As long as I can remember, my closet had a boogie man and something lay waiting, with raspy breath, under my bed. mustard seed
Its name is Anxiety. Continue reading Hey You… Mountain….Move! I’m Armed with a Mustard Seed
As long as I can remember, my closet had a boogie man and something lay waiting, with raspy breath, under my bed. mustard seed
Its name is Anxiety. Continue reading Hey You… Mountain….Move! I’m Armed with a Mustard Seed
Do you ever catch a glimpse of your faith–that wee mustard seed, dwarfed in the palm of God’s hand? Recently, a peek at my faith meter, raised a question: Do I truly believe God longs to give me the desires of my heart? Continue reading What are the Desires of your Heart? Need a Motive Check?
First I apologize for stalling on the blog. I miss my readers. I hope you’ve missed the stories as well. When the end of our book waved encouragement, it was like sending a marble down the track, racing through the obstacles to the finish. Trust me, had I stopped to write a blog, it would have been a wordy resentment as to how I had to take time away from finishing the book. In the meantime, my dearest husband suggested (after much whining) that he write a blog for me. With that said: I introduce a very special guest blogger – husband, Sandy Palmer. Obviously, I did not choose the topic. How to Live with a Writer
As long as I can remember, I have loved reading. Still do, whether magazines, (read cover to cover), a daily newspaper, or at least one book. But writing? I suck at it! Any class I’ve taken involving writing, was painful, and book reports, unless given orally, received unremarkable grades. I’ve never been partial to one type of book; i.e. novel, sci-fi, thriller, mystery, etc. Likewise, I’ve never had a favorite author, at least not until twenty-five years ago, when I met Deb, my wife to be. She was finishing her college degree in Print Journalism. From the start, I enjoyed anything she wrote, as she had a way with words, capturing what was important, pertinent, what needed said. How to Live with a Writer
When we first met she was writing for the college newspaper; human interest feature articles. Post college, while working for a non-profit organization, she launched a newsletter, convincing the agency they needed a public relations officer. Soon after, we hung a shingle on our house, “Palmer Business Communications,” where she freelanced for other agencies, wrote a column for a local newspaper and cranked out resumes that pretty much guaranteed you an interview. After several years of writing for other people, she burned out, gave up the writing and spent the next twenty years in the antique business. How to Live with a Writer
Her passion for writing, starting when she was a little girl, didn’t go away, it just took a break. Like a serial killer, destined to strike again, Deb’s desire to write returned with a vengeance. Writing consumed much of her time. Not just the physical part of writing, but thinking about writing, planning about writing, editing writing, proof-reading writing, rewriting writing, publishing planning, marketing planning, and so forth and on and on. How to Live with a Writer
Did I mention that I am not a writer? From early on, I have been involved with Deb’s writing. Having done many things in my work career, I was useful in terminology and knowledge of skills needed, in numerous fields, when it came to resume’ writing. Once, shortly after she had quit smoking, and was dangerous to be around when she was stressed, I finished the last paragraph of a newspaper column, when my physical well-being was at stake. How to Live with a Writer
In the past several years, since Deb came back to her writing, she has written two books and maintains a blog. Both of the books are great, and I look forward to them being published. The first one, a collection of short stories, based on the beatitudes, is very entertaining, laced with much humor and a big yellow dog. By the time it was finished, Deb hated it, and it was put on the back burner. One of the stories has been published in a Christian Anthology, called, “The Birds of Passage.” The second book was recently finished in rough draft form, and Deb is again disliking it, saying that no one will want to read it. She’s nuts! Three chapters from this book have been posted on her blog, with rave reviews. I know that something big will come of Deb’s writing. How to Live with a Writer
Did I mention that I am not a writer? Deb thinks I am. I am not an editor. Deb thinks I am. I am not a proof reader. Deb thinks I am. I know that her writing is exceptional, and will be read and enjoyed by many. If she can be convinced of this,our lives will, possibly, become calm. I doubt it! On to the next writing project!!!! I am not a writer, but I will continue to be whatever Deb needs me to be, and mainly her #1 supporter.
If you, like me, live with a writer; my heartfelt condolences. I will offer some advice how to survive. Here are the 5 tips that I’ve learned the hard way. How to Live with a Writer
Tip One: Be Willing to Listen… NOW!
