Born in a Barn

From my book Wrestling with Wonder ...

It might have happened like this:

MARY TELLS HER STORY

            There’s no place for us.  No place for this babe, this Son of the Almighty God, that I bear.  

But the pains come anyway.  Sharp, insistent.  Not now, I want to say.  Not yet.  There is no place for you.  Nowhere for you to be born.

            But my womb clenches again and I gasp.  The pains are more regular now, radiating into my back.  He will not wait, this divine baby of mine.

            Joseph approaches me, places a hand on my tight belly.  He shakes his head.  

            No place for us.

            I nearly double over.  My breath comes quickly, heavily.

            “There is a place with the animals,” he whispers.

            I swallow.  Hard.  Is it possible that this child, the Messiah, the King of all Kings, will be born in a barn?  No...

            Lord, is there no where else?  Can You find no other place for your own Son?

            But the heavens are silent.  No guest room, no spare closet, no private corner in a relative’s home.

            And the pain comes again.  

            Joseph takes my arm.  “We must hurry.”  

            “Not the stable.”

            “It’s the only place. I’m sorry.”

            I’m sorry too.  Oh, Lord . . .

            Step by step, stopping to breathe, to not breathe.  To groan.  I make my way toward the animals.

            And then we are there.  In the rustling, the stink, the dirt, the mud.  No midwife.  No friend.  No mother.  Just me.  Just Joseph.  And them.

            A donkey brays.  

            A cow lifts its tail.

            A horse stomps and spreads four legs.

            No, not here ... 

            I lay on the filthy straw.  I pant.  I cry.

            A horse nickers, pushes at an empty feeding trough.  

            I swat a fly.  And the pain comes again.

            This time, I scream.  I wheeze.  I gasp.  And my mind floods with ripping agony.  Ten seconds.  Twenty. Thirty.  A minute.  And more.  I breathe again.  I must breath.

            Joseph grabs the rags. I am sweating now.  He wipes my brow.  But there is nothing he can do.  He cannot share this pain.

            No one can.

            My belly contracts.  Hard.  I clench my teeth. Bite back my shouts. 

            It hurts.  Oh Lord, it hurts so much.  

            My sweat, mixed with the smell of horse urine and cow dung.  The snuffling of a donkey.  The frightened glance of a husband who is not the baby’s father.

            Help, Lord!

            A rush of water runs down my legs.  Minutes turn to hours.  Hours of shocking pain and moments of panting relief.  On and on. 

            The pain.  Mind-numbing.  Middle-ripping.  Pain.

            And the pressure.

            Finally, the baby is coming.  I scream at Joseph.  But he is ready.  

            I am half-squatting, half-laying.  

            “Push,” he yells.

            I push.

            I yell.

            I breathe.  Breathe in the rank stink.  Breath in the smell of blood.  Breathe in the scent of things that no king should smell.

            But this King will.  

            Oh God, will he really be born in a barn?  Your Son?  The hope of all Israel?

            I push.  And rest.  And push.  And yell.  And push.  And cry.  And push.  And groan.

It is no easy thing to birth a Savior.

            I see his head!”  Joseph’s eyes are wide.  His hands ready.

            I bear down.  Hard.

            And the baby comes.  A King, sliding into this world covered in vernix and blood, and surrounded by animals as the only witnesses to this moment that will change the world.  

            Joseph laughs.

            The baby wails.

            And I weep.

            I weep for a Promise born in a barn.  I weep for a Messiah born in the stink.  I weep for a King crowned not with gold but with blood.  Will it always be so?

            Joseph cuts the baby’s cord.  He presses my stomach and the afterbirth spews from me.  

It is done, this birthing of a Savior.

            Joseph wipes him with a rag and hands him to me.  I gather him in my arms.  He looks so normal, this Son of God.  So ordinary.  So small, this tiny babe, with a stock of dark hair, a red face, and wrinkled, old-man skin.  This, this is the One we’ve waited for.  

            I close my eyes and kiss his forehead.

            He squirms and squawks at me.

