the One who Stayed Home

There were many sweet moments I enjoyed over the weekend that are not quantifiable. But they're so rich I can taste them and savor them still. They fortify my soul with conviction of the Father heart of God- and how He delights to give, to share, to have me join in on what He is doing. I am "seeing" things- and I have asked God that I might have eyes to see, this year.

After Church yesterday, Bill and I were able to have a little unexpected date. Abby was at a friend's house for the afternoon, and Alex went ice fishing with his grandfather, uncle, and cousin. I was a bit nervous as the day seemed warm and I wondered if the ice at the nearby lake was strong enough.

I will honestly tell you that I told my son, before he left, "Alex, if the ice breaks- save yourself first! Then lay down on the ice, stretching your body out, and try to rescue the person that way." (As if I'm an expert on ice safety or rescue or anything at all remotely like that. What I'm an expert at is trying to watch out for my children.)

We called later in the day, from my cell phone, to see if they had returned from ice fishing. The connection was bad. I could barely hear my brother on the phone. I asked him if Alex was there or had he driven home to our house. There was a pause. Then I hear this unmistakable voice get on the line and tell me, "Alex has fallen through the ice." Nice try, my son, but I am on to your antics!

Later in the evening, the four of us were snuggled up in our bed, watching the second half of Masterpiece Theatre's gripping, romantic production, Jane Eyre. Obviously the four were: Bill, Abby, Harry and me- because Alex only watches enough of British films to learn how to imitate their accent and tease me later with it. And Harry watches British films with us because that's how he gets to snack on popcorn.

Such peace and such sweetness of....I hate to use the word, fellowship. It sounds so old fashioned, so archaic and proper. But do we have a word today that expresses the joy of being together? "Hanging out together" is the best I can do, and that term fails to express the significance of it.

Before the movie started, I was reading in my book, The Journey of Desire. I re-read the end of chapter three. I couldn't get that picture of the parable of Prodigal Son out of my mind (Luke 15). I was not so much thinking about the prodigal son but the son who had dutifully remained at home, carefully serving the Father, laboring faithfully in the family business. He's the bad guy everyone mocks because he was pouty and resentful instead of rejoicing over the prodigal brother's return.

But I don't think the prodigal is anyone to lift up as an example either. In my mind they are two extremes in the Church today. The prodigal represents the wayward, selfish, carnal Christian. He throws caution to the wind. He returns home prompted by hunger pains, really. His desire was for provision and safety- not necessarily the presence of his Father, but the provision of his Father (Luke 15:17).

But the other son, the dutiful son, is just that: dutiful, pious and self righteous. He has been careful and supposedly obedient. But when the wind was at his back, he refused to go with it. He refused to celebrate being with his Father on a daily basis, refused to avail himself of all that the Father had- and yet later wailed that the Father had never thrown him a party.

The Living version has the the father telling the dutiful son this, "Look dear son...you and I are very close, and everything I have is yours." Very close? Are they really that close? The Father was being kind. Perhaps He was being prophetic- and foreseeing the day when their physical proximity would not be the only factor of closeness.

We can be closely following the Lord, staying in His word, and yet be far away in our heart. We can be pious about our actions of discipline and obedience, yet fail to see that we are longing for a party, a celebration of grace, where we dance with joy at being in relationship with the Lord of Heaven and Earth Himself.

If I was intimately aware of the father's deep desire to give these blessings to me, I would not seem so bold but rather it would be fitting for me to ask Him freely. If I made my heart vulnerable to Him, opened up those long -held dreams I have and asked God to review with me where we are at, it would say something about how I know God.

"To live with desire is to choose vulnerability over self-protection; to admit our desire and seek help beyond ourselves is even more vulnerable. It is an act of trust. In other words, those who know their desire and refuse to kill it, or refuse to act as though they don't need help, they are the ones who live by faith. Those who do not ask, do not trust God enough to desire. They have no faith. The deepest moral issue is always what we, in the heart of hearts, believe about God. And nothing reveals this belief as clearly as what we do with our desire." (Eldredge)

I hate the idea of the selfish, carnal son returning home, mainly out of hunger for food. But what I hate even more is to think I could be like the dutiful son, at home, close to the Father- and yet so far away. The dutiful son longs for a party, a fuss made over him too- when he has the reason for the party right next to him. He lives with the Father of Celebration and Life, and yet he has never boldly requested, "Father, Let's dance! Father, can we explore together? ...and Father, can we talk, again?"

I'm going to be asking God these things, requesting more of an adventure with Him. I'm going to be asking not so much for more provision- but rather the eyes to see what He has provided already. But more than that, I'm going to snuggle in close to Him, taking in His presence, and sighing deeply with satisfaction...that I am always with Him.

