Fighting the Real Enemy ... Together

Hi Friends, 

This week I've been thinking a lot about how we sometimes fight one another instead of focusing on the real enemies ... our spiritual adversary, fear, despair, desperation, worry, discouragement, etc. Then, I was reminded of this story from a few years ago. This story helped me to remember where to focus my energies in the battles of life. Maybe it will help you too ...

Dogs in the Chicken Coop

byMarlo Schalesky

 “Mom!”

I knew by the intensity of the shriek that something was very wrong. My six-year-old never screamed like that. She came bursting through my office door. “Mom! Help! Come quick!”

I leapt from my chair. “What’s wrong?”

She started to sob as she spoke. “The dogs are in the chicken coop. I couldn’t get them out.”

I ran for the door. She ran after me. 

“They pushed past me when I went in. I couldn’t get them out. Hurry!”

I was hurrying. I was sprinting out the front door, up the driveway, back toward the coop.

“Moooommmmmyyyy! They’re going to kill all the chickens!” 

Probably.

But I wouldn’t say that out loud. Instead, I just ran as fast as I could.

When I reached the coop, I burst inside. The hens were squawking high up in the coop while our white rooster flapped his wings at the two dogs and the red rooster lay, motionless, on the coop floor.

The two little dogs barked ferociously at the red rooster.

Oh no.Buffalo, the red rooster, was the favorite of all the kids.

I grabbed the two dogs and tossed them from the coop. They wagged their tails and scratched at the door to get back in. I ignored them.

Instead I knelt beside Buffalo, fearing the worst.

But he was still breathing. I helped him to his feet.

He shook himself and blinked at me. His entire, glorious tail had been pulled out and now I noticed feathers scattered around the coop. He had a few bare spots on his wings, but there wasn’t a bite mark on him. 

My daughter sidled up next to me. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I think so. Go get the wound spray from the barn. I’m going to spray him where his tail got pulled out.”

Jordyn brought me the spray and Buffalo held still while I tended to his bare back end. Then he fluttered up to his perch and checked on his hens. The white rooster turned around on his perch and I noticed that he, too, was missing much of his tail. I sprayed him too, checked the hens, then sat on the hay. 

The roosters stared at me. I stared back at them. “You’re war heroes, you know,” I told them. “You fought the battle so the hens could get away.”

They fluttered their wings, off balance without their large tails.

I smiled at them. Sometimes the roosters squabble with each other. Sometimes they peck the backs of the hens. But when the real enemy threatened their hens, the roosters worked together to protect the flock. 

That’s how we need to be too. In the church, in our families, in our circles of friends, we need to recognize that the enemy is not each other. There’s real enemy whose goal is our destruction, our death. 

Sometimes we’re too busy squabbling with each other to protect against the real threat. Sometimes we’re too busy pecking at those God has given us to protect. Paul says in Galatians 5:14-16 (NIV), “For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other.”

The roosters may occasionally be disgruntled with one another, but they don’t bite and devour each other. And when the real enemy sneaks into their coop, they band together to protect the hens. They know who the enemy really is.

And as I sat there, bemoaning the loss of Buffalo’s stunning tail (and most of Parmesan’s beautiful white tail), I started to see that losing a tail, even a gorgeous one like Buffalo’s, isn’t the worst thing that can happen.

God calls us to protect the weak, stand up for what’s right, lay down our lives, our tails, for others. He doesn’t call us to bicker and nitpick and peck at the very ones who we are called to protect. He doesn’t call us to bite and devour each other.

He calls us to fight the real enemy, the one who wants to destroy our souls. Together, just like Buffalo and Parmesan, we can defeat every dog who crashes our coop. Together, God gives us the strength to love others enough to sacrifice our tails so they can find a high place of safety.

Together, we can be who God created us to be, even if some feathers get pulled out in the process. 

Not Just Healed, But Whole ... Lesson from a Once-Wild Donkey

Hi Friends,

Does God just want you healed? Or does he want to make you whole?

Been thinking about this story about our once-wild donkey, Jenny. She's gotten a little skinny again (the others are eating up the food and are fat, and she's not getting enough) so I've moved her into another stall to help her out.

Here's what Jenny taught me about healing and wholeness:

A Once-Wild Donkey

         I spied the long ears peeking above a scraggly bush. Next came a long nose and dark, donkey eyes. Jenny peeked at me.