If said OCD writer approaches with a chapter, a paragraph, a sentence, a word or even an idea related to writing, respond as if they are holding a ticking bomb. Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is more important. It doesn’t matter if you’ve drank three cups of coffee and are sprinting to the bathroom finish line…. Stop! Listen! Wet clothing can be changed; words may expire or combust.
Tip Two: No Faking
Let’s say the writer is reading a section to you that you really don’t understand, or even like.. Whatever you do, don’t plaster a grin on and say “I like it,” or it’s nice. I’ve come to believe writers have a special type of Extra Sensory Perception when it comes to this. Be sincere, but tread lightly. Honesty is your only way out, but stand back a ways.
Tip Three: React to the Writing…
I know this sounds silly, but it is for the best. Trust me. Practice your facial responses in the mirror. You will most likely need to times your normal reaction by three. If your normal response is “uh huh,” or “yeah, I like it,” times it by ten. Listen for humor and laugh as if you’re a drunk needing to be heard over the entire bar. Besides humor, expand your responses to cover content, story line, word choice, etc.
Tip Four: Repeat Yourself and Repeat Yourself
OCD writers are either hard of hearing or attention deficit when it comes to their work. Here is a typical conversation.
Me: That is really powerful. It’s great.
OCD Writer: You like it?
OCD Writer: Why do you like it?
Me: Because I think it is powerful?
And don’t be surprised or lose patience if later they ask:
Did you really like it?
Do you think anyone else will like it?
Tip Five: Take away the Club
OCD writers beat themselves up. If you don’t stop them, they often believe they cannot continue. Exchange the self-abating Billy club with the real source of power – God. When all else fails, I ask one question:
Have you asked God’s help?
With a divine light bulb above her head, she calms, thanking me for tipping her face toward heaven.
Check out a sample chapter of our latest book:
Recently I came across a video, boasting the health benefits from eating fermented vegetation, a euphemism for rotten veggies. For 20 minutes I watch some skinny gal shred buckets of cabbage, carrots, golden beets, and celery, pressing the compost-like mixture into Mason jars. sobriety
As she’s twisting the lids onto the jars, I wise up. sobriety
“Wait, I’m not eating that!”
Not ready to give up, I think up an alternative I can stomach… sauerkraut. I like it, sort of. Next, I turn to google, searching for a home-cured recipe. As I scroll through dozens of choices, I remember my husband’s remarks the last time I ate sauerkraut. sobriety
“Oh, (gag), that’s nasty stuff. Can’t you eat that outside?”
Next, a perfectly timed pop-up ad appeared on my screen. It happened to be a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon (my old favorite), with flashing red font, claiming the same heart-healthy benefits as rotten veggies. This should be an easy choice. I mean come on… a bowl of sauerkraut or a glass of Sauvignon? sobriety
Problem is, next month I will celebrate 24 years of sobriety. That makes choosing a tad more difficult. The big picture question becomes two-fold:
Part 1: Could I have a single glass of wine every day?
Part 2: What size glass are we talking about?
Seriously, after more than two decades abstaining from alcohol, I can’t help wondering if the alcoholic label has expired. After all, I’m a new person. The loud mouth woman, slurring words and falling down is behind me. sobriety
Or is she? sobriety
What if she’s lurking in my soul, smacking her dry lips, day dreaming of a 36-ounce tumbler of Cabernet Sauvignon?
Frankly, I believe God put my old self on a bus, out of my heart, years ago. With caution, I confess, I don’t think having a single glass of wine would cause me a problem today. I’m not certain I want just one glass, but with God in my life, I believe it’s possible.
So, why would I choose sauerkraut over red wine?
For starters, gratitude. Sobriety is the gift that keeps on giving. Why would I stand in the return/exchange line for a refund? I certainly don’t want back what I paid for it. That’s a scary thought.
“Here you go, ma’am… 24 bags full of heartbreak, disaster, and shame.”
Am I saying a sober life is a life of sauerkraut? No! That’s just how these ponderings began. Quite the contrary, sobriety for me means:
I see… hear… taste… smell… feel… love. I have character, maybe even integrity, from which relationships thrive with God, my husband, children, grandchildren, friends.
My life means something today. I stand for things. Such as an alternative lifestyle, one lacking representation and prominence in this world. Too many of us have modeled the American dream, boasting age 21, as a time to receive our prized first drink. Our children see us glorify liquor, resembling the proverbial rabbit chasing the carrot. They hear us say things like “I NEED a drink,” or “I’ll drink to that.” We honor our time spent with booze by giving it pet names like Miller Time, Beer-thirty and Happy Hour. We even warn the end is near with Last Call. Then, when our children prematurely race for their first drink, we have little tolerance. Yet, we’ve dangled it in their face, adding allure, by tagging it taboo.
