Weeping Women

   When our "Weeping Women", prayer time for prodigals, met last Monday and I prayed that the absence of the prodigal loved ones would not ruin Christmas for the rest of the family, I did not know I was praying for me. We had a wonderful plan worked out. Tracy would ride with his friend, Brodie, to Butte, we would drive to Missoula Saturday, drop off gifts and visit family, then pick Tracy up in Butte and drive home. It was a good plan, but the difference between our plans and God's is that His always happen and ours do not.
   The excited texts from Tracy making arrangements ended Wednesday night. When we heard nothing Thursday, I thought maybe Brodie's probation officer hadn't yet approved his leaving Friday instead of Saturday. When I went to bed Friday, still having heard nothing, I hoped it was a phone problem, like the last time. But on Saturday, knowing we were supposed to meet in Butte, and he still hadn't called, I knew he was drinking. We visited a few hours in Missoula and went home alone and disappointed. With Tracy. With God. What good were all those prayers for protection against the temptations of the season if he was going to drink anyway?
     My Mom has been dead for four years and the Ghost of those Christmases Past, overshadowed by her mental illness, have nearly disappeared. But perhaps now I will have a new ghost, this year, when Tracy chose to spend Christmas with the alcohol that's trying to kill him instead of the family that loves him. I knew that he would have his own ghosts of loss and pain to deal with, but in Billings he had more support and safeguards to help with that than he ever did here--sober housing, friends, AA, and our plan to get him home for the holidays. I know God provided several ways for him to escape the temptation, but I also know from my own experience that it is easy to look under, over, and around those ways of escape.
     So God did not answer my prayers for a sober Christmas for Tracy the way I wanted Him to, but He did answer the one about not letting it ruin Christmas. We had Christmas Eve fondue at Britten's house, Christmas brunch at Will's, dinner at mine. My granddaughter provided the entertainment all three venues. God answered my confusion Saturday with the message, "I am here". And my anger and disappointment Sunday with "Am I not God?" and later, "Am I not enough?" He is. And he answered my prayer that He show me His love with Sunday's guest sermon, "The Wonder of God's Love".  As I was listening to the message, the Holy Spirit sent me His own, "If Tracy came home, even now, after all the pain he has caused, would you welcome him?" My unspoken answer--Yes. He responded, "Now you understand my love." But I know I do not, my love is but a grain of sand compared to His. If God did not follow my plan, it is because He is working His bigger, better version. Because I do not just want Tracy with his family for Christmas, I want him with God's family forever. And that prayer is worth the wait, and the weeping.

What Hope Knows

    I would like to share the encouragement that God gave me this week through my prayer time for my prodigal. Not only do we all have prodigals in our lives, we all ARE prodigals. We are born prodigals. As God found us, he will find our wandering loved ones. We still need to pray, but we should pray in hope.      

 What Hope Knows

My loved one is not:

Prouder than Nebuchadnezzar

More stubborn than Jonah

More spiritually blind than Saul

Farther from God than the Prodigal

A murderer like Moses and David

And God is not:

Feeble

Passive

Confused

Indifferent

Worried

So I should not:

Worry

Despair

Demand answers

Doubt God

Use sinful distractions

Because I can:

Pray

Let others pray

Trust

Hope

Remember God’s faithfulness

And then God will:

Quiet me

Encourage me

Grow me

Speak to me

Amaze me

12/12/17 

You Know You've Gone to the Dogs

You know you've gone to the dogs when:

• You congratulate yourself on how well you cleaned the house and there are still 3 squeaky toys, 2 bones and a rope on the floor.
• You set aside plastic bags that will be good for poop scooping. Hotel laundry bags are my favorite.
• You examine chew toys like a parent buying their child's first band instrument. Is it strong enough to survive my "children"? even if it gets left outside? How annoying is the sound it makes? 
• You have a heated dog bed. In our case, our bed, heated by the dogs sleeping under it.
• No matter how often you vacuum the carpet, the dust cup is always full.
• You keep an old towel near the back door for paw wiping. 
• You can no longer get down on the floor for any reason, including unconsciousness, without playing with the dogs.
• You are willing to risk the dogs ruining your furniture while you are gone rather than leave them outside in the mud.
• Your balance exercise is stepping around and over the dogs.
• Your visual acuity test is spotting a black dog asleep on the floor in the dark. 
• You answer the door by saying "Just a minute. Down! Quiet! Get Back!", then open it a crack so the dogs won't get out . . . but by now your visitor doesn't want in.

Over-Blessed

     On days like this, sitting outside of yet another nice hotel soaking up the sun, I realize that I have had more than my share of blessings. Embarrassingly so. Although, to some, being away from home would be a burden, rather than a blessing, because they do not like to travel. Others might blunt the blessing by focusing on finding fault with the facilities instead of enjoying the experience, because it is their nature. I have never understood people who can lay by a pool for hours doing nothing, but here I sit, drinking in the afternoon sun as if I'd nothing better to do, trying to store up enough of its goodness to get me through the cloudy winter. Even when it is sunny at home, there are a dozen tasks that pull me back inside the house. Or I enjoy the sun, but through the windshield, as I run half a dozen errands. Instead I sit here in the sun, enjoying Grand Junction, and the busy world goes on without me.
     I would feel guilty for this lavish gift of leisure if it was not something given to me by God. Nothing in my growing up gave me any hope that there would be such moments in my life. My childhood fantasies only traveled as far as truck stop hotels. Staying at the kind of places we do for Reed's work never entered my mind. If only I sought the Son of God as desperately as the sun He created, clung to Him as tenaciously, stored up His goodness and considered it time well spent, what a conduit of blessing I could be. Because God blesses us so that we can bless others, and I who have been over-blessed should not feel guilty, just generous.

A Miracle or a Nap

     Recently I had a series of daily migraines. I have good meds that take them away so this is not as bad as it sounds, but taking Zomig too often can make my body resistant to it, as well as taking too much of any med is hard on any body. So recently I asked our pastor if he would pray for migraine relief. Sure enough the migraines slowed way down--after I got shingles. I should have reread my post on Odd Answers to Prayer because God has used this method several times before. When my daughter was about to get married, long before I had dependable Zomig to stop them, I was having daily migraines. I could fake being okay, but in order to really enjoy the wedding I wanted to be migraine free, so I asked the Lord for a reprieve. He gave me the stomach flu. Because of that, I needed to rest for two days and those restful days kept me from having a migraine on her wedding day. I wanted a miraculous respite, God gave me a nap.
    My Guatemala experience was even more memorable. Toward the end of our time there I got, not Montezuma's revenge, but the revenge of whatever Mayan ruled Guatemala. This involved using a large quantity of Guatemalan toilet paper. So I was dreading the nearly 20 hours of sitting involved in flying home. I prayed that I would not notice the discomfort. At the Guatemala City airport, I bent down to pick up my briefcase and tweaked my back. Prayer answered. I did not notice the other discomfort. I decided I really should have put more thought into the wording of that prayer.
     So after this incident of trading migraines for shingles, I had about decided never to ask for prayer for my headaches again. God was obviously not going to waste a miracle on me and I was rather resentful about it. Then I remembered something profoundly simple--God loves me. God loves me more than I love me and He would not cause me to suffer if there was a kinder, better way to answer my prayer. He answers as He does because I do not need a miracle, I need a nap. Miraculously removing a couple migraines would not teach me to listen to my body when it tells me to slow down. I would need miracles day after day. One thing I have noticed that about God is that He tends to use ordinary people and things to answer our prayers. He does not need to perform miracles when the things He has already put in place work just fine.
     I was really embarrassed when I realized how long it took me to figure out Jesus loves me. I should have asked a preschooler. God will do what is best for me no matter how my prayer is worded. It is not about how I ask or who I ask to pray, it is, like everything in life, about God. His plan. His way. For my good--whether it seems like it or not. The fact that the God who made the universe loves me and hears my prayers is miracle enough.