            I wrap this ordinary, extraordinary baby in rags and place him in the empty feeding trough.  A box made for the animals to eat becomes his bed.  He looks around.  Dark grey eyes taking in a world gone awry.  

            What must it be like for God to see through the eyes of a human babe?  To smell through a human nose?  To feel the scratch of the rags, the hardness of the board?

            But he doesn’t cry.  Not at this moment.  

            He just looks.

            He sees.

            And my eyes blur.

            There is the King of all Kings, the Son of God himself, wrapped in rags and lying in a feeding trough.  A Messiah surrounded by stink.  But somehow I don’t smell it anymore.

            I laugh.  I laugh at the incongruity.  I laugh at the wildness of my God.  

            I laugh, because the God of the Universe took my barn and turned it into a palace.  He took what should not be and filled it with wonder.

Anticipating Christmas

Hi Friends, 

Here are some thoughts as we approach Christmas 2021 . . .

            The winter rain pounded on the SUV’s windows, adding to the cacophony of shouts and grunts, squeals and squirming-in-seats from six already-unhappy kids.  I took a deep breath and hollered over the chaos.  “Hey, let’s sing some Christmas carols!”

            “What?” 

            “Nooooo!”  

            “Jingle bells. Batman smells!”

            “That’s not a real song.”

            “Is too.”

            “Jayden sings too loud.”

            “I have a headache.”

            Me too.

            This time I blew out a long breath from the front seat and spoke more quietly.  “How about we play a game?  Who knows a Christmas game?”

            “I hate games.”

            “Bethany always wins anyway ‘cause she’s the oldest.”

            Jayden started in with “Batman smells” again at the top of his voice, then promptly stopped and shouted, “Jayna hit me!”  Then, he began to howl.  A moment later, Jayna was howling too.

            Another shrill voice piped from the back of the car.  “I’m thirsty.”

            And then another.  “My feet hurt.”

            “My arms hurt.”

            “I don’t feel so good.”

            A fishy cracker flew from the backseat and impacted the front windshield.

            I turned around.  “No throwing crackers.  Give me those.”

            Jordyn gave a snuffly cry as she handed me the container.

            Another voice rose over the others.  “Are we there yet?  How much longer?”

            I stared over at my husband, Bryan.  “What were we thinking?”  Why didn’t we just stay home where everything was comfortable, everyone had what they needed, and I could send them to the basement if they bickered and complained?

            Bryan shrugged.  “It’s going to be a long four hours.”

            I groaned.  Four hours to our relative’s house for a pre-Christmas visit.  Four hours of aching feet, thirsty bodies, and bumpy roads? 

            Four hours would seem like four days.

            The number wiggled into my soul.  Four days. I remembered another family, a man and a very pregnant wife, taking an unwanted pre-Christmas journey with no SUV, no Christmas carols, no fishy crackers, no comfortable seats to squirm in.  Four days.  That’s how long it would take to walk quickly from Nazareth to Bethlehem, if they went through Samaria.  But Mary and Joseph would have never made it in just four days.  It probably took more like a week if they took the longer route to avoid the dangerous Samaritan road and went slowly for Mary.

            I sat back in my seat and thought about an almost-one-hundred mile journey, pregnant, on a donkey, or on foot (the Bible doesn’t say). I thought about the dust, the stones, the pressure of a babe kicking against a womb too tight for such travels.  That couldn’t have been an easy journey.

            The Bible doesn’t tell us much about it.  Luke 2:5 says, “He [Joseph] went there [to Bethlehem] to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.”  That’s it.  Mary went.  One step at a time. Forward, on an awkward, unwanted journey, for a reason she most likely didn’t understand. She just had to waddle forward, in faith, even when the road was bumpy and her feet hurt and she was thirsty and tired and it seemed like she’d never get where she needed to go.

            That’s a kind of journey that I could understand, not just from our pre-Christmas jaunt to a relative’s house, but from life.  Sometimes we have to travel a road we don’t want to go on to arrive in the place where God wants us to be.