He says to me, "You and I are very close. And all I have is yours."

Getting to Know You

In the afternoon, yesterday, I got together with my best friend, Mu, at our (now) favorite meeting place. It's called a bistro but it should have the word cafe in its name. It's a quiet place with leather arm chairs pulled up to circular small tables. We usually sit by the window, split a sandwich and drink coffee, and talk till the cows come home (or until our cell phones ring and one of our kids is calling us).

She and I connect without trying. We have little in common, really, except our way of looking at things. We want to grow. We want to see each other develop her strengths and abilities. We are on such the same wave length that we surprise each other continually with our intersections of action and thought.

"I want you to listen to this husband and wife radio show, Lu" she told me in between bites of the grilled zucchini and turkey sandwich (that was her idea). Mu is always thinking about my writing and speaking. "The wife has a book she's just written. You can find it on the New Release Shelf at the library."

She told me the author's name and I interrupted her with "I just got that book out a couple days ago! I'm reading it right now!" Mu only has to think a positive strategy or idea and I'm already picking it up on my subconscious radar.

I can't tell you how amazingly "simpatico" we are in each other's company. It is so different than when I am with my extended family- even though these people have known me for over forty years. How can this be? How can I be so loved but misread by people who have known me longer and seen me go through more things than Mu has in the six short years she has known me?

I went to pick up my daughter at my parents' house last night. Both my sisters were there, my one bachelor brother, my visiting niece, my one nephew just returned from Italy. I grabbed a few bites- for my supper- of left over potatoes and gravy, after having thrown a spaghetti dinner together for Bill and Alex back at home.

As I ate a few bites I listened to the joking and the teasing going on. One sister was bragging about her dance ability and then getting teased about how she dances like an American rather than the Half-Latina she is. I was sure they would aim for me next, bringing up my embarrassing disco dancing past, which is probably the reason I so draw away from trying to get into the ballroom dance scene that half my family is into. I don't want to add any fuel to their fire.

These family members know my awkward childhood scenes, my erratic dating history (of course one sister was sketchy on the details, remember?), they know my college days of confusion but not the inner pain, and have seen my entrance into marriage and motherhood. They're sure they know me well.

I have never been more sure, though, that they do not know me as well as they think they do. Or if they do know me, then who is that silly, falling, failing person they keep calling Lauren?! I don't recognize myself when they depict me. It's not that they're trying to be mean, but their depiction of me is skewed a bit to my weak side.

My recent revelation is that the person we are (the person we become) is the person who is given grace, and then more grace. That's why my husband knows me so differently than my parents and siblings do. When I met him, when I got to know him, I asserted any part of me that I wanted to, any boldness or opinion that might never have surfaced before, growing up. I tested the waters, so to speak, to see if I could come out of hiding when I was with him. I dared to speak my mind- because he couldn't tell me that's not who I was! The Lauren that came out and declared herself was not a surprise to my husband but was a bit of a surprise to me. I'm still getting to know this bold woman with a history of fear.

In Lori Smith's book, A Walk with Jane Austen, (http://www.austenquotes.com/)she writes about her self identity and her relationship with her parents, as she thought about Jane Austen's relationship with her own family.

"Necessarily, as children and parents, our perspectives on each other are slightly skewed. In some ways we see each other better than anyone else because we have the closeness of everyday life in which to observe every fault and every goodness, but the faults are more apparent somehow. In some ways, we get into patterns of thinking about each other, and its hard to get out of those ruts and see each other as we really are."

Oh, are the faults more apparent! That's all we seem to know of our siblings- their faults, their embarrassing moments. How many times do you go to a family gathering and have your siblings rehearse all your strong moments of glory and accomplishment?! It doesn't happen.

The contrast of what I have when I'm with Mu and what I experience when I am with my family is drastic. While I love my siblings and my parents, I do not always learn to love myself more when I am with them. That's the plain truth. I'm not so much disappointed with them as I am aware of this unsettling truth. I am just becoming aware of this dynamic- that if you're looking for great grace to grow, to be upon you, spend time with a good friend who "sees" you. That friend could very well be a sibling or a parent, but more than likely it won't be. With a parent or sibling, "there is always an undercurrent, which we try to read and interpret and sometimes ignore- all these exhausting perceptions."

Sometimes we long for our family to speak better of us, to speak about us with an eye on the future, and not always on our past when we were small, both physically and emotionally so. If you want to grow, stretch out and expand your horizons and your threshold for change, love your family, yes; but find someone who can handle you becoming someone they have not yet known.

