Wrestling Fear

There have been seasons of my life where fear was the garment that covered me.

Struggling out of this wrap has often turned into a wrestling match for this lady.

That’s one reason why I have looked forward to reading Micca Campbell’s book, An Untroubled Heart…Finding Faith That Is Stronger Than All My Fears.

Another reason? I’ve heard Micca speak a few times at SheSpeaks…and she rocks! This lady can take me from an ugly cry to a full belly laugh in a matter of minutes. She is an amazing storyteller and really knows how to get to the heart. As I read these first chapters of her book, I could hear her sweet southern drawl as plain as if she was speaking the words to me.

I missed our first post on this Yes to God study, but I’m playing catch up this week with chapter two: The Fear Factor.

In this chapter, Micca shows us that fear is a problem with faith.

She reminds us that “we are not created to live in fear…” citing 2 Timothy 1:7—“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.”

Once we fully understand that it is only through the grace of God that we can accomplish anything, fearless living is the natural outcome.

One thing that really spoke to me in this chapter was Micca’s discussion on the introduction of fear. She describes Adam disobedience in the Garden thus: “…Adam was persuaded that he could be his own god, self-sufficient in every way.”

Micca goes on to say, “The same is true for you and me. Most of the time, you and I live independent of God’s presence. We act as if everything depends on us…But god never meant for you and me to be strong in and of ourselves. We were meant to show His strength in our weakness as He provides for our needs…”

A-hem.

Convicted.

How many times have I tried to wrestle a circumstance into coming out the way I wanted it to? Regardless of what I hear the Father telling me?

I never realized what a serious god-complex I can have at times.

But the truth is…

I like things to go my way.

I mean, who doesn’t?
I’ve just always known that if I want something done right, I have to do it myself (smile)—am I sounding a bit—er—controlling?

Micca says, “One of the hardest things to do is to give up control and trust someone other than ourselves.”

And how.

So how do I surrender? How do I let go of these things in clutching fist?

Micca says, “For you and me to live as carefree children in the car of God, we must return to living daily in His presence.”

I have to say, this works well for me. When I am in close intimacy with my Lord, trust flows freely. One exercise that helps me is to envision myself kneeling before His throne and actually laying down my crowns…giving Him my all—all my burdens and all my best.

I’m looking forward to traveling through this book with you all. If you want to read some more thoughts on this chapter, visit Lelia and Mr. Linky.

Join us on this journey to an untroubled heart.

Dream On

Please join me and the High Calling book club in our weekly discussion. We are on the third chapter of Bill Strickland’s book, Make the Impossible Possible.

The deeper we get into this book, the more I realize what a special man Bill Strickland is. This week’s chapter is called A Dream is Born.

Mr. Strickland takes us back to April 4, 1968—the day Martin Luther King was shot and killed in Memphis. As he described the effects of the death of Mr. King on his African-American community, I found my heart breaking.

Some things run too deep to grasp.

Mr. Strickland was not immune to the hopelessness and despair pervasive in his and other African-American communities at that time. What amazed me about his story, however, was that he continued to use his gifts to help others—and himself—heal.

Even though he was struggling through his first years of college, he continued to tutor kids from his community in math and science.

“Helping my students do better in school felt right to me…” he says.

Remarkable.

His efforts did not go unnoticed, and he soon gained friendships with members of the North Side Christian Ministry, “a group of urban ministers, most of them white guys, trying to do some good in places like Manchester.”

It was through this organization that Mr. Strickland obtained the first funding for his dream of an arts center.

It would be easy to say that what followed seems like a fairy tale. One check led to two; and soon Bill Strickland found himself operating his center on a $75,000 a year budget.

It would be easy to say that he lucked into that position. It would be easy to dismiss this success an illustration of the times…

But that would be ignoring too much.

Here is what I walked away with from this chapter…

He never gave up.

He had the funds, the environment, the materials, the desire to change things…

And few came…

At first.

So he went out to get them.

Bill Strickland combed the streets, the schools, even went to kids’ homes to find them.

He never gave up. He never let circumstances discourage him to the point of quitting.

How easy it would have been for him to say, “This just isn’t working,” and hang up his pottery wheel for good.