To Sing Again

     One of the things I noticed when I became an empty nester is that I did not sing around the house anymore. When my children were little, I sang them lullabies. They enjoyed them, I know that because they used to make requests when I tucked them in at night. Tracy's was often the very simple "Lullaby and Goodnight." I would sing "I Went to the Animal Fair" to keep them calm while I washed their hair at bath time. Later they learned songs at church and school and taught them to me so we could sing them together. To this day, the only way I can remember the 10 Commandments in order is by the song "The Perfect Ten". Singing seemed to make the housework less tedious, the coming holidays more exciting, the house more like a home. For years playing guitar and singing was a comforting part of my routine. But when they reached tweens and teens, the kids made new requests--"Stop singing!" But I did not, because I was too happy being a mom to keep it inside.
     After the kids grew up and left home, I turned on the television or radio to make housework less tedious. My guitar sits in the corner of our bedroom gathering dust. I should take it downstairs but keep thinking, maybe someday . . . I still know the words and melodies and, of course, I sing at church, but I had lost the desire to sing at home. However, when the time came to calm a dying friend struggling against being on a ventilator, my default setting was to sing to her--softly, calmly, stroking her hand, warming her up for the much better music she would hear in heaven.
   In June my granddaughter was born so there was an audience for my lullabies again. I have even tried to upgrade my repertoire by adding a few new songs, but I am hampered in learning lyrics by the fact that my memory bank is full of all the commercial jingles from my childhood, and there seems to be no way to withdraw those memories and deposit new ones. I would rather remember the lyrics of "Ancient Words" than "N-e-s-t-l-e-s, Nestles make the very best CHOCOLATE". It is frustrating to love a song, yet not remember all the words, songs like: "Wonderful, Merciful Savior",  or "Beyond the Throne of God Above". I am having a little better luck with a song from the movie "Tangled", called "Now That I See You". Partially because the verses are similar, but also because the end of the chorus identifies why having a granddaughter has enabled me to sing again, "All at once, everything is different, now that I see you".

Taking Care

    At the end of December our lives will be changing. For the past three years, my husband has been working two half-time jobs. When the flight department he had built up and been a part of for 20 years shrank down to just Reed and one pilot, we were worried we would have to move out of Kalispell for him to find work. So the solution of working part time for two employers not only allowed us to stay in Kalispell, but he actually earned more money than he had previously. But it was not an ideal situation, our lives were now subject to two flight schedules instead of one. Reed had been director of maintenance for his previous employer for many years; at his new job he had a boss--a boss with a very different style than Reed. 

     We have been praying about the situation for months. Now that the flying has slowed down at the second job, he is no longer needed. At the end of the year, he will be done. We can live on just one income, but really need to save as much as possible in these few years before retirement. So things are changing and change is scary, but God is sovereign. Just in case I had forgotten that, the day after we got the news, God gave me an object lesson in a flock of birds sheltering in our back yard.

Taking Care

  

It is not the dead of winter,

it is early November

barely the beginning,

but the ground is covered with snow

the grass and seeds are buried.

Who will take care of the birds?

From the warmth of my home, I watch

dozens of them, in my yard, feasting,

well supplied with berries

and an abundance of apples

still on the tree.

More than we would ever need.

God has taken care of the birds.

When it is the dead of winter

and the new year has begun,

My husband will lose one of his jobs—

a source of frustration, but still income.

Who will take care of us then?

The generous One who supplied

an abundance of berries and apples.

The very same God gives

more than we will ever need.

He takes care of the birds,

and the Earth,

and the vast universe

and the Lambs.

What Brie Will Be

     My granddaughter is now five months old and each day she becomes more engaged with the world around her. When a baby is born one of the first questions everyone asks is, "Who does he/she look like?" Meaning, which parent? Although in the current craziness of casual sex, it could mean which of many partners, and there is a huge difference between a parent and a partner. I could not guess who Brie looked like at first. I usually think babies look like the parent I know best, but I know both Brie's parents pretty well. Her thick black hair and round face looked more like my daughter-in-law, Emily, rather than my daughter. Sounds like an episode of Dr. Phil. Later Britten sent me a picture in which Brie's expression, more than her looks, reminded me of Luke. Britten told me that is how Brie looks when she is constipated, thus confirming my stereotype about engineers in general.
     Since Brie is in the 98th percentile for height, she obviously takes after her 6' 7" father in that. Although I would be thrilled to be 5'7" like my daughter. She is also talkative; definitely did not get that from her mother. Brie has been trying to teethe early, whereas all my babies teethed late. And teeth will come in handy because she has a big appetite and needs something more like meat than milk if she and her mother are ever going to sleep through the night.
    Brie already sings, but will she play instruments like her mother? Will she come to love the books her parents are already reading her? Will she enjoy learning and school? Those are not necessarily the same things. Will she, by some genetic fluke, have artistic talent? Our family has been waiting for an artist for a long time. Will she display her parents' gift for remodeling when she is old enough to redo a Barbie playhouse? Will she be a natural mechanic like her Grandpa and uncle? A pessimist or an optimist? How old will she be when she trusts Christ as her Savior?
     These are things I must wait to find out:  What she is by nature, what she may become by nurture, what she chooses for herself when she is old enough. Her talents, her tastes, sense of humor. All those unknowns are what I am waiting to discover as Brie's personality unfolds, like a flower opening in the sun, like her namesake angel unfurling his wings. And, if God allows, I will be here to see what Brie will be.

FWO--For Women Only

• I guess one good thing about getting the shingles under my breast is that the sag holds the cold compress in place.
• It is a small gel pack for children's "booboos"--close.
• Since I already had the shingles' shot, I am not supposed to get a severe case. Do they call that the tarpaper?
• Since the shingles virus follows the nerve pathway only to the body's centerline, I do not have to worry about this becoming a 2 for 1 special.
• Another good thing--it is in a location that could not possibly come in contact with my baby granddaughter.
• Even if it were more comfortable, I do not have the figure for running around without a bra on, I could trip myself and really get hurt.
• At least shingles only happen when you are old, so my breasts were already "No longer in service."
• For the skin irritation, the doctor suggested a capsaicin product, derived from hot peppers. But fighting fire with fire seemed like a bad idea. The pharmacist agreed.
• I'm glad this happened to me instead of my husband. I find having pain easier to bear than hearing about his.
• For the first time in my computerized life, I can say I've "gone viral".

We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

   Once a week. Only at church. I like my church and I like the people inside it. I even have a general idea where many of them live, but I have only seen the inside of a couple of their homes because, like most of the churches we have attended in our 40 years of marriage, members seldom get together in each others' homes unless they are related. We are friendly, but we are busy. And we are not living in the supportive interdependence believers are supposed to have. There is not time in the "handshake" interlude to share struggles with money or marriage, anger or pain, besetting sins or emptiness. There is not time to be anything other than "fine" on Sunday morning. Our outsides are all fine, but God is not terribly interested in our outsides.
     Some of us women have been exploring ideas for ways to motivate the church from being a fine place, to the real place God intended it to be. Recently I have joined some women in our church in a prayer group for those who are fine with not being fine. Tears welcome. No masks required. And we pray in a home. We pray for our prodigals. We confess our fears, our feelings of failure, and our unfailing love for them. And that is just one of many areas of need. We need to visit the lonely and sick, the grieving, frazzled new moms, the discouraged. We need to bring a casserole, a smile, listening ears, encouragement. And we cannot do all that on a fine Sunday morning. We, the church, must find a way to match those walking a dark path with those who have come through one and know that it leads to a walk that is deeper, richer and too wonderful to be merely fine.               

My Un"proved" Bible

     It was with much reluctance that I recently replaced my quarter century old Bible with a new one. But when I was studying Exodus this summer, the cat stepped on it. (I don't know how evolutionists explain why cats have an irresistible drive to come between humans and their reading material. As a creationist, I think it's a lesser known result of the Fall of Man--the Fall of Cat.) I knew my Bible was worn, but ever since the cat event, Exodus has been exiting page by page. Isn't that ironic? At the risk of sounding like my husband describing a gun, I liked my Thompson chain reference NIV with maps and archeological supplement, but thought buying a less familiar version might re-energize my study. I hoped it would help me dig a little deeper, instead of just thinking about digging deeper. I decided to get a side-by-side NIV Amplified, 357 long barrel with a scope. Just kidding about the last part, the Bible is a sword, not a gun.
     The package arrived from Christian Book Distributors, but I was having a hard time making myself use it--kind of like young David who was reluctant to fight Goliath wearing Saul's armor because he hadn't "proved" it. Or people who buy a new car, but are afraid to take it out of the garage. But I have made a start, and as our pastor cites different references during the sermon, I find myself checking out the Amplified version. Putting a toe in the living water, so to speak. I was relieved to discover my new Bible didn't have maps and many of the other helps of my old one, so I have an excuse to keep it close at hand. I am still at the stage where finding references in my new Bible feels like a "sword drill", which I am losing. But once I have "proved" it, I am sure it will be as well loved as its predecessors. After all, the Bible has proved itself in every time, place, language and occasion in which a Sword is needed.