            At the end of Mary’s journey, she would encounter Christ in a way she hadn’t before. The Messiah would be born!  She would hold God incarnate in her arms.  At the end of our family’s unpleasant journey, we would arrive at our destination and enjoy the company of people we love. We would play and laugh and encounter joy in a new way.  We’d even sing a few Christmas carols.

So, as I recall my journey, and Mary’s, I see that even through hurt and discomfort, maybe especially in hurt and pain, God is leading to a place where Jesus can be born in our lives in new ways, where we can see his face more clearly, hear his voice, and glimpse his glory anew.

The difficult pre-Christmas journey isn’t punishment; it’s God’s narrow road for us. It’s the way to his will. 

            That’s what I learn when I anticipate the coming of Christmas.  I learn to walk,  to stumble, to run ... and to remember: The journey matters.  God is in it.  He is in us!  

Tasting the Turkey

Hi Friends,

Here are some thoughts as we approach Thanksgiving. Will you taste the turkey this Thanksgiving?

Tasting the Turkey

"Yum!"  It was Thanksgiving day and I was in the kitchen, sneaking bits of turkey while no one was looking.  To my ten-year-old mind, nothing could compare to Mom’s perfectly cooked turkey.  I stuck my fingers into the warm juice and pulled off another piece.  "Ahhh," I sighed and smiled.  It was delicious.  I glanced around then snatched another bite.  

This is my favorite part of Thanksgiving, I thought, licking my fingers as the turkey juices dripped down my hand.  I loved to sample the little pieces of turkey that fell to the bottom of the pan during cooking.  It was like a special, tasty prize that made my mouth water just to think about it.  I jammed a fourth piece of turkey into my mouth and rubbed my belly, enjoying the dual pleasures of taste and smell.

At my Sunday School three days later, Pastor Ron visited our class.  He sat down on the stool in front and straightened his collar.  His eyes swept over the students. "Let me tell you a story," he began.  "There was a man named Joe.  Joe spent his life doing stuff that was very bad.  He drank.  He gambled.  He lived a wild life.  He swore all the time and never went to church.  When he ran out of money, he robbed a store and then continued his bad living.  On his death bed, Joe knew he was going to die, so he begged God for forgiveness and decided to trust in Jesus.  That night, Joe died and went to Heaven, the same as if he had loved and served God all his life.  What do you think of that?"

"Hey, that's not fair!," I burst forth.  My cheeks grew red with annoyance. 

"No, it's not fair," he agreed.  "Not fair to Joe.”

“To Joe?” I questioned.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean it's not fair because Joe missed the greatest joys in life."     

"But he was bad!” I exclaimed, sputtering in confusion.  “If he could get into heaven, why should I bother to do what I’m told?  I may as well go out and rob a store too!”

My Pastor smiled.  “Do you really think so?”

I lowered my head and stared at my feet.  Then, I shrugged my shoulders.

Pastor Ron cleared his throat.  

I looked up at him again.  His mouth was quirked in a strange half-grin.

"Tell me," he continued, "have you ever sneaked into the kitchen to taste a little bit of turkey before the Thanksgiving meal?"

I drew a quick breath and nodded my head.  My eyes grew wide in shock.  How had he known?  I remembered back to my time in the kitchen just three days before.  Yes, I knew very well what it was like to taste the turkey.  It was great!

"Well," he said, glancing at the rest of the class, "that's just what it's like for you and me.  All the time we spend serving God in this life is just like sneaking into the kitchen to taste the turkey.  We get a little taste of heaven before the great banquet.  Joe, on the other hand, doesn't get to taste the turkey in this life.  He has to wait.  Just think of all the fun he missed out on here in this life."

"Wow," I whispered, "I never thought of it like that.

Pastor Ron chuckled.  "Now, every time you sneak a bit of turkey, you can think about the fact that every day you spend serving God is a little taste of heaven here on earth."

To this day, I still sneak my little bit of turkey before the Thanksgiving meal, and every time I thank God for another day spent in His love, tasting the turkey of Heaven. 