He chose to go on.

Mr. Strickland says, “…I now understood that saving other people wasn’t my primary mission at all. I couldn’t save anyone, in fact, until I saved myself, until I knew myself and knew what I wanted my life to be…”

Such insight for a twenty-one year old. He was learning to define himself in the midst of building this dream.

Strickland makes the observation, “…I had no deep, distinguished history to shape me…I knew…I’d need a firm foundation for my dreams, a clear sense of purpose and identity. If life hadn’t given me those things, I’d have to find a way to create them on my own.”

This touches me in deep and buried places.

History…roots—these are the things we build our lives upon. When these foundations are shaky at best, the future is difficult to dream. Strickland strikes a chord here when he says, “…now I knew that identity isn’t something you inherit, it’s something you must discover.”

I’m still discovering, friends. A sad thought, perhaps, at this ripe age of forty—but exciting to me.

God blesses me with a rich heritage from His lineage, but I still desire to lay down firm foundations for my children.

Thanks for coming along on this journey…

Read more on this chapter at High Calling blogs book club and Seedlings in Stone.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

After a few days in New Orleans--where we were awakened in the night by water trucks hosing down the streets—and a couple nights at Pensacola beach—where we were awakened by thunder and laughing youths…what a blessing to awaken on Saturday morning to the sound of songbirds in the trees outside my window.

We drove nine hours on Friday to meet up with some friends in the Great Smoky Mountains.

Our final stop on the birthday trip.

As the familiar slope of landscape and burgeoning forest pass by me in the windows, I am left in the wake of a tidal wave of homesickness. We are getting closer to home.

One more day to get to my boys.

God blesses abundantly. Spending our last night of vacation with dear friends—such a sweet way to close. But the next morning was even sweeter.

That morning, when I hear the birds, I slip out of bed and onto the balcony—and into the clouds.

The misty morning air around me white, trees ghostly pale below…

I am one with the air--breath mingling with pines, thin wisp rising in white—heart beating with the thrum of a nearby woodpecker…

It stills me.

Our cabin is three stories high and I look down into the trees, over the valley to neighboring mountain.

I think of all the mountain journeys in the Bible.

And I know I have been on one of my own.

My God met me there, in the clouds on that mountain.

I ached with loving Him as I stood in the treetops.

The loneliness for my boys, this new tender love for my husband, this quiet joy of good and godly friendships…

They all passed away.

And I knew Iwas home.

Another Layer

This is the view outside my window right now, dear ones:

We left New Orleans yesterday morning (not a moment too soon—this old lady needs some rest!) and arrived at Pensacola Beach in the early afternoon. We were able to stop and visit some sweet friends along the way.

Our former Pastor, George Bendall, lives in Gulf Port, Mississippi. George was instrumental in Jeff’s conversion. Jeff’s baptism was the last one he performed before leaving our church in the wake of a sea of conflict and ugliness. He will always have a special place in our hearts.

Here Jeff is with George in his new church office:

We love you, guy!

The red flag was up when we arrived, warning of dangerous surf.

Jellies were sprinkled over the beach, but that didn’t stop us from taking a little stroll and finding some treasure.

But it’s living treasure that’s on my mind today.

We came here on our honeymoon, almost sixteen years ago. That was a magical time. I remember I found about ten tiny sand dollars on that trip; all pristine and whole. The ocean here is usually very calm, but the winds created a rough surf today. There were no whole sand dollars to be found, but we saw many pieces strewn about.

We’re looking forward to relaxing, and taking in the beauty of the white sands. Special memories abound everywhere we look, and I believe I am falling deeper in love…I never knew it possible.

Last night, we walked down to the ocean, faces turned into the wind. Clouds settled on the horizon, but stars danced overhead.

I buried my face in Jeff’s shoulder, whispering prayers of thanks.

“Are you happy?” He asked, not breaking his gaze.

Am I happy?

Could there ever be a greater understatement?

We stand in this place that marks one of our beginnings, and I marvel at the years gone by. I marvel at this love that grows richer and deeper with each passing year.

In those early days, I distinctly remember waking up each morning and thinking, “this isn’t real.”

I kept waiting for something bad to happen.