Now You See It, Now You Don't

     Sovereignty is an attribute of God and therefore constant and unchanging but, from my human perspective, it is sometimes hard to see. Hence this title. But last week I saw it plainly. After 20 years of living with a gravel driveway, we have been blessed with an opportunity to get it paved. I confess I have long been guilty of breaking the 10th commandment--coveting my neighbors' asphalt. For one thing, the snow melts off their blacktop days before it melts off our gravel. And twice last winter our snowblower was damaged when it picked up one of the larger driveway stones. So we were very excited about the prospect of a driveway that melts ice and no longer casts the first stone, or any stone.
     And we have had a long time to be excited about it, because paving contractors are even harder to catch sight of than sovereignty. Two of the three we called came out right away to do estimates. The third, the one with the best reputation, discount coupons, and radio advertisements, did not return any of our calls. If you are not going to return calls, you might as well offer a big discount. The company with the lowest bid does answer their phone, but is continually mystified that no one has called us with a date for actually installing the asphalt. Until last Wednesday. They called my husband to let him know they were prepared to pave that afternoon. But we were not prepared. Reed was at work, I would not be home for a couple hours, and we had two cars to move, one for which we would need to locate keys.  Besides that, Reed wanted to replace the split ties that line the driveway and make a small revision in its shape. We rescheduled for the next week.
     Meanwhile, one of our local radio stations was holding their semi-annual Gambler's sale. Products are listed at full price, but the percentage of discount increases throughout the week. The discount reaches 50 percent by the end of the week, but the goods or service you want may no longer be available. That's why it's a gamble. When Paveco finally called to schedule, it was smack dab in the middle of the Gambler's sale. 1500 square feet of asphalt is always part of the sale. The offer from the paving company we planned to use was still available. I bought it when the discount was 40 percent. When the delay of the paving job intersected with the sale, I could see sovereignty clearly. Probably much more clearly than the family in our church whose mother got a severe head injury when a deer hit by an oncoming car crashed through her windshield. God was still sovereign when that happened, but that knowledge brings pain, not pleasure. She is recovering, but has a long way to go.
     It is easy to see sovereignty in good things, harder to see in tragedy, and almost impossible to see in the daily routine of life. Especially today, as the afternoon wears on, and no paving trucks are in sight. But, like the sun beyond the clouds, seen or unseen, God's sovereignty is always there.
    

Delayed "Sad"ification

     Today our youngest left home to move to Billings and I feel embarrassingly sad about it. He is 30 years old, and I should have gone through this withdrawal years ago, but I didn't have to. He did not go away to college, so I missed the major mourning I experienced with his siblings. He moved out of our house years ago, but was never far from home. Typical for a youngest child, he is very attached to home. And typical for a mother, my youngest is always my baby in my heart. His G.I. Joes are still in a box in the basement. But a lot of the problem is that he has lived with us for the past year. Shortly after he was discharged from Rimrock last October for health concerns, he moved back in with us. Two surgeries later and one adrenal gland short, a year had passed. I enjoyed having another mouth to feed. Reed enjoyed working with him out at the airport. And although we hated the relapses that turned us from being his parents into his sober police, after years of worry, we finally knew when he was safe and sober at night. Our nest was no longer empty.
     It was good for us, but we knew he needed more than an alcohol free zone and to spend all his time with his parents. He needed sobriety he could maintain outside of our home and sober friends to spend time with. He is returning to live in sober housing and attend IOP, intensive outpatient treatment, to continue the progress he made at Rimrock. He is doing exactly what he needs to do and what both we and his counselor wanted to happen. He is the one moving into a house full of strangers and leaving all that is familiar, including his dogs, behind. Tracy has a hard time leaving Kalispell for a day trip to Missoula, I knew this would be hard for him, but how can I convince my sad mother's heart to listen to my logical head. I am feeling the sorrow I would have felt years ago if Tracy had moved for school or marriage like his siblings, what our parents felt when we left. I am just feeling it on the delay cycle. I might envy those parents whose kids never leave their hometown, but distance is not always geographical, and the other kind is much harder to fix.
     So the good news is, my guest room will be just the way I like it, our grocery budget will be smaller, and we can retire as sober police. The bad news is--everything else. Our nest is empty. And so, for a time, is that final third of my heart that had been waiting for mourning.

Unsettled Science

    In old horror movies scientists are often pictured as lab coat wearing men of independent means, paying their minions out of their personal fortune so they can pursue their peculiar scientific passions. Though we recognize that as ridiculous, somehow we still think the money for scientific research comes from wealthy philanthropists who want nothing in return--except possibly lab coats. The truth is, research institutes have corporate sponsors and competition for independent grants is cutthroat. When your dietary research is funded by say, Cheetos, you are highly motivated to conclude Cheetos are a daily nutritional need.
     Besides the desire to satisfy sponsors, scientists know that finding the biggest, oldest, or most unique ___________ practically guarantees fame and funding. No scientist wants to be the discoverer of, for example, a fossilized spork. So if they dig up such a thing, they quickly undiscover it. In addition, scientist or not, all data is interpreted through a paradigm--a set of assumptions. For many years the prevailing paradigm has been evolution. Scientific evidence that doesn't support evolution is either black-listed from mainstream publications or ridiculed like the science nerds themselves had been ridiculed in junior high, minus the swirlies. The new paradigm is global warming--particularly human caused global warming. If global warming, which objective evidence admits has been happening for 10,000 years, is man-caused, it opens a huge marketing opportunity for products to reduce greenhouse gases. Not to mention the political power that America forgoing fossil fuels would give nations who can't currently compete economically with ours. That is great incentive for climatologists to pick their data like unnaturally warm cherries.
    But editing evidence is not necessarily sinister. We do the same thing. You don't see many family Christmas photos posed in front of an open bathroom door. For pictures, we like to appear in the best light possible. During arguments, we choose to only mention things that support our position. Same goes for science. That is why viewing science through rose colored telescopes needs to go to that great ozone hole in the sky.  Science cannot be settled because it is not objective. And that makes our current worship of science a little unsettling.

The Altitude of Our Attitude

     I no longer worry when I have periods of time that I have no desire to write. Hobby bloggers get writer's hump, not block. I won't get threats from my sponsors or hate mail from my three followers. To borrow from an ad campaign--Sometimes you write like a nut, sometimes you don't. Expressing myself in writing is just one of my several coping mechanisms. But perhaps, this is a good time to dip my digital pen back in internet ink. We have just finished Family Week at Rimrock Addiction Treatment. Second year in a row. Same time of year. But this time, Tracy got to stay the full 29 days, instead of getting discharged for medical reasons two weeks in, as happened last fall.
     Years ago I had a dear friend old enough to be my grandmother. I wanted to be like her when I grew up and, lately, God has given me the chance. Elsie's guiding philosophy as she moved from her big Iowa farmhouse to a small senior apartment in Kalispell and, eventually, a nursing home, was: "It's not what I would have chosen, but that's the way it is so I'll make the best of it." And she did. Her smile was like a billboard for the joy of the Lord. At her funeral, some of her care providers from the nursing home were more distraught than the family.
     To weld those two disparate paragraphs together, although attending Family Week in Billings, Montana is not my first, or even eleventh, choice for a vacation, I fully intended to make the best of it. God sovereignly arranged for us to have enough Marriott points to spend five nights in a large, fireplace suite at a wonderful Residence Hotel for free. Not only that, but Monday through Wednesday they provide a free dinner and, every night, free cookies. We are spending an additional night in Billings, so today we moved to the Hilton Homewood, where we have enough points to stay in a one bedroom suite for $70. So, despite being at Rimrock from 8:30 to 4 or 5 p.m. (minus lunch) Monday through Thursday, we still had plenty of time to enjoy our nice hotel. After dinner, we sat around a gas firebox in the courtyard, flames licking through what looked like broken glass. My sister, who watches HGTV, assures me that is a thing now. Since the Homewood doesn't provide dinner on Fridays, we may be forced to eat at one of Billings nice restaurants tonight, like Olive Garden. (Red Lobster was last night.)
     Even my husband, for whom the glass is always half-full (and probably contains poison), was unable to maintain his bad attitude and began to enjoy the trip. When a loved one is an addict, finding moments of joy may be like dancing between the raindrops, but as I recognize the sovereignty of God in my life, I have found that the showers are scattered, and the sky mostly sunny. We spent our days here in the company of wonderful people--including the addicts. The shared bond of addiction deepens relationships quickly. Then we suffered through our evenings at fine hotels. If that is a sacrifice I'm making for our alcoholic son, please punish me again. God sends just enough rain to make us grow. Whether we view that as a blessing or a blight depends on the altitude of our attitude.
    