Because "a friend loves at all times" and this kind of love is a love that copes with you becoming, growing, maturing, and developing. This kind of love is not for the faint of heart or for those who love to remember you in the past.

If love perseveres and "always believes the best", then love has to consider the present and the future. Because the best is yet to come.

The Things We Have to Know

It's a winter storm, and my kids are rejoicing at the thought of no school tomorrow if things keep up the way they are. Saturday was the calm before the storm, literally. I ran around all day yesterday, shopping for gifts, getting gas, grocery shopping, coming home, finally, at supper time. Bill wound up having to work all day Saturday. A client wants their remodeling project done before Christmas guests arrive. Bill came home just as I did, feeling exhausted and un-party-like, so we sent our regrets to the Open House we had been invited to. Then we all holed up at home. Let the storm come, we thought.

We couldn't get out of the driveway to make it to church this morning, and wound up having our own service at home. Alex brought up his guitars and amp, Abby took out sheet music, and Bill led worship. We sang some of my favorite songs that we had not sung in a long time. We were loud, slightly off-key, and passionate about what we sang. Then I read a passage from My Utmost for His Highest, December 15th's devotion. The text was about diligently customizing your message of your experience of the truth of God's Word so that people can learn from you when you share. It was an interesting way of looking at 2 Timothy 2:15.

"But you must be willing to go through God's winepress where the grapes are crushed. You must struggle, experiment, and rehearse your words to express God's truth clearly. Then the time will come when that expression will become God's wine of strength to someone else."

Unless, of course, "that expression" of truth gets lost in your story line. I got home from all my running around Saturday, and checked the answering machine to find a strange message from my older sister, Kris.

"Laur, I need to talk to you," she says in a quiet, serious voice. "I have a question I need to ask you."

I felt concerned at her sober tone of voice. Kris is not exactly "chatty cathy", and rarely calls me to just chat about nothing in particular. So I called her back, feeling a bit worried about her message.

"Oh, I just wanted to ask you about something you wrote on your blog post, "Now You're Getting Somewhere," she said calmly as I took a deep breath and exhaled in relief.

"I wanted to know who was it that visited you in the hospital. I'm trying to remember the guys you dated, and I can't think of who it was," she said in a concerned voice.

"That's what you needed to talk to me about?!" I yelled at her with a smile on my face. "Oh, alright. By the way, I never said I was in the hospital. But you're right. It was when I had that minor operation on my tail bone," I said, and then proceeded to tell her the old boyfriend's name.

"But you weren't supposed to be focused on the visiting ex-boyfriend," I said indignantly. "You were supposed to be getting the important message that sometimes we need feedback, even if it's negative feedback."

"Yea, I know. But I was too curious about who you were talking about to concentrate on your message," she said and then we laughed.

So much for my serious expression of truth becoming "God's wine of strength" to her!

Now You're Getting Somewhere

I just sent off an email to someone, thanking them for their thorough critique. Their critique was not a positive assessment of my book proposal. It pointed out several weak points. It was specific and detailed. Initially I felt defeated and deflated. Then a strange sense of delight came over me as the day went on.

Someone took the time to inform me of their valuable judgment and their seasoned viewpoint. I was amazed at how much time this agent took to explain to me what he saw lacking in my proposal. If someone takes the time, a full page at that, to go through your proposal and point out all the things that are wrong, that's a good thing. It's called feedback. Now I know what's wrong with that particular proposal.

Makes me remember a relationship I had in my dating days. I had dated this guy, a generous soul, but had not invested much of myself in the relationship. I broke up with him without giving him much of a reason. But then a year or so later, I was at a low point in my life, floundering and falling, and reconsidering the type of person I should be drawn to. He came back into my life all of a sudden, visiting me one day as I was recovering from an illness. I think he brought me flowers. I don't remember because all I cared about was seeing his smiling face when he came into the room. But the smile eventually turned to a look of pain and confusion. He stood there awkwardly, chatting with me, his eyes looking around the room and then coming back to rest on me. Then he would look down.

I don't remember how he had gotten in touch with me again. All I know was that he was in the room, and yet I could tell he suddenly didn't want to be there, after all. We spoke of nothing and of everything. I didn't say a word about my own conflicted feelings. When I did not see him again after that, all I could remember feeling was...confused. Our relationship had already been over before he came back again, briefly, into my life. Did he come back out of concern for me? Guilt? Regret that we had ended things? In hope of resurrecting our relationship?