Thanksgiving Rain

Hi Friends,

Got some rain yesterday and am thinking about Thanksgiving, rain, and new life. See what you think of this ...

Let it Rain!

 

            Dusty. Dry. Brown. Desolate. 

            I called my horses up from the pasture and watched the beige billows that formed behind them as they plodded up the hill toward the barn. The fire hazard level was red that day after another long, dry California summer. Fall had come, but the rains had not yet come with it. I threw another flake of hay into the horse feeder and trudged toward the pasture. 

            A few stalks of dried weeds poked from once-lush ground. Even they were withered. And the dust loomed like storm clouds stirred by the dragging of hooves. Dust. Lots and lots and lots of dust. It rose and swirled and settled in the cracks of my skin, on my hair, my clothes. It trickled onto the fence rails, the feeders, the trees. I tasted the grit in my mouth and blinked it from my eyes. 

            We needed rain. We seem to always need rain. And November is the month for it. Soon, the rains would come, and everything would change. So I waited. Day after day I brought the horses in from the pasture. Day after day I tasted dirt. One week. Two. Then came a sprinkle on my window. A pattering. And later water dropping in buckets-full from the sky. 

            In a week, another rainfall. A few days later, I again stood in the pasture. This time, there was no dust, no dry, no desolate brownness. Instead, fresh green grass made carpets beneath the trees. Clover sprang from the dirt, and bright yellow flowers dotted the landscape. The fences gleamed white, the trees draped with emerald leaves. I tasted the freshness on my lips and breathed deeply of vibrant scents of new life.

            Hooves raced toward the barn. I threw a few flakes of hay in the feeders. Then, I stood just where I had before. It was the same pasture, the same trees, the same view, the same land.  But everything had changed.  Life and green and growth permeated the once-desolate scene. 

            I watched the horses frolic toward their feeders. One galloped in a circle. Another kicked out with glee. A mare neighed. It sounded like a laugh. I laughed too. And thought about what a difference a little rain made. It changed the landscape. It changed hearts. 

            Thankfulness, I believe, is like the rain. It takes the same landscape and makes it beautiful, fills it with life. It brings joy where they was once only a dusty plodding. Gratefulness changes everything.

            1 Thessalonians 5:18 (NIV) tells us to “give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” In all circumstances, even the desolate ones, God calls us to gratefulness. We can’t wait for our pastures to turn to green for us to thank God. Rather, it is the gratitude itself that brings forth the life and joy as it rains on the barren places in our lives. 

             In Isaiah 51:3 (NIV), God promises, “The Lord will surely comfort Zion and will look with compassion on all her ruins; he will make her deserts like Eden, her wastelands like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the sound of singing.” These were the promises to Israel - that her deserts would be filled with rain. They would be filled with thanksgiving. It is the same for us. In our wastelands, in our deserts, in the dry, dusty places of our lives, thanksgiving is the rain that brings joy and gladness. And we need not wait until November. Thanksgiving rain can come anytime we choose.

             So, when we taste the grit, when our souls are dry and barren, when dust billows to cover the blessings we wish we had, let it rain! Let thanksgiving pour down onto the dry ground so that life may bloom where there was once only dirt and dried up weeds.  Let it rain words of thanksgiving! 

           

What to Do with Halloween

Hi Friends,

Our Haunted Trail event is all scheduled for next week! Here's why we, as Christ-lovers, do what we do with Halloween. 

Transforming Halloween

Unlike some, we don’t choose to ignore Halloween. We don’t choose to scorn it. We want to transform it. We want it to point to the wonder of what Christ has done for us. So every year at Wonder Wood Ranch, our charity ranch for disadvantaged kids, we do a haunted trail event the weekend before Halloween. The kids, of course, love it.

But I love it more.

We pile kids on the backs of horses and begin the trail just as darkness falls. Blacklight flashlights illuminate the path and the decorations. Horses climb a short hill and encounter a glowing sign. “The thing that I fear comes upon me,” it reads, from Job 3:25 (ESV). 

