A Longing for Jesus (a poem)

Hi Friends,

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 . . .

The Moth

As a moth is drawn to light,

So am I drawn to You, my God.

Though the darkness presses in around me,

And my wings have wearied in the night,

Though I beat against unrelenting glass,

Still my heart longs for Your light.

I will keep flying, fluttering, straining

To be closer, closer, closer yet

To You, my desire, my life, my love,

Closer to Jesus, my Light.

Are You Carrying Too Much?

Hi Friends,

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...

Too Many Toys

            “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. 

            “Nooooo! Not another step!” I reached the top and snatched her away from the stairs. “What are you doing?”

            “Mumph, murf, umpf, urg.”

            I tugged a couple fluff balls away from her face. 

            She grinned. “Mine!”

            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.”

            She scowled and clutched the heap tighter. 

            “Especially going down stairs. It’s not safe. You could fall. Big owie!”

            She didn’t drop a single thing. “Mine.”

            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. 

            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?”

            She huffed, but didn’t disagree. Then she tucked two toys under one arm and gripped the other in her hand. 

            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. 

            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.

            Bria didn’t understand limits.

            She gets that from her mom.

            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. 

            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. 

            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. 

            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…”

            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.

            The Lord is with me. I just need to stop carrying everything all at once.

Slogging through Mud? Here's Hope!

Hi Friends,

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 . . .

Winter Wonderland?

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. 

Until there’s nothing but mud and muck and mess.

I’m a much bigger fan of spring. At least, I used to be.

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. 

And I thank God for the rain because I live in California where there have been too many years of drought.

But mud is no fun. Muck can be discouraging. And nobody likes a mess.

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.

We like the spring. Winter is too messy.

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. 

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.

 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. 

Perhaps God does his best work in the mud and messes of life.

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.

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. 

It is here that I encounter God’s winter wonderland. And today, I am glad that it’s winter.

Before You're Face Down at the Bottom of the Cage...

Hi Friends,

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 . . .

Face Down at the Bottom of the Cage

            It was a big, fat lie.  I smiled as I said it.  And what’s worse, I told it in the church foyer.  

            A friend touched my shoulder.  “How’re you doing?”

            “Fine.  Thanks.” 

            She nodded and made her way into the sanctuary.

            Fine.  I’m doing fine.  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.

            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?”

            He walked over and stared at the bird.  “What happened?”

            I shrugged my shoulders.  “I dunno.  It looked fine yesterday.”

            “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.”
            I shivered and turned away.  

            “Are you all right?”

            “I’m fine.”  I said the lie again, softer this time, quieter.

            “Fine, huh?”  Bryan put the dead bird in a box, then waited as I retrieved the book about lovebirds and flipped through the pages.  

            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.”

            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.”

            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.  Fine.  Thanks.  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.

            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.  

            And if I’m not, I may find myself, one day soon, face down at the bottom of my cage.

Encountering Christ in the Mud of Life

Hi Friends,

Got rainstorms here lately which of course means lots of mud! So, here are some related thoughts for life. See what you think!

Winter Wonderland?

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. 

Until there’s nothing but mud and muck and mess.

I’m a much bigger fan of spring. At least, I used to be.

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. 

And I thank God for the rain because I live in California where there have been too many years of drought.

But mud is no fun. Muck can be discouraging. And nobody likes a mess.

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.

We like the spring. Winter is too messy.

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. 

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.

 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. 

Perhaps God does his best work in the mud and messes of life.

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.

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. 

It is here that I encounter God’s winter wonderland. And today, I am glad that it’s winter.

Learning to Wait - An Advent Reflection

Hi Friends,

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. 

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. 

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 . . .

Christmas Bulb Blues

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. 

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.”  

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.  

“Waaaaa!” came her frustrated cry.  She pointed to the bulb, looked at me, then let out another indignant shriek.  

“No, Bethany, you can’t have that.”

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…”

“No,” I repeated.  “It’s not for you.”

She pushed herself to a standing position, stomped her feet, and cried all the louder.  

I handed her a stuffed reindeer.  

She promptly threw it on the floor.  

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.  

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?  

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.  

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.  

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.

Tasting the Turkey

Hi Friends,

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!)

Tasting the Turkey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pastor Ron cleared his throat.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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