God help me! I imagine by now you’re picturing me banging my tambourine, like one of those prudish Victorian women from the Liquor Prohibition Temperance Movement. Banning alcohol consumption is not my intent. I envy families who’ve modeled drinking as a choice no more exciting than peas and carrots. I am asking that we quit portraying drinking as a glamorous rite of passage. Certainly the media does not need our help brainwashing youth to believe college equals parties, problems are solved by drinking, and bars and clubs are the only venues for good times.
What I realized contemplating sauerkraut versus wine, is that I like and appreciate my sober life. I’m proud to represent a lifestyle option that I hope reflects contentment, joy and excitement, without the need for additives. sobriety
See below to read a sample chapter of our book in progress.
Everyone knew her. That woman, older than dirt, bent like the crook of a cane to half her height. Back then, in the 60s, an old lady in trousers is today’s equivalent to a tube top and Daisy Dukes. Thus, all elderly women wore floral jersey dresses. But this lady, had it going on, donning the expected uniform dress, and thick, sagging, support stockings with her signature Converse All Stars high top tennis shoes. Praying Hands Legacy
The fashion statement earned the nickname, Granny Tennis Shoes, and a story, told as a warning, locally and beyond. The tale not only explains the physical ailment but also solves the fashion mystery.
It went something like this…Praying Hands Legacy
One day a poor penniless widow found a pair of Converse All Stars in a dumpster. While lacing them up, the plan emerged, catapulting the old woman from rocking chair to entrepreneur, soon branded as Granny Tennis Shoes. During peak traffic times, taking a two-point stance at the street corner, she’d wait for the light to flash green, pouncing onto the crosswalk, (hence the tennis shoes) in front of a car, (hence the crippled body). Afterward, Granny drug her tired, tread riddled bones to court, suing the traumatized driver, for all they had.
And the saddest part of the story?
We all believed it.
It was not until I told the story as an adult that I realized how unlikely it would be that she would survive more than one attempt. Poor old Granny Tennis Shoes, clueless as to why… fingers pointed… cars swerved at the sight of her… wide-eyed children gawked or ran away. Praying Hands Legacy
Have you ever wondered what stories are told about you? I cringe at the thought. Labeled a feisty redhead with a nasty temper, my brother nicknamed me Sword Tongue saying,“Watch out, if you make her mad, she’ll slice you to pieces!” Praying Hands Legacy
That’s not a good legacy. I pray today my words be sweet, that the blade of my tongue is guarded, never wagging amok, or used as a weapon. I confess and repent of times my nearest and dearest have witnessed my tongue unsheathed. It’s true, I ’m not the person I could be, but it’s also true, I’m not the person I once was. The one who took pride in verbal slaughters. Glory to God for the changes and praise for His continued work. Praying Hands Legacy
I remember the first time I knew there’d been a paradigm shift in the way people define me. It was my birthday, the one when my now 18-year-old grandson was just four years old. With no help or suggestions from others, he selected my present. By the look of anticipation on his beaming face, I knew whatever it was, he believed it to be a grand and perfect gift. I expected a mug, or socks, maybe even a “NaNa is the best” placard. I did not, nor could not, have imagined the treasure concealed inside the box, wrapped slipshod in the funny papers. After peeling the last layer of comic, I opened the lid, lifting the mysterious cube from the box. Dazed, I stared at the gift, mirroring what my grandson sees when he looks at me. A battery operated crystal cube that lights up, revealing a silhouette of praying hands. The loveliest gift ever. Praying Hands Legacy
A drop to my knees, state of mind, moment. Hyper aware of the miraculous transformation, present in me, a task only God could pull off. How flattering… what an honor… to know my grandson pictures me as a woman of prayer who loves God. I’ve never felt more gratitude for God pulling me up out of the muck and mire, hosing me off, presenting me as lovely, in my grandson’s eyes. Praying Hands Legacy
Had I kept going the way of my past, my grandchildren might see me as someone chasing the wind, or worse, they might not know me at all. Because of our powerful awesome God, my five grandsons know what’s important to me. God, their Grandpa, and family.
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.