Kids-on-horses then continue along a trail through the dark woods that’s decorated with skeletons, white bed-sheet ghosts, and green and orange florescent eyes peering from under bushes and between trees. Warnings and cobwebs line the trail. A headless horseman greets the guests and leads them to a graveyard (with funny tombstones) which sits near the end of the path. Then finally, the horses climb another small hill and encounter one more sign. “Who will rescue me from this … death?” the sign asks. And it points to a huge wooden cross, lit with solar lights. 

I love the experience of the haunted trail at night because in our lives, and in the lives of our guests (often kids dealing with gang or domestic violence), there are many things to fear. Too often, life is like a haunted trail. The things we fear come upon us. Death comes, cobwebs invade, evil scratches at the corners of our lives trying to defeat us. 

Sometimes we have a child flirting with death and nothing we do helps. Sometimes we have a financial, health, relational, marital, spiritual crisis and all we can see are bones and scary glowing eyes along the path of our lives. Sometimes we tremble.  Sometimes we fear. Sometimes we don’t know how we can go forward anymore. And that’s the trail we walk. 

But in Christ, the path doesn’t end with a graveyard. It doesn’t end with a skeletal horse and rider. It doesn’t end with death and defeat. It ends with the cross. It ends with hope and life and victory. And sometimes, you just have to keep walking in the dark. You just have to dare to hope again, believe again. You have to hold to the wisps of faith you have and be honest about the faith you lack, be honest about your failings and fear. You have to keep going, knowing that Christ himself defeated death for us all.

That’s the power of the haunted trail. 

It reminds me that no matter what is happening in my life, whether I can see only a foot in front of me or not at all, no matter the spooky ghosts or scary places where death seems threatens, God is leading me through and speaking to me the words of Isaiah 41:10-16 (NIV): “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand … For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Do not be afraid …you will rejoice in the Lord and glory in the Holy One of Israel.”

In the face of what frightens us most, when we encounter darkness and there doesn’t seem to be enough light, we need only to keep walking with God and know that he will not only save us from this death but he will also cause us to rejoice and to glory in him. 

The path won’t always be dark. It won’t always to scary. Light is coming. And it shines on the cross of Christ. 

Lessons from Autumn Leaves and Letting Dead Things Fall

Hi Friends,

Are the leaves falling yet where you live? We don't have a lot of leaves that change and fall here, but the ones we do have are just starting to change. There's still some green with the mostly-yellows. And as they change, I'm reminded of this story that Bryan told me years ago, and I'm reminded of the beauty of letting dead things fall away in our lives ...

Let the Leaves Fall

            I remember the smell, and the crinkle, and the varying shades of brown, yellow, and orange.  I remember the crispness of the air, and the scraping of the rake against dry leaves.  I remember a Nebraska autumn and a lawn covered in fall’s leafy quilt and my little brother and I leaping with reckless abandon into piles of musky sweetness.

            I remember a time when raking up the dead and fallen things in our lives meant not sorrow, but joy.  Not regret, not fear, but hope in what was to come.

            If I close my eyes, even now, I can see the sheen of sweat on my dad’s face as he leaned over the rake.  I can hear the sound it made as he pulled it over the dead grass toward him.

            “Bryan, grab the little rake from the garage and help me.”

            “Okay, Dad.”

            I trotted to the garage, pulled down a rake that was bigger than I was and dragged it outside.  Then, I swished the tines across the leaves to gather them into a tiny pile.  

            Dad added more leaves to my pile.

            A moment later, my three-year-old brother toddled out of the house.  He clapped his hands.  “Oh, yay! Can we jump in them yet?”

            Dad shook his head.

            The pile isn’t big enough.  Why don’t you gather some up with your hands and add them to the stack.

            Justin did.  Little by little, the pile grew, with Dad adding great bundles of leaves, me adding small bundles, and Justin adding a few here and there, as much as his little hands could carry.

            Soon, the lawn was clear, the pile a gigantic heap of potential-fun, and the rakes were safely stored.

