Come As You Are

    When I went to Bible study today, it was a come as you are party for me. Our power went out just before I got into the shower. My shower today was a makeup remover wipe. Fortunately I had washed my hair the day before, so it did not require a curling iron. I am certainly not known for my high maintenance hair style. Some might assume I don't even own a curling iron. And there was just enough daylight to apply minimal makeup, so I didn't look like I just got out of the hospital.
     Although, how I looked at Bible study would have been a moot point if our new garage door opener did not have a backup battery. During previous power failures I learned that, though I can open the door manually, it will not stay open so I can back the car out. If I had been more alert, I would have backed out my car while Tracy was still home to hold up the door. But a makeup remover wipe simply doesn't clear the cobwebs from my mind as well as my morning shower does. However, God in his providence took care of this deficiency months ahead of time, when we replaced our garage door opener with one that has a backup battery. Isn't sovereignty sweet?
     Wouldn't it be wonderful if more Christian gatherings were come as you are parties? Places where we felt free to be our messy, imperfect selves. In our BSF group discussions, we do share our needs and struggles, but you would never guess our lives were anything less than perfect by how we look on the outside. Yet Jesus' invitations are always come as you are. We have no choice. Before His Spirit fills us, we have no power to be anything other than the messed up mortals we are. And there is no point fixing up our outsides because He isn't looking at them. He sees our heart. If our churches could be places where the poor in spirit, those who don't have it all together, could feel at home, what power we would have to change our world. The unfailing power Jesus gives those who come as they are to become like He is.

Butterball for Thanksgiving

     Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. All it asks of us is food and gratitude. No need to buy gifts, just groceries. Those come already wrapped. Decorating is usually confined to the dining room. And since cooking for people is my love language, Thanksgiving is an endorphin feast for me. Naturally, I served turkey, but that is not the butterball the title refers to. The butterball formed when the butter in my Toll House pie ran over, burned on the bottom of my oven, and turned into a smoke bomb. How could something that tastes so good smell so bad? I removed the pie as early as possible, but by then the damage was done and the turkey was not. Not only could I not turn off the oven, I had to turn it up 25 degrees to cook the carrot souffle and glazed yams. When I opened the oven door, it belched out tear gas worthy of Macgyver. As in, "We need a weapon! Forget the household chemicals, do you have any butter?"
     So, in the spirit of making our home welcoming (ala Martha Stewart), we opened the doors--and several windows. Martha, no doubt, would have used more decorative fans to dispel the smoke than we did, and probably would have come up with a better party theme than crematorium. Thank goodness I decided to cook the turkey in an oven bag. Butter is good. Smoked turkey is good. But butter smoked turkey is not. The house still smelled a little funky when company arrived, but the food and conversation were good. One of the discussion topics was ways I might use my oven's self cleaning feature without creating a flambe feature. You Tube had videos of people using baking soda to clean their oven, but being both creative and lazy, I used Coke. It loosened enough of the bitter butter to use the self clean cycle without having to stand by holding a fire extinguisher.
     Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but note to self for next year--Use deeper pie plate for the Toll House pie. Then maybe next year the butterball can actually be the turkey.
     
    
   

My Delight

     Every year our church holds a Thanksgiving service where, instead of a sermon, members share what the Lord has taught or done for them in the past year. Obviously there is not time for all 400 people to share. And there is a difference between having something to share and feeling led to share. More often than not, I do not feel led. This year I made it clear til 12:05 without being prompted to share, although the default praise in the back of my mind was my gratitude for the medical technology which made Reed's kidney surgery a same day, one puncture procedure instead of the big incision, weeks of recovery ordeal it was in the past. At 12:05 the leader laughingly said since Pastor Peter is never finished preaching by then anyway, we would go a little longer. My heart started pounding, which is the Holy Spirit's cue that I am supposed to share. There is no way to unpound a heart and there is no point in delaying since I won't enjoy what other people have to say until I obey the prompting. But the same Spirit who annoyed me into sharing, also led me not to share about Reed's surgery, but something more personal.
     A few weeks ago Peter's sermon was about the Holy Spirit indwelling us. On the way home in the car, I told the Lord that indwelling me must be the most boring, depressing reality show ever. The Spirit immediately impressed into my mind "It is my delight". Delight? That seemed inexplicable to me until I thought about my granddaughter. She could come to me with a runny nose, dirty diaper and food in her hair and I would still be delighted to see her. At a year and a half she is not a brilliant conversationalist, yet I love nearly every sound that comes out of her mouth. And if I can love enough to feel that way about her, surely our loving Father is capable of feeling delight in me.
      As a rule, I seldom tell others about the messages the Holy Spirit gives me. It feels too personal somehow, like sharing a love letter out loud. But when the Messenger tells me to share, it would be wrong to keep it to myself. So now I send this message from the Holy Spirit to you--to His Delight, with mine.

