tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69338125503057143512024-03-05T00:11:42.752-08:00Tales of WonderMarlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.comBlogger725125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-23442194354255846322023-06-30T10:38:00.003-07:002023-06-30T10:38:45.934-07:00A Longing for Jesus (a poem)<p>Hi Friends,</p><p>Life has been tough lately. but I notice that what God is growing in me is an ever deepening longing for Him. And so, I thought of this poem I wrote years ago . . .</p><p><br /></p><div class="WordSection2" style="page: WordSection2;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The Moth</span></u></b></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">As a moth is drawn to light,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">So am I drawn to You, my God.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Though the darkness presses in around me,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And my wings have wearied in the night,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Though I beat against unrelenting glass,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Still my heart longs for Your light.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">I will keep flying, fluttering, straining<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">To be closer, closer, closer yet<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">To You, my desire, my life, my love,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Closer to Jesus, my Light.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6uMhzdBpGo5wtreYQEcftv1EOkECYHtPzwiKjvwQtpzfB9AQgLHbnHBuK2l7ATdqLRTonKNL0Gi_nJP8bhOXqPY8mxU_O627OAdgJT_7c-Z-q6y2Q6HNCDCiLbznTNcHMqB9oi2uzDgm52XVpQgqhVWYVMDn4e2pd8iYlUfTft1r8YI0M79uSZ1vug/s4032/IMG_1094.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6uMhzdBpGo5wtreYQEcftv1EOkECYHtPzwiKjvwQtpzfB9AQgLHbnHBuK2l7ATdqLRTonKNL0Gi_nJP8bhOXqPY8mxU_O627OAdgJT_7c-Z-q6y2Q6HNCDCiLbznTNcHMqB9oi2uzDgm52XVpQgqhVWYVMDn4e2pd8iYlUfTft1r8YI0M79uSZ1vug/s320/IMG_1094.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-84631200958053997562023-03-02T20:13:00.006-08:002023-03-02T20:13:58.278-08:00Are You Carrying Too Much?<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I spent the day with my professional horse trainer daughter today. She helped me with our horse program at Carr Lake School, then we went to see a donkey (she evaluated him!). And we got a new donkey (the pictures of of her and the new guy). She's come a long way since she was a toddler, but both her and I still struggle with carrying too much all at once. Here's a story about that...</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN7yG89-v90LKfaEYa1Lc14Pzw0SgZIQjstXoBm85u87Xw5tTjFgPmCdDxrTbVgfCZqLVM6ogRTIGGSxxwxqnBP_sB3V6sYI10rh6VXOlD6WLSvnpQddwdxLsGl3OFry9NjUtUv-tjWdYOAAXGX3QNSI-2Xc0O4YFz2SSB00xytNTd-Oxbhqwq6lM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN7yG89-v90LKfaEYa1Lc14Pzw0SgZIQjstXoBm85u87Xw5tTjFgPmCdDxrTbVgfCZqLVM6ogRTIGGSxxwxqnBP_sB3V6sYI10rh6VXOlD6WLSvnpQddwdxLsGl3OFry9NjUtUv-tjWdYOAAXGX3QNSI-2Xc0O4YFz2SSB00xytNTd-Oxbhqwq6lM=w280-h373" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>Too Many Toys</b><o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Stop! Wait!” My heart thudded in my throat as I rushed up the stairs toward my toddler daughter. She stood at the very top of the staircase, ready to descend. At least I assumed it was my daughter. All I could see were two little legs sticking out from a giant pile of stuffed animals. The pile consisted of every toy animal that Bria owned. She carried them all, her body completely blocked by the mound she clutched in her arms. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Nooooo! Not another step!” I reached the top and snatched her away from the stairs. “What are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Mumph, murf, umpf, urg.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I tugged a couple fluff balls away from her face. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She grinned. “Mine!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I sighed and looked closer. Not only were her arms filled with animals, but she also held her princess purse, a hat, her favorite socks, and who knows what else. “You can’t carry every single thing you own all at once.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She scowled and clutched the heap tighter. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Especially going down stairs. It’s not safe. You could fall. Big owie!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She didn’t drop a single thing. “Mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I shook my head then proceeded to gently remove one thing after another from Bria’s grip until she held a reasonable three items. She fussed a little, but as we walked back to her room and placed the animals, hats, socks, and purses back where they belonged, she relaxed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I patted the top of her dresser. “Everything’s right here in its place, for when you need it,” I assured her. “But for now, three things are enough to carry. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She huffed, but didn’t disagree. Then she tucked two toys under one arm and gripped the other in her hand. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I extended my arm for her to take my hand with her free one. She did, and we walked back into the hallway and descended the stairs safely, together. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> This wasn’t the first time Bria had overpacked her arms. A couple days before, she’d staggered around the living room with her giant stash of stuff. A week before that, she believed it absolutely necessary to move all her toys from the bedroom to the bathroom, in one trip. I didn’t approve of her methods those other times, but going down stairs with a pile too big to even see around was way beyond the limits.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria didn’t understand limits.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She gets that from her mom.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> It’s true that I don’t carry all my toys in my arms at once, but I do tend to schedule days and weeks so full that I can’t see around the heap. And it certainly isn’t safe to tackle the ups and downs of life carrying such a load. But like Bria, I somehow think I should carry all my life-things at once until I, too, am hobbling around my daily life with a giant load of to-do’s that blind me to dangers, others, and even blind me to joy. I simply can’t see around everything I’ve gathered up in my arms. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So lately, God’s been calling out to me, “Stop! Wait!” as he travels up the stairs to gently remove things from my over-filled arms. It seems that I understand “too much” just about as well as Bria does, which is hardly at all. I need my heavenly Father to teach me. So sometimes, he’s been canceling things for me when he thinks I’m overbooked and in over my head. Sometimes he lets me stagger around the living room until I figure out that too much is too much. Sometimes he quietly points out that I can leave some things in their proper place and just carry the few things that need attention now. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> And hopefully, I, like Bria will learn the right amount to carry at once. Hopefully, I’ll recognize what is safe, and what causes me to not be able to see where I need to go. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> These days, I’m pondering Psalm 118:5-6 (NIV): “When hard pressed, I cried to the Lord; he brought me into a spacious place. The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He brings me to a spacious place, a place where I can see, where I can breathe, where I can face the ups and downs of my life with one hand in his. He brings me to a place where my arms are no longer so full that I can’t see him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The Lord is with me. I just need to stop carrying everything all at once.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-71971442045089078982023-01-26T12:25:00.000-08:002023-01-26T12:25:21.226-08:00Slogging through Mud? Here's Hope!<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>We're just getting over some HUGE winter rainstorms, with flooding, mudslides, fallen trees, etc. I was reminded of this story from a few winters ago . . .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ061SmFqi3El3cCBykJmneEx_p-lsKeCeRpK3XAbXwLy8IqltD2lzssef0gmk3Y5HmABlaXP-83TaDf1oKS-AUcgUk3UvUlgcD9R5ngRdVJSuTCQqp-uhcpi_z9q-xZH99xCJOY_VZRMY42hGMwp_XazpYeagkcPIBuRZtpcsuuv_nkkQa4Mfw8/s4032/IMG_0802.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ061SmFqi3El3cCBykJmneEx_p-lsKeCeRpK3XAbXwLy8IqltD2lzssef0gmk3Y5HmABlaXP-83TaDf1oKS-AUcgUk3UvUlgcD9R5ngRdVJSuTCQqp-uhcpi_z9q-xZH99xCJOY_VZRMY42hGMwp_XazpYeagkcPIBuRZtpcsuuv_nkkQa4Mfw8/s320/IMG_0802.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold";">Winter Wonderland?</span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold";"><br /></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In winter, we don’t get snow. We get rain. A lot of it. It falls from the sky in tiny sprinkles, in waving sheets, in giant bucket-dumping sloshes until driveways glisten and puddles form enticing pools for kids to jump in with their new canvas tennis shoes. It rains until potholes become craters and horse pens become mud baths. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Until there’s nothing but mud and muck and mess.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m a much bigger fan of spring. At least, I used to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After all, the winter slog is the same every year. I slip on oversized rubber boots, tramp through swamp-like terrain to clean horse stalls, scoop out puddle-filled pig pens, and scrap gunk off equines who have all become the same dark brown color of soggy dirt. Palominos, greys, whites, chestnuts, and duns … all the color of wet earth. Then I trudge back home. I wipe doggie feet. I wash shoes. I clean too many floors. I do it all over again the next day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And I thank God for the rain because I live in California where there have been too many years of drought.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But mud is no fun. Muck can be discouraging. And nobody likes a mess.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We like life to be tidy. We like it to go according to plan, our ducks in a row, our horses all their natural colors. Just as it should be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We like the spring. Winter is too messy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Yet, as I pull on the big rubber boots one more time, grab a shovel, and head to the barn, I notice something. The patches of clover that died in the fall have started to come to life again. A few bright yellow flowers dot a landscape that had turned to dust. And the little sprigs I planted months ago, the ones that refused to grow in the autumn heat, have perked up their heads and have just begun to look more like plants than dried weeds. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Maybe the mess and muck and mud aren’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s precisely in the mess that new life can take root … on the path to the barn and in life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> After all, it was through the mud of the parted Red Sea that God led his people out of slavery and to a new life of freedom (Exodus 14). It was in the muck of a stable that the Savior and Messiah was born and God became human is the mess of childbirth (Luke 2). And it was through the mire and horror of beatings and a bloody death on a Roman cross that redemption and reconciliation were won for us all. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Perhaps God does his best work in the mud and messes of life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And so, maybe, it is time to be a fan of winter. Because winter reminds us that it is often in the yuck of life that God works most powerfully to bring new life, new hope, and amazing redemption. It’s in the messy places that we find new ways to bloom through his grace. Those places in life where rain has come instead of snow and it’s made a mess of things, those times when we have to put on the big boots and muddle through as best we can, those areas of life that aren’t neat and tidy as we hoped and planned … those are the very places in which God is most deeply at work to bring new growth and new life. It’s in the messiest parts of life that we most fully encounter God’s wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So as I’m slogging through the mud of winter, wiping away grimy paw prints yet again, scrubbing shoes that were once clean, and dreaming of the picture-perfect scenes of spring, I remind myself that it’s here, in the mess, that I encounter the beauty of an active and loving God. It’s here that I find him with sleeves rolled up, working to bring me out of slavery, to come into my world and give me good news of great joy, and to redeem all the mud and muck for his glory. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It is here that I encounter God’s winter wonderland. And today, I am glad that it’s winter.<o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-44739980440557271652023-01-11T11:31:00.001-08:002023-01-11T11:31:42.171-08:00Before You're Face Down at the Bottom of the Cage...<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I'll be sharing this story this week at Juvenile Hall ... about being real, being honest about who and how you are. It's probably time for all of us to tell the truth before we find ourselves face down at the bottom on the cage . . .</p><p><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: center;"><u></u></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: center;"><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqYDxGGyFXyGt3acCwMCrUKaAi-dT5YoGQG9CXplfY0yHOvsRU-iLspVag-fzXc0NtsBhnXuz-_RVmylcVJBxRHnCh9kBueK39MOn_vCHntG7XGPTLZtou7VpJlf1SkeLuxHVkRPWJ76uwjBD6U_ne0CkGcr-8VqxfOwGO1TdUXHtokmhPoQ8nZ98/s612/istockphoto-619402640-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqYDxGGyFXyGt3acCwMCrUKaAi-dT5YoGQG9CXplfY0yHOvsRU-iLspVag-fzXc0NtsBhnXuz-_RVmylcVJBxRHnCh9kBueK39MOn_vCHntG7XGPTLZtou7VpJlf1SkeLuxHVkRPWJ76uwjBD6U_ne0CkGcr-8VqxfOwGO1TdUXHtokmhPoQ8nZ98/w407-h271/istockphoto-619402640-612x612.jpg" width="407" /></a></u></b></div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></b><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Face Down at the Bottom of the Cage</span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> It was a big, fat lie. I smiled as I said it. And what’s worse, I told it in the church foyer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> A friend touched my shoulder. “How’re you doing?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Fine. Thanks.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> She nodded and made her way into the sanctuary.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> <i>Fine. I’m doing fine.</i> I’ve told that lie a hundred times, maybe a thousand. But it was never bigger than that morning. Two days before I’d found out that the baby I was carrying had died. And in two days more I was scheduled for surgery to remove the empty egg sac that was still in me. So, I was not fine. Not at all.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I wouldn’t have thought twice about my lie except when I came home that day I found one of my lovebirds dead at the bottom of the cage. I trembled as I backed away and called to my husband. “Bryan, can you come in here?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> He walked over and stared at the bird. “What happened?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno. It looked fine yesterday.