Okay, We Tried It Your Way

Dear Tree Huggers,

     We tried it your way. Decades of your lawsuits claiming the best way to protect the forests and their inhabitants is to neglect them, have brought us our current season of rampant forest fires throughout the West. High temperatures and drought may be the sparks that started the blaze, but you supplied the fuel. Decades of neglect have left our forests unhealthy infernos waiting to happen. You have protected the trees and animals you claim to love to death. It is like protecting a child from abuse by burning down his house--with him in it. And, to add insult to injury, at the end of an August of historic forest fires, another lawsuit was filed to "protect" another Montana forest from the evils of logging. Your concerns about environmental impact seem to only go one way.
     And this destruction of millions of acres is largely ignored by national news because it is not politically correct to show the inevitable result of decades of anti-logging lawsuits. Even those who blame global warming must realize that the 1 - 2 degree temperature change that might be man caused would make little difference when lightning strikes a forest full of unhealthy trees and deadfall. Leaving the forests in this unsafe condition is arson, no matter who supplies the match.
    We are sick of seeing the land we love go up in smoke. We are sick of seeing much needed lumber go to waste. You even sue to prevent the burned, but salvageable, trees from being harvested. And those falling trees have been killing the firefighters who risk their lives fixing your handiwork. And some of us are just plain sick. I count myself lucky to only get nauseating migraines from the smoke, though I have had to stay inside for weeks or it would be much worse. I am angry that my three month old granddaughter has to try to breathe this sludge. People are losing their health, homes, livelihoods and lives to these fires. Put that in your environmental impact statement. Post a bond for damages. Take responsibility. 
     I am no longer praying for rain. I want the fires to linger long enough that when activists sue to protect the forests from efforts that would mitigate the risk, this firestorm will be fresh in our national consciousness. The smell of smoke that used to bring to mind relaxing around a campfire, now symbolizes sickness and sorrow and loss.  Leave managing the forests to the service created for that purpose and the people who live by them or there won't be any trees left for you to hug. We tried it your way. It not only didn't work--it went up in smoke.

Stalking Sovereignty

    I have blogged previously about my addiction to the method of Bible passage analysis called homiletics. I could be president of the Homiletics Fan Club, if I could find any other fans. Since last year's BSF study was John and next year is Romans, starting my summer doing homiletics on a chapter a day of Acts was a no-brainer. But there was still a lot of summer left. I wanted to study something to do with God's sovereignty, but a word study wouldn't work. Sovereignty isn't even in my Strong's KJV concordance, and much of God's sovereign control of events appears in chapters and books where God isn't even mentioned--like Esther. I have an excellent study book on sovereignty written by Jerry Bridges, but it hasn't been long since I finished that and, even I, cannot forget that quickly. Without my precious homiletics, I was adrift.
     So I decided to begin at the beginning, Genesis, where God's activity is far from behind the scenes. I still read a chapter a day, and if I'm not paying attention, I lapse into homiletics without noticing it. My method, like myself, is simple. I stalk sovereignty throughout the passage, write down the instances, add thoughts about the passage I find interesting--like Lot's irresistible rescue from Sodom. Clearly, God does not take no for an answer. Then I look for an application. Most of mine start with:  How does knowing God is sovereign over __________ help me with __________ I am experiencing today? Then I spend a few minutes praying and meditating on that truth. Not profound. And, sadly, not homiletics, but it is good to know I am capable of a topical study and the applications have been extremely helpful lately. My needs matching God's truth seem to be a recurring side effect of Bible study. Oh wait, that's called sovereignty.
    

Small Talk

     I love visiting with other Christians but the truth is, most of the time, we make the same small talk with them that we could with a virtual stranger at the grocery store--kids, health, weather, what we are doing.  In smaller settings, we may share more intimately--struggles, prayer needs, what we are feeling. But there are very few places a Christian can share openly what Christ is doing in their life. At church we are all "fine". At prayer meeting we share only about health needs, safe travel, maybe a decision about a job or buying a house. No one shares their besetting sins, financial struggles, prodigals.
     So it is very nice to be able to let my spiritual hair down at BSF, in small group, with my prayer partner, and with my mother-in-law. I can take off the mask most of us wear in public and share a truth the Spirit has illuminated through my Bible study or whispered in my heart. With those few I am comfortable sharing my struggles with being a submissive wife, critical thoughts about others, trying to control my portion of the universe.  Christians need times and places for "Show and Tell". To show what we are really like, to tell the truth when we are not fine. I am glad to have those people and places in my life, and one of them is this blog. Humor pops in and out as a welcome visitor, humility is still a far off goal, but honesty is I can do here and now. There are plenty of other places for small talk.

I Would Like to Think

     Recently I had two major events going on at the same time. One was wonderful. One was hard. Both the occasions and the timing of them were part of God's sovereign plan. While I was in Missoula celebrating my Dad's 90th birthday, my husband was at home dealing with our son's relapse. Though his binge was well funded and serious, I was not feeling stressed, though it seemed I should be.

    I would like to think it was because:

•  through decades of experiencing God's faithfulness, I have learned to trust Him.
•  I increasingly rest in the safety of God's sovereignty.
•  I trusted God's timing in having me in Missoula and Reed at home.
•  I see even the setbacks as part of a larger plan.
•  I knew my husband could grow through handling it without me.
•  God provided the distraction of the birthday celebration and intended for me to enjoy it. 
•  The Bible repeatedly demonstrates that God uses sin just as easily as obedience to accomplish His purpose.
•  our recent study of "Trusting God, Even When Life Hurts", strengthened my faith.
•  I am growing up spiritually.                                

     I was not too upset about the obnoxious drunk who kept getting into our house because he is a stranger to me. I don't even know him. I certainly did not want him at our family party, either drunk or hung over. But when my sober son asked his dad when they were leaving for Missoula, that broke my heart, because that was my son talking, and I really wanted my son to be there. Blackout had stolen an entire day from his life. And God used that to break his heart and help him on the path to sobriety.  We are all responsible for our own actions, but we are fools to think we are revising God's plans because of them. With guidance from his addiction counselor, we are following a plan for relapse. I am not stressed, but I find myself reluctant to share that with other Christians. Almost as if I need to apologize for not carrying my share of the stress load.  I would like to think a Christian at peace is the norm, not the exception.

Holy Spirit Junior

     At our small group the other night, I said something about wanting to be Holy Spirit Junior in my husband's life and one of the other wives started laughing. She told me later that she had literally considered that her job until a recent mentoring Bible study. I still struggle with that desire, even though I know it doesn't work, because my desire to say something is stronger than my desire to be helpful. To remind myself when to shut up, I have come up with the following jingle:

  Tune is the chorus of "Battle Hymn of the Republic.

I'm my husband's Holy Spirit

just in case he will not hear it.

He might miss God's will or fear it.

I'm sure God needs my help.

     The "it" in line two does not refer to the Spirit, but His message. I'm not a heretic. But I am making progress because I want to be a good wife to Reed and he already has a Holy Spirit who, unlike me, know how to change men's hearts. The best I could do with my encouragement/nagging is temporarily alter an outward behavior. What I often pray for my husband is that another man will help him grow spiritually, because through decades as a Christian, I have learned the best way to reach a man, is with a man. 