That birthday was a defining moment for me. A day when I received a priceless jewel. Proof that God is working miracles every day, in every way, even if you are just a “me,” like me. Undeniable evidence that I am not the godless woman I once was. For me, the wondrous change is no less a marvel than if I’d sawn off my leg and God grew it back.
Grateful! Grateful! Grateful!
Thank You God that who I see reflected in the eyes of my loved ones, is good.
Hmm… maybe Granny Tennis Shoes’ grandchildren and those who actually knew her, saw her as a loving grandma, who happened to wear cool high top tennis shoes. I hope so.
See below to read a sample chapter of our book in progress.
Sadness… melancholy… no apparent reason, yet suspicions come to mind; the gray sky, the stillness after the snow fall, the chill. Possibly staring out my office window, waiting for the sharp edged icicles to drip, is the cause. More likely, it’s the time of year. The expectant looking back, so we can move forward… out with the old, in with the new. Grief
Like that sappy old haunting song, Auld Lang Syne, I miss the people who are no longer here. Around this time last year, I wrote about my dad, and the year before that, my mom. It’s true, I’m sad they’re gone, but forever grateful for God’s plan for them. With that said, watching them transition from this world, is difficult. grief
For me, the most painful bon voyage of all is my brother, Danny, taken by cancer, at age 52. Dark, sad, painful, and yet, a blessed time of completion, spiritual healing and deep love. Talking, or writing, about how it feels, is not easy. Even so, I’m driven to share, because the hurt is merely a speck in comparison to the bounty of peace and comfort that showered down from heaven, like a glorious refreshing rain. grief Grief
My Gehenna arrived, with a phone call.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Driving to work. What’s up?”
“I have cancer, and it’s really bad.”
Certain he’s playing one of his boundless practical jokes, I respond in anger. Mourning
“That’s not funny… I’m hanging up!”
“Debbie, it’s true,” he said, voice cracking.
Was it outlandish to think he was joking? No. This is the guy who carries a tube of Oragel in his pocket, ready to swipe the rim of a loved one’s coffee mug, then sit back and laugh while they gasp through numb lips, “call 911 I’m having a stroke!” The guy with an array of voices, who calls from random friends’ phones, pretending to be one of his unlimited annoying characters. grief
His favorite? grief
A man with a really bad Asian accent, wanting to buy your cat for his upcoming dinner party. I’m sorry. I didn’t say he’s always politically correct, or sensitive. So, I ask, who wouldn’t have thought he was playing the cancer card as just another poor taste joke? grief
Lifestyle changes, like my sobriety, and proclaiming new found Christianity, (admittedly not always with grace), had distanced our relationship. But with the passing of our mom, six years prior, forgiveness washed away our petty bickering. Any lingering resentments hiding in the corner of our hearts, were flushed away with the news of cancer. grief
Budding health concerns set Danny’s life in turbo, as if someone yelled “fire!” An appointment to drain liquid collected around his heart, turned into major surgery to remove the sack surrounding it. That’s when the alarms went off with the news of cancer invading his lymph nodes. Change ran amok. His ex-wife, Astrida, forever and always best friend, and only person trusted to liquidate his car lot business, moved from Florida to Seattle to help.
Before long Hospice called and paid him a visit.
“You should have seen the woman they sent,” he said during one of our daily phone conversations. “She has zero sense of humor. She just sits there, asking questions… if she smiled, her face would crack. ”
“Did you get out your Orajel?”
“Hmpf! Why bother? Anyway, I told Hospice on the phone, I don’t need someone taking care of me. The thing is… I need you to sign papers saying you’ll be my caretaker. But, I don’t need or want you here. They act like it’s over and done. I’m not!”
Looking back at the whirlwind, I can see the perfection in God’s timing. I’m reminded of God’s steady hand through it all. He used my baby Christian status to not only minister to my little brother, but also to heal the broken pieces in my own heart. I knew, the world knew, certainly God knew, I was ill-equipped to fix Danny. But God knew my lack of skill, absence of wisdom and zilch experience, qualified me for the job He had in mind.
I was left with one choice: Cling to Jesus, trust He has a plan. And, He did. His plan, way beyond human imaginings, incorporated our history, our personalities. He used what he knows like no one else, our DNA, our snowflake differences.