For Jeff to leave, or be unfaithful.

This kind of happiness doesn’t happen to girls like me.

God is so good, sweet friends.

And I am grateful.

We’ve had some difficult times, but God knew. He knew what a good thing He would make in this marriage.

And it is beautiful.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord.

Here are a few scenes from my birthday trip so far.

Enjoy!

Jeff and I at the Crescent City Brewhouse:

A view of Jackson Square:

Inside St. Louis' Cathedral.














Scenes from Cafe du Monde:
















Music.

Turning Forty

“Which way will we go first?”

“We will be heading west first.”

I looked at my husband out of the corner of my eye.

“Will we be going through Tennessee?”

Jeff’s smile began to creep.

“We will be spending our first night in Tennessee.”

I had my suspicions, but the moment of truth was so very sweet. 

We will be chasing ghosts this week. We are following the trail of the very first road-trip we ever took together. The first one occurred seventeen years ago when I was a wide-eyed graduate student, and Jeff…well, Jeff was still my professor. 

We took the very same trip over and over again the first years of our marriage. But these wanderings came to a screeching halt when baby number one came along. After all, New Orleans isn’t the best family vacation destination. 

We would have a lot of miles under our tires before it was through, so I settled in to enjoy the ride.

For us, the drive has always been part of the adventure. The feel of the road underneath, the music, and the lay of the land fold up into me and deepen places inside—whispering stories of change.

It seems fitting that the start of my fourth decade should be marked with a journey. It surly has been such so far…so many lives lived in this one. 

Soon, my eyes were filled with the rolling hills of Kentucky horseland and the lush greens of Tennessee. I sit and watch the landscape turn outside my window—from budding trees to the lush greens of unfolded leaves the further south we go. 

The red bud is an early arrival, sprinkling hillsides in Kentucky and Tennessee with glimpses of pinky purple joy. The dogwood appears in Alabama and everything starts to flower. Unfurling leaves look like florets waiting to present themselves. The yellow green of the poplars remind me of home, and I smile. 

And these pines...not White pine, but another more narrow, long-needled variety that holds hers in branchy handfuls. She has smaller cones and starry yellow seed pods that even give her dress the appearance of flowering. I ponder, search for her name, and resolve that this will be my summer project with the boys—to learn the names of our trees. 

We are welcomed into Mississippi by those genteel sentinels, the Magnolias. Their shiny leaves like dress attire…grooms waiting for their flowering brides. Tangles of that invasive weed, wisps of lavender wisteria delight—it’s clusters hanging heavy like a little girl’s pigtails. The air in Mississippi is sweet with pipe smoke when we stop to take a break. Auspicious pines wave lazily in the breeze and for a moment I feel like time has paused just for me. 

We arrive in New Orleans in the afternoon and while away the time wandering, visiting familiar haunts…chasing these ghosts. 

Late last night, we stumbled upon the back of Jackson’s Square. St. Louis’ cathedral towered about a diminutive sculpture of Jesus. 

This is what we saw:

As if I needed reminded that my God is big.

Well, Dear Ones, we’re off to Café Du Monde for my birthday breakfast. A full day of delight awaits… 

Thank you for all the birthday wishes!

Growing Up...

Last night, as Little Jeffy was getting ready for bed, he asked me a peculiar question.

“Mom, when you were a little girl, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

I found his question peculiar due to its timing. Because it coincides with this reading of Make the Impossible Possible that I have been doing with the Higher Calling book club. This book that has brought back, like a flood, all the hopelessness bred from growing up in poverty.

How to explain?

“I didn’t want…” I began, uncertainly. “I didn’t know that I could be anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, no one in my family had been to college. My mom didn’t graduate from high school. I didn’t know that…life could be…better.”

As Bill Strickland says in the second chapter of Make the Impossible Possible, “I simply didn’t know any different.”

This chapter is called Growing Up, and in it we learn about the challenges Mr. Strickland faced growing up in an inner city neighborhood, and where he found the hope to make a meaningful life.

He describes the landscape of life in his neighborhood as “mean”.