         I peeked at her. She was thin, ragged, terrified.

         She dropped her head.

         “It’s all right.” I shifted the load of hay in my arms and sidled closer. 

         She took one step away, then stopped and watched me with suspicious eyes.

         We’d had our recently-rescued donkey for nearly two weeks, and I still hadn’t convinced her to come to the barn and eat her hay with the horses. So every day I hauled a huge arm-load of orchard grass out to Jenny and tried to coax her to eat.

         I dropped the hay on the ground in front of her and reached out one hand to gently rub the top of her neck. Then, I ran my other hand over the faded marking that branded her as a once-wild BLM donkey. She’d been owned by an elderly couple for years and had grown out of her wildness, but she’d never quite gotten over her fear. 

When the elderly couple had moved into a nursing home, Jenny had been abandoned and left without any care. She’d become gaunt and starved, her fur tattered, her hooves overgrown and cracked.

         Now, she looked to me to make it better. And yet, even as I carried her food out to her, I could see the “if” in her eyes and I was reminded of the leper who said to Jesus, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” (Mark 1:40, NIV)  If you are willing, you can heal me. 

         Even as she hid behind the bush, Jenny knew that I had the power to bring her what she needed. What she didn’t know is if I was willing to do it. Did I care enough? Did I love enough? Or would I abandon her, unhealed?

         Sometimes, her questions echo my own. God, I know you are able, but are you willing? Do you love me enough? When I’m hurting and afraid, when I doubt and feel weak, will you leave me in this condition or are you willing to make me whole?

         And just like I say to Jenny, and like Jesus said to the leper, God says to me, “I am willing. Be clean!” (Mark 1:41, NIV). Be whole.

         Despite her doubts, despite her fear, I was willing not only to heal Jenny’s gauntness but also heal her heart. Then, and now, I want more for her than just physical health. I envision a donkey who finds her joy, her purpose, in bringing hope and healing to disadvantaged kids at Wonder Wood Ranch. I want her to become all that she can be, to fulfill her potential and purpose and leave all her fears behind. I want to take her “if” and not only bring healing but wholeness.

         Jenny may look to me to solve her external problems of hunger and hoof-ache, but I offer her a chance to be a part of our family, to know love and have a mission and discover the joy of being a part of something wondrous.

         Today, Jenny has found the courage to eat with the horses up at the barn. I’ve fed her, given her supplements, wormed her, had the farrier out to fix her feet and the vet out to vaccinate. I’ve pet her, brushed her, cleaned her hooves, built a shelter to protect her from the rains.

         I was willing. I am willing.

         And the once-skinny, bedraggled donkey is now happy, healthy, and only sometimes runs away and hides. Usually she lets the kids at the Ranch pet her, hug her. Occasionally she is brave enough to give a kid a ride. Despite her doubts, despite her “if,” she is becoming the donkey God created her to be.

         And in my fears, in my “ifs” that is what Jesus is offering me too, just as he offered the leper. He is telling me that doubt is not a barrier to his love, that he longs for me not to just be healthy but to be whole.

         God is offering more than healing. He wants to do more than make it better. He is calling you, me, even Jenny to a mission of love as we become who we are meant to be.

South Sudanese Refugee Camps in Uganda

Hi Friends,

Just back from an amazing trip to minister to the South Sudanese refugees in the refugee camps in northern Uganda. For all who prayed and those who supported me, THANK YOU!! When God first invited me to join him and the rest of His team on this trip, I didn't know what a privilege it would be to be a small part of the breath-taking work he is doing in the camps and in that part of the world.

The people of South Sudan have been ravaged by horrific violence. They've fled to refugee camps scattered over the northern part of Uganda. Some are so close to their homeland that they can still see it over the border. But it's not yet safe for them to go home.

Our team was able to join them in their suffering and encourage them in their hope. We ministered to around 1,000 women, over 400 children, and also a few hundred men. My ministry focus was on the women and children. What a beautiful thing it was to connect with hurting women and be able to be with them and bring a word of hope from God. And the children. The children! Oh, they were such a joy! We shared the gospel with them as well as fun stickers and some beach balls. They have nothing and work hard just to survive, many toting around their little siblings on their backs, and yet they were so open to hearing more about Jesus. And their smiles could light the world. Just see the pictures below!