This book proposal of mine that got thoroughly critiqued received something that my relationship with this guy never did- an answer, painful as it may be. I obviously knew this relationship was completely over when he never called again. But I would have liked to know what went wrong, where I failed, or when his feelings died and why. Maybe he sensed my instability and my inability to focus on anything and anyone but myself. I would have benefited if he had spoken the plain, ugly truth to me.

Since this agent did just that, I was able to put death a particular proposal without putting to death my dream of writing a book. After I read his critique, nodding my head up and down in sad agreement, I mentally closed up shop on that proposal. I already knew that it was not right. Now I had confirmation.

Sometimes the best thing you can do feels the worst while you are letting it go. But then a feeling of lightness and truth comes in and sweeps out the decaying matter, leaving you with a sense of relief and mysterious happiness. You are done with something that was going nowhere. Now that you're done with that, the things in your life that are going somewhere have their chance at taking a deep breath and getting infused with life instead of receiving leftover small puffs of air. It's better to know the final end of a matter than to be busily en route to Nowhere.

That relationship, that struggling business that you launched for the wrong reasons, or in my case, that particular book proposal, needs feedback. It's tortured, flailing, floundering existence should have already signaled to us its demise. The problem is you and I did not like the signal it was giving us. We wanted to see a green light where instead it was red. We can go ahead, press on the gas and keep trying to make that red light become green, but any crash that ultimately results is a needless occurrence. Instead of a crash, we could have had a quiet, dignified funeral of that faulty particular dream.

There's a time to search, and a time to give up, according to the book of Ecclesiastes. That's what a critique will help you discern- what season you're in, what the quality of your dream is, or what its prospects are. It is not getting negative feedback that determines whether we let something go. It is, rather, the honest, at cost, feedback from someone who has rather distinct insight into your situation or dream. They're not God, they don't know the future, and they're not dream killers. They are just people who decide to tell you what you have asked to hear- an evaluation, a critique, an honest summary of what you have presented to them.

Give me a truthful No, give me a detailed explanation of what went wrong, tell me why this relationship or project is flawed, and strangely, I have something to go on. You can go onward after a negative assessment, after a No.

It's an odd appreciation, not of the Affirmative,but of the Negative. My mother would always sing this song to us, admonishing us to look for the positive: "You've got to accent-u-ate the positive, elim-in-ate the Negative, and latch on to the Affirmative, Don't mess with Mister In Between".

But that song is wrong. I know too many people ignoring the No's, throwing out any negative feedback or any critique that hurts. Eliminate the negative? That's impossible. And it's not needed, anyhow.

You want the negative feedback and the truthful reality of where you are. Just receive a failing grade in a class you thought reflected your future? You want to look at that feedback. A boyfriend that haltingly tells you where you don't fit into his life? You want to listen to his words, however painful they are. Have a friend that is telling you that you are selfishly throwing away your marriage vows? Listen to that person's description of how you are acting. Listen to that negative critique. Assess what it is saying to you. You don't have to swallow it whole. But do check out whether there are some valid points there.

I see some Yes's and some No's in my life right now. I am listening to the No's- not welcoming them artificially with open arms but accepting them; accepting that they are there and they have something to say to me. To consider the negative critique means to hear and see something that will impact your life. It won't be necessarily straightforward in application. You may have to find the hidden gold in that No.

My natural, initial response is "I don't want to hear it." But if I determine that I must not ignore what I so desperately need, I resolve to not only hear it out, but to actually benefit, yes, from the painful critique that I hear.

Just a Reminder

I picked up an ornament, yesterday, at a little thrift shop. 25 cents for a beautiful, heavy glass mini snow globe hanging from a silver cord. How could you go wrong with that?! I showed it to Bill and the kids and they smiled. Nice reaction. But nothing earth shattering.

But one time, in a Christmas long ago, (I feel like a grandma in a rocker telling my chilluns all about the good ole days), there was an ornament that caused a powerful, beautiful, healing reaction. This ornament was simple. Nothing fancy, but it was a reminder of love. And we all need those reminders ...sometimes we need them more than we realize.

I don't even remember which year it was exactly. I do remember, though, that it was the year after our dog, our Springer Spaniel, Ginger, had died. We had enjoyed her loving company for over twelve years. We had grown up with her. She had witnessed our family fights and our joyous celebrations.

She had one time saved my Mom from going down a raging river. Actually it was just a creek with a fast current and the dog swam out to my Mom who had started to flounder a bit. My mom grabbed onto Ginger's collar and Ginger swam back towards shore. We just like to summarize the whole account by saying she saved mom's life.