See, Bill Strickland didn’t just grow up poor, he grew up facing the danger of a subculture of drug dealers, predators, scam artists, and hookers; people, Strickland says, that “You had to give…a wide berth or they’d find a way to get a piece of your life.”

Reading about bleak prospects, about the many impossibilities of this life, about how easy it is to “…fall through one of the ghetto’s trapdoors”…I felt hope seeping out of me.

And hope, Mr. Strickland says, “…is the one thing, the only thing that inoculates you from the madness, wherever you live.”

Where did this amazing man find his hope?

He tells us about his remarkable mother, who taught her children self-respect and discipline. She worked hard to make sure the dangers of the streets did not touch her boys—even though their own father had fallen victim to the ways of the neighborhood.

Mr. Strickland’s discussion about his mother’s determination and steely fortitude whispered to me about the impact my behavior has on my own children. We all need someone to show us the way. Someone to encourage and see something special in us.

Without that role model, it would be difficult to see oneself as special. It would be difficult to grab onto hope.

Never underestimate the legacy you leave in parenting.

But a true reversal of destiny was in store for young Bill Strickland when, one day in his senior year, he wandered into an art classroom (lured by the smell of coffee—a man after my own heart) and discovered a passion that would change the course of his life.

He describes his first experience at the potter’s wheel:

“…Under my clumsy touch it bulged and swelled into comical shapes, wobbled, leaned…But I didn’t care. I knew the moment I started that there was magic in the clay…Looking back, I know that something in the feel of the clay was feeding a deep hunger in my soul. But I wasn’t thinking that way then; I was only caught up in the thrill of the experience. I didn’t want that feeling to end.”

Isn’t this why we make the choices we make as young people? We don’t want this feeling to end. So many mistakes have been made, so many wrong choices…because we don’t want this feeling to end.

Doesn’t every young person deserve the opportunity to find this sehnsucht in beauty? In hope?

Beauty and hope are not readily available to all. They certainly aren’t easily accessible to a young black man from the ghetto.

The teacher who held these things out to a young Bill Strickland is a true hero. Frank Ross is a hero.

In Bill’s own words, “There are so many disappointments along the way, but then one day, out of mud and imagination, you create something lovely and worthwhile, and it feels like nothing less than a miracle. That’s what Frank Ross taught me: Miracles happen. You can mold them with your hands.”

Miracles do happen. And God may be calling you to be a part of them.

I may not have founded a hugely successful community arts program, but my life rubs up against people that need hope every day.

Lord, don’t let me fail them.

I am excited to be participating in a book club every Monday, through the Higher Calling blogs. I recently joined the Higher Calling online community and have been overwhelmed by the talent I’ve found there. So many wonderful poets and writers all in one place! If you’ve visited my friend L.L. Barkat over at Seedlings in Stone, you will have an idea of the quality of writing at Higher Calling. Stop by and give them a read, and join up if you like what you see!

Getting Ready...

Anti-biotic?

Check.

Anti-diarrheal?

Check.

Anti-nausea?

Umm…check.

Breathing treatments ready?

Check.

Boys’ medications laid out for Grammy?

Check.

Hmm.

I’m all packed, friends, but I’m beginning to wonder if this will be a vacation or convalescence!

Perhaps, if I am fortunate, a bit of both?

We’ve spent the morning in preparation--doing laundry, grocery shopping, packing…

No one will give up the secret. Not even the dog.

This is her idea of helping, by the way:

Yes, those are clean clothes. They were still warm when I sat down here to clickety clack.

So, anyway…

I still don’t know where Jeff is whisking me away to.

Some of the hints suggest to me that this is not just a simple get-away. There may be some layers involved.

We shall see, we shall see.

I hope to be able to check in with you all, but as I do not know the nature of things, I’m not sure I’ll be able to!

Pray us some traveling mercies, friends, and thanks for all the birthday wishes.

I’ll let you know how it all turns out…

A Birthday Surprise, ABCs of the Word, and Self-Portrait

The light came early this morning, on this first day of spring.

As I drive down our little valley road, I feel the new life. I am these pear trees unfolding; I feel the flowering—petals open like hands.

I am opening mine to receive.

Somehow this flu that has made my head heavy these past two weeks is lifting.