Throughout the trip (despite no hot showers, the water and electricity going out frequently and for days, food that my stomach often didn't do well with, heat, mosquitos, long drives, and bathroom facilities that were often just some tarps around a square of hard ground), I was reminded that God is near and at work among his people all over the world. I was reminded that we all are one people in Him, and that His love is enough for all of us, no matter our circumstances. God is a God of wonder and beauty, even in refugee camps halfway across the world!

Below are some pictures:

These are the tucals that many families live in (in the camps, the tents are starting to be converted over to these more permanent tucals)

Here's a kid hanging through the window in a church while he listens to the teaching for the women.

This group of kids was so attentive and awesome. The group doubled (or more) while we were working with them. 

Love this girl's smile. The kids love to have their picture taken on the phone and then be able to see themselves. They don't often (if ever) get to see themselves except in water reflections.

Lots of kids have the responsibility of taking care of their younger siblings.

This is a youth choir who prepared a song for all of us. This church is one of the fancier ones - with mud walls and a tin roof.  

Here I am with some of the kids at one of the camps. It was so wonder-FULL to work with the kids!

And here's me with yet more kids. Yay!

Choosing Summer Fun

Hi Friends,

Just some thoughts for the beginning of summer. May this one be one you enjoy to the fullest!

RUNNING THROUGH THE SPRINKLERS OF GRACE

            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 ...

            Then came a shriek.

            A scream.

            A shout.

            A giggle.

            A laugh.

            A squeal of delight.  

            I opened my eyes.  There on the lawn before me twirled six little swimsuit-clad bodies, their arms waving, their cheeks sprinkled with water.  

            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.

            On the first pass, the water made a few dark spots on their suits and hair. By the fifth run, they were completely soaked.

            “Come on, Mom, join us.  It’s fun!” Joelle raced on tiptoe through the falling drops, until her long hair streamed with water.

            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.

            The baby raised her hands and toddled through the spray of water.  The older ones followed, each laughing and squealing and shouting with joy.

            Wetter and wetter they got.

            Happier and happier they became.

            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.

            When did I get so dull and boring?  

            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?

            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.  

            Joelle’s voice rang out again.  “Come on, Mom, get on your suit!”

            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?

            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.  

            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.  

            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!

Joelle and a Simple Prayer

Hi Friends,

In honor of my daughter turning 16 (wow, those years went by fast!), I wanted to post a fun story from when she was two years old. This girl has always been a deep thinker. Teachers used to call her an "old soul" because it seemed even when she was wee little she pondered those deep thoughts and asked deep questions.  And here's what happened one evening when she was two ...

Out of the Mouth of Babes

by 

Marlo Schalesky

I know how to pray.  I’ve been a praying Christian for years.  I’ve read all the books, I’ve studied all the greats - Augustine, Brother Lawrence, and a dozen others.  I’ve given talks and written seminary papers.  I’ve fasted, and prayerwalked, and read the Lord’s Prayer in Greek.  I’ve even written articles!  So, imagine my surprise when I got a lesson in prayer from a two-year-old.

It happened just the other night.  The food steamed on the table.  The silverware shone.  Our five-year-old, Bethany, squirmed in her seat.  “Who’s gonna pray so we can eat?”  She looked down at the spaghetti on her plate.  

I opened my mouth to volunteer, but before I could say a word, a little voice piped up from beside me.  

“Me do it.  I pray.” 

I glanced at our two-year-old daughter, Joelle. “Okay, you do it.  You know what to do?”  

She nodded.  

She’d never prayed out loud for a meal before, but she had heard us pray hundreds of times.  We always asked God to bless the food and thanked Him for it.  

Joelle folded her hands as we all bowed our heads. 

Then, we waited.  And waited.

I peeked at her.  “Go ahead, sweetie.  Pray.”
            She closed her eyes.  Then, came her prayer, loud and clear over the table.  “Jesus no cry.  Jesus be happy.  Amen.”

            We all looked up.  

            Bethany frowned. “That’s a funny prayer.  Can we eat now or not?”

            I tapped her hand and shushed her.  “It’s a great prayer.  You can eat.”

            Joelle stuffed her fork into her spaghetti and ignored her sister.  “I pray,” she muttered.