     So the other night, when I was bothered about a spiritual practice that I do religiously, but rarely see him do, I asked him if I could say something "preachy". He was okay with that, so I stated how much I rely on ________, and that I don't know how he is making it through the hard times we have been having as a family without doing ________. By asking his permission first, it caused him to really listen, and by making a statement about me first, I did not come across as someone who has spiritually "arrived" trying to help out a lesser being. That "Why can't you be perfect like me?" attitude. As far as I know, nothing has changed about _______, but it was good to know something has changed in me. For those who still like to give the Holy Spirit a run for his money, the jingle can be adapted to other relationships:

                                                          

I'm the Junior Holy Spirit

to the ones who will not hear it.

They might miss God's will or fear it.

 God really needs my help.

Life Sentence

    Today is our 40th wedding anniversary. At this point, we have officially been married two thirds of our lives. Makes sense. I have lost two thirds of my strength and energy. I would like to think I've gained a third more wisdom, but my memory is going, so I don't really know. I know I've grown a third bigger in the non-brain areas, but Reed has been thoughtful enough to grow with me to make it less obvious. Through the years we accumulated many things--3 houses, 10 motorcycles, 17 vehicles, an undisclosed (by Reed) amount of guns and tools, two dogs, four cats, three children and one grandchild. Of course we have not had all those things at the same time, like houses, or kept all of them. We plan to keep the children but, since they are no longer children, we keep them in other houses. If we live long enough, they will have to figure out where to keep us. The circle of life.
     When you are young and in love, you do not think your love could ever grow stronger. But, through the years, the freshness of love transforms as it sinks deeper inside you until it becomes as familiar as your own heartbeat. Which makes sense because, eventually, a couple shares the same heart. Marriage is not losing yourself to another person, it is finding your best self through them. At least, if you are married to the right person, it is. So what do I want after 40 years of marriage?  A life sentence.

A New Old Lady

     In the past 10 months I have lost both my old ladies. I do not mean old lady as in mother. My mother has been dead four years now and I would never have referred to her as old lady. I know some men refer to their wives as their old lady, but I'd better not hear it from my husband--about me or his mom. By old ladies I mean just that, old ladies. I have always had a special place in my heart for older people and usually have at least one as a special friend. Jean, who passed away in August, was my home health client for five years. When I stopped working for her because of her smoking, I stayed around as a friend. I was privileged to be with her, holding her hand as she breathed her last. I wanted to be friends to the end and I was.
     DJ, who died last Saturday, had been my friend for 20 years. She was neighbor to our friends the Scharas, and when Dorothy needed someone to mow her lawn, she hired my son. Since Will was 12, I was the driver. The lawnmower rode in my trunk. The first time, I sat in the car while he mowed and I gave him some cake to give her when he finished. But Dorothy was hungrier for a visit than for cake, so I began going in to visit while Will mowed. When Will moved on to bigger and better jobs, my youngest son took over. Then DJ needed hip replacements, and I started officially working for her as a personal care attendant. She kept me on for years after I was needed, paying an agency for the privilege of my friendship. When the money ran out, another friend helped her with her bath and cleaning and I started doing her grocery shopping. Every Tuesday after Bible study, I would pick up DJ's list. I would buy her groceries and something for our lunch.
     I did that for many years until compression fractures necessitated she move into assisted living. Though her hearing was spotty and her memory began to fail, our time together every other week was still comfortable and enjoyable. Friendship does not require conversation. By her 93rd birthday in April, she was failing noticeably. I brought her favorite candy, Sees chocolates, before we left for Gig Harbor. By then she had moved from a walker to a wheelchair. Despite being a child-sized chair, she looked tiny in it. So when her niece texted me in Seattle that "Aunt Honey" was in hospice care, I was not surprised. Reed's work in Washington ended a day early and I was unhappy that our delayed start caused us to arrive at home at 1:30 a.m. Saturday. But because we did that, I was able to sit with DJ Saturday afternoon, hold her hand, and say goodbye. She was asleep, but again, friendship does not require conversation. Though her vital signs were good when I left, she died three hours later. Friends to the end, again.
     So I am in the market for a new old lady. Though perhaps, now, that friendship will be with our own elderly parents, the greatest privilege of all. And, who knows, maybe some other geriatric lover has their sights set on me. 

Shakes on a Plane

     It has taken me months to be able to write of the traumatic event that happened to me in January. It took place on the jet that took us to Dallas for Reed's aircraft school. Flying wasn't the problem, I love to fly. The problem is the bathroom, airplane bathrooms. They're small. They're scary. And they're much in demand. It takes a certain amount of skill to calculate the ratio of passengers to potential bathroom users, total flight time versus "seatbelt" time, when you're not allowed to get up, and the length of time the beverage cart will block the aisle versus the post beverage service bathroom rush. Humility not being my strong suit, I consider myself quite good at pre-planning peeing. I could give seminars. I also refuse a caffeinated beverage on a plane, even when I am sleepy and would kill for a Diet Coke, because I might as well pour it directly into my bladder. That would throw off my whole schedule.
     So I chose my moment. I sidled out of my window seat, walked down the narrow aisle, checked which tiny toilet said vacant, and went inside. But as I did what I came in for, I noticed the seat felt unusually cold and damp. That is because I was not sitting on the seat. The seat was up. I SAT ON AN AIRLINE TOILET WITH THE SEAT UP! I wanted to sterilize my legs or, at least, shower. But I was in an airplane bathroom. There was nothing I could do but go back to my seat as if nothing had happened and contemplate all the toxic things that could be crawling on my skin. It was too traumatic to talk about, and there are no support groups for survivors of toilet terror. I just had to shake it off. Next time I will add to my careful calculations--MAKE SURE THE SEAT IS DOWN!
    

Two Fisted Salvation

   There are many reasonably reasonable Christians who do not believe in eternal security, perhaps because it sounds too good to be true or because of an inflated view of man's role in his own salvation. But the Bible is clear, salvation begins and ends with God. We are no more capable of maintaining our salvation that of obtaining it in the first place. We recently studied a passage at church that makes this clear--John 10:28, 29.

     "And I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall anyone snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me is greater than all; and no one is able to snatch them out of my Father's hand."

     Despite those unsure of what the meaning of "is" is, there is not a lot of wiggle room in these verses. Most believers agree that Satan cannot snatch us away from Christ, but some believe Christians can still wriggle themselves out of Jesus' hand like a sinful, slimy fish. One problem with this view is that it would require humans to be stronger than Satan, which is not the case. It would also require eternal to mean temporary, never to mean sometimes and all and no one to mean some and someone. That takes a lot of liberties with the language.
     An even greater problem in this passage is that salvation is two fisted. Even if we managed to squirm between Jesus' fingers, there is another hand holding us--the Father's. No saved sinner is that slippery. Satan cannot sabotage our salvation and neither can we. But he can undermine our testimony when we succumb to temptation and that is his specialty. And one might just remember when we choose to soil our lives with sin, that we are still sitting in our Savior's hand. He may, if He chooses, close that fist uncomfortably tight.

God Gave Us Rainbows

God Gave Us Rainbows

God gave us rainbows

in the first place

so we would not panic

every time it rains--

thinking it is the end of the world.

Not only that,

but He tells us about

the end of the world,

just so we don’t get confused

 or deceived.

After all these years

lived in the sunshine

 of God’s love,

why do I still panic

every time it rains?

When the storm has passed,

I stare sheepishly

at the things

made more beautiful

by the rain.

How often I forget

the rain is not

the end of the world,

it is the beginning

of the rainbow.