And just in time, Dear Ones, for I was surprised by this early this morning:

Typewritten instructions from my husband for a surprise pilgrimage in celebration of my fourth decade.

He won’t tell me where we will spend the coming week, and this unknowing both delights and tortures.

But he knows how I love a surprise.

I must say, coming out of two weeks of illness—sick children, sick mommy and daddy—a respite is much longed for.

Lucy Mae is the only one who hasn't been ill.

And she is not much help.

Pray for our travels, friends. We will leave Sunday after church.

A day late with my Thursday ABCs in the Word (F) verse, this one spoke to me as I prepare for my birthday journey:

“…Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the Lord is finished.” (1 Chron. 28:20)

Doesn’t that bless? Somehow, I need to know He is with me as I prepare to leave my children for a week.

And, as I gain another year in my ever growing collection.

Love you, friends!

*************************************************************************************

Self-portrait, Week One

Forever in Blue Jeans has issued a challenge to all mommies to post a picture of themselves every Thursday (or, in my case, Friday) for 52 weeks.

I felt a little self-conscious to participate at first (who wants to look at this mug?), but then I remembered how, as a girl, I treasured the scant pictures of my mother in her younger years. This is a gift for my boys, so they will remember what I looked like just a few short days of turning forty.

Lift Up

Perusing through the channels a few weeks ago, hubs and I stumbled upon an interview on PBS that captured us.

The subject? 112 year old Walter Breuning of Great Falls, Montana—the oldest living man in the United States.

Mr. Breuning has lived through 21 presidents, the Great Depression, Civil Rights Movement…and many historical moments. It was fascinating to hear this centenarian speak of his experiences.

But there was one exchange that really struck us.

The interviewer, William Marcus of Montana Public Television, asked, “How would you counsel future generations to be a part of their country?”

Mr. Breuning responded, “Everybody learns from life what’s going on. And if they pay attention to everything that people do, especially helping people, that’s one big thing. A lot of people think they’re born for themselves; I don’t think that. I believe that we’re here to help other people all the way through.”

To help other people all the way through.

Sometimes it feels like it will take me 112 years to realize—I mean truly realize--this truth.

This truth is part of the substance of the very last chapter in our study of Jennifer Rothschild’s book: Self Talk, Soul Talk.

Our last chapter is entitled, Lift Up: Praise the Lord, O My Soul.

Through a couple of sweet stories and a revealing heart exam, Jennifer reminds me of my natural tendency toward selfishness--how I tend to think of myself and those I love before others.

After that tight clenching feeling of conviction, I truly felt Jennifer’s desire to reveal to me that God’s plan is better.

“…I can say for sure that the most miserable times of my life have been when I was the most self-centered, self-aware, and self-promoting. Those were the times I told myself, It’s all about me.”

“Selfish people are not happy people,” she tells her sons.

And I have to agree.

It amazes me how God lines up truths to drive a point home for me.

I am reading about this very thing in the book, Make the Impossible Possible by Bill Strickland, our Higher Calling Book Club book.

In this amazing story, the author states (about creating a jobs training center and community arts program for an at-risk community), “…I didn’t do any of it out of selflessness. I did it to be myself. I did it to enrich my own life, to deepen the quality and meaning of my own experience. I did it because it was a part of what I had to do if I genuinely wanted to be me.”

The author recognizes that giving of ourselves, as Jennifer puts it, “…keeps us connected to God’s creativity and compassion.”

Jennifer hints to us that lifting up others and lifting up praise to God just may be the secret to happiness.

“When we lift up others we grow smaller. And ultimately, as we lift up God, we find unlimited satisfaction in our own lowliness.”

Jennifer quotes one of my favorite C.S. Lewisisms: “…A proud man is always looking down on things and people and, of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you.”

Amen? Amen.

I must say that I’m a little sad to say goodbye to this book study. It has been a precious walk with you, my friends. Thank you, Lelia, for hosting us and spurring us on. And thank you so much, Jennifer, for being an encourager of our souls.

Dream Big

A friend who was a high school principal for many years tells the story of chatting with one of his honor-roll female students in her senior year.

“If you could have anything you want in life—anything—what would that look like? What’s your biggest dream?”