            I smiled as I contemplated her words.  She prayed all right.  A prayer no one had taught her, a prayer that came right from her heart, a prayer that put all my grown-up prayers to shame.  In six simple words, Joelle had gotten to the heart of God-honoring prayer - not a rote repetition about the food, but a sincere desire for Jesus to be happy.  

            As I sat there twirling spaghetti on my fork, I thought about how my prayers compared with Joelle’s. Sure, I knew all the right phrases and all the how-to’s.  Yet, as I contemplated her simple words, I saw how woefully self-centered my own prayers had become.  I asked for blessings on my family, help with my work, wisdom in dealing with people, and that all would go well.  Good things, surely, and things that God wants me to pray for.  But it wasn’t enough.  If I were to simplify my prayers down to Joelle’s language, I saw that they would sound more like “Marlo no cry.  Marlo be happy.”  

Where Joelle prays for Jesus, I pray for me.  Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:10 (NIV) to pray, “your Kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”  I’ve read those words so many times, but only through Joelle’s prayer have I seen their deeper meaning.  When we spurn God’s will, Jesus weeps.  When we do His will, Jesus is happy.  

            These days, Joelle prays that same prayer for every meal.  And as I listen to her, as I lift my heart to God with her words, my prayer life is changing.  Instead of only asking for God’s blessing, I’m focusing more on asking God to help me to be pleasing to Him.  As I ask for His help in my work and writing, I voice my desire for Him to help me to glorify Him in my life.  When I ask for wisdom, I also ask Him to help me honor Him in all I do and think.  And instead of focusing on my desire for all to go well, I ask Him what I can do to bring Him joy.  

In other words, I am learning to pray with childlike faith.  I’m learning to pray, “Jesus no cry.  Jesus be happy.”

Mommy in the Moonlight

Hi Friends,

Just a little story in honor of Mother's Day, for all you Mamas out there. You matter!

Mama in the Moonlight

by 

Marlo Schalesky

            Darkness closed in around our camper just as the crickets began to sing. It was going to be a long night.  I knew it because there was no familiar crib, no Curious George toy, no door I could close to shut my two-year-old daughter off from the strange and scary noises of the night.

            I zipped up Jayna’s jammies and kissed her forehead.  Then, I set her on the bed in the pop-up camper and pointed to a spot beside the canvas wall.   “Night night time, Jayna. Lay down.”

            Her brow wrinkled.  Her lip trembled.  “Nigh Nigh?”

            “It’s okay.  Lay down.”  I pointed again.  “Close eyes.”

            She looked down at the spot.  Her eyes stayed opened.  Too wide.  

            I cringed.  “No cry.  Go night night.”  I patted the bed.

            She sniffed and scowled some more.  Then, she rubbed her nose and pranced in a circle around the bed, her head barely skimming the canvas above.  

            “No, no, no!”  I snatched her up and plunked her down on the thin mattress.  “Night night.”

            She sprung back up.

            I bit my lip.  I knew this wasn’t going to work.  Jayna was used to her own room, her own crib, her own little Winnie the Pooh bumper to keep her head from hitting the crib’s slats.  This wide camper bed, with plain sheets, wobbly sides, and a big pillow was nothing like where she slept every night.  It was strange, different.  Weird.  I sighed. “Okay, just wait a minute.”

            I put on my pajamas and quickly brushed my teeth. Then, I crawled into the bed beside her and pulled up the covers.

            She stopped prancing and stood still.  She looked at me.

            I patted the bed beside me.  “Night night.  Lay down by Mommy.”

            She plopped down and rolled on her side, her big eyes fastened on my face.

            I blinked as a swath of moonlight trickled in to illuminate Jayna’s face.

            She smiled at me.

            I smiled back.  

            She inched closer.  Then, she sat up and patted my shoulder.  “Mama hee-a.”  The words came out as an awed whisper.

            “Yes, Mommy’s here.”

            She laid back down and snuggled up next to me. Then she began to laugh.  “Mama here.  Mama here.  Mama here,” she said between giggles.  She turned to face me.  A huge grin lit her face.  She touched my cheek.  “Mama. Here.”

            I laughed with her as I held out my arms and gathered her close.  