            Dad sat on the steps and rested while Justin and I squealed and ran and threw ourselves into a mountain of fall colors.  Dad smiled as we played and played and played.  We tossed leaves, we burrowed in leaves, and we laid in leaves while gazing up at the gray sky.  

            And we never, ever wished that the leaves would turn green and go back onto the trees again.  We weren’t afraid of their falling.  We didn’t feel bereft.  

            Instead, we knew that fresh, green leaves would come in the spring, while these dead ones had fallen to bring us joy . . . and a little work.

            So why, all these years later, do I grumble and moan and fear when dead things fall away in my life?  Why do I clench my hands so tightly around things that no longer bring me life? Why don’t I let them fall and bring me a new kind of joy?

            2 Corinthians 5:17 (NIV) says, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”

            When I hear this verse, I usually think about it as if it only means that sometime, way in my past, when I accepted Jesus I became a new creation in Christ.  But as I think of the falling leaves of autumn, I wonder if it doesn’t also mean that Christ continues to make me new, renew me . . . and cause the old, dead things to fall away like autumn leaves.

            And when they do, when the leaves scatter on the dry ground, I don’t need to fret about what I no longer have, what I no longer am.  Instead, I can look forward to new, green leaves in the springtime, and for now, find joy in the crinkly, brown piles in my life.  

            Now, as I gather dried leaves for my own kids, I think about those days long ago when my dad did most of the raking, the piling, the working.  I helped.  My little brother helped.  But I know now that dad did the real work.  And I remind myself that when dead things fall away in my life, it’s my heavenly father who is doing most of the work then too.  I help.  Others may help.  But it is God who is clearing away the crusty brownness of old habits, dead plans, and things that are no longer vital, living.  

            So, when dead things fall away, I want to stop worrying and instead revel in thankfulness for God’s work in my life.  I want to lay on the leaves in a heap, look up, and know that spring is coming.  I want to trust God enough to rake beside him and rejoice when the work is done.

Criticism - A Godly Response

Hey Friends,

Things have been so ugly in society lately, haven't they? Accusations flying back and forth, blame thrown like knives at those with whom people disagree. I was thinking of how difficult, but how very needed, it is right now to reflect the character and love of Christ. As I was thinking, I came upon this short article I'd written years ago. It seems even more relevant today. See what you think:

Ouch!  That Hurts!

--Responding to Criticism--

We all dread the moment.  But, it comes at work, at home, and even at church.  Someone bears down on us, face red, brow furrowed in frustration.  We take a deep breath and steel ourselves for what's ahead.  Before we can think of anything to say, the complaints start spewing out.  

Even if people are well-intentioned, their criticism hurts.  What do we say when we're faced with such attacks?  How can we respond in a Christ-like manner?  Here's some suggestions:

DO

1.              Do keep a cool head.  Anger will cloud your reasoning. 

2.              Do say a quick prayer, asking God keep you from being defensive and to show you any truth in the person's words. 

3.         Do hear the criticism without allowing it to affect your self worth.  God can use criticism to point out flaws that He hopes to change.

4.         Do hear the feelings behind the complaints.  Sometimes criticism is the way people say, "I need help.  I feel bad, and I want you to fix it."  Watch for an opportunity to show that you care.  A sensitive, rather than argumentative, response will make the other person feel valued, not demeaned.

5.         Do be ready to admit any fault of your own, no matter how small.

6.         Do ask the person to be part of the solution.  Perhaps they can fill in where they think you're falling short.

7.         Do thank the person for their concern (whether their words show concern or not).  

DON'T

1.         Don't immediately jump to your own defense.  In time, you may need to present your side of the story, but to do so initially will only make your critic try harder to convince you of your fault.  

2.         Don't tell the person they're wrong.  Being adversarial only causes resentment. 

3.         Don't answer immediately, especially if you find your emotions starting to flare.  Instead ask for time to think and pray about what was said.  Tell your critic you'll get back with him later.  (Then do so.)

4.         Don't worry about being right.  It's better to be accused falsely than to lambaste the other person.  Remember that your relationship with the criticizer is more important than who is right.  Differences should be honestly and healthily confronted, but they won’t always be resolved.