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “How did it go from fine to dead in a day?” Bryan put on a gardening glove, reached in the cage, and removed the dead bird. “Well, there’s no marks on it. Feels a little skinny though. You’d better look in that book we got on lovebirds.”<br /> I shivered and turned away. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Are you all right?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “I’m fine.” I said the lie again, softer this time, quieter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Fine, huh?” Bryan put the dead bird in a box, then waited as I retrieved the book about lovebirds and flipped through the pages. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I read about various diseases and sick birds. Then, I stopped and looked up. “Wow, look at this.” I pointed to a paragraph in the book. “It says here that a lovebird will hide its sickness until it’s about to die. You can’t tell it’s even sick unless you weigh it twice a week.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Bryan nodded. “It’s too bad. If we’d have known, we could have tried to do something.” He tossed the book onto the table. “Too late now, of course.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I sank into a chair and stared at the one bird left in the cage. “If only we’d known . . .” It was then that my lie came back to me. <i>Fine. Thanks.</i> I was no different than that foolish lovebird. By instinct, I, too, hid my emotional and spiritual sickness. Hid it so well that no one would know I needed help.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Perhaps that’s why the Bible says, “Therefore each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to his neighbor, for we are all members of one body.” (Ephesians 4:25, NIV) I’d always thought that verse meant I shouldn’t try to manipulate others with my words. And it does mean that. But maybe it also means that I must open myself to fellow believers. I need to allow them into my life with truth and honesty. I have to be vulnerable if I am to be healed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> And if I’m not, I may find myself, one day soon, face down at the bottom of my cage.<o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-71335497894261961672022-12-29T18:17:00.003-08:002022-12-29T18:17:46.777-08:00Encountering Christ in the Mud of Life<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>Got rainstorms here lately which of course means lots of mud! So, here are some related thoughts for life. See what you think!</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwg2QURAwqtZ8r6V2_uACLY4to74dggEPte6Fn4xL5bXxQ0FEkEkYIvF44blpNJHsrawFzP4kkoIPCDJ3qaNE1wQkl-EQgt19jKSSZkiWxvmTgiiDuuqWG9qMkGd_Xq1SaGO_8N365GHjO7mCjiBsGUZnAVds8qWAVhLFYmv3_eOKig7ofHQz-Fk/s4032/IMG_0458.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwg2QURAwqtZ8r6V2_uACLY4to74dggEPte6Fn4xL5bXxQ0FEkEkYIvF44blpNJHsrawFzP4kkoIPCDJ3qaNE1wQkl-EQgt19jKSSZkiWxvmTgiiDuuqWG9qMkGd_Xq1SaGO_8N365GHjO7mCjiBsGUZnAVds8qWAVhLFYmv3_eOKig7ofHQz-Fk/s320/IMG_0458.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold";">Winter Wonderland?<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In winter, we don’t get snow. We get rain. A lot of it. It falls from the sky in tiny sprinkles, in waving sheets, in giant bucket-dumping sloshes until driveways glisten and puddles form enticing pools for kids to jump in with their new canvas tennis shoes. It rains until potholes become craters and horse pens become mud baths. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Until there’s nothing but mud and muck and mess.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m a much bigger fan of spring. At least, I used to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After all, the winter slog is the same every year. I slip on oversized rubber boots, tramp through swamp-like terrain to clean horse stalls, scoop out puddle-filled pig pens, and scrap gunk off equines who have all become the same dark brown color of soggy dirt. Palominos, greys, whites, chestnuts, and duns … all the color of wet earth. Then I trudge back home. I wipe doggie feet. I wash shoes. I clean too many floors. I do it all over again the next day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And I thank God for the rain because I live in California where there have been too many years of drought.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But mud is no fun. Muck can be discouraging. And nobody likes a mess.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We like life to be tidy. We like it to go according to plan, our ducks in a row, our horses all their natural colors. Just as it should be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We like the spring. Winter is too messy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Yet, as I pull on the big rubber boots one more time, grab a shovel, and head to the barn, I notice something. The patches of clover that died in the fall have started to come to life again. A few bright yellow flowers dot a landscape that had turned to dust. And the little sprigs I planted months ago, the ones that refused to grow in the autumn heat, have perked up their heads and have just begun to look more like plants than dried weeds. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Maybe the mess and muck and mud aren’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s precisely in the mess that new life can take root … on the path to the barn and in life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> After all, it was through the mud of the parted Red Sea that God led his people out of slavery and to a new life of freedom (Exodus 14). It was in the muck of a stable that the Savior and Messiah was born and God became human is the mess of childbirth (Luke 2). And it was through the mire and horror of beatings and a bloody death on a Roman cross that redemption and reconciliation were won for us all. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Perhaps God does his best work in the mud and messes of life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And so, maybe, it is time to be a fan of winter. Because winter reminds us that it is often in the yuck of life that God works most powerfully to bring new life, new hope, and amazing redemption. It’s in the messy places that we find new ways to bloom through his grace. Those places in life where rain has come instead of snow and it’s made a mess of things, those times when we have to put on the big boots and muddle through as best we can, those areas of life that aren’t neat and tidy as we hoped and planned … those are the very places in which God is most deeply at work to bring new growth and new life. It’s in the messiest parts of life that we most fully encounter God’s wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So as I’m slogging through the mud of winter, wiping away grimy paw prints yet again, scrubbing shoes that were once clean, and dreaming of the picture-perfect scenes of spring, I remind myself that it’s here, in the mess, that I encounter the beauty of an active and loving God. It’s here that I find him with sleeves rolled up, working to bring me out of slavery, to come into my world and give me good news of great joy, and to redeem all the mud and muck for his glory. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It is here that I encounter God’s winter wonderland. And today, I am glad that it’s winter.<o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-42278023135084059532022-12-14T13:06:00.003-08:002022-12-14T13:06:55.127-08:00Learning to Wait - An Advent Reflection<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I was just talking with a friend who's incarcerated in juvenile hall and thinking about how, for him, Christmas will mean waiting in the "not yet" place of life. His brother is enjoying life overseas. His family will be enjoying a fun Christmas together, his siblings will be able to head down to the local corner store to pick up some Christmas tamales. And he will be in the hall spending Christmas with the other inmates. He will be waiting, hoping, and looking forward to the day when he can join his family and be home. </p><p>And that's what Advent is all about. We're all waiting, hoping, and looking forward with eager anticipation to the moment when Christ is born, when "home" makes His home in our hearts. </p><p>So, for all who are in the waiting place this Christmas season, here is a story from when my Bethany was little. I hope it will encourage you . . .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwx_g11Mo207eu4HESsZwEgdtpOD_Z7onmap8PLheRI5CQ6MOODyfrjTRtDGDOP4E0XmvAGZsv3NdjMRzyQKzWY6YA405mgURxdpj2_HhWDQ14hSoZpEdwKGvCN33HAM2h2zpobPTbW8r3gu-PhSYM3yzUGm9-eyOjMZrCNqcpqlJv7xcSuYDGaFg/s1125/pexels-photo-1646325.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1125" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwx_g11Mo207eu4HESsZwEgdtpOD_Z7onmap8PLheRI5CQ6MOODyfrjTRtDGDOP4E0XmvAGZsv3NdjMRzyQKzWY6YA405mgURxdpj2_HhWDQ14hSoZpEdwKGvCN33HAM2h2zpobPTbW8r3gu-PhSYM3yzUGm9-eyOjMZrCNqcpqlJv7xcSuYDGaFg/w394-h262/pexels-photo-1646325.jpeg" width="394" /></a></div><p class="MsoTitle" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt; font-weight: bold; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt;"><br />Christmas Bulb Blues<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My one-year-old daughter stood on her tiptoes and reached for a glass bulb halfway up the Christmas tree. Her fingers wiggled as she struggled to grab the bright red orb. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I leaned back on the couch and shook my head. The tree looked silly this year, with the lights and bulbs reaching only partially down the branches. Everything glass I had carefully hung out of the reach of tiny hands. Other decorations were placed differently this year as well. The ceramic old-fashioned Santa was now on top of the bookcase. The green candles sat high on a shelf. And the coffee table, usually decorated with my Precious Moments nativity, was completely bare. Instead the Joseph, Mary, Baby Jesus, and the wise men crowded on top of the television on some cotton “snow.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">But none of those things interested Bethany now. All that mattered was to get her hands on that beautiful, shiny ball that hung just beyond her fingertips. With a grunt she reached higher, then toppled backward. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Waaaaa!” came her frustrated cry. She pointed to the bulb, looked at me, then let out another indignant shriek. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, Bethany, you can’t have that.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Her lower lip trembled. Great tears welled in her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks. She pointed at the bulb again. “Ma-ma-ma-ma-maaaa…”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No,” I repeated. “It’s not for you.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">She pushed herself to a standing position, stomped her feet, and cried all the louder. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I handed her a stuffed reindeer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">She promptly threw it on the floor. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I sighed, picked her up, and took her to her crib. A few minutes there and she’d remember how to be a good girl and take “no” for an answer. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I returned to the family room and glanced at the offending bulb. It really was beautiful, with swirls of deep red and a two silver stripes made of glitter. I removed it from the branch and held it in my hand. In a few years, Bethany would not only be able to touch this bulb, but she’d probably be helping me to place it on the tree. But for now she wasn’t ready. I’d heard stories of babies breaking ornaments and putting the shards in their mouths. Just the thought made me shiver. Bethany, however, didn’t understand that she wasn’t old enough to be trusted with a glass bulb. To her, it was something good, something desirable. So, why would I not allow her to have it? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I turned the bulb over and place it on the back of the tree, even further out of Bethany’s reach. Then, I went to get her from her crib. As I did, I realized my daughter’s actions weren’t so different from my own. I, too, stomped my feet and cried when God didn’t give me the good things that I wanted. I thought about the new book contract I was praying for, my hopes for new members for our small church, the house we’d put an offer on but weren’t able to buy. Good things, all of them, as good as a shiny red Christmas bulb. But for me too, these bulbs were just out of reach. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As I put Bethany on the floor to play with the stuffed reindeer, I wondered if God was also saying to me, “You’re not ready yet. Wait.” What if He was simply letting me “grow up” a bit before he gave me the good things that I wanted? If so, I needed to focus on growing in him, and trusting him to know what’s best for me in this particular place in my life. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">For me, like Bethany, that’s been a difficult thing to do. It’s hard to trust. But God says to me, “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11, NIV) And so, when those good things I want are just out of reach, I have to remind myself, sometimes it’s right to wait. Sometimes, I may just need to grow up.<o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-37255756737565224302022-11-17T16:38:00.000-08:002022-11-17T16:38:17.341-08:00Tasting the Turkey<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>My husband just shared this oldie-but-goodie with the staff at our church for a fun little Thanksgiving devotional. See what you think! (Picture is from our recent visit to visit our college girls at SLO!)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUPlFZC-YQ-LaUFFh6s3Dawa4eqETcj0KvriV5oVnGZGoBhClYolhY5qtO9ChK1LQ8TK_INnny3tMfSA2Ogy_noJ_pNQ2hBbG9CYS1-BxgAJC5mmuDhqHFIW5xHeBvnd1wsmdvnhAIyrUOIrJeFCDaKfuXYZy73UlSOD6qUcpLJ5spitx7qqxUgU/s4032/IMG_0153.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUPlFZC-YQ-LaUFFh6s3Dawa4eqETcj0KvriV5oVnGZGoBhClYolhY5qtO9ChK1LQ8TK_INnny3tMfSA2Ogy_noJ_pNQ2hBbG9CYS1-BxgAJC5mmuDhqHFIW5xHeBvnd1wsmdvnhAIyrUOIrJeFCDaKfuXYZy73UlSOD6qUcpLJ5spitx7qqxUgU/s320/IMG_0153.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 24pt;">Tasting the Turkey<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">"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. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">This is my favorite part of Thanksgiving,</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">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?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Hey, that's not fair!," I burst forth. My cheeks grew red with annoyance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"No, it's not fair," he agreed. "Not fair to Joe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“To Joe?” I questioned. “What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“I mean it's not fair because Joe missed the greatest joys in life." <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"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!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My Pastor smiled. “Do you really think so?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I lowered my head and stared at my feet. Then, I shrugged my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Pastor Ron cleared his throat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I looked up at him again. His mouth was quirked in a strange half-grin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Tell me," he continued, "have you ever sneaked into the kitchen to taste a little bit of turkey before the Thanksgiving meal?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"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."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Wow," I whispered, "I never thought of it like that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">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."