The girl looked slightly taken aback, as if she had never considered a question of this sort. Then she offered, tentatively:

“Well, I’ve always sort of wanted to get married and live in a double-wide trailer.”

Are you kidding me?

This is the nature of growing up in Appalachia.

No dreams.

I remember when I was in seventh grade; our English teacher assigned us weekly theme papers. One assignment was to write on what we wanted “to be” when we grew up.

I wrote about being a hairdresser.

I’ll never forget my teacher’s comments on the top of the page when he returned my paper: “Your choice surprises me.”

I was one of his best students. Loved to write. But it never occurred to me that I could ever use those talents to be more in life.

No one encouraged me to do so.

These are the stories that loomed before me as I read the first chapter of Make the Impossible Possible, by Bill Strickland.

Friends, I’m not ashamed to say that I read this first chapter through streaming tears.

Mr. Strickland is the founder and CEO of Manchester Bidwell, a “community arts-education and job training center in Pittsburgh”. In this first chapter, entitled From the Ghetto to Harvard Business School, he describes the start and the heart of his program.

Mr. Strickland states, “…Manchester Bidwell wasn’t crafted out of corporate vision or business savvy. It happened because a clueless nineteen-year-old trusted his unspoken intuition that the human spirit is remarkably resilient, and that even in damaged and disadvantaged lives, and in circumstances where the odds seem hopelessly stacked against you, there is endless potential waiting to be freed.”

No, I have never lived the defeating life of an inner city youth, but poverty speaks a language that I understand very well.

It is one of making do. Of taking it day by day. Expecting the worst. And never hoping.

Because hope only disappoints.

In this book, Mr. Strickland tells a different story. He tells of giving hope to those who have never possessed it. And the results are astounding.

“More than 90 percent of the kids who come to us get their high school diplomas and 85 percent enroll in college or some other form of higher education…Almost 80 percent of our adult students complete their vocational training and 86 percent of them find employment after graduation…”

He speaks of giving beauty, respect, trust…to a population of forgotten people who have never had these things.

Friends, it has made a difference to many. Mr. Strickland even makes the bold statement that his mission is “to turn people’s lives around”.

And he is doing it.

In writing Making the Impossible Possible, Strickland states that his purpose it to reveal to others that “all of us have the potential to make our dreams come true, and that one of the greatest obstacles blocking us from realizing that potential is that we believe, or are told, the things we want most passionately are impractical, unrealistic, or somehow beyond our reach.”

Friends, I will turn 40 years old next week and I am still learning that it is okay to dream.

Perhaps we all are.

I’m looking forward to reading more of what this book has to say. Join me and the Higher Calling Book club every Monday for further discussions.

I am excited to be participating in a book club every Monday, through the Higher Calling blogs. I recently joined the Higher Calling online community and have been overwhelmed by the talent I’ve found there. So many wonderful poets and writers all in one place! If you’ve visited my friend L.L. Barkat over at Seedlings in Stone, you will have an idea of the quality of writing at Higher Calling. Stop by and give them a read, and join up if you like what you see!

Soul Searching

L.L's poetry challenge has me soul searching these past few days. The prompt is I found my soul...

Read her post on Unfolding Imagination, and join us in baring souls...


This wispy thing

frail and afraid

wandered deep

in forest glade

meandered lost

on yonder hill

cold, alone

went deeper still.

This gaping hole

ran muddy road

where the ghosts

whispered and moaned.

Sought a bottle

to fill a bed

gorge on words

fill up this head

When love came

it took the shape

of empty mold

to fill this gape

Some gave pieces

some only took

but I found my soul

when I had a look

in oppressive conference hall

Summer heat

dripped from the walls

my first infant in my arms

yearning, searching

keep him from harm

And then I peered

through curtain red

and I was freed

by where it led.

The curtain torn,

my heart made whole

This is where

I found my soul.

Be Still

March snow this morning, Beloveds.

But this Lion did not roar. He padded in softly under cover of night and was found sleeping this morning.

I awoke to this soft stillness and stood amazed at the quiet.

It has been a week of noise. Of falling from one task into another, no pause, no slow savor.

I love this--

but—

at these times…

I miss so much.