Poor Pattern Recognition

   I often tease my husband about his poor pattern recognition; I once had to help him take a personality test about his own life. But lately I have realized how poor my own pattern recognition is. This afternoon as I was sitting outside the hotel reading, I realized that I have lived most of my life at a level of safety and comfort unheard of in most of the world. I have never had to worry if I would have a warm place to sleep, food to eat or clothes to wear. After all the years of knowing the blessing of God's care for me, why do I doubt Him whenever things get hard?  Have I not recognized the pattern by now?  Will an omniscient God forget me? The omnipotent One drop me? Can an immutable God suddenly lose interest in those He claimed as His own?
     I am not sorry for asking for prayer when things at home got hard last week, but I do feel stupid for doubting God's plan again. This trip, which I was afraid would be ruined by our change in plans, turned out to be more enjoyable because of it. I am relaxed in a way I never could have been if God followed my plans instead of His. God's way works again. Who knew? Well, I should have, if I didn't have such poor pattern recognition.

Consecration Through Compost

     Pretty much anything used to make plants grow is disgusting. To sanitize a bumper sticker sentiment--Fertilizer Happens. Christians may flourish in happy, sunny times, but what drives our roots deep and hopeful tendrils to reach for the sun is the messy stuff. Consecration through compost. Lately, we have been hip deep in fertilizer at my house and I am latched onto Jesus like a starving leech. By now Reed and I should be the rhubarb of spiritual growth. Yet the hard things happening in our lives are not nearly as nasty or toxic as the stuff that makes plants grow. So when life stinks, fruitfulness can't be far behind. Grow, reach towards the Son.

Totally Unfair

     God has been unfair to me my whole life and I am so glad. Sometimes we Christians, with the best of intentions--to empathize and commiserate with suffering believers, offer the idea that the difficulty happening in their life is undeserved, unfair. Generally in life we reap what we sow. This principle is biblical. But so is the book of Job, one of the earliest written, to show us that there is an unseen spiritual context woven into the events of our lives. I am not God's fairness monitor. The only reason I have any concept of fairness is the glimmer of God's image in my sin distorted soul. Judging God's actions by our standards is like a toddler arguing science with Einstein.

     Here are some examples of the unfair things that have happened in my life:

• God sought and saved me as a teenager, when the fair thing to do would have been to leave me in the personal and church endorsed self-righteousness of Mormonism.
• He provided funds for me to go to Bible college where He also provided a husband better than I deserve.
• God pried our sticky fingers off our home in Billings to move us to western Montana, where we really wanted to be. Though it looked like unfairness, bordering on cruelty, at the time.
• He allowed me to be the stay-at-home mom of three healthy, challenging children, who made me grow up.
• Once again God came through with funds so we could send the above challenges to Christian school.
• My husband works hard, but the generous salary God has provided in our later years is much more than we expected to have or need to live on.
• God unfairly forced us wait a year hunting for a different house, because He had a much better one reserved for us.
• My childhood dreams of travel were driving a truck to some Montana Super 8 and spending more than one night at the hotel. What God unfairly provided was a major upgrade to beautiful hotels in interesting places for weeks at a time.
• Every blessing in my life has been greater than anything I deserved, therefore, totally unfair, and I have never once complained to God about it.

     So it would be totally unfair of me to whine at the God who has been generous and faithful all my life when I am in difficult circumstances. He knows all about it. There is a purpose for both the good and the hard things He permits. I do not want to waste my Christian life looking around to see who got more Kool-Aid in their cup than I did. The last thing I want is fairness. What I want is mercy and mercy is totally unfair.

Peter Principles

     For the past two weeks our pastor, aptly named Peter, has been preaching on 1 Peter (probably no relation). When he asked us to notice certain phrases in chapter 1, verses 3 - 9, I began to key in on two word phrases. The two words are not necessarily side by side in the text, but they go together. So, yes, I got off on a rabbit trail, but it was Peter's rabbit.

  Peter Principles

3 Praise God 

new birth

 living hope

4 imperishable inheritance

heaven kept

5 powerfully shielded

trust God

6 greatly rejoice

suffer trials

7 fire refined

8 unseen love

inexpressible joy

That Look

     A few days after our son's surgery, as he was dozing in the recliner, I noticed Reed looking intently at him. It had been a long time since I had seen that expression of joy and love on his face. It is the look a man gives his bride as she walks down the aisle on their wedding day. It is the gaze of a parent seeing their newborn for the first time. And I expect to see that visual caress when he meets our granddaughter later this month. His expression revealed joy that our son was still with us, despite those times we could have lost him, and tangible love. Reed saw me looking at him, but his eyes teared up when he tried to speak, so he reached back and took my hand. And in that wordless moment, we spoke--hand to hand, mind to mind, heart to heart.
     And when I die, what I hope to see in heaven, when I meet Jesus face to face, is that look.

Dear John

Dear John,

       Don't worry, we are not breaking up, we're just finished for the summer. This is probably the fifth time I have studied John in BSF. I have no idea how many times I have read and studied it in my 45 years as a believer.  It was your book they were studying at the youth group my brother drug me to, where I explored the Bible for the first time. It was that Truth that trumped the man made rules of the Mormonism I had been raised in. It was that Light that showed me the darkness of my own self-righteous heart. It was your way of presenting the Savior that showed me the Way of eternal life.
     And it was your blatant admission of your purpose in writing John that got it black-listed from my Humanities class at the university. Too biased to be credible. In truth, it was only biased in the wrong direction.  And it was through studying John my reluctant, first year in BSF that, in a time of great hopelessness, began to lift my depression. And this year, in desperate need of direction and encouragement, I have searched your book like a starving man seeks sustenance. I was willing to settle for crumbs but you gave me a feast. Thank you for your biased viewpoint.
     A recurring theme I got from this year's study, was the warning not to judge reality by preconceptions. Over and over, the Jewish leadership rejected Jesus because he didn't keep their version of the Sabbath and sought out sinners instead of Sanhedrin support. Their made-up minds not only caused them to miss recognizing their Messiah as he performed miracles right under their noses, but to murder him. I, too, have preconceptions so thanks, John, for the warning.
     I also needed the reminder in the crucifixion account that no matter how out of control things appear to be, God is still sovereign. After his death, Jesus had no way to make sure his legs would not be broken, his side would be pierced, where he would be buried. He trusted God's sovereignty just as we must. Thanks, John, for not just telling us what Jesus did, but who he was and why knowing that matters eternally. When life gets in your face, your gospel provides face time with Jesus.

                                                                      We are NEVER breaking up,

                                                                                                            Connie

                                                                                             

                                                                                       
                        

    

Tangled Web

     "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive." I am a terrible liar. I do not mean I am a terrible person because I lie. I mean I am terrible at lying. For one thing, lying requires a way better memory than I have. Keeping track of things that actually happen is hard enough without adding things that didn't. So my recent experience with deception was a good reminder of why I don't lie.
     It began, like the the road to hell, with good intentions. When my daughter told me the baby shower for my first grandchild would be the same weekend as a ladies tea at church, I was relieved. Seven years earlier, those same good intentions put me on the planning committee for the church tea. I found myself helping out at the first tea because I felt sorry for the planner, who was trying to do the whole activity solo. Good intention--help her organize and simplify. But she is the kind of person who does not want to be simplified. She is the kind who has great, last-minute ideas and wants last-minute volunteers to help make them happen. The other thing about her great ideas, is that she tells you they are your ideas. And you are now responsible for carrying them out. So it was with great relief that I bowed out of this year's tea to attend the baby shower in Helena. Good intention--no hurt feelings.
     Then the date changed. If I told Last Minute Lucy that I would be in town, I would either have to make "my" unwanted-stepchild-of-an-idea happen, or I would have to tell Lucy why I didn't want to serve with her. OR I could just not tell her that I wouldn't be out of town. It was cowardly. It was deceptive. It was easy. All I had to do was skip the tea and not mention the shower until after the original date. Then came the tangled web. This year's tea was part of our mission's conference, which I would have attended, but couldn't because I was supposed to be out of town. I could have gone to Missoula on Saturday to make the part about being out of town true, but I had just been there for an appointment on Thursday. I skipped a mission's conference to support my deception. By all rights the Lord should smite me. And I should be easy to find. I'm right here--tangled in this web.