We were the younger two, of the four McFarland children. Even back then, four children were a tall order for a truck driving dad and a stay at home mom. Five years my junior, Danny perfected the art of pesky little brotherhood. Even so, he was my brat brother, and I loved him. With busy parents and older siblings failing to see our cool side, we entertained each other. Mostly, we played cards. Not fluffy games of Fish or Old Maid, we self-weaned off those, pre-kindergarten. We dealt pinochle, poker, gin rummy, war, blackjack, spades, hearts and quadruple deck Canasta. Hours on end, we bonded between shuffles, promising before kings, queens and jacks, to take care of each other, no matter what.
At age 16 Danny fell into the popular sport of drugs and alcohol, and lost. Newly married, and an official adult, at age 21, I was the best choice to parent a troubled teen. What I lacked in experience I made up for in “know-it-all-ness.” So, I convinced my parents and new husband, to move Danny across the state and live with me. Shortly after, we drank and drugged together, keeping mayhem at bay, since I signed the notes for teachers and principals.
After graduation, he got a job, and moved out, but, he hung out at our house, whenever he could. That’s when the gambling began. Even at the start, the stakes were sweaty palm high– lose three hands, wash dishes for three minutes. Eventually, the ante escalated, reaching high roller status…
“I’ll raise your 15 minutes of washing dishes for 15 minutes of vacuuming…” to “I’m all in for the toilet scrubbing, with a flush.”
I’m telling you this so you’ll truly understand the breadth and depth of God’s sweetness. The absolute intimacy of: “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered (Luke 12:7). The assurance of: Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows (Matthew 10:31). The realization of: For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13). Yes, God had a plan. Not a cookie cutter plan he whipped out for whomever, but a specifically designed plan for Danny and me.
Before the morphine took over, we were given a last season together. Of course he played his stupid jokes. His new favorite? Pretending to be dead when I checked on him in the morning. ERRRRR! He thought that was really funny. Instead of cards, we played lots of scrabble. But here’s the sweet spot: Sitting side by side, we read the Bible and prayed together. Danny trusted me, asking me questions because he knew I didn’t have all the answers. God, trusted me, maybe for the same reason. We taped his favorite scriptures on the wall by the hospital bed Hospice had delivered. We laughed a bunch and cried even more. It felt familiar, brother and sister, hanging out. Instead of making promises we could not keep, we reminded each other of God’s promises. God used many people over the years and especially during this end time of Danny’s life, to bring him into His kingdom. My task was more a maintenance or hand holding position.
His last months on earth, were emotionally brutal, but he remained, miraculously, pain free. One minute he talked about being ready, the next he cried out in fear. One day up, one day down. A day of faith, a day of fear, a day of anger, a day of peace. The daily increase of morphine, blurred reality, tainted truths and wreaked havoc on safety. He chain smoked while using his oxygen tank. He stopped eating. And, I became the bad guy, along with the rest of the family he had shut the door on. Then, he sent me away. I’m thankful he could still trust and count on Astrida, who took over care taking, until he was placed in a care facility. God
God could have healed my brother. But he did not. I trust His decision. He knows the big picture. He knows the right time. It’s not as if God was sitting on His hands doing nothing. He was at work, changing hearts, healing hurts, increasing faith, proving His love and securing salvation.
I miss my brother. Yes, even the off color jokes and practical stunts. I have no doubt, where he is. I thank God for His patience and willingness to let us take care of each other before he took him. Danny’s death is beyond sad. Yet, I’m left with a smile and a warm heart whenever I think of him. I will be forever grateful for those times, side by side… two children, talking and getting to know their Father.
Jesus I didn’t know what to give my husband for Christmas this year. He’s difficult to buy for. I wanted it to be something special, not the usual patron saint T-shirt with Bullwinkle or The Muppets. How many does one closet need? There’s always the shirt with a spiritual message, but again, we’ve just about covered the Bible through his wardrobe. Alas, by chance a miracle, that Craftsman has invented a new tool, that he will not think is silly or doesn’t already have. Jesus
Each year, the problem increases. Even if I had extra money for a trip to some race track, or a Harley Davidson (old style, of course), the gesture is “meh,” compared to what he deserves. This is the man who continues to love me, right where I’m at. He loves me when I’m right. He loves me when I’m wrong. He loves me when I think I’m right, but might be… well, you get the drift. Jesus
I can’t say what I ended up buying, because he will read this before he opens the package. I will say, it’s just as unremarkable as any other year. Short of ripping my heart out and slapping a red bow on it, I don’t know how to express my love for him. Jesus
And that’s when I get to thinking… Jesus
As much as I love my husband, and God knows I do, I love Jesus twenty gazillion times more. My heart often aches to give Him a gift, exemplifying gratitude, for all He has done. Truth is, my all, is about as lame as handing Jesus a Bullwinkle T-shirt and saying thanks. Thus, the daily lesson in humility. s
I’m leaving this post short. Pressing in, taking time to breathe in the season, bask in His love. s
Merry Christmas to you and your family.