Finally, remember that Jesus, too, was criticized and condemned.  But, "when they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats.  Instead he entrusted himself to him who judges justly" (1 Peter 2:23 NIV).  Criticism, and even injustice, are an opportunity to reflect the character of Christ.  

Too Much

Hey Friends,

I've been pondering how life can just be too much sometimes. It sure has been around here lately. I mean, here's some things just in the past week...

In the world: Afghanistan, Covid, Delta Variant

In my community: Horrible racism event at a local high school, yesterday a fatal stabbing at another local high school (one 17 year old dead, a 17 and 14 year old arrested), a double homicide, another attempted homicide, and more

In my family: My daughter gets her second vaccination and goes down right there in CVS with shakes, nausea, sweat, vomiting, intense abdominal pain. 911 and rushed to the hospital. In the ER and get alarmed that my son's blood sugar at school is deadly low. Texting the school to save his life while doctors and nurses are rushing in and out of the ER to help my daughter. (They are both fine now, but wow...)

TOO MUCH. It's all too much. We were not created to bear the burdens of the world. But these days, the 24/7 news makes it possible to know all the heavy, horrible things going on in the world, to add to the burdens of community and family. It is just too much.

So, I find myself emotionally battered. Weary. Burdened. Exhausted. 

But I also find myself finding new strength in the hope and love of Jesus. I'm finding that in these times of Too Much, what's helping me most is seeing God in little, every day things.  I'm finding gratefulness to be a balm to my soul. I'm finding deep breaths, little joys, times of rest to be precious gifts from God to restore my soul. 

And I'm finding things that I've known are true are, well, really true:

--If I cast my burdens on him, I really will find rest for my soul.

--If I wait on Him, I really can mount up on wings like an eagle, run without being so weary, walk and not faint from discouragement and exhaustion.

--If I lean into Him, His strength really is made perfect in my weakness.

--And I really can do all the things he has invited me into with Him because He puts His power in me.

It's all true. Everything He's promised, everything He's done for me, everything he wants for me. And when everything seems too much, I remember that God says to me (in the lyric from an old '70's song by Firefall): "Just remember I love you, and it will be all right. Just remember I love you, more than words can say.

He loves me. And He loves you. We're going to be all right.

Content in ALL Situations??

Hi Friends,

I was looking through some of my old articles and came across this one. Wow, did I need to read this today! Circumstances have gotten rather intense around here ... but God reminds me of what it looks like to rest in Him in ALL things. Maybe this pictures of flowers in France will be an encouragement to you too.

Out of the Flowerbed

 

It seemed as if I were walking in heaven as I strolled the beautiful gardens outside Château de Chenonceau in France. Bright reds, deep purples, glowing oranges, sunny yellows surrounded me and filled the air with a sweet aroma. Many of the flowers were grown for cutting and placing inside the many rooms of the chateau. I wandered through the neat rows of violas, petunias, roses, lilies, tulips, all perfectly kept, watered, groomed, weeded. Beautiful lavender wisteria draped like a jeweled necklace over ancient out-buildings. 

            I took a deep breath and paused. Ah, to be a beautiful rose in the garden of the King!

I looked down. And there, right beside all the perfectly tended garden flowers, sprung a bunch of scattered little white blooms that weren’t tended at all. They sprinkled the lawn just outside the flowerbeds. Tiny little daisies with yellow faces, the same ones that popped up along the roadways, in parking lots, and even at my local high school all the way back in California.

            They weren’t cultivated, or watered, or placed carefully in the flowerbeds. They just grew.  I leaned over and examined the daisies. In the grand gardens of a King’s chateau, these little flowers seemed lost and unappreciated among the larger, fancier varieties. But were they? After all, those flowers needed special care and perfect conditions to bloom. Yet these little daisies, they bloomed and brought beauty everywhere, even in the worst conditions. 

It seems that too often in my life, I’ve strived to be like the cultured tulips, the bold wisteria, the elegant lilies. But now, I think I like the humble daisy better. 