30 and Counting

     Thirty years ago today, I was in the hospital meeting my new baby boy. Today I was in the hospital with the same son, but this time, he is the patient. What did he get for this milestone birthday? Surgery. This was not a deliberate plan, it just happened to be the first date available for the removal of his adrenal cyst. Sick and tired of being sick and tired, he was willing to forego a special birthday dinner for clear liquids and the chance of feeling better sooner.
     I thought last year's birthday, when his on again/off again wife was no longer part of his life, would be the worst ever. But a few of his friends came over for steak and his 29th turned out tolerably well. And, who knows, over the course of his lifetime, even this year's birthday may not seem so bad. Many things can happen in life that are far worse than surgery.
     When Tracy was born, I counted his fingers and toes, making sure all was as it should be. In the following years, I counted on him for many things. I could count on him to love our family traditions and vacations, to help with projects on the house and yard, to see me in all my frailty and not use it against me. And I am counting on many more things in the years to come. I am counting on God to make that happen, because He is the one who makes sure all is as it should be.
     
     

Whatever Happened To ?

     A frequent sidebar when I am on the internet is a link to one of those "Whatever happened to. . ." websites. Though I try not to waste time pursuing them (because I'm already wasting time writing or looking at Facebook) I admit that I'm tempted to see how the child stars, teen idols, & sex symbols of my formative years turned out--or burned out. Hoping, of course, that those that didn't drink or drug themselves to oblivion, will have the good grace to look older and flabbier than I am. But the nearly famous I have been thinking of lately are Jesus' brothers. We know of the faith of two of them, because they are published authors in the New Testament--James and Jude.
     James appears to be Jesus' nearest sibling according to the order of names in Matthew 13:55. I have thought a lot about James. As brothers, James should have been Jesus' faithful supporter. It should have been James, instead of John, that Jesus entrusted the care of his mother to while on the cross. But apparently, James was not there to receive the responsibility. I think guilt over his failure is the reason Jesus made a private appearance to James, as he did to Peter, after his resurrection. (1 Cor. 15:7) By unbelief, James had betrayed his own brother. But we know by his epistle that James came to fervent faith and became the early leader of the Jerusalem church. Sorry Catholics, but if the early church had a pope, it was James, not Peter.
     Jude, who may be Jesus' youngest brother according to the list above, also wrote an epistle.While James' letter was about persecution and practical behavior, Jude was warning about false teachers that had already invaded the church. Neither brother used their earthly relationship to Jesus as a claim to fame, instead, they described themselves as his bondservants.
     That leaves two brothers and at least two sisters unaccounted for. Whatever happened to Joseph (Jr.) and Simon? I have no doubt that they, also, came to faith. I cannot imagine that Jesus would let his own earthly parents spend eternity without the company of all their children. That is a parent's greatest fear. This is one of those cases where I remind myself that the Bible leaves out far more than it records. There is no further record of the brothers, just as there is no mention of the death of Joseph, but that does not mean their lives were unimportant to God. No life is unimportant to God. When we get to heaven we can click on that sidebar, take the seminar or ask them in person, "So, what happened. . . ?"

Sometimes I Trust God

Sometimes I Trust God

Sometimes I trust God

in the warm afterglow of 

intimate worship.

And sometimes I trust God

with the resignation

of someone who has lost a battle

and has no other choice.

At other times I trust God

with the grim determination

of a fighter about to enter the ring.

Lately, I trust God 

with a tear in my eye

and a tear in my heart

from bending my will to God's.

Mostly, I trust God
out of mindless habit
accustomed to the company of my King.

But, in the end,
whatever my motive
the best way I can honor God
is to trust Him.

All We Wanted Was Our Country Back

  

    Yesterday was the inauguration of our 45th president, Donald Trump. His win was a great surprise to the liberals who had believed their own propaganda about Hillary's overwhelming victory. The conservatives were also surprised, but by the childish, almost third-world reaction of the losing party who refuse to be "Trumped". So on behalf of the deplorables, let me explain what happened. All we wanted was a president who:

•       Put American interests before global ones.
•       Supports an economic system that offers greater opportunities to the laborer than the lazy, and understands the goal is to create wealth, not redistribute it. 
•       Knows our prosperity isn't something to apologize for. We didn't steal it. We built it.
•       Calls terrorism what it is, and not "workplace violence".
•       Does not apologize, like a battered wife, to countries who attack us, as if we provoked them.
•       Recognizes that Israel is our one friend in the Middle East, and the only nation on whom God has placed his blessing.
•       Knows that we cannot placate enemies who want to kill us.
•       Respects the principles upon which this country was founded.
•       Understands that disagreement is not hatred, bigotry or oppression.
•       Remembers that citizenship is a privilege, not a right, and should go to those who respect our culture and our laws.                                               

     Yes, many of us, most of us, wanted someone wiser, more humble and less vocal than Donald Trump. But anyone old enough to vote, is old enough to know we don't always get what we want, especially in elections. Whoever our choice might have been, God is sovereign, so we must accept and support the president we got.  And all we really wanted was our country back.

4 Days Dead

    We just studied the raising of Lazarus in BSF and I have been thinking a lot about those four days Lazarus was dead. Not wondering where his consciousness was all that time, or how he felt at being called abruptly back to earth. There is no knowing that til heaven, but I plan to attend that seminar. My thoughts have been with his sisters and the other mourners. How bleak those four days must have been. It looked like Jesus didn't care, like God was doing nothing at all, like hope was dead. But all the while Jesus was waiting for his Father's timing. And, in the end, the miraculous raising was all the more glorious because of those four days.
     So, in my rush to see my prayers answered, I may be trying to rob both myself and God of greater glory. Not to mention robbing myself of the peace I could have by trusting God while I wait for His answer. I will try to remember, when my prayers seem to have fallen into dead space, that I might just be in the four days phase.

The Snatcher and the Shepherd

     I should not have been surprised when, a few weeks after God's divine intervention on the road to Rimrock, our son began to doubt again--not God's reality, but His plan. Satan had snatched away much of the beauty of that experience. To paraphrase a current ad campaign, "When you're Satan, that's what you do." Satan loves to turn truth into lies, faith into doubt, and good into evil. He is the Snatcher. He snatches the seed of God's word sown into the world (Mt. 13:19) He snatches the joy of new believers by making them doubt their salvation. I vividly remember my own experience of that. And, if he could, he would snatch Christians themselves from God's hand. (John 10:29) Sometimes, he even snatches the joy of the Stone Pillar from Reed and I. The Snatcher is not only the bearer of bad news, he is bad news. The good news is, we have a Shepherd.
     The Shepherd knows his sheep in all our frailty. It does not matter that the Snatcher is strong and the sheep are weak, because the good Shepherd is our protector. He has promised that nothing can take us from God's hand and that promise is just as true for those He is drawing to salvation as those who already belong to Him. The hand that draws us is the same one that keeps us. The Snatcher is pursuing our straying son, but so is the Shepherd. The main issue is not the desire of the sheep to be back in the fold, but the desire and love of the Shepherd. Trusting the Shepherd who found me and has taken care of me all these years is the least this Lamb can do.

If I Gave My Son

     There are many who feel that salvation through faith in Christ is too exclusive. They are right. Jesus himself said the way to heaven was a narrow path and that few would find it. This sets off the "fair meter" all humans are born with. But it seems more fair to me if I think of it in terms of the following parable. If:

     My son and I were walking on a lonely stretch of road and saw a house on fire. We could see through the windows that there were people inside but they did not seem aware of the danger they were in. The windows were barred from outside and the front door was already on fire. The only way of escape was the back door and the fire above it was already collapsing the door frame. My son was strong and brave, so he volunteered to stand in the doorway and support the burning beam to make a way of escape for those inside, risking his own life to save them. He called from the doorway, but only a few of the residents came out. I banged on the barred windows telling the people inside to run to the back door to safety. But they did not run. They did not even stroll. One argued that there was no fire, another said, if it became necessary, she would try to squeeze through the bars on the window. Several others were trying to put out the flames with hopelessly ineffective extinguishers. "Please", I told them, "my son is suffering in the doorway. He is dying to save you." But they answered, "We don't want your son to save us, offer us another way."
     Would I do that? Now I am not nearly as gracious or merciful as God, and my son is not pure and perfect like Jesus, but I am a parent and I know how much I love my son, and those who ignored his sacrifice would deserve their doom. God gave his Son, there is nothing He could offer to up the ante, even if He wanted to  It was grace that God provided any way. And it is grace that He has not provided many, leaving us to wonder if we are on the right path. It would seem fair to me that my only offer was my final offer, if I gave my son.