Ginger also picked up a wounded pheasant, one day. She jumped onto the closed tent trailer parked in our backyard and laid the wounded bird on the roof. Then she waited there for us to notice her accomplishment. When she waited for us to notice her, she waited patiently. Sometimes she waited a long time.

Ginger was the one thing my Dad and my older sister had in common: they both loved that dog. I think Kris was the one who had to take her to dog obedience classes, when we first got Ginger as a puppy. Dad had a lot on his plate, as a teacher and a coach, and the father of five kids. Ginger, once in a while, was work. She had to be walked. She had to be brushed. Dad felt like the father of six, sometimes- only one of the six was especially obedient. Never talked back. Did not go through a painful adolescence. Never got angry or hurt because of lack of attention.

I don't even want to remember my chaotic teenage years, much less the years that three of us girls were teenagers together, under the same roof, with a weary but determined father, a loving but exhausted mother, and one dog who witnessed the highs and lows of our days. (My brothers were off at college, by now). This dog witnessed the clashes between my sister and my Dad. Ginger watched silently.

One day, Ginger was not there anymore. We all said little and tried not to think about how we missed her.

Then, it was Christmas. It was time to put up the tree. I was helping to unpack the ornaments and handing them to my sister who was handing them to my Dad to put on the tree. I got to one box, and pulled out a simple ornament, a rendition of our dog, Ginger. I handed it to Kris. She looked at it quietly and then handed it to Dad. Dad looked down and saw that it was Ginger's ornament. He looked at Kris, and his eyes filled up. Kris came over to Dad and hugged him. They held each other as they broke down. I heard them whisper something to each other about how they missed that dog.

That dog- who had been with us through thick and thin. Through highs and lows. That dog was a reminder that we were connected together, whether we liked it or not. Now that the sound of her joyous barking was gone, and there were no brown eyes looking quietly at you, waiting for a treat- there was still something left of her in our home.

Her ornament declared the message that love watches and love waits patiently. Waits for an open door. Sometimes a bridge of reconciliation can occur, even over a little thing... such as a reminder of love hanging on a Christmas tree.

Following Yonder Star

Christmas has been a a rather quiet celebration, for me, these last twenty three years of marriage. Quiet, in comparison. Before I married my husband, and then had two children, Christmas with my parents and siblings was always a bit more boisterous, chaotic and celebrative. Did I emphasize chaotic? With five kids, a dog and two parents- one German sauerbraten cooking mother and a Latin Saturday morning pancake slinging father- it was wonderfully chaotic.

We were diverse in temperament, personality, weaknesses, strengths. We were a volatile lot. My oldest brother was a choleric drill sergeant from the moment he was born- he later became a colonel in the Army. The second oldest, my brother Mark, was a gentle soul, artistic, talented and basically a rescuer- at least he rescued me from my older brother who would march me around the house in practise drills. Then there were we three girls. (I won't even go there). Last, but not least, the most Christian of us all- our dog, our Springer Spaniel, Ginger. My Dad used to say she was the most Christ-like of us all because she was so patient, and long suffering.

There we all would be, on Christmas Eve at home. We'd sing Christmas carols after having gone to church. We had to do our own version of these Carols. Without an organ, without a guitar, we would gather in the family room and sing. One Christmas carol in particular, had to be sung. It had to.

It was “We three Kings”. And it was predominantly sung by my Dad and my brothers. Joe could sing loudly and clearly, and Mark could quietly carry a tune. But my Dad sounded like a bull frog going through puberty. Maybe that's why we loved hearing them sing this carol.

We all would sing verse one together-

We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we traverse afar,
Field and fountain, morr and mountain,
Following yonder Star.

Joe would do verse two, singing confidently and a bit braggadociously. Then they'd all do the chorus. Mark would sing verse three, after some prodding. Then the chorus again.

Then, verse four- it was my Dad's turn to sing. We all would hold our breath and wait for his deep, low mournful voice to sing those beautiful, tragic words:

Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Seal'd in the stone-cold tomb.

That's always when we would remember, not with joy and feasting, but with awe and wonder, what Christ came to earth to do- to die for us. Sometimes there would be a solemn hush in the room as Dad sang his verse. Some years we would burst our laughing as Dad croaked his way through the song. And some years, if it had been a hard, long, bittersweet year, Dad would cry as he sang the verse and our eyes would well up with tears.

Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying- sometimes some of us know that experience all too well. But then again, our Savior knows that experience. More than anyone.

Then the triumphant end of the song would come, with a burst, with a shout almost, as all of us- the girls included- would join in with the last round of the chorus:

O, star of wonder, star of might,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to the perfect light.

He's guiding us....still. Out of darkness, and always into the light.