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-84058496847728495422022-11-03T13:41:00.000-07:002022-11-03T13:41:02.865-07:00When You're a Muddy Mess<p><b>Hey all,</b></p><p>We brought our white horses, Blizzard and Flint, into Carr Lake Community Day School (an alternative ed school for kids who have been expelled from other schools) today. We had a great time talking about the stories of these rescue horses and and trouble with having white horses in winter (wow, they get dirty!). Here's an excerpt, and a take-away for us all:</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqUVZrO68RRT7fWaoes162sz5vEjV2P9cIZmIPI6E66lFRLZUFuTZO6v6l7NRMaRAS-D2Mfe0zk_59C0l3qCgchSzbSbXdy0qj1BCfMXU0POypvMiPO5IEzBuurVC-uIOpadJgSN25Scrzc_B4nFI9n_MQDRHSEtd7pw5XILs6K_nj8TtNhecS2U/s4032/IMG_0093.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqUVZrO68RRT7fWaoes162sz5vEjV2P9cIZmIPI6E66lFRLZUFuTZO6v6l7NRMaRAS-D2Mfe0zk_59C0l3qCgchSzbSbXdy0qj1BCfMXU0POypvMiPO5IEzBuurVC-uIOpadJgSN25Scrzc_B4nFI9n_MQDRHSEtd7pw5XILs6K_nj8TtNhecS2U/w284-h379/IMG_0093.jpeg" width="284" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> I, too, often become a muddy mess when confronted with the storms of life. When the rain beats down hard and creates so much muck and mud that I not only find myself standing in it, but I also wallow it. And sometimes it stains me dark brown and nasty green.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes I am not who I was created to be, not anymore.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> But God do isn't leave me that way. Like me with my horses, God gets out the brushes and hose and delights to make me clean and whole again.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> So when we look at ourselves and say, “Girl (or boy), you’re a muddy mess!” it’s good to remember that our God sees beneath the dirt and stains. He loves us enough to make us clean and beautiful again, no matter how many times we roll in the muck.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzcs2RwrR-UHgxaskum0kW6kRPM5tr-88odtuO1WjbGqiGQQMaXzzTwCdgtq-TJDWCu9HugUx6bWm1If9jIg2LXOR713NlNXsuLF-z75ypXLBx7vs_KE2FSDeUO3KTf8YQ8tuqcKyL8hBYlgzbQ_rclrbmUn-FT5zsi34zhrUAIrVpnY2Tou6sEI/s4032/IMG_0090.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzcs2RwrR-UHgxaskum0kW6kRPM5tr-88odtuO1WjbGqiGQQMaXzzTwCdgtq-TJDWCu9HugUx6bWm1If9jIg2LXOR713NlNXsuLF-z75ypXLBx7vs_KE2FSDeUO3KTf8YQ8tuqcKyL8hBYlgzbQ_rclrbmUn-FT5zsi34zhrUAIrVpnY2Tou6sEI/w441-h331/IMG_0090.jpeg" width="441" /></a></div><p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-80216135153861421222022-10-20T17:28:00.000-07:002022-10-20T17:28:03.292-07:00Get Rid of Those Dead Branches!<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>It's tree trimming time of year again, and I was reminded of this story when Grandpa and I trimmed trees together . . .</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg217IveWYDAygRMFhSTZtUv8ISKrgQ990tTUR2Sgnc397_FaXbmEk-LLd_z80d_wi8HA9pgGCiFsxZYiksqCMlm0svEsd-cM09j9f-jsMMiAxThf7vb1w8f4pfxjmDbf-MoMjYujpw6zD6TKLgZTuE2BxunnDJEVSh6bqL1xkY3oJUREiMm19iGJg/s4032/IMG_9988.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg217IveWYDAygRMFhSTZtUv8ISKrgQ990tTUR2Sgnc397_FaXbmEk-LLd_z80d_wi8HA9pgGCiFsxZYiksqCMlm0svEsd-cM09j9f-jsMMiAxThf7vb1w8f4pfxjmDbf-MoMjYujpw6zD6TKLgZTuE2BxunnDJEVSh6bqL1xkY3oJUREiMm19iGJg/w374-h280/IMG_9988.jpeg" width="374" /></a></div><h3 align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; margin: 15pt 0in 7.5pt; text-align: center;"><span class="text"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Trimming Trees with Grandpa</span></span></h3><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I stared up at the branches of the oak tree and swung the puny set of clippers in my hand. It was hot. The branches were high. But not high enough. At least not according to my kids.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I walked around the tree trunk twice, evaluating the task at hand. A moment later, three of my daughters rode up on their horses and stopped outside the tree’s canopy. “If it was all just a foot higher,” one said, “we could ride underneath and not hit our heads.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I sighed. “But the shade is better this way.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Mooooom.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I know, I know. Not safe.” I groaned. I knew I needed to do some trimming, but it would be so much easier to just let the branches be. Maybe it would be better to wait for the weather to be cooler, or for a better set of clippers, or for life to be easier, or to feel more encouraged,or energetic, or hopeful, or passionate, or … <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I drew a deep breath. No. Today was the day. Even though it was hard work, and I was ill equipped, and, well, I really didn’t feel like it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Still, I raised the clippers and made my first cut on the lowest branch. Snip, snap. A twig skittered down my shirt. Snap, snip. Another twig and three dry leaves stuck in my hair. Snip, snip, crack! A bigger branch came tumbling down. I jumped aside. Then, I squinted up into the canopy. The small hole I’d made revealed a network of dead branches tucked behind the living ones, branches I hadn’t noticed before. They were ugly, unhealthy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I stood on my tiptoes but couldn’t reach the newly exposed deadness. Now what was I going to do? I couldn’t leave all that bare lifelessness just hanging there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I turned to see Grandpa striding toward me, a frown marring his brow. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I stared up at the tree again. “Trimming! But this is a bigger job than I thought.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Grandpa moved beside me and glanced up at the dead branches. “You need a chainsaw for that. And a ladder.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I don’t know how to work the chainsaw.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">He laughed. “A chainsaw is above your pay grade.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I smiled as Grandpa trundled back to his garage and came back with a ladder and saw. Then together, and only together, we began to tackle the hard-to-reach branches. I held the ladder and handed him tools. He trimmed and cut. And we both looked for more dead branches nestled within the canopy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In time, the deadness was gone, the tree branches were higher, and the tree was lush and lovely, just as it was meant to be. I grinned. Grandpa grinned. Then we sat down beneath the tree and enjoyed some iced tea in the shade. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After a few minutes, Grandpa set down his glass and murmured, “This will be better when winter comes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“What do you mean?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Winter storms. Wind can blow through the branches because they’re cleaned up. Storm won’t knock this tree down.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And all because we cleared away the deadness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">There are dead places in my life too. In John 15:2 (NIV), Jesus says of God, “He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” In the original Greek, the word for “he prunes” is the same as the word for “he cleans.” Just as Grandpa helped me to clean up the oak tree, so too God helps me to clean up the dead places in my life so I can be more fruitful, more of what he created me to be. It’s not an easy task. And the chainsaw of life is also above my pay grade. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmFSCQHRtuV8SiKWWx1NnhSAxIe6E7de1jViGxio3LHawVOquH43_Pa2Q-KjnzZYdSQhDRW4EXoOAp9ENyUgRyCpW4cZYs1uBZdltMinuudH-crF7xy1P0my0SGdd3sOPVOXXv7VMOJQfw9HNDsda_UfRxgxUCBJe7NN4FgWX_g4Yg1a7Q8VkKw28" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmFSCQHRtuV8SiKWWx1NnhSAxIe6E7de1jViGxio3LHawVOquH43_Pa2Q-KjnzZYdSQhDRW4EXoOAp9ENyUgRyCpW4cZYs1uBZdltMinuudH-crF7xy1P0my0SGdd3sOPVOXXv7VMOJQfw9HNDsda_UfRxgxUCBJe7NN4FgWX_g4Yg1a7Q8VkKw28" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But God comes alongside me. He brings the ladder and wields the chainsaw. He is the one to cut and prune. Yet, I must stand with him, looking for the dead places, doing my part. Together, God and I can make my life into the beautiful tree it was meant to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Because when the dead branches are cleared away, my kids can safely run and play in my shade. I will provide a better resting place from the heat of the sun, and more importantly, God and I can sit in the shade and enjoy a refreshing drink of grace together. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And when the storms come, and I know they’ll come, I won’t be blown off course because now the Holy Spirit can now rustle through my branches.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-84150135240835360792022-10-06T17:51:00.001-07:002022-10-06T17:51:13.130-07:00Watching for Wonder at Juvenile Hall<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>Just a quick note today. As you probably know, I've been so enjoying my time with our horses and animals at juvenile hall. The guys there are so receptive to honest, open relationships and appreciate the time we spend with them. They are SUCH good role models in that way (who knew?!?!). </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-Z8v2aUQBD-gYNtp4tYvRsb0737tkK1fz76Aqqx60uJyh_zHoWuuOBlcWxYP3IDexB7yQPn-y419At0k_245ikw6j-rWV9U4rjCL_8yTewhO52H7IG-OADc_JWdz4_H44f8rUTHejUl3LeCsJPXCSR3l123Z__r50K9MC9JofSfPePSdRoz3J8tc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-Z8v2aUQBD-gYNtp4tYvRsb0737tkK1fz76Aqqx60uJyh_zHoWuuOBlcWxYP3IDexB7yQPn-y419At0k_245ikw6j-rWV9U4rjCL_8yTewhO52H7IG-OADc_JWdz4_H44f8rUTHejUl3LeCsJPXCSR3l123Z__r50K9MC9JofSfPePSdRoz3J8tc=w358-h269" width="358" /></a></div>I am reminded that we, too, are often "incarcerated" in this life. And what if we, if I, received whatever God brought to me with gratitude, openness, and appreciation. What if I spent my time watching for the wonder God brings? I want to do that!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaal0_WBMsd1UDC2L3OtsrzGsEso5MP3q7F2TvKvcYd6KnlHUG1aNk7FS1Wpi5AMjaybQ5M5fjyslf9g_6tgp0SCFMut6QiEoAdu-uzusXcdDidFMMLATMihQnsKTkYJUT8XBtmbQGX8teNyvBICjKv28vITX6XiybnwL95S6JHRr5GsHyW2NQYIs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaal0_WBMsd1UDC2L3OtsrzGsEso5MP3q7F2TvKvcYd6KnlHUG1aNk7FS1Wpi5AMjaybQ5M5fjyslf9g_6tgp0SCFMut6QiEoAdu-uzusXcdDidFMMLATMihQnsKTkYJUT8XBtmbQGX8teNyvBICjKv28vITX6XiybnwL95S6JHRr5GsHyW2NQYIs" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I've learned other things from the guys, too. Things like ...</p><p>--there's beauty all around me, even in difficult situations</p><p>--I matter (just like they matter) and am beloved by God no matter what I've done</p><p>--I am seen, heard, and Someone cares</p><p>--I have a choice - I can receive what God is offering to me, or I can choose to be closed off, angry, resentful. I can also choose gratitude or blame. I choose gratitude!</p><p>--I am not alone. God is always with me.</p><p>Anyway, those are just a few of the things I'm pondering and letting sink deep as I meet with these kids who have made terrible mistakes, have been through terrible trauma, and are precious, wondrous, unique and beautiful people. When I am with them, I see God.</p><p>I hope you see Him where you are too!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1SWKAbq1MXaPTRSci8na8ZbN3qOXUxqBUjamgTGPwlKJCqz5qecjl_ovYlgMWGeDoOEkbT44OOyd4Ljxn4ebwfHaPvQ58__8E9454I4Ew3_fkhscGRG8SvSwzxjmSd4Wlvc-cHAZv1wUyn7Hwfi2Sp1_P3njh8jaVfKZRNdshXPE_lhiWlJQ41QA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1SWKAbq1MXaPTRSci8na8ZbN3qOXUxqBUjamgTGPwlKJCqz5qecjl_ovYlgMWGeDoOEkbT44OOyd4Ljxn4ebwfHaPvQ58__8E9454I4Ew3_fkhscGRG8SvSwzxjmSd4Wlvc-cHAZv1wUyn7Hwfi2Sp1_P3njh8jaVfKZRNdshXPE_lhiWlJQ41QA=w310-h412" width="310" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-14609389022898503232022-09-21T19:45:00.004-07:002022-09-21T19:45:41.066-07:00Dare to Trust<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I've been thinking about this story to share at juvenile hall. See what you think! Maybe you will find this story of two wild horses encouraging as well.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVCuQDvwUU7Cobs-e7KGxCnKjcmcu6TxlUiRHvEl3N5QscyG3UaqsQIqwYJ2ET1ZZSrFq0QFjVhqhTo8lUQ5a-WhTN2BKc44oSMnVQH4n5Gn33KwquNLgOwO4KdqA1N8SCjJKkAFWamaEw29yWZ4g4uv3pqfBC39DOxu4tSCufudCRW0HmRIVAIPI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1680" data-original-width="2464" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVCuQDvwUU7Cobs-e7KGxCnKjcmcu6TxlUiRHvEl3N5QscyG3UaqsQIqwYJ2ET1ZZSrFq0QFjVhqhTo8lUQ5a-WhTN2BKc44oSMnVQH4n5Gn33KwquNLgOwO4KdqA1N8SCjJKkAFWamaEw29yWZ4g4uv3pqfBC39DOxu4tSCufudCRW0HmRIVAIPI=w412-h281" width="412" /></a></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold";">Two Wild Horses<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Two new horses. Untrained. Barely handled. I looked at the two in their stalls in my barn. Both were sweet, both had a kind eye, but one gazed back at me with trust while the other snorted with suspicion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I walked over and pet the mare, Cookie, who turned her head to accept my embrace. Maverick snorted again. I raised a hand slowly to touch his face over the fence. He allowed the touch, but no more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I sighed. A few weeks earlier we had picked both horses up from the equine rescue. My daughters wanted to train up a couple horses for the rescue so that they would be more easily adoptable. A summer project, they said. To help the horses and the rescue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I’d agreed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So there they were, two wild horses, ready to be transformed into the animals they were meant to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Weeks passed. My daughters worked diligently with both horses. The mare loved the work. She loved to have people come give her attention. She trusted her young trainers, listened carefully, and met them every day at her gate. With each new lesson, she tried to learn, endeavored to understand. She even allowed the farrier to trim her hooves and keep her feet healthy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The gelding wanted to please as well. He wanted to learn. But he was afraid. He stood at the back of his stall, unsure if he could trust a person enough to walk forward. What if someone hurt him? What if it went badly? What if those training him were cruel instead of kind? He tried too. He endeavored to understand. But his fears interfered with his training. He wouldn’t allow the farrier near his feet, even though they were badly in need of a trim and hurting him. So he had to endure too-long hooves with chips and cracks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The end of the summer drew near. The mare was already being ridden, learning reining cues and how to stop, turn, start. She had come a long way from the horse who knew nothing except that her trainer was to be trusted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The gelding had come a long way too. My daughters could touch him, lead him, and saddle him. But he still couldn’t be ridden. A rider scared him too much. Once, he’d kick one of my girls. Another time he’d spun and kicked out at another. And his hooves were still long and broken.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> My daughters had spent their summer simply trying to gain his trust. And they’d been able to move forward. But the horse who was able to trust had learned so much more. She was happier, healthier, and ready to accept new challenges. Fears had not held her back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In the end, we ended up adopting the mare. She trusted us, so we could trust her. The gelding was scheduled to go back to the rescue to be further trained and worked with until he could have his feet trimmed and learn to trust a rider.