            She closed her eyes, the smile still evident on her little face.  She was happy, thrilled, comfortable, secure.  Despite the darkness, despite the strangeness, despite the weird sound of a hundred crickets chirping outside in the night.  None of that matter, because Mommy was here.  The joy of Mommy’s presence drove all the fear away.

            As I laid there in the moonlight, with Jayna snoring softly next to me, I marveled that for her “Mama here” was enough.  And if that was so, shouldn’t “Jesus here” be enough for me as well?

            When I enter the dark places in my life, times laced with uncertainty, scattered with strange and unfamiliar sounds, why should I fear?  Jesus is with me.  He said in Matthew 28:20 (NIV), “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."  Always.  When I’m traveling alone, when I’m in a group of strangers, when I’m trying something new, when I’m in circumstances that are unfamiliar and difficult.  He is with me.  

            When worries chirp outside my camper walls, when I can’t see beyond the end of my bed, when it looks like life is taking a turn to places that make my brows wrinkle and my lips tremble, then God says to me, as it says in Isaiah 41:10 (NIV), “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

            And so maybe, for me too, “Jesus here” will be enough.  Maybe I don’t need to fear because God is with me, wherever I go, wherever I lay down to rest.  Maybe I, too, can just snuggle in and have a little giggle.

Is Easter About Bunnies After All?

Hi Friends,

This Easter I wanted to share a little story about my bunny, Felicia, and what she taught me about God and his love. Enjoy ...

It’s Easter time, and I hold a tiny bunny against my shoulder. I feel her soft fur on my skin, her nose twitching. She wiggles and climbs higher until her cheek is pressed into mine, her face so close that she can smell my breath. She breathes in, relaxes. Her heart beats with mine. My eyes close. I think hers do too.

            And I know, somehow, this is a divine moment. There is beauty and wonder and the presence of God himself. 

            Because this is how God loves me.

            And I think that maybe, just maybe, Easter is about bunnies after all.

            I whisper in her ear and remember where she came from. She was found cold and shivering in a tiny burrow in someone’s backyard. A little baby bunny with a few lion-hairs sticking from between her big ears and mud obscuring her white-and-brown fur. She huddled abandoned and alone, much too young to be without her mother. But her mother was no where to be found. 

            She would have died there.

            But then, a hand reached into her burrow, a hand bigger than she was. She trembled, cowered to the far side of the dirt and rock. She almost bit the hand, almost drew blood. But fingers closed gently around her, and the hand brought her out of hiding and into the light. 

The hand rescued her. 

            And now, after a trip to the rabbit rescue center, to an adoption event at the pet store, and to my home, a hand holds her close. 

            She’s not alone anymore. She’s been adopted. She has all the food she wants, a safe place to live, a clean home, and much love. She no longer cowers in the back of burrows. She doesn’t need to be afraid. Instead, she’s growing, exploring, and breathing deeply from the breath of the one who loves her.

            And as I hold her close, I am reminded of what God has done for me, and the deepest yearnings of my heart. I, too, have been rescued, and now I long to be so close that I can smell the breath of God, feel his heartbeat, and soak in his love for me. 

            I, too, was alone. I was afraid. I would have died there in my burrow, in my sin. But then hands reached out; nailed hands reached out on a wooden cross. They found me, brought me into the light. I was rescued, cared for, adopted into the family of God.

            Ephesians 2:1, 4-7 (NIV) says, “As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins... But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ ... And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that ... he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.”

            This Easter as I hold my baby bunny in my arms, her face close to mine, I think about Jesus, his arms stretched wide. I think of his blood shed for me. I think of my sin covering me like mud from a hovel and how that scarred hand came into my dark burrow and rescued me. I soak in the truth of how it brought me into the light, surrounded me with love, and now holds me close to his heart.

            This is what he died for, this is why he rose. 

            I am the Easter bunny, rescued, adopted, and held close to the beating heart, the warm breath, of the God who loves me enough to make me his own, no matter the cost.

            Now, when I see all the stuffed rabbits in the stores, the pictures of bunnies and baskets, the chocolates shaped like rabbits with long ears, I think of my baby bunny and I am reminded anew of the amazing love of the God who died and rose again to make me his own.

            I am reminded to climb up closer, nearer, and put my cheek on his, close my eyes, and breath deeply. 

            I am loved that much.