Time, Travel and Weasels

     I love to travel, especially when it is winter, and especially when the destination is somewhere warmer, which is about anywhere this year. So I was delighted to find out Reed needed to go to Dallas for training in February. Once Reed's training schedule was confirmed, I went to Kayak, which is my default flight search sight.  I found a good deal for the week we needed through JustFly, but it required flying out on Delta and back on United. JustFly sent me to Delta to book the outgoing flight. Presumably, they would send me to United to book the return flight. But I never got to find out because, after having input traveler information twice--when I got to our zip code it perversely returned to the beginning of the search, so I input the traveler information again, got to the payment portion and realized Reed needed to pay for his ticket on his company card. I could not pay separately for two passengers. Reed and I would need to separate. After 39 years of marriage, this was not as traumatic as you might think. But when I went back into JustFly, I couldn't find that fare again. I wound up trying Expedia, whose $400 fare turned out, after I put in our information, to be $1775. But I spotted the elusive thing again on Hotwire, which promised there were just 3 tickets available for that price.
    I decided, since money was no object for Reed's ticket, and it certainly was for mine, that I would book my ticket first. That part went smoothly, but before I could make Reed's reservation, I had to back out of Hotwire and enter it again to find the $400 fare. Unsurprisingly, there were still three tickets left at that price. I carefully double checked Reed's info (after nearly listing him as female) and he gave me the correct credit card (after nearly using the one from his other employer). But the site refused to accept the card. So he called the director of maintenance to find out why the card would not work, only to discover he hadn't okayed the school with the chief pilot yet. No problem, I had 24 hour free cancellation. But, problem, it was Saturday and Reed's boss wouldn't talk to his boss until Monday. Reed couldn't call the chief pilot directly because his boss would regard that as an act of treason. Since that company's credit cards get hacked on a regular basis, that was probably why it was declined. I estimate that I spent 4 hours between researching fares and attempted bookings and only managed to get a ticket for the person who did not need to go.
     So I am going to Dallas in February. I am skipping school, even if it's paid for.  I hope Reed gets to come. I think travel sites are created by sadistic, unemployed travel agents, or possibly weasels--probably both.

Other Diagnostic Misses

     The irresponsible response of the nurse practitioner to my son's gall stones sent me on a trip down medical memory lane. Being blessed with good health, I had little experience with doctors as a child. But I wish my doctor or parents had taken my dislocating kneecap seriously so it could have been fixed in childhood. I still would have had an embarrassing scar, but I also might have had a chance for normal muscle development in my left leg, maybe even avoided what my husband calls "my funny walk". Speaking of knees

• The doctor I saw shortly after the epic dislocation when I lived in Denver, told me that if it only happened once or twice a year, it was no big problem. However, the orthopedic surgeon who repaired it said he had never seen such a loose knee. When he opened the skin, my kneecap popped off, giving entirely new meaning to the phrase "skinned knee".
• After we moved to Kalispell, I visited an elderly couple in our church who were having health problems. When Grace called the doctor on a weekend suspecting her husband had had a stroke, the doctor told her to bring him in on Monday. Admittedly, this was long before the miracle clot busting drugs we have now, but strokes were still considered a medical emergency, not a "see you Monday" kind of event. I have often wondered if that was Dr. Palchak,
• who was our family doctor for a short time. His reputation at the hospital confirmed my own experience that, if he didn't know what was wrong, instead of referring patients to specialists, simply ignored the symptoms. One victim of his lethal incompetence died because he ignored her tail bone pain until the cancer it signified was inoperable.
• Another bone-head call I saw while working at the hospital was when a doctor decided to experiment with a dying brain cancer patient. Since the brain itself does not have nerve endings, he decided not to write an order for pain meds the night I sat one-on-one with him. I never got to know the sweet, Christian man the staff described. I spent the night calming an incoherent man in excruciating pain.  
• For painfully inadequate treatment, last year I wrote a letter on my brother Roddy's behalf to the clinic he visited twice for a persistent cough. Like most people who actually pay for their physician visits, Rod does not go to the clinic if over-the-counter products are sufficient. Therefore, his two visits telling him to drink lemon tea with honey were about as effective against his cough as singing "Kumbayah". Roddy can cough or sneeze hard enough to cause problems with his neck. Finally, he made an appointment with his family doctor and got the prescription cough meds he needed, but he paid $108 dollars in copays for the three visits.
• My home care client didn't have to worry about copays and had many regular visits because of her diabetes, but seldom went to the doctor for other complaints. So when days of constipation prompted a visit to the walk-in clinic, I knew the nurse practitioner's conservative recommendations weren't going to be enough. By nighttime the discomfort was so bad, she used her Life Alert and went to the emergency room where she had to have an impaction dug out.
• Closer to home, several years ago my 83 year old Dad took my Mom to a doctor in Missoula because she could barely walk. Dr. Yawn (probably not spelled correctly, but fits her bedside manner) ordered knee x-rays, diagnosed the problem as arthritis, and sent her home. No walking aids. No pain meds. No therapy. No follow up. Just a woman who can't walk sent home for her elderly husband to cope with. 
• My father-in-law also had arthritis in his knees. His doctor recommended a double knee replacement. The doctor who replaced my knees said doing both at once doesn't double the difficulty of recovery, it quadruples it. Besides the difficulty of not having one good leg to stand on, he had a bad reaction to the pain meds, so they stopped giving him any. Double knee replacement. No pain relief. To make matters worse, the new knees didn't relieve the old pain so all that suffering was for nothing.
• Also for nothing, were the times I took several of our spare sons to the walk-in medical clinic in Evergreen. Generally, if they walked in complaining of, for example, a sore throat, the nurse would diagnose that they did, indeed, have a sore throat and send them home. I'm pretty sure what they wanted was relief from the problem, not a second to their diagnosis. As the person paying the bill, I definitely wanted more than confirmation of what we already knew.

     That is why I could not reassure Tracy that seeing a doctor for his stomach pain would be useful. There are too many unprofessional health professionals. My diagnosis is that they are either missing the brain cells required to understand treatment follows diagnosis, or have a heart defect--no compassion.

Snapshot

         My son was recently hospitalized, so I had a chance to interact with several nurses.  Most were capable and kind, but the nurse he had the night after his surgery was more like one of those in-your-face coaches on the weight loss shows. She decided, based on the snapshot of information she got from his records and appearance, that his health problems must be due to weight, lack of exercise and smoking. What she did not know was that he gained much of that extra weight after he gave up drinking. Trading vodka for milk was a good exchange. Too much milk can make you fat, but too much vodka can kill you.
     She also didn't know that he just got a gym membership and that he formerly did weight lifting and body building. I understand that one of the functions of health professionals is to encourage healthy lifestyles, but too much encouragement is actually discouragement. The doctor who treated me while I had Grave's disease, blamed my blood pressure, among other things, on my weight gain. I had lost 30 pounds through the course of my illness. The 30 pounds I gained brought me back to my normal weight. But that was not in her snapshot--and she is no longer in my view-finder.
     The encounter with the night nurse bothered me because, according to my nurse son, that is how he treats his patients. He considers having unhealthy habits evidence of being uncooperative. That if you really want pain relief, you won't mind not smoking. To use a "Star Wars" reference, he does not know the power of the dark side. A friend recently told me how difficult it was for her to stop smoking, even while watching her husband die of COPD. She worked for the same hospital my son was in, and only stopped smoking when they refused to let employees smoke in their own cars in the parking lot. I'm happy for her smokeless-success, but I think hospital policy is excess when it changes from encouraging to threatening. Flu shots are similarly "encouraged". You don't have to get one--unless you want to work there.
      But the main reason that nurse bothered me was because she reminded me of me. I, too, judge people based on snapshots, even when I know them well. Half a dozen times in the past year, I have decided what Tracy's problem was and what he needed to do about it, only to find I was looking at behavior when the root went much deeper. Thankfully, the Lord shut my mouth before I started blasting away at the tip of the iceberg when the truth was below the surface.
     I have had the same profile picture on Facebook for many years because, despite many attempts, I cannot take a decent selfie. Please don't judge me by my snapshot.