To awaken before dawn, offer prayers with rising sun, mosey down to stream with trusty dog—stare into ripples and study light swimming through water…

These things draw me closer to Him.

After a busy week, I approach Him cautiously…like a neglectful lover, bringing home roses.

I know You have been here, I say. I know You never cease to think of me. Yet, sometimes I forget You are by my side.

Chocolate?

(smile)

He always takes me back.

What is more, He welcomes me with open arms.

Exclaims over the roses.

Savors the chocolates.

Why?

His love is more than.

More than all the distractions in the world.

More than…

more than I am capable of.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you.

It’s Tuesday again (already?!) and time to share thoughts on chapter ten of Jennifer Rothschild’s book, Self Talk, Soul Talk.

Chapter ten: Press On, March On, O My Soul

Who hasn’t felt like giving up?

Crumbs, who hasn’t actually done it at some point?

Once again, these words are timely for me.

Struggling with my job lately.

Last week, Jeff says, “Well, just quit, if you want to.”

This gave me pause. And also caused me to listen to the loud whine eminating from my mouth. (Did I sound that bad?)

How would it feel to quit?

I turned it around and around in my heart. Took a little nibble. Tried to taste. Chewed on it. Spat it out. Picked it up. Felt the weight of it in my hands.

And I knew it wouldn’t feel good.

Crumbs, I’m still burning with shame for quitting band in the fifth grade.

I don’t like to give up.

Because I have learned the hard way that making it through the tough stuff makes what’s on the other side all the sweeter.

Truth is, I don’t have permission from God to quit (but I think He’s really close to granting it :)). And that is what really counts. If I felt Him telling me it is time to go, I wouldn’t let the door hit me on the behind on the way out.

But I’m just not hearing that.

Darn it.

So how do we make it through these tough times when we feel God calling us to stay put?

That’s what this chapter is about.

Jennifer gives us some sound advice to speak Press On to our souls. She outlines some steps to “Practical Perseverence”.

First, she says, Turn Your Feelings Into Action. Let your feeling of being overwhelmed be a signal to start making small steps toward achieving your goal.

If any of you have ever read Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott, you understand this lesson. Ann tells the story of her brother putting off writing a report on birds until the last minute. The boy frantically asks his father, who is a writer, how he can ever possibly complete the report by the due date. His father wisely replies, “Bird, by bird, buddy. Bird by bird.”

Break it down. A little bit at a time. Slow and steady. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

You get the picture.

Next, Jennifer says, Affirm Your True Identity. Don’t let the struggle fill your self-talk with words of defeat that generalize to your identity. Jennifer says, “Remember, I am is not the same as I feel. Don’t let feelings define you; let who you are define your feelings”.

And who are we, friends?

We are daughters of The King.

The next two steps, Speak Truth to Your Soul and Exercise Discipline, are fairly self-explanatory.

We will get nowhere if we listen to lies based on feelings or refuse to do the work required for success.

I remember my freshman year of college. First semester, my car caught on fire, in which were all my newly purchased (and very expensive) school texts. The books did not burn up, but when the firemen came to extinguish the fire; my already heavy books were water-logged and swelled to amazing proportions. (I had many similar traumas all through college, but perhaps we'll save those for another time?)

I could not afford to buy new books. I was going to have to make do.

My biology text was the most troublesome. Already huge, the book had swollen to three times its normal size. I laid it in the sun. I tried ironing the pages.

But it was still a heavy mass of charred and wrinkled words.

One day--after a particularly frustrating study session—I threw this boulder sized book up against the wall of my bedroom.

It shook the house.

My mom poked her head in to make sure I was okay.

When I expressed my aggravation, mom said, “Why don’t you quit?”

At this point, no one in my family had a college education. My sweet mother simply could not understand why I would put myself through so many struggles for something that seemed pointless to her.

Let’s just say that mom’s words opened my eyes in many ways.

If we want the victory, we have to do the work, Beloved. Sometimes there is no easy way to get the job done.

Just press on. March on, O my soul.

The prize is waiting.

Small

I feel the smallness

of this person today.

Feel the limitations

of this flesh.

Watching the towhees scatter under gaze…

Tracing paw impression of coyote with finger…

Savoring feel of moss under hand.