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> As I thought about those two horses, I saw that trust is key to growth. When I am like the mare, trusting God, eager for his presence and his lessons, I move forward in relationship with him with less pain and able to accept his love. I can hold still for his care and move forward with nice, trimmed toes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> When I am like the gelding, snorting, holding back, fearful, God still works with me, loves me, trains me, but the task is more difficult and filled with unnecessary pain.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Sometimes, like the gelding, I have good reasons for my lack of trust, lack of faith. Things in my past have hurt me, made me suspicious, cautious, and sometimes fearful. But whether I reasons or not, the results are the same. Fear hurts me. Lack of trust and faith keeps me from fully becoming who I was created to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Reasons or not, trust is better.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Psalm 112:6-8 (NIV) tells us, “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Surely the righteous will never be shaken…They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord. Their hearts are secure, they will have no fear…”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So, as I stand in my barn, considering the difference between two wild horses, I know that I want to be more like Cookie, the mare. I want to dare to trust more, believe more, love more. Despite my past hurts. Despite past pain.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I want to dare to trust the God who loves me, and let him guide me as a rider guides the horse he loves. I want a steadfast heart that trusts God without fear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> And I want to be his forever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-56045303944152464912022-09-08T19:10:00.005-07:002022-09-08T19:10:47.417-07:00Faith or Fear?<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>Just shared this story at juvenile hall this week. Maybe you will also find it encouraging...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXeQGX-dbOPYZAvVwGIsHGQj6qNNds7GLYChAbOGYTHOWQk6-iGWTOhHj0UNaDkR_ZJvspYE0Zwr-JHK-cUOht5MLZg3dHv0MloU8ECZz5rwhSk20tpG39MWVqIfT-WRwvsRfUlCe0NFyhzqwJHp2oGnqkFDxKcX1MoMM9KH7PWXuTQAsld4vUeMM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXeQGX-dbOPYZAvVwGIsHGQj6qNNds7GLYChAbOGYTHOWQk6-iGWTOhHj0UNaDkR_ZJvspYE0Zwr-JHK-cUOht5MLZg3dHv0MloU8ECZz5rwhSk20tpG39MWVqIfT-WRwvsRfUlCe0NFyhzqwJHp2oGnqkFDxKcX1MoMM9KH7PWXuTQAsld4vUeMM=w286-h381" width="286" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Faith or Fear?</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="Byline" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The door burst open. Bethany rushed through, her thirteen-year-old sister screaming in her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I leapt from the couch. “What happened?”<br /> “Comet trampled her.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria loved her new horse. She spent hours with him, and nothing like this had ever happened before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bethany hurried to the couch and laid a writhing Bria on it. I knelt beside her. “Where does it hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Tears streamed down her face as she pointed to her pelvis and upper thighs. “My lower back too,” she gasped.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Ever so carefully we pulled off her jeans and examined the deep, already-forming bruises. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Can you move your toes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She did. “He, he got scared.” She spoke between sobs. “Didn’t know what he was doing. Ran right over me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I frowned. “Do you think anything’s broken?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She gulped. “I don’t know. Ahhhhh!” A yowl burst from her lips as my fingers barely brushed the bruises. “It hurts. It hurts really bad.” She choked on a sob as I rose and turned to a terrified Bethany. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I’m going to bring the car to the front door. Can you get her in the back seat?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bethany bit her lip and nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I ran for the car and drove it as close to the door as I could. Bethany scooped up Bria and laid her in the back seat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Then we sped to the emergency room of our local hospital. Bethany lifted Bria and raced her inside. I parked and hurried after them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> By the time I entered, Bria was already sitting at the nurse’s station, describing in gasps what had happened.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I was leading my horse up the hill to the round pen like I always do. Everything was normal. But then something happened. Something rustled in the bushes. I don’t know. He got scared. I tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t listen. He pulled away. Then pushed me down. Trampled me as he ran off into the poison oak.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The nurse then typed in notes about her injuries and called for a bed. Moments later, Bria was rolled inside, given painkillers, and scheduled for numerous tests and scans that would happen in the following hours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Late that night a doctor entered Bria’s hospital room and smiled. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know how, but she’s going to be okay. There are no broken bones or internal injuries.” He glanced at Bria. “It’s going to hurt like crazy for several days, and I suggest you use crutches, but I don’t anticipate any problems with you healing right up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> After a collective sigh of relief, Bria was fitted for crutches, and we headed home. Halfway there, I glanced over at Bria. “What are we going to do about Comet?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She sighed. “He just needs to learn to not lose his head when he’s scared. He just needs to learn to trust me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Profound words from a thirteen-year-old girl who just had the scariest experience of her life. In all her pain, all her fear, she had kept her head. I had too (you have to when your kid gets hurt!). Comet had not. In his fear, he had hurt the person who loves him most in all the world. He had run right over her. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In Isaiah 41:10 (NIV), God tells us, “So </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">do</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">not</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">fear</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">, for I am with you; </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">do</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">not</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Unlike Comet, we need to trust the One who leads us to where we need to be. When there’s something rustling in the bushes, when we see something flapping out of the corner of our eye, we have a choice. Faith or fear? Do we stay calm and keep following the One who is taking us up the hill to the place where we can grow stronger? Or do we let fear dominate our actions so that we turn on the ones who love us and hurt them?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Fear hurts, not only the one who’s afraid, but also everyone around them. It tramples, it bruises, then it runs off into places filled with poison.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> But we don’t have to fear. In the months since the accident, Comet has learned how to trust, how to have faith, despite his fears. We can too. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Even in the face of triggers, of things that have scared us or gone wrong in the past, God is asking us to trust the One leading us to higher ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-25243134199502311282022-08-18T15:36:00.000-07:002022-08-18T15:36:40.180-07:00Will You Save a Seat for God?<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>A little story I thought you might enjoy . . .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHQ4JyzhB6Z-Jynl_q_Y9C8x4e0Cg3DXs3oY1JOb7wHFIl25OpGlze7xs6F32eoVbKkMHXZwLx1a6ZRKu3mYrqXqW4Pe0GJzPZANTy4kk7wwkGekjdCyXsQ95PZFLk0hXTcjDM-2pbFlhnE_IuruucGLN83YWV6R6zcMV-oPxM_C_VZy5slnEswD4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHQ4JyzhB6Z-Jynl_q_Y9C8x4e0Cg3DXs3oY1JOb7wHFIl25OpGlze7xs6F32eoVbKkMHXZwLx1a6ZRKu3mYrqXqW4Pe0GJzPZANTy4kk7wwkGekjdCyXsQ95PZFLk0hXTcjDM-2pbFlhnE_IuruucGLN83YWV6R6zcMV-oPxM_C_VZy5slnEswD4=w245-h327" width="245" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold", serif;">Save a Seat</span></u></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The lights dimmed. Kids wiggled on the bench in the big auditorium. Mostly my kids wiggled, eagerly awaiting the show that would commence in just minutes. The theater filled with families, parents, grandparents, singles, until the room buzzed with breathing, whispering, and the rustle of many bodies pressed into a space.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> An usher dressed in a bright blue jacket pushed up the aisle. He leaned over my youngest who sat at the end next to her sister. Jordyn widened her seat, her arms spread to the side, her feet swinging.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Squeeze in, please.” The usher waved toward the center of the bench.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jordyn lifted her chin. “No. Daddy’s seat.” She straightened and did not budge. “Daddy sits here!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You need to scoot in, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “My Daddy is sitting here.” Her voice came out low, but determined. She was not going to move. And no usher, no matter how fancy his suit, was going to make her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The usher moved on. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria’s voice rose over the hush around us. “Jordyn! He asked you to move!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jordyn scowled. “No. I told you. Daddy sits here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria make a face and looked down the row at me. “Mom! Make her move. Dad can sit on the other end.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone’s changing her mind. Looks like Daddy’s going to be sitting right there.” I grinned. Daddy was out parking the car after letting us off at the door. He would come soon, and in the meantime, his little girl was determined to save him a seat right by her. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A few minutes later, Bryan trotted up the aisle to our row. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jordyn beamed. “I saved you a seat, Daddy!” She scooted over. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> But instead of sitting beside her, Bryan scooped up his little girl into his arms and sat her on his lap. For the rest of the show, she snuggled happily in his arms and enjoyed the warmth of her Daddy’s love. When the lights dimmed further and the darkness came, Jordyn was not afraid. When a cannon boomed and smokey stage-fire shot toward us, the rest of us jumped, but Jordyn stayed snug against her daddy. When the show slowed and the dialogue became too complex for Jordyn to understand, she didn’t squirm, she didn’t complain, she just sat tucked in Daddy’s arms.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> On the way home, I thought about the wisdom of a little girl who so fiercely protected Daddy’s seat, the place where her father could come near to her and show her his love.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I want to be that little girl. I want to be the kind of daughter who cannot be persuaded to give up her Father-in-Heaven’s seat beside her. I want to be the one who so longs to be near my Abba Daddy that I make sure I save His seat and don’t let anyone else sit there. I don’t let anyone else take His place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Even if someone bigger than me in fancy clothes tells me there’s no room for my Father here in such a public place, even if a family member thinks I’m wrong and tells others, even if a kind stranger asks if he can sit there instead ... the place closest to me, the place closest to my heart, must be reserved for the God who loves me more than I can imagine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Hebrews 10:22-23 (NIV) says, “...let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” Similarly, James 4:8 (NIV) calls us to, “Come near to God and he will come near to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So today, and every day, I want to save the seat closest to my heart for my Father, who will come, scoop me up, and hold me next to his heart even when the lights go dark, even cannons boom, even when everyone around me is afraid, even when I don’t understand what’s happening in the show. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> My Father will hold me close, if only I save His seat.</span><span lang="en-US" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-57553997111753588082022-08-04T12:21:00.004-07:002022-08-04T12:21:37.689-07:00Meet My New Baby (Horse) - Whisper!<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I've finally named my new 2 year old baby mustang! Meet Whisper!! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpp0GOWc3zE8KgKEjWHVnt3UI8sAChll7au81HqjJCHEkM5k8URGEUxXn43VUo6nArWoHoojO--4IDIq5WnXTJmmWRKiFprd6RIrgYRFGJjKZpxBlbpn2StjH9VjBHn0haUXjQfJNXZuCPnCgJ_WL6CopCGgg76Qdbas_yXhERIEB-URdSxZF-XVg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2432" data-original-width="2090" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpp0GOWc3zE8KgKEjWHVnt3UI8sAChll7au81HqjJCHEkM5k8URGEUxXn43VUo6nArWoHoojO--4IDIq5WnXTJmmWRKiFprd6RIrgYRFGJjKZpxBlbpn2StjH9VjBHn0haUXjQfJNXZuCPnCgJ_WL6CopCGgg76Qdbas_yXhERIEB-URdSxZF-XVg=w273-h318" width="273" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>He is named after this poem I wrote in 1994:</p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0.3pt; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New", serif; font-size: 18pt;">WHISPER</span></u></b><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Whisper to my heart of truth</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And kill the doubt in me.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Whisper of a dawning hope</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">That all my fear will flee.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Whisper in my waiting ear</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Of love I cannot buy.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Whisper of a wooden cross</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Where Jesus chose to die.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-83941803674453697702022-07-07T10:35:00.003-07:002022-07-07T10:35:29.336-07:00Pull the Weeds from Your Life<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I've been pulling a lot weeds lately, making the Ranch nicer for guests and more beautiful for God to do his work here. And I was reminded of this story about how good it is to pull the weeds in our lives as well. See what you think of this! And note that the picture shows the first spot I got all cleaned up and nice. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJlC72yoA8s5KkGdsGRtBu4KjJ1ct2dja62S6-iTXr5yO69em_v7Bq-XpDCQImWsQdVEkzoqbvgAIc1L-kbI7ApL-RBJwJi6GQKU4eoe8KUvwiVEXSXrlp053cD9WvJMF0U7iPdpO_V_IpEQJZlJ4NKzmV3lIQRz8t9029ZN9FbS9O6KIdkXJxNxo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJlC72yoA8s5KkGdsGRtBu4KjJ1ct2dja62S6-iTXr5yO69em_v7Bq-XpDCQImWsQdVEkzoqbvgAIc1L-kbI7ApL-RBJwJi6GQKU4eoe8KUvwiVEXSXrlp053cD9WvJMF0U7iPdpO_V_IpEQJZlJ4NKzmV3lIQRz8t9029ZN9FbS9O6KIdkXJxNxo=w374-h281" width="374" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold", serif;">Pulling Weeds</span></u></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Spring came quickly this year to our ranch. It came with the budding of wildflowers, scattered puddles like muddy mirrors reflecting the sky, and weeds. Lots and lots and lots of weeds. Tall weeds, short weeds, thick weeds, prickly weeds, weeds that pretended to be flowers but weren’t. Weeds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> One sunny Saturday, I gathered my children and pointed to the once-well-landscaped strip of earth in front of my husband’s office. “Today is the day! We’re going to make that area nice again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The kids at me. I looked at them. They frowned. I scowled. They grumbled. I jabbed my finger more emphatically toward the weeds. “We </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic", serif;">are</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> going to do this. No complaints!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I ignored the deep sighs and half-hidden eye-rolls, and marched toward the office. A moment later, Jayna grabbed the yard waste bin, Joelle found some gloves, and the rest of them trudged up the hill to the weed-infested area. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria glanced up at me. “Are all those thorny things weeds?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I took a deep breath. “Yep.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “And those too?” She waved her hand at some dandelions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Yep.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “And that stuff? That’s a lot of work.” She motioned toward some grass-weeds that towered high above the others.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I nodded. “All weeds. And it’s all gotta go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Little Jordyn pulled at the corner of my shirt. “But those ones are taller than me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You take the shorter ones.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> She looked doubtful, but she strode forward anyway, grabbed a thin stalk of dandelion, and yanked. It came up, roots and all, leaving a hole in the ground where it had been.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I smiled. “That’s the spirit! Come on group!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> We spent the next hour pulling weeds and tossing them into the yard waste bin. Leaves flew. Dirt splattered. And soon the area was half-cleared. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jayna paused and put her hands on her hips. “I thought you said we were going to make it nice? Look at all these holes! It’s ugly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I threw a fat thistle-weed into the bin and straightened, evaluating the work we’d done. Jayna was right. Pulling the weeds had created holes all across the strip of land that I had promised would be “nice.” It wasn’t nice. It was upturned earth, unattractive divots, bumps, lumps, and nothing pretty. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe weeds were better than this.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Before I could answer, Bryan stepped out of his office. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I wiped my forehead. “I’m not sure if it looks better...Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He smiled “Of course it’s better! It looks great.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “But look at the holes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bryan came down the stairs and surveyed the cleared dirt. “Looks perfect to me. Now I can plant beautiful flowers there like there’s supposed to be. I’m going to put catmint over here.” He pointed to the left.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Catmint?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “That’s the one with purple flowers. And salvia. And then I can plant a yellow bush daisy over there, and some goldfinger cinquefoil in front and maybe a few Johnny Jump-ups.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Johnny Jump-ups?” Bria laughed. “That sounds like fun!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “They are fun. And pretty. But I can only plant them because you’re clearing out all the weeds.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jayna grinned. “I guess ugly holes aren’t so bad after all.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The kids went back to work with renewed vigor. Out came the weeds, leaving the ugliest of holes, but they didn’t care anymore. They knew their daddy was going to put something beautiful there. Holes didn’t matter, only the promise of beauty to come.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> As I watched them I realized that maybe the holes made from pulling up weeds in my life weren’t so bad either. Perhaps I needed to be as eager to pull up the weedy-things that had grown up in me, knowing that my heavenly Father also waited to plant something beautiful in the holes left behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> 2 Corinthians 7:1 (NIV) says, “Therefore, since we have these promises, dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Purify ourselves. In other words, pull out those weeds! The tall ones that dominate our landscapes, the prickly ones that hurt when we touch them, the deep-rooted ones that will make large, ugly holes. All must go. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> It’s spring. It’s time to put on some gloves, and with a new sense of determination, rid our lives of the weeds so God can plant his amazing beauty in the most ugly and over-grown places of our lives.</span><span lang="en-US" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-85257542763259462122022-06-30T09:29:00.004-07:002022-06-30T09:29:43.342-07:00Pull the Poison that's Choking You<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I'll be going in to Juvenile Hall today and plan to share this story about pulling the poison from your life. I find that these kids, though they've often committed terrible crimes, are still kids. Far from the hardened hearts I'd expected to encounter, they are typically gentle, kind, and eager to do better, make amends, and live a full, healthy life. But they've also allowed poisonous weeds to grow up and choke the life from them, and now they're incarcerated, wondering if they'll ever be able to flourish and find life again. </p><p>To them I say there's always hope. To you, I say the same! But for us all, we've got to pull out the poison.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNaegvxS33GuHPVC0WhU5cTcOh1jnWNJAqKVfvRWDlg4L7Of4Y7I9DuMOQAJ5xKgw3EhfpX-GPKLHcbiUXgj6isj85fA_jsY_bdYuMjitcrwE-WnwWK2ZkV5HYIwFwKusZoA0V5QNQMhgRMK_WtdlDIRB1r9uNfU4Fq5TmoNIT4xfBhHZEdfTi4iI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNaegvxS33GuHPVC0WhU5cTcOh1jnWNJAqKVfvRWDlg4L7Of4Y7I9DuMOQAJ5xKgw3EhfpX-GPKLHcbiUXgj6isj85fA_jsY_bdYuMjitcrwE-WnwWK2ZkV5HYIwFwKusZoA0V5QNQMhgRMK_WtdlDIRB1r9uNfU4Fq5TmoNIT4xfBhHZEdfTi4iI=w264-h352" width="264" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b>PULL OUT THE POISON</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was tall. It was green. It was bushy. But something wasn’t right. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I crossed my arms and looked up at the fat, green oak tree. Beside me, my husband sighed. I shook my head. “I don’t want to do it. Do you want to do it?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I don’t want to do it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I stepped back. “Someone’s got to do it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s an ugly job.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That thing will be right outside the window once we build the cabin. We can’t have it looking like that.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know. But still . . . ” Bryan crossed his arms over his chest.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I put my hand on my hips.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> For a moment, we both stared at the oak and didn’t say a word. Shiny green and red leaves poked from all parts of the tree. But they weren’t oak leaves. Thick vines twisted around the trunk and branches. Those didn’t belong to the oak either. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I shivered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> The green wasn’t the green of a healthy oak. Instead it was a sign of poison. A huge batch of poison oak had grown up into the tree and twined around every branch. The tree was thick with it. Lush and green, but with nasty poison.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Bryan tugged on his sleeves. “Okay, I’ll do it then. But get the bleach ready for the laundry.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Four hours later, the laundry was in, Bryan was taking a cool shower, and the tree was clear. I tromped up the hill and looked at it. It wasn’t lush anymore. And it wasn’t green. Scraggly branches with a few sad leaves spread from the trunk and reached toward the sky. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Ugh, it looks awful,” I murmured. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As I looked at the now-bare soil beneath it, I noticed there were no acorns scattered on the ground, and no little baby oaks growing around it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Then it struck me. That big, strong oak was stifled by that little vine. The oak was bigger, taller, thicker, and more established. And yet, that small, thin, poisonous weed had nearly choked the life from it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As I stood and gazed at the tree, I was reminded of Jesus’ parable from Matthew 13, Mark 4, and Luke 8. In that story, seed fell on four different types of soil. In the third, the seed sprouted among thorns and the life was choked out the plants, just as the poison oak had choked the oak tree. Jesus likened the thorns to the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of wealth, and desires for other things.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> If something as small as poison oak could choke the life from a big, strong oak, how much more vulnerable was I to worry and wrong desires? After all, there are so many things in life to worry about – finances, schooling, job concerns, health, family crises. It’s easy to allow those to twine around my mind and shove poisonous leaves through my branches until there are acorns of God’s word dropping into my daily life. No little oaks springing up around me. I had to ask if I was I producing any kind of crop in God’s Kingdom. Was it growing stronger through me, or was I just barely getting by? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As I asked those questions, I realized that I had some poison oak in my life – worries that kept me from focusing on God, goals I was pursuing that were good but weren’t God’s plan, things that were distracting me from fully living the life God had for me. And just like we did for the oak tree, I had to cut off the poison oak at its base and peel away all the vines from the branches of my life. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Over the past few years, we’ve kept the poison oak away from that oak tree, and now the tree is full, healthy, and green with leaves all its own. In time, it recovered from the stranglehold of the poison oak. It became the beautiful tree God meant it to be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And I know that if I, too, keep the thorns away, I can be full of the greenness of true life. I can be all God intends me to be. I can be a tall, strong oak in the Kingdom of God.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-22019678721577065882022-06-08T14:35:00.004-07:002022-06-08T14:35:47.081-07:00Living in Abundant Joy<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>It's summer!! As of this week, all my kids are done with their school years and we are now on summer break. Plus, we're looking at a heat wave coming around here. So, I was thinking of this story about running through sprinklers and living in abundant grace and joy. See what you think . . .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCwz0a0AyVt2BmdFz6jYk-j5cXxmsqG-Z84LPjn8Ppeo-wm20inQzVsQNlW0MUBWT_WFS1DsYY4XRru3eToQu6zDzTtAkmffTyCoOwSnBGRoT1fur90aDQwUIJ3EbcvFr9uRKCe-sNHAdAB9LusMaiKQOO0gA3YjdutzA_oiXk8Jxh3fZ0DVGXO0I" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCwz0a0AyVt2BmdFz6jYk-j5cXxmsqG-Z84LPjn8Ppeo-wm20inQzVsQNlW0MUBWT_WFS1DsYY4XRru3eToQu6zDzTtAkmffTyCoOwSnBGRoT1fur90aDQwUIJ3EbcvFr9uRKCe-sNHAdAB9LusMaiKQOO0gA3YjdutzA_oiXk8Jxh3fZ0DVGXO0I=w253-h337" width="253" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p align="center" class="heading2" style="background-color: white; break-after: avoid; color: #3150a2; font-family: "Lucida Grande", sans-serif; font-size: 13pt; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19.933334350585938px; margin: 10pt 0in 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman Bold", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">Running through the Sprinklers of Grace</span></u><u><span style="color: #0c0022; font-family: "Times New Roman Bold", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I sat back in my lawn chair, closed my eyes, and listened to the steady chit-chit-chit of the sprinklers. Ice melted in the glass beside me. The sun warmed my face. Tension oozed from my shoulders, and I sighed. All was peaceful, calm, and ...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Then came a shriek.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A scream.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A shout.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A giggle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A squeal of delight. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I opened my eyes. There on the lawn before me twirled six little swimsuit-clad bodies, their arms waving, their cheeks sprinkled with water. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> They stopped. Chit-chit-chit went the sprinkler. They positioned themselves. Three more chits, then they ran through the falling drops with their chins raised and their voices once more loud with joy. Sunlight glinted off the water in a rainbow of color. Again they paused, again they ran, again they laughed and danced.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> On the first pass, the water made a few dark spots on their suits and hair. By the fifth run, they were completely soaked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Come on, Mom, join us. It’s fun!” Joelle raced on tiptoe through the falling drops, until her long hair streamed with water.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I watched her and smiled. “I’m not wearing my swimsuit. I’m fine where I am. You guys play.” I motioned with my hand and settled deeper into my chair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The baby raised her hands and toddled through the spray of water. The older ones followed, each laughing and squealing and shouting with joy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Wetter and wetter they got.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Happier and happier they became.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Until I realized that I had chosen poorly. Here I sat, comfortably on my chair, outside of the spray of fun and joy. I sat. They ran. I sighed. They laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> When did I get so dull and boring? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I stood up and put my hands on my hips. Was I like this with God, too? Did I sit on the sidelines, in my comfortable chair, while God was sprinkling his grace and love with abandon just a few feet away? Was I too comfortable, too tired, or even too lazy to run through the sprinklers of his grace until I was soaked through and through?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> If so, I wanted to change. If God’s grace was raining down, I wanted to be a part of it. And not just a few dribbles, I wanted to be soaked through and through. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Joelle’s voice rang out again. “Come on, Mom, get on your suit!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I grinned and turned toward the house. “I’ll be right there.” Moments later, I was dressed in my physical swimsuit, but what about my spiritual one? What kind of “suit” would prepare me for running through the sprinklers of God’s grace?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> As I thought about the question, Colossians 2:6-7 (NIV) came to mind: “So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” I pondered the last part of the verse until I began to glimpse the truth. God had called me to be overflowing with thankfulness. That was the “suit” I needed. When thankfulness covers me, clothes me, I’m ready to receive the droplets of his grace, the pouring out of his love. A thankful spirit is the suit that’s made especially for running through the water with joy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I jogged down the front steps and out onto the lawn. Then, I raised my face, listened to the steady chit-chit-chit, and ran. I squealed, I giggled, I laughed. My kids laughed with me. And that’s when I knew that I didn’t want to miss the fun anymore, not on the front lawn and not in life with God. I needed to keep on my suit of thankfulness and see where God was sprinkling his grace -- in church, in books, in serving others, in reading my Bible, in quiet walks, in times with good friends -- so I could put myself in a position for the water to fall on me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> If I do that, then I can run with abandon. I can shriek and scream, laugh and squeal. I can dance through the sprinklers of his grace again and again until I’m soaked with the wonder of his love. That’s the way I want to live, everyday!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-22690762117137611292022-05-25T16:22:00.003-07:002022-05-25T16:22:37.726-07:00The Power of Wonder in a Hurting World<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>This week my heart is broken with the tragedy at Uvalde this week. The pictures of the young victims keep popping up on Facebook. They look so similar to the kids I work with at Wonder Wood Ranch. Then I see a picture of the shooter. He looks like the kids I work with too. So. Much. Pain. So much brokenness and ugliness and awfulness. Sometimes it seems that evil always wins. </p><p>But then again, maybe not always.</p><p>As I sit and look at the faces, and look away because I cannot bear to look any longer, I remind myself that evil may have its way for a day, but God's love is stronger. Hope is stronger. Wonder is stronger. And every day that I bring a little more love, a little more hope, a little more wonder to a hurting world is a day that evil does not win after all.</p><p>It works kind of like this . . .</p><p><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc1j590_-vjgmlNgxrj6SItkbv2uUz_Sv8eNuNcBEinE6riFUPhCYtkm9zh1dgNybgCjRSBnihNtFmU5TwuYrQaNKHnMi4zaQRHAsT0BY9BcScBQE8slbJ_suSKyEsrqJA_7EKf1TQrCAh2kucvHLaanzE5HygloP6k4fncGNftvsXZFjHK1Jbds/s4032/IMG_4539.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsc1j590_-vjgmlNgxrj6SItkbv2uUz_Sv8eNuNcBEinE6riFUPhCYtkm9zh1dgNybgCjRSBnihNtFmU5TwuYrQaNKHnMi4zaQRHAsT0BY9BcScBQE8slbJ_suSKyEsrqJA_7EKf1TQrCAh2kucvHLaanzE5HygloP6k4fncGNftvsXZFjHK1Jbds/s320/IMG_4539.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Working with Youth in Juvenile Hall</i></div><br /><b style="font-family: Cambria, serif; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Wonder Changes the World</span></u></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">He came from a world so different from my own. Gangs, drugs, violence. Fear. Fear he tried to strangle with a tough-guy exterior and tattoos that weren’t quite covered by the long sleeves of his hoodie. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">He was fifteen years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Too young to spend every day, every minute looking over his shoulder, waiting to be jumped, or shot, or knifed. Too young to need the rough gang persona to survive.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">He stepped out of the city’s car with three other kids and shuffled, pants hanging low, down the path to our barn. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The city’s street team worker stepped beside me. “Juan almost didn’t come.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I’m glad he did.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She nodded. Once a month she brought gang-impacted youth to our Wonder Wood Ranch to ride horses, do archery, and get out of the gang environment for a few hours. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Typically, I could see the difference in them the moment they stepped from the car. Their shoulders relaxed, they stopped fidgeting, they forgot, for a time, they had to be hyper-vigilant to get by. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But Juan’s shoulders stayed rigid. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I followed behind the boys, picking up my pace until I passed them. Then, I motioned toward the hay. “Sit. Let’s get started.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">They sat, Juan on the edge of a bale, his eyes not meeting mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I reviewed horse safety, told them all the fun things we would do, asked if anyone had ridden a horse before (no one had), and still Juan stared at the ground, his features hard, his mouth pressed into a line.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After my talk, we ate some hot wings, visited the treehouse, and then it was time for riding. I saddled my husband’s horse, Smokey, grabbed the lead rope, and led him to the mounting block. My other volunteers did the same with three other horses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Juan put on a helmet and walked up to Smokey. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I explained how to mount, how to sit up straight, how to relax his hips and let his body move with the horse’s gait. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Then Juan stepped up the mounting block, put his left foot in the stirrup, and swung his right leg around the horse. His face softened. “I’ve never been on a horse before.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“This is my first time on a horse.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I grinned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I’ve never ridden a horse. This is my first time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I tried not to chuckle as I led Smokey forward on the path through the woods around our property.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After three seconds, Juan spoke again, his voice faster now, a little more breathless. “This is my first time riding on a horse. I’ve never ridden. I’ve never been on a horse. This is my first time.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I glanced back to see him sitting tall, chin up, face aglow with delight. And there, before my eyes, a hardened gang-impacted kid transformed from a tough-guy youth into an excited little boy. A little boy who kept talking. “This is my first time on a horse …”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">That’s the power of God’s wonder in our lives. That’s the power of finding the beauty that God places around us, and letting ourselves be caught up and carried by it. By him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">God leaves none of us, not even a kid whose life is characterized by fear and violence, without glimpses of his glory. He leaves none of us without hope. And hope, glory, is found in these moments of wonder. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In Exodus 15:11 (NIV), Miriam sings, “Who among the gods is like you, Lord? Who is like you—majestic in holiness, awesome in glory, working wonders?” And in Genesis 28:17 (NIV) Jacob declares, after seeing the stairway to heaven, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">God gives us glimpses of that stairway, that gate, in our own lives, when we need it most. When we’re afraid, when we’re trying to act tough, when we think that there’s no way out and no other life available to us but one of hurt and harm. That’s when </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">God uses wonder to break down the barriers in us so that we can see the beauty around us, and the beauty of his work in our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After Juan rode Smokey, he was a different kid for the rest of our time together. He smiled, he laughed, he ate s’mores and looked me in the eye. And he found strength to face his life and make better choices because, on the back of a horse, he could see new hope for the first time in a long time. Maybe for the first time ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Through God’s wonder, we, too, can see anew.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-60862718930801868932022-05-12T10:22:00.000-07:002022-05-12T10:22:10.501-07:00Trusting God in Life's Ups and Downs<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>Valentine (our little mare who's creeping up on 40!!!), has been having a rough week or two. She found the love of her life (Danny, a 5-year-old, refused to come into her pen at night one night and got beat up by someone in the pasture (she's too old for that!), stopped eating, had her yearly vaccinations, had to go off her Cushings meds to help her appetite, started eating again, got her feet trimmed, and now has her new boyfriend in the stall next to her as her owies heal up. Lots of ups and downs for her! And that reminded me of a story of her and Jayna when they were both younger. Here's their story:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-_97CHDeyLYNxqcuuP9UBLNYi5iffaJ8TtzKYz8_SdnEysvd5UGv-06-mrGQ6h8mWFJ8IDiVxUOfA5UewnIyyNx_Xy9Y93BxrQ7wOYLSNSYH5ijiCl0g-hi1f9cf-kXl7ZQtC_IhoPAV6ukdVCohBSp2eAonY7mrDRFCLzoMLBymmazdtKa5v-Y/s4032/67371949234__868AB77F-3BB5-4702-9819-6F7222252BDE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-_97CHDeyLYNxqcuuP9UBLNYi5iffaJ8TtzKYz8_SdnEysvd5UGv-06-mrGQ6h8mWFJ8IDiVxUOfA5UewnIyyNx_Xy9Y93BxrQ7wOYLSNSYH5ijiCl0g-hi1f9cf-kXl7ZQtC_IhoPAV6ukdVCohBSp2eAonY7mrDRFCLzoMLBymmazdtKa5v-Y/s320/67371949234__868AB77F-3BB5-4702-9819-6F7222252BDE.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Valentine finally eating her food)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;">Living Life’s Ups and Downs</span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I held my breath as my five-year-old trotted her horse, Valentine, toward the little goat tied in the middle of the arena. Valentine hesitated. Jayna straightened her shoulders and urged the horse on. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> A few seconds more, then, she stopped, jumped off, and raced toward the goat. The goat skittered left. Jayna grabbed for the ribbon on its tail. The goat scampered right. She plunged after it and raised her fist to show a bright red ribbon clutched in her fingers. A moment later, she turned, ran to a barrel twenty feet away, and slapped the ribbon on top. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> The crowd erupted in cheers. The judge grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. I let out my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> She walked Valentine out of the arena and threw herself into my arms. “Did you see, Mom? We did great!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> I grabbed the reins and gave Jayna a huge hug. “Of course I did. And Dad got pictures too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “What’s next?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Cattle sorting. You ready?” That was an event she’d also never done before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> She gave me a nervous nod. “Okay.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Twenty minutes later, I was holding my breath again as Jayna trotted her horse down the middle of the arena. Only this time, six cows stood at the far end instead of one little goat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Jayna moved into the midst of them. She reined Valentine around, then back, trying to separate one cow from the others. At first, it seemed to be working. A black cow ambled off to the left. I let out my breath again. Maybe she could do it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> But then, circumstances changed. The black cow darted back into the herd. Valentine spun toward the gate. Then, the horse took off. At three strides she started to hop. At four, she bucked. Once. Twice. And Jayna flew off into the dirt. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> I ran into the arena and scooped her up. Sandy mud mixed with her tears as she spat out a mouthful of arena dirt. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Th-that didn’t go very well,” she wailed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> I sighed and brushed a clump of mud from her helmet. “No, it didn’t. Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> She nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Come on, let’s go get Valentine and get you cleaned up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> She sniffed and rubbed her hand over her nose as we made our way toward the gate where Valentine was standing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> In the days that followed, I thought about our time at the horse show and realized that life is lot like the show. It’s a mixed experience. Things go well. Things go badly. You succeed, you fail. You win, then you lose. One minute the crowds are clapping. The next, they’re gasping as you take a mouthful of dirt. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Jesus knew all about life’s ups and downs. One day he was riding into Jerusalem as the people cheered, waved palm branches, and cried out “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Mark 11:9, NIV). A few days later, he was standing bloody and bruised before the crowd again, and this time they shouted, “Crucify Him!” (Mark 15:13, NIV). One day he was eating a Passover feast with his friends (Mark 14), the next, he was hanging on a cross to die (Mark 15). One day he was in the tomb. Three days later, resurrection.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Up, down, up, down. Life is like that. So, how do I live through all life’s ups and downs? How did Jesus live?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> I think Jesus, and Jayna, had it right. Jayna walked through the gate, faced the next event, and trotted down the center of the arena toward whatever goats or cows awaited her. Jesus walked into this life, faced the will of God, and strode resolutely toward whatever His Father asked. Both faced life’s ups and downs with trust and obedience rather than fear and what if’s. Both rejoiced and wept and got a mouthful of dirt. But they didn’t give up, they didn’t turn away. And because of that, Jesus rose again. And Jayna rode again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 29.333335876464844px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> That’s what God asks of me too, that I would continue forward in His will, that I would face every up and down by trusting him and walking forward in obedience. And even if my face hits the dirt, I know God will be there to pick me up and help me wash the mud out of my mouth. He will help me face the next event, so that I, too, can rise and ride again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-24662840313434528232022-04-28T12:41:00.000-07:002022-04-28T12:41:14.005-07:00Beauty in the Poop<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">I was riding up on our trails yesterday and passed the spot where we dump all the horse and pig poo. And there in the middle of the pile were all these gorgeous plants ... pumpkin plants! Grown up from the seeds of the pumpkins we fed the animals in the fall. Wow. Beauty can grow even from poop. And that's a life lesson that I'll be pondering for a long time!