I knew a little girl, with frizzy red hair, knobby knees and a gap between her two front teeth. To the world she appeared gawky, gangly and awkward, but she never questioned her beauty and magnificent design. Remember Child God Created Creation faith inspiration
Eyes wide, she greeted the flowers, the sunshine and colors of each moment, with gratitude. To her, miracles were expected, like turning the crank on the Jack in the Box, certain it’s coming, exhilarated by when. Nothing too small, or taken for granted. All creation grand, worthy of great attention and delight. Remember Child God Created Creation faith inspiration
Hyper-alert, nothing missed, or unseen… the twinkle in another child’s eye, or the void of hope, lurking in a stranger’s soul. She recognized the need for a smile, a kind word, a touch, a simple pat on the hand. And, without question or hesitation, she filled the need. Courageous. Fearless. Forever listening to the still, small voice, speaking through the ears of her heart. Remember Child God Created Creation faith inspiration
I remember her tears. Cries for Marilyn, dragged to the front of the class, spanked and shamed by the teacher, while wide eyed 1st graders, sat writhed in helplessness. Sweet tears, wept over the graves of babies, buried in an overgrown cemetery, near her house. Sobs of empathy, for the poor, ill-treated, and abused… the boy next door with the mean dad, the upside down gold fish, the woman scarred from burns on her face, and Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
I remember her well. Those who loved her, cautioned, along with the rest of the world,”You’re too thin skinned, toughen up. Chin up child!”
Defining labels began to stick. Remember Child God Created Creation faith inspiration
Sensitive… Soft hearted… Emotional
The equation became:
Sensitive + Soft hearted + Emotional = Weak & Stupid.
Soon the clanging noise of the world, muffled the still, small voice amplified from her heart. Cynicism replaced trust. Bitterness squelched goodwill. Hatred and resentment silenced love. The world held up a mirror, ordering,
“Take a good look. You are not beautiful. Just look around you.”
So, she looked, compared, measured and judged.
Through this child, I met a woman; broken, bitter, “so over it.” Weary from turning over stones, finding no satisfaction. No questions asked or answered, soothed her pain. I remember her tears, as well. Tears from the well of brokenness, sorrow, darkness, loss of hope.
One day, in the deepest, darkest pit of dismay, she listened for the familiar still small voice, that even to deaf ears, kept speaking. She heard Him.
He’d never left.
As you’ve probably guessed, I’m the child, and the woman. God created me with certain traits, some of which may not suit this world. Sadly, vows were made to fit into this world, like “toughen up,” and stop being a “bleeding heart.” Once as a young woman, an employer asked me to seek a favor from the big boss, saying, “Everyone is nice to dumb animals and Debbies.” Just words… maybe. But the hurt from them fueled a fierce vendetta. No one would ever think of me as dumb again. I would get my “shrewd” on. Trust not, care not, love not. See no good, hear no good, speak no good.
It’s been a long, bumpy journey looking for the woman God created me to be. I have a longing to return to the pure loving heart, I was created with. I wish I could tell you I’m all fixed now.
Every day, I trust, care and love, a little more. I see, hear and speak His good. I call on His name and I fight to hear His voice. I pray He will “Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. “ Psalm 51:10
Think on this:
The nagging voice, growling up from the bowels of this world, knows us not. That’s why the lies often don’t even make sense, fired for effect, hoping one might penetrate our hearts, take us down… one more bites the dust.
Contrarily, the truth comes from the One who knows everything about us. The One who designed us after Himself, created us, and loves us beyond our wildest imaginations.
Who should we be listening to? Remember Child God Created Creation faith inspiration
Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:7
The other day in church, my attention turned to the pews, a Divine tap on the shoulder. I looked around, noting the faithful bobbing heads of our congregation, worshipping to the song, “I’m a Lover of Your Presence.” My heart stirred as my imagination drew a line above the heads of all the women, connecting them like a graph. I understood, resting for a moment, knowing, I, too, am a dot on this chart. Church Ladies
Then I laughed. Church Ladies
“Oh dear God, I’m one of those “church ladies!”