These things speak of Him.

We stand

in stillness,

beside the pond

and watch two ducks swim lazily by.

These two lovers

resent our intrusion,

draw near the other side of the bank.

And then,

honking from above

as this long-necked goose

makes surprisingly graceful

landing on liquid runway.

He, too,

wishes for our departure.

So we go...

Off the beaten trail

Find beauty in secret places.

We mount this hill, and

breathless, I pull him to me

and we plop down on slumbering tree.

Smell the sunshine in his hair,

brush the brambles from his clothes

and hold this love

under this sky of love

at the top of the hill

looking down over everything.

I see how big

the world is.

And feel my smallness.

Feasting today, my friends.

A feast for my heart.

Laying out a banquet for my Beloved.

Preparation begins early--before the sun rises.

I am as one readying a wedding banquet, considering every detail.

Prayers are shaken out and allowed to fall--the finest of linens, a blanket of purity.

The table is set with the good china--a favorite Bible and other books to meditate on during this time.

The candle is lit, burning fire of love.

The main course?

The Word.

It incites excitement in this context of sanctity, for it is nourishment. It fills and energizes . The words are the finest morsels, and I hold them in my mouth longer, for to savor their sweetness. I write them down and carry them with me throughout the day, so that I will not forget His tenderness. I can taste them in the most ordinary of situations, relishing the special flavor that only I can taste.

These are the words of my Beloved; He speaks them only to me this day. They are soft and intimate, whispers of love.

The excitement is in the small helps arranged. Tiny gifts of thoughtfulness and care. Flavored waters, hot tea. Each drink a secret I share with my love.

We keep this intimacy between us.

Senses are heightened, body in a state of expectation.

This shakiness--a reminder that He will strengthen.

When hunger chews inside, it too reminds to turn thoughts back to Him, my own love.

Through it all, He is pulls me ever closer to Him.

He whispers to me all the day long, encouraging words of love.

And I break my fast in a far more nourished state than when I entered into it. Humbled--treasured by my Love.

I has been a secret tryst, that leaves me assured that I am loved.

It makes me smile to think of Him, waiting for me. Waiting for me to prepare another feast like this. A sweet time together.

ABCs of the Word, D

“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me. By day the Lord directs his love, at night his song is with me—a prayer to the God of my life.”—Psalm 42:7-8

And the winners are…

(My two lovely assistants, Jeffrey and his friend, Robert).

The winner of a signed copy of Stone Crossings by L.L. Barkat is…

Naomi of Among the Gum Trees!

Our two other lucky winners of this lovely book are…

Yolanda of Higher Grounds and...

Tess, otherwise known as Cricket!

Congratulations, ladies! I'm so excited to share this book with you!

If you read this before I contact you, send me your snail mail and I’ll make sure your book is out in the post ASAP.

Thank you to L.L. Barkat for writing such a lovely book and for being such a sweet helper in this, my first bloggy giveaway!

Searching for Grace

Here is my poetry offering for this week's writing challenge over at Seedlings in Stone:

Searching For Grace

He stands

in bitter cold

this cardboard billboard

in his hands:

Homeless.

Will work for food.

God bless.

Or did it read:

Shame.

Poor choices.

Addiction.

Sorrow?

I feel

angry indignation.

self-righteousness.

even…humility.

avert eyes as I drive by--

Still he stands,

day after day,

season after season.

Why do I

avert my eyes

from the not so beautiful,

when it is

my own shame

that stares back at me

through his eyes?

God bless you,

words uttered

with downcast eyes

as I slip folded bills

into dirty hand.

Then, I look at him

see into his eyes

try to see through his eyes--

see HIM

this real live work of God

And I smile.

And for

just one moment

he sees Jesus

I pull

hand away

and drive off

the smell of stale cigarettes

and unwashed flesh

lingers

I want to wash it away

Instead

I hold fingers

against nose

and softly breathe

the sharp aroma

of sorrow

and poor choices.

And for

just one moment

I see Jesus.

Don’t forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win a copy of L.L. Barkat’s lovely book, Stone Crossings. I’ll draw three names from all comments on this post tonight!