I want to be able to be my best and give my best and bring joy to those around me no matter the circumstances. I want to thrive in the King’s garden and along the roadside and even when being trampled by teenagers. 

            In Philippians 4:11-13 (NIV) Paul says, “Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

            What is this secret of Paul’s and of the simple daisy? Perhaps it’s found in the word for “strengthens.” In the Greek, that word is literally the prefix “in” followed by the word from which we get our word “dynamite.” God doesn’t just beef up what we already have. Instead, he puts his power, his great, might, dynamite power, in us … no matter where we’re planted, whether we’re well-tended or whether we’re feeling stomped on by careless feet. 

So I think about the daisy. I think about how it takes whatever God allows to bring its way; it accepts where God has planted it, and it chooses to be what it was created to be.  And God in-powers it. It doesn’t compare itself to the fancier flowers; it doesn’t cry “if only I were there”, or “if only I looked like that.” It does say “if only” at all. Instead, it determines to grow and become who God created it to be, no matter what.

That’s what I want.  I want “no matter what.”

And like the daisy, I can get it by choosing God’s power instead of my own. I become who I am meant to be by being in-filled with him instead of with fear. I grow and flourish by knowing that by his power placed within me, I can thrive in any and all situations. And I can bring joy and blessing to everyone passing by.

You can too.

Is it Work or Worship?

Hi Friends,

We're just finishing up our fourth horse camp of the summer here at Wonder Wood Ranch, and I've been thinking about the idea of work and worship. And I've remembered an article I wrote years ago that reflected on Psalm 100 and what it means to worship God. I've found the thoughts helpful as we end one week of work and head into another camp next week. See what you think...

WORK or WORSHIP?

Reflections on Psalm 100

by Marlo Schalesky

 

            Where do you worship?  When I ask Christian businesspeople that question, I always get the same answer – the church they attend on Sundays.  And no wonder.  On Sunday mornings we go to worship services, are called to worship by worship leaders, sing songs led by worship teams.  In our culture, worship is what we do on Sunday mornings.  Work is what we do the rest of the week.

            But a closer look at Psalm 100 shows us that maybe we’ve got it all wrong.  Psalm 100:2-3 says:

 

² Worship the LORD with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.  ³ Know that the LORD is God. It is he who made us, and we are his….

 

            At first glance, these verses don’t seem to have anything to do with our work week.  That is, until we realize the Hebrew word used for “worship” in verse two is the same word (abad) used in Exodus 20:9: “Six days you shall laborand do all your work …”  It’s also often translated “serve.”

            Consider the difference when we read Exodus 20:9 in that way:  “Six days you shall worship, you shall serve, and do all your business . . .”  Worship, then, is not just that thing we do in the church building on Sunday mornings.  Worship is what we do in our business; it’s what we do the other six days of the week.  

            If worshipping God, serving Him, is for our workday, then how does that change how we go about doing our regular work?  Again, Psalm 100 helps us to understand.

            Verse two calls us to worship the Lord with gladness.  What attitude do we bring to our work?  Do we complain about it as if it’s a burden?  Is our work something we just get through to make a few bucks?  Or do we engage in our business with an attitude of joy and thankfulness?  If work is worship, then our attitude needs to be one of gladness to serve.

            Psalm 100 also calls us to come before His presence with singing.  While our actual work situation may not allow us to literally sing, we can, at least, pay attention to what’s coming out of our mouths at work.  If work is worship, then things like grumbling and gossip are out of place.  Instead, our speech needs to be more like a song – filled with light and grace.  

            Verse three reminds us to know that the Lord is God and we are His.  We are not the “god” of our workplace.  When we manage others, interact with customers, deal with fellow workers in the workplace, we do it with humility knowing that God is the “big boss” and we are not.

            In the end, Psalm 100 tells us that the Biblical view of worship is for everyday, for our work days.  It’s not just a Sunday event.  We do it with gladness, grace, and humility, knowing that we are worshipping our real boss in heaven.