"My Way" Robbery

     When my children were approaching their teens, a time when many second generation Christians become rebellious, I prayed that the Lord would not let that happen to mine. I knew many of my friends were in that situation, but I didn't think I would be able to bear it. One of the things I did not yet understand is that there is no such thing as hypothetical grace. God gives us his grace for the reality of need, not just the possibility. The other thing I did not know was what a huge blessing that troubled time in my son's life would be in mine. The greatest blessings of my spiritual life have come to me through my son's addiction.
     All my Christian life I had longed for an experience like Hagar had in the wilderness when she realized God saw her, knew her struggle and provided help. She named the well He provided Beer-lahai-roi, well of the living God who sees me. My wilderness was at the side of the road on the way to addiction treatment. As soon as my son said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me.", a car pulled up behind us, a believer sent by God to encourage us. After decades as a Christian, God settled the matter once and for all, I knew for certain--the living God sees me. And that has been a blessing not only for us, but for the many with whom I have shared that story since.
     When we started this journey through my son's addiction, I told God I needed him to be real, as real as the view from my window and the furniture in my room. And I needed to hear from Him, not generically through His word, but specific guidance for our situation. God answered that prayer by His Spirit's words impressed in my mind. These messages were seldom what I wanted to hear, but they were what I needed to. Even now, after the crisis has passed and our family reaps the benefits of our son's sobriety, the intimate communication between myself and the Spirit continues.
    If God had answered my prayer for stray proof children as I asked, I would have missed the greatest spiritual blessings of my life--our encounter with God, deep intimacy with the Spirit. And all these blessings came to me through my straying son. Blessings I would have robbed myself of if God had done things my way.

Run to the Battle

     In my many times reading I Samuel 17, the very familiar story of David and Goliath, I had never really noticed verse 48, until this week. "As the Philistine moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him." It has caused me to reevaluate my prayer time with our mothers of prodigals prayer group. I have pictured in my mind, standing next to Jesus between our prodigals and the forces of evil coming against them. I knew I had no strength of my own to protect them, but I wanted to be standing in prayer next to Jesus as He fought for them. Now I am rethinking that idea, maybe Jesus is not standing braced for Satan's attack. Maybe He is running to the battle line, and in order to be next to Him, I need to be running too. Exactly how that works out in my prayer life, I am just beginning to explore.
     The important factor in applying any verse is how it fits with scripture as a whole. I believe running into battle is Christlike because the God who saved us is anything but passive. He provided our redemption. He chose us before He even created the Earth. He seeks us. He calls us. He gives us the faith to believe. And He is the one who keeps us safely in his hand until He takes us to heaven. God is not waiting to see if we want to take Him up on his offer of salvation. He makes it happen through thousands of seemingly random circumstances.
    Jesus' earthly ministry demonstrated his willingness to battle the Jewish leadership. In John's gospel especially, Jesus goes out of His way to heal on the Sabbath, knowing it would provoke the Pharisees. He didn't tell those in need to come back tomorrow. He didn't wait for someone to ask Him about the Sabbath so He could secretly slam the Scribes. Our gentle, but just, Savior sometimes ran headlong into danger.

     

 The Devil defies us,

      as he does our King

      God's Word is our stone

      and prayer is our sling.

      The battle continues,

      though the war has been won.

      To stand with our Savior,

      His people must run.

     


   

Voting Loud

     I have my own theory about why voters are turning out in record numbers for this year's mid-term elections. Both parties have gotten into a lazy habit of labeling their opponents instead of listening, reacting, instead of reasoning. In logic it resembles the "straw man" fallacy where, instead of arguing with your opponent's actual position, you argue with one you yourself have substituted. Although our modern version is even lazier, we simply build the straw man and throw rocks at it. Apparently the glue that holds these labels on is made from the brain cells of those attaching them. Early in his campaign, Donald Trump, for no apparent reason, was labeled a racist. There were probably millions of racist labels left over from the Obama years, when anyone who opposed Obama's election or policies was called racist. I'm all for recycling, but reusing presumptions that were never valid in the first place is like making a casserole out of spoiled leftovers.
    I said all that to say this, I think voters are turning out to send a clear message--we are not racists. We like what our president is doing for our country. Most presidents don't even attempt to keep their campaign promises until their second term. Trump has torn through them like a to do list. I had  "yuge" doubts about Trump, but great admiration for those he chose to advise him. Proverbs 13:20 says, "He who walks with wise men will become wise." But it is hard to express support for anyone with a "racist" label stuck over your mouth, so now, in the privacy of the voting booth, we are making ourselves heard. This election, we are voting loud.