My past connotations of church ladies are both sweet and bitter. A picture of wide brim hats bursting with silk flowers, gathered like a bouquet, under which tongues wag gossip and white gloves point fingers. A gaggle of pinched nosed ladies, pecking rumors, slipping smooth smiles as innocent victims pass by their coup. Still dear, the image of gloves and big hats, it’s the gossip and finger pointing that tastes like vinegar. No better is the stereotypical “church mouse,” staring at the floor, incapable of squeaking one word without an apology. Neither of these portrayals are women I want to model. Church Ladies Continue reading Church Ladies… Hot Flashes and Faith
Recently, I watched the movie, Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco. Kelly holds a special place in my memory. Although too young in 1956 to see the live footage of the royal marriage to Prince Rainier, I do remember the replays, from our 21 inch, Magnavox black and white television console. For me, mom, and all America, it felt like a member of our family received a crown, giving us a shirt tail foot in the door, if we happen by the palace someday.
The movie didn’t live up to my black and white childhood memories of a handsome, fairy tale prince, driving his Rolls Royce up to St Nicholas Cathedral, to wed his bride. Or the vision of Grace Kelly in her flowing gown, made from 300 yards of lace and 150 yards of silk. Nevertheless, the story, confessing to be fiction based on true events, left me thinking.
Kelly spent years learning to be a princess. She practiced the royal walk, talk and demeanor. Eventually she mastered the expectation to “become” what royalty stands for. To “be” the Princess of Monaco, inside and out. She sacrificed her acting career, studied the French language, mannerisms and history.
She owned the tiara.
Watching her “become” royalty, my emotions stirred with possibility. Pausing the movie, I practiced the princess effortless glide to the kitchen, to make a cup of tea.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” my husband asked, walking impatiently behind me.
“I’m practicing walking like a princess… oh, never mind.”
Then, the thought occurred.
I am the daughter of the Most High King. Seriously, I really am the daughter of the King. It’s not a Christian Hallmark card saying we chant behind closed door prayer groups or churchy ice cream socials. I AM the daughter of the Most High King!
Whoa… hang on…
So are you.
We are royal children whose Father is all powerful, almighty, majestic, not just in essence, but in being.
What does that mean?
Shameful first thoughts of royalty reek of privilege and triviality. A palace, or maybe two, a throne, a gaggle of giggling maidens who think I’m cool, and cater to my needs… oh and maybe one of those glittering sticks, you know a wand. Or are those just for fairy godmothers and tooth fairies?
That’s not what it means to be the child of the Most High King. Like Kelly, I must learn. But unlike the princess, I don’t have teachers, trainers and coaches committed to molding me into nobility. She studied. There were instruction books. Oh, wait… there is a book… the book… the Bible. A collection of 66 books, written by 40 authors. The word of God. His mandate of “how to.” Not how to earn the position, Jesus paid for and reserved it for us. I don’t know about you, (actually, I suspect I do), but I do know I do not “own” the daughter of The Most High King title.
What would that look like?
According to our King, royal children dispense love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. (Galatians 5:22-23 NIV).
And, there’s nothing that would lead us to believe we are better than our brothers and sisters.
“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves. Philippians 2:3 (NIV).
Or less than…
“ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:14 (NIV)
Do I act like the child of a king? I know sometimes I act like a spoiled child of an earthly king… stomping my foot when I don’t get my way. But do I act like the daughter of the Most High King of kings, Lord of lords?
Not so much… sometimes… not enough.
I know I am a muched loved child of God, His daughter, a princess. Yet, to “become” what the crown stands for, I must train and practice. Without much thought, I found three major areas of princesstude I’d like to improve upon. I choose to work on these because I love my Father and my royal siblings.
First – Royal children know who their Father is, resting in His name. It doesn’t get any better than knowing your Dad tops all, and then some. No more lashing out at self with insults disappointment, and unattainable agendas. My Father loves me, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Second – My brothers and sisters are sons and daughters of the Most High King too. Even Sister So and So who looks down her nose and her Brother Knows It All. No more bad mouthing others for not living up to my expectations. Our Father loves them, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
Third – Royalty serves outside of the palace. As a royal princess, I am a servant with a cause much bigger than my own yard. My siblings are my family, my heart. Together we can be about our Father’s work. No more going it alone. I need my family.
So Lord, my wondrous Father, whom I love. I pray that without the aid of an earthly crown and scepter, I can be a pleasing daughter, princess, child of The Most High King.