</p><p>Meanwhile, here's an article I wrote years ago when pumpkin seeds flourished into pumpkin plants here in the past (then it wasn't from poop though - this year's plants are even more impressive!).</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSm7T8HrgOCnTRN-F7fWl-r_XQLWQLxCHGTqJVzf8GH2aaOk4DUteW03MTUVhkRh50fWVezpWGpJgF7bpK3xM2dRSgonKoaCyjCtk_TGitT-wi8VBR9ZQc4Z7ZWzl7mmb-e_YJzOpemCKMhqn3FUlVFeH5j-t3Z5985srDCisr_lXcAb6L_-eY84/s2016/IMG_8506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSm7T8HrgOCnTRN-F7fWl-r_XQLWQLxCHGTqJVzf8GH2aaOk4DUteW03MTUVhkRh50fWVezpWGpJgF7bpK3xM2dRSgonKoaCyjCtk_TGitT-wi8VBR9ZQc4Z7ZWzl7mmb-e_YJzOpemCKMhqn3FUlVFeH5j-t3Z5985srDCisr_lXcAb6L_-eY84/s320/IMG_8506.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><u><span style="font-size: 16pt;">PUMPKIN SEEDS IN SPRING</span></u></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> It was the strangest sight – a lush, green plant growing in the middle of an expanse of bare dirt. I stood there on my front porch and stared at it. Wide leaves, a bright yellow flower, thick, healthy stalks. It was perfect, beautiful, and clearly not a weed, even though it seemed to have sprung up overnight. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> The plant wouldn’t have seemed so strange if it weren’t for its surroundings. Around it, for a dozen yards in every direction, there was nothing but bare, dry soil. Not a sprig of grass, not a seedling, not even a stray weed. Nothing but dusty earth and this one perfect plant growing in the center.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Months ago, my husband had graded the area in front of our house in anticipation of doing some landscaping. The landscaping hadn’t happened and the area had been dirt ever since. Until now.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Look at that.” I called to my eight-year-old daughter, Bethany, as she zoomed past on her bike. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> She steered her bike around and stopped in front of me. “What?”’<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I pointed to the splotch of green amongst the dusty brown. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Her gaze followed the motion. “Wow. What is that?” She parked her bike and trotted to the edge of the pavement for a better look.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “I don’t know. Should we go see?” I stepped from the porch and made my way across the driveway, through the dirt, and toward the middle of what will someday be my lawn. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Bethany came up behind me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I leaned over the plant.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> She did too. “Well, what is it?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I studied the flower and leaves. “It looks like a pumpkin plant.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeGr_ijLqpg77PcBYfwaptRnvuowRBehgb9F6HlhOdf0jSTYCWzAV8XG9HBr9SNDJ5OysEZ7ERWAWVkV5m4oEOMxcKidg6k9IB47-N4iqWyXWr0VFHCMRHCd_-EWJN3JnjYcd8YZlbb_xSVHCjPPTrhv1hI2TATFcMo3me6xhMZHDsutlvCjzq4g/s2016/IMG_8505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeGr_ijLqpg77PcBYfwaptRnvuowRBehgb9F6HlhOdf0jSTYCWzAV8XG9HBr9SNDJ5OysEZ7ERWAWVkV5m4oEOMxcKidg6k9IB47-N4iqWyXWr0VFHCMRHCd_-EWJN3JnjYcd8YZlbb_xSVHCjPPTrhv1hI2TATFcMo3me6xhMZHDsutlvCjzq4g/s320/IMG_8505.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “Cool.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> “But how did it get here?” We didn’t have any other pumpkin plants, and we certainly hadn’t intended to plant any seeds. Then, I remembered. Last Fall, six months ago, we had thrown our old pumpkins out into the yard. Bryan must have ground them up with the tractor when he was grading, then somehow moved one of the seeds out to the middle of the area, many yards away from where the pumpkins had sat. There, it had laid dormant until the Spring. And that’s how we could have a strong, healthy pumpkin plant where we’d never expected anything to grow at all.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As I studied the plant, I realized that sometimes God’s Kingdom works like that too. My actions can plant seeds even when and where I don’t expect. Sometimes, just by doing what’s right, by making smooth places out of rough ones, I can spread seeds of God’s love that will sprout later and turn into new life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I thought about some things I had done over the past year that didn’t seem to yield any spiritual results - simple acts, like making a job easier for a coworker, smoothing her way in a new task, or helping a neighbor move, or sharing a meal with a friend. Those were times when I didn’t think I was spreading seeds, and I didn’t see any specific growth coming from my actions. But just like the pumpkin plant, seeds may sprout and grow when I don’t expect, where I don’t expect. Maybe my coworker will never acknowledge my help, but someone else in the office will be touched by what was done. Or my neighbor won’t be changed because of the help offered, but a relative of hers may be. The truth is, I don’t know. I can’t always predict where and how new life will spring up. Maybe that’s why Galatians 6:9 (NIV) says, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> All God asks is that I continue to do what’s right, continue to make rough ground smoother for others. And even if I don’t see results now, or the person I’m hoping to help seems unresponsive, I shouldn’t give up. It could be that there are a few pumpkin seeds caught in my tractor’s wheels, and as I go about making smooth paths for God, a few seeds will fall out where I don’t expect them and a new plant will grow, flower, and flourish in what was once a bare yard.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuEDTJ1veNUGE8C0e2vjR-yWXe_Ry3psKNcfbVbNzSzTqyXrzVH1MVpRrqBtZZwXdXneyilZoQSuG4pAtil1ZdUA0_jtBKsNP84ejtxPUL1ja9Flyqw07Xt99UX67G84jkk6b6dqfyMjbkBew8UB_wTIPujTftwZrTmkdeRdLIxXkj44KsKXJ6V0/s2016/IMG_8504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuEDTJ1veNUGE8C0e2vjR-yWXe_Ry3psKNcfbVbNzSzTqyXrzVH1MVpRrqBtZZwXdXneyilZoQSuG4pAtil1ZdUA0_jtBKsNP84ejtxPUL1ja9Flyqw07Xt99UX67G84jkk6b6dqfyMjbkBew8UB_wTIPujTftwZrTmkdeRdLIxXkj44KsKXJ6V0/s320/IMG_8504.jpg" width="320" /></a> And maybe I’ll even get to enjoy an out-of-season pumpkin or two in the process!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-55461022982288649962022-04-15T09:36:00.001-07:002022-04-15T09:36:35.819-07:00The Thief on the Cross ... Remember Me<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_siaC36ziDFb6jr7JQl2igq6dfnWpIgQNj4GgtlaO1ne6F1suTENiMgDRebEr0k1UT8I4GPaEIvLRpYs5rHWjXIubdFAARUKCrMeUmkVyjV7P5WmDoioyq3rRY565vqXOfewBhqe-ykegRRgVncyp2O-6UZgixJonur-k2WlIuJT_5NinnZArOsE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_siaC36ziDFb6jr7JQl2igq6dfnWpIgQNj4GgtlaO1ne6F1suTENiMgDRebEr0k1UT8I4GPaEIvLRpYs5rHWjXIubdFAARUKCrMeUmkVyjV7P5WmDoioyq3rRY565vqXOfewBhqe-ykegRRgVncyp2O-6UZgixJonur-k2WlIuJT_5NinnZArOsE" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New", serif; font-size: 18pt;">The Thief</span></u></b><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times;">Luke 23:35-43<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"> </span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Hung upon a cross to die</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Was just what I deserved.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">A thief was I, a scoundrel.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">No plea had I reserved.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">But Him, on the other hand,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Who hung there at my side,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">He had not killed nor stolen,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">He had not even lied.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Why hung He there, so sadly,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Amidst the mocks and jeers,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Mutt'ring not a single word</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Amongst His silent tears?</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">"Save yourself," they screamed at Him.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">"And us," my partner cried.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">He just turned and looked at me</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And quietly He sighed.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Suddenly I spoke my heart,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">My sins began to flee.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">"When you get to your kingdom,</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Jesus, remember me."<br /></span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-8938596635919957002022-03-03T11:00:00.000-08:002022-03-03T11:00:13.999-08:00The Beauty of Dust<p><b>Hi Friends,<br /></b></p><p>Well, it's dust season here at my ranch, so here are some thoughts about dust and staying in the light...</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQhm5a2EPgVZY7FNS9FBD2QSWiN0Nbui3vwPYQQD-tEOoUEl_fFQWTkNLuaR_Bqw7pJUWC9rUMCFcKauKgLdy99uzbVCkRJRW3GVwVZ5uplfi3sc8oF_O4yJv1Zh0R_KmSMvkxMTTpzZwCWgITNBqCYNlEtZ4_dOdyZciwhHENI47atXSGnL0PHPY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQhm5a2EPgVZY7FNS9FBD2QSWiN0Nbui3vwPYQQD-tEOoUEl_fFQWTkNLuaR_Bqw7pJUWC9rUMCFcKauKgLdy99uzbVCkRJRW3GVwVZ5uplfi3sc8oF_O4yJv1Zh0R_KmSMvkxMTTpzZwCWgITNBqCYNlEtZ4_dOdyZciwhHENI47atXSGnL0PHPY" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.66667175292969px;">Dust in the Light<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Twilight tossed its gray mantle across the sky and into my newly dusted living room. Shadows crept over the floor, darted into corners, and settled in my mind. Weariness whispered through me. Why did I have to clean, and scrub, and do all this work anyway? I wanted to read a good book, watch a movie, anything else but clean the living room for the Bible study group that would meet there that night. Why did I always have to be the one who did the work?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I threw my cleaning rag onto the coffee table and melted into the recliner. In a moment, the oven timer would buzz, and I would have to leap up and finish preparing the cake for the night’s study snack. Why couldn’t I just be free, free to spend my evening however I wanted? Free to do as I pleased? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A butterfly flitted outside the window. I watched it fly high, then low, before it paused on the rosebush just outside the pane. Eggshell wings fluttered in slow motion. Up and down. Up and down. Then, the creature dropped from the branch and flew into the sky. I followed it with my eyes until it became only a black speck against the clouds. Then, it disappeared. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">“Make me like the butterfly, Lord,” I whispered. “I want to be free to fly into the sky, rest on the roses, and drink in the beauty of your creation.” I leaned back my head and stared up at the window that shone from our second story. “Lord, give me wings.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I waited. And sighed. And shifted in the chair. But I felt just as tired, just as earthbound as ever. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Then, something happened. A shaft of light, as bright as a blade, sliced through the upstairs window and illuminated a path the floor. And in the light, I saw them – a hundred, a thousand tiny motes of dust. They drifted in the light like bright bits of glimmering gold. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I grabbed my dust rag, and started to stand. But then, I sat back again. I had worked for hours to eradicate the dark bits of dust that marred my furniture, countertops, and television screen. But this dust was different. These tiny motes weren’t dark, weren’t dirty, or ugly. They were beautiful, shining like miniscule stars in the last rays of day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I dropped my rag, settled back into the chair, and wondered at the splendor of the dust. How could something that was no more than dirt be so beautiful? After all, it was only dust. I watched a few motes drift lower, out of the shaft of light. They turned gray again, just ugly little specks that floated onto an end table. Only in the light were they lovely. Only there did they shimmer like jewels. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpft0I35FsLzp7y1U_NM5WEUYiL7SW2n9NkI2D4s9Wu0GH6FicxSSNaIFj-feVhjaH_PvXbO4jZ4sRIXl2kcx0Wki9C-zqghXrWK8D13JF2gSImK96DjrQHgUqU_YJKJ4LMiH-u3dvUBFyDPz9hYawDMxscstjGB7KvYy8jbZLCJtXa-fs_ySC0xw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpft0I35FsLzp7y1U_NM5WEUYiL7SW2n9NkI2D4s9Wu0GH6FicxSSNaIFj-feVhjaH_PvXbO4jZ4sRIXl2kcx0Wki9C-zqghXrWK8D13JF2gSImK96DjrQHgUqU_YJKJ4LMiH-u3dvUBFyDPz9hYawDMxscstjGB7KvYy8jbZLCJtXa-fs_ySC0xw" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As I sat and pondered the secret of the dust, I remembered a verse from the Psalms: “As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust.” (Psalm 103:13-14, NIV). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I am dust</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">, I thought. <i>Not some winged butterfly, not a creature that flies wherever it pleases, but dust. Dirty, ugly dust. But in God’s light, I too am transformed</i>. “I am the light of the world,” Jesus said in John 8:12 (NIV). And like the dust, I am only beautiful when I am aloft by his power, illuminated by his love.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As pretty as the butterfly was, the dust that glimmered like sparkling gold was much more beautiful. It stayed, it shone, and as long as it remained in the light, it was stunning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I had prayed for the ability to order my day as I pleased. But, God offers a freedom that’s more incredible, more real, and more wondrous. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">In his light is the freedom to rest in his grace and love. That is the mystery, and the wonder, of true freedom. So now, I no longer pray for wings like the butterfly. Instead, I pray to stay within the light.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-73933406334561248822022-02-16T12:30:00.000-08:002022-02-16T12:30:19.405-08:00Love is Not a Paper Heart<p><b>Hi Friends,</b></p><p>I've been out of town helping mom through her cataract/glaucoma surgery, so didn't get a chance to post for Valentine's Day. </p><p>But messages about love are good year round, so here's a fun story and some encouraging words to love not just in words (or in Valentines) but in action. </p><p>This happened several years ago ...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxR7na4BIrseHyAXz4Ft3_ytblOseQMdB_S-vmPNct14HMLT6O4uWS-oJ0lI0thQ-Mz8xUcpSLB3s3yWIp3dHVzBfjyUQZfWzV55Za9ULYKwGvWI8ugeHjp2TnBqV_eF8Cn8IMVXG07tWikPPQ2ZhBvMb6t4XjVTdBCcVG_n0JK7TlU82-Hsk3Etc=s509" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="509" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxR7na4BIrseHyAXz4Ft3_ytblOseQMdB_S-vmPNct14HMLT6O4uWS-oJ0lI0thQ-Mz8xUcpSLB3s3yWIp3dHVzBfjyUQZfWzV55Za9ULYKwGvWI8ugeHjp2TnBqV_eF8Cn8IMVXG07tWikPPQ2ZhBvMb6t4XjVTdBCcVG_n0JK7TlU82-Hsk3Etc=w362-h241" width="362" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p align="center" class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold", serif;">Love is Not a Paper Heart <o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He tottered down the stairs, a little boy in fuzzy penguin pajamas and sleep still damp in his eyes. He rubbed his face and squinted down at me. “I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I smiled at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> His dewy eyes grew round. “Oh!” He spun on the bottom stair and raced back up to his room. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A moment later he returned with an armload of construction-paper masterpieces. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mommy! I love you!” He mumble-shouted the words from behind the mound of brightly colored art. “Come on.” He trotted to the couch, his arms carefully bent to hold the papers without crushing them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He sat. I sat beside him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He placed his load on his lap. Then, with a big grin, he took each piece of artwork and gave it to me. First came a giant purple heart (my favorite color) with the words I Luv U inscribed on the front in brown crayon. Next he gave me a cut-out flower in a paper pot. Then there were three cards with various animals drawn on the front and lopsided hearts inside. Two more cut-out hearts and three flower drawings, and his lap was empty. Then he gave his last gift: six little-boy hugs, five big-smacking cheek-kisses, and numerous declarations of undying love for Mommy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He had just given me one last big bear squeeze when his twins sisters came down the stairs. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Two mussy-haired, pajama-clad ten-year-olds stumbled to the kitchen. Bria yawned. “I’m going to make some eggs. Who wants some?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I stood. “Can you make some for Jayden, please?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jayden jumped up. “Ewwww, I don’t like Breeeeeea’s eggs.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A pan slapped against the counter in the kitchen. “Fine, you don’t have to have any!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jayden grabbed my arm. “Mommy, will you make me some eggs?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, hurried out of the living room and headed toward the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I groaned. I knew what was coming. So did Jayna, Bria’s twin. She rushed outside to feed the cats. The door slammed behind her. I wanted to follow. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I didn’t. Instead, I made my way into the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Too late.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> My sweet little, loving boy had already turned into a monster. He danced around Bria, making goofy faces and chanting nonsense. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria pushed past him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He followed. “Ewwww, don’t touch me. Your hair looks funny. Mom, Bria pushed me!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> And that was all it took. A moment later, Bria was yelling and crying and chaos had broken loose once again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Ah, it was just so fun to pester Sister. Fun for Jayden. Not fun for Mom.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So, like every morning, I stopped the teasing, I settled Bria, Jayden got in trouble, and I got tired.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Then, he stuck out his tongue at her one last time. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Bria glared at me and stabbed the spatula in his direction. “Mom!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I sighed. “Jayden!” My voice turned harsh. “You say that you love me, and then the very next thing you do is pester someone I love and make our family life miserable. That's not what love ought to look like!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I paused. That’s not what real love looks like at all. And I wondered. Is that what my love for God looked like? Did I heap him with praises and declarations of love, only to turn around and be unkind to those he loves? I may not tease and stick out my tongue, but were my words and actions consistent with the love I claimed for God?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> John wrote in John 4:20 (NIV), “Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Jayden’s just a spunky little brother who loves to get a reaction from his big sister. But I’m all grown up. It’s time I realize that love, especially love for God, is not found in paper cut-out hearts or passionate pronouncements. Love is treating people with kindness, respect, unselfishness, mercy, generosity, and no-little-brother-pesty-ness because they are beloved of the One I love. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,’” Jesus says in Matthew 25:40 (NIV). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="FreeForm" style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> So this Valentine’s Day, as I gather up my construction paper treasures, I will remember that this day of love isn’t about cards and chocolate hearts, meals out, or romantic candlelight. It’s about seeing others as God’s beloved and treating them like the treasures they are.</span><span lang="en-US" style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-12847134855081676952022-01-27T13:08:00.000-08:002022-01-27T13:08:03.917-08:00Working with God<p><b>Hey Friends,</b></p><p>Welp, the awesome hubby's birthday is coming up in a few days, so I thought I'd share an encouraging story from his teen-hood. Take a look and see if you aren't encouraged to work with joy alongside God. And remember, this story is from the hubby's POV.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCjXKjXFkIn9gj6s-ppe9FRefB6J3kA_CFl5Iz58gIfZFb82n5TbFAupeTT2aq3spmvPv_E8BjVlsZTIoRzne6vOlCbH2uXJ4uvhhROlFYT-nTcrIbC2OzQ4ZuCi_HiinsYKGViekZbHR8_4FeKRKw32Pce7kCmU0KPOtiknfW9Hqj6P15OZ2Fa64=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCjXKjXFkIn9gj6s-ppe9FRefB6J3kA_CFl5Iz58gIfZFb82n5TbFAupeTT2aq3spmvPv_E8BjVlsZTIoRzne6vOlCbH2uXJ4uvhhROlFYT-nTcrIbC2OzQ4ZuCi_HiinsYKGViekZbHR8_4FeKRKw32Pce7kCmU0KPOtiknfW9Hqj6P15OZ2Fa64=w411-h308" width="411" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt; font-weight: bold; margin: 12pt 0in 3pt; text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 24pt;">Dad Versus Godzilla!<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Aw, com’on Dad, not now,” I groaned. I shifted my legs across the couch and flipped the channel between an old rerun of Godzilla and the pro bowler’s tour. I’d only been home for two days and already Dad want<br />ed me to work on the car. “It’s Saturday. Can’t I just relax?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Car’s gotta be fixed,” Dad mumbled and walked back to the garage. Tools clanked as he began working on the old Chevy Caprice. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I shook my head and let out a long sigh. What did Dad want my help for anyway? He could do just fine without me. After all, I came home to visit and to have a break from my hectic schedule. I certainly didn’t intend to get elbow-deep in an old junker. I flicked the remote control again and watched Godzilla stomp through Tokyo. Smash, crash, roar ... the same ol’ Godzilla. I turned off the television and closed my eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My head bounced as something landed on the couch. I looked up. Mom sat about a foot from me with a huge load of laundry piled at her side. She stared at me for a moment, frowned, then proceeded to fold socks. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Finally, she put the socks aside. “You know, he just wants to spend time with you while you’re here,” she murmured. Then, she stood and returned to the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I sat up and thought about Mom’s words. Could it be that Dad just wanted my company? I knew that he didn’t need my help. After all, I knew much less about cars than he did. But he had still asked to come out to the garage with him. I had to find out if Mom was right. Slowly, I got up from the couch and trudged out to the garage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Hey Dad,” I muttered. “Want some help with that?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad pulled his head out from the engine and wiped the back of one greasy hand over his forehead. Slowly, a big smile replaced the sad look that had been on his face moments before. “Grab me a five eighths wrench over there,” he motioned to the toolbox with his chin, his hands embedded again in the Chevy’s engine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I rolled up my sleeves and retrieved the wrench. For the rest of the day, Dad and I worked side-by-side, sweating, grunting, and sharing little bits of our thoughts over the old engine. By the end of the day, my face was as grease-smeared as Dad’s, and I had a long tear in my shirt where the Chevy had gotten the better of me. But, the time with Dad had been worth it. Mom was right. It had been a great day, much better than reruns of Godzilla.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The next day, as I sat in church and listened to the Pastor speak about how God has adopted us as His children, I thought about my day with Dad. And I wondered, was my Heavenly Father like my earthly one? God could do anything He wanted without my help. But maybe He, like Dad, asked me to be involved with the things He was doing just so I could spend time with Him, and come out looking like Him at the end of the job. Had I been choosing Godzilla over God?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664123535156px; margin: 0in 0in 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Needless to say, I don’t watch much Godzilla anymore. When opportunities to work beside my heavenly Father, or my earthly one, come along, I grab the tools and say, “Let’s go!” whether it’s Saturday or not. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6933812550305714351.post-83965199755320279732022-01-13T11:48:00.003-08:002022-01-13T11:48:46.442-08:00Are you Looking at Life thru a Dirty Window?<p><b><br />Hi Friends,</b></p><p>Are you looking at life this year through a dirty window? A new year is good time to get the windows of your soul clear and sparkly . . .</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnNrO9zbQ3q3WHDS7SOHDtckYUusstUG4Na7vgPBX-qN5QLrakH_mjX7AfxlyS_7AJLK072l1xlsMbujX_m_lkJNivC6hH4xVDKbfSeZ8d6ufXI_uwAt3xG7rk0BgUFu86nQ2o-09nsY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnNrO9zbQ3q3WHDS7SOHDtckYUusstUG4Na7vgPBX-qN5QLrakH_mjX7AfxlyS_7AJLK072l1xlsMbujX_m_lkJNivC6hH4xVDKbfSeZ8d6ufXI_uwAt3xG7rk0BgUFu86nQ2o-09nsY/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> <u style="font-family: Cambria, serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Bold";">Dirty Windows</span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I sit here thinking about what I should write. What does God want to say through me today? How does he want me to use the images of my life to help myself and others draw deeper into relationship with him? Life has been complex lately. So much to do, so many duties and “musts” crying out for my attention. But now I need to think about this particular patch of grace that I am occupying in this moment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So I stare out my window, my fingers resting on the keypad. I shift my gaze left, right, up. Then I notice something. This window is quite dirty. It’s filthy even!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">My desk sits so I can look out a beautiful, slanted solarium window. It’s a gorgeous piece of architecture which allows me to gaze out into an oak grove and, past that, to my horse pasture. Theoretically, I have a stunning view. Not only can I see the lush oaks, but I can also see the blue sky through tall pines in the distance. I can see the sometimes-snow-tipped mountains. I can see colorful woodpeckers flitting in the tree branches and horses roaming the pasture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">At least, that’s what I should see.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But I’m not seeing that now. Instead, I’m looking at grime-covered glass, a few smeared cat paw prints at about eye level, and three or four splotches of bird poop. Big, ugly splotches.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And it occurs to me that my window has been this way for a long time. It didn’t get grubby overnight. It’s been months. A lot of months.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve been meaning to clean it, I really have. But I’ve been busy. Other things have taken precedent. Also, it’s not a very nice job so I’ve been avoiding it. I’ve been pretending that everything is okay.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But in the meantime, every day, for hours, I’m missing out on the beautiful view from my office window. Every day, God wants to give me the gift of this breath-taking vista, and because I haven’t cleaned the window, I’m unable to fully enjoy his gift to me. And every day the dirt and grime get a little worse. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes life can be like my window. God gives us a beautiful view of his grace, his love, his delight in us and the things around us. It is his gift to us. And yet too often we let the gunk of sin and shame mar our view. We allow bad attitudes, bad habits, negativity, jealousy, comparison, doubt, dislike, and selfishness make smears and poop blobs on the window of our soul until we can barely see God and the beauty he has laid out before us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Why don’t we clean the windows of our soul? Why do we let the scum pile up and obscure our vision? Often it’s because we just get too busy to attend to the important business of our inner lives. We have to get to work, get to school, take care of children, go to a meeting, prepare a project, do an assignment, tackle the urgent to-do list while the important matters of our inner health are neglected. So every day the window grows more dim, more yucky. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> My filthy window testifies to the truth that I have fallen prey to the tyranny of the urgent. But I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to see, really see, the view that God has given to me. I want to be like blind Bartimaeus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Mark 10:46-52 (NIV) tells us that when Jesus passed by Bartimaeus on the road, Bartimaeus cried out, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” The blind man knew he couldn’t save himself. He knew he wasn’t seeing like he should. He knew he was blind. And when Jesus called for him to come, Bartimaeus flung off his only possession, his cloak, and jumped up to go to Jesus. When Jesus then asked him what he wanted, Bartimaeus boldly proclaimed, without a doubt and without a second thought, “Rabbi, I want to see!” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">May we follow in the footsteps of Bartimaeus. May we eagerly throw off everything that hinders us from running to Jesus and regaining our sight. May we know just as clearly what we want, and may we simply say to God, “Lord, I want to see.” I just want to see. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Today, I need to get out the bucket and rag, and a little vinegar and soap, because I want to see again. I want to see every gift, every bit of beauty, that God places in my life. And more than that, like Bartimaeus, I want to see Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Marlo Schaleskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04690265597462589967noreply@blogger.com0