Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

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January 25, 2021

If You Have a Cough, Fever or You’ve Just Had Enough

He will be the sure foundation for your times, a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge; the fear of the LORD is the key to this treasure. Isaiah 36:6

  “If you have a cough, sore throat or fever, please report immediately to airport security at your terminal.” Then in Chinese, the same message would follow. It was January 6th 2020, and I was in the Hong Kong International Airport for a three-hour layover. I would hear this message repeat approximately 15 times before I left. By then, it had become a droning din along with all the other announcements in mostly Chinese. But looking back, I should’ve wondered just a little. I should’ve felt the earth rumble beneath my feet, the world shifting and groaning for the unthinkable – a world-wide pandemic. Instead I climbed aboard a 737 jet stuffed with college students from China returning to school in the US after a long winter break. As I settled in for a 20hour flight, my last leg home from Malaysia after visiting my son and his family for Christmas, the last thing on my mind was how a small microbe from China would change the world. Just three days later, the WHO announced what the Hong Kong airport already knew – the discovery of a mysterious virus in Wuhan China.

Little microbes everywhere!

Fast-forward one year. My car is littered with masks. I have learned the Social Distance dance, where body language determines intimacy, as we dosey – dose into an elbow bump or maybe just a flapping hand that looks like a wounded pigeon. We are New Englanders here, so the six feet rule in itself is no hardship. Yet for loved ones, especially those who are vulnerable, we are charting new waters without a compass. We are too cautious or blatantly reckless. No one gets it just right.

Tomorrow marks 19 years since my son Spencer died. The earth did more than rumble that day – it opened up and swallowed me whole. When I could emerge and look around, my world was completely changed. Anyone who’s lost a child knows this – you don’t put your life back together. You must build a new one. Nineteen years later, I can see back to those early days of smoke and rubble. Yet there was one thing that did not change – my God. I couldn’t feel it or even see it for a while, but I had a foundation to build on, I had a Helper to build alongside of me. “Come to me,” Jesus says, “and I will give you rest.” As long as I stayed close by, it wasn’t even hard. Tedious, tiresome and slow. But there was rest.

Nineteen years is a long time to miss your boy. But I look at what God has built, in my life and the lives of those I love most and prayed for most, and I am grateful. When Moses shuddered and stalled before stepping back into Egypt to face Pharaoh,  God simply said, “Tell them I AM sent you.”

I AM answers every question before it’s even asked.

I AM omnipotent.

I AM omniscient.

I AM the Beginning and the End – the Author and Finisher of your faith.

I AM mercy and wrath, justice and grace, holy and Love everlasting.

And a sure foundation.

I’ve never had a problem with fearing God. The One who strings the stars also formed me in the womb. He heard my cry from the wreckage of a life lived without him, and He reached into the sludge and rescued me. I am more in awe of His power and grace now, 33 years later, than then. I don’t want to take a step without Him. It’s a holy fear – the good kind. And when I met Jesus, the one He sent to redeem and save us, all of heaven threw a party. All of God’s kids get a party – they really know how to have fun in heaven

There’s different kinds of devastation. Losing your child is a head-on collision. In one second – it’s all over. Covid-19 is a slow leak. We think we can fix it, or at least slow it down, but then we see another leak. For all we’ve done, or not done, it’s worse than ever. We’re tired now, just doggie-paddling with the current, masks on.  Uncertainty blankets the future, anxiety morphs into hopelessness. I will not give you more numbers – percentage spikes in addiction, suicide and violence. Bleak economic predictions. It’s just not good.

“Come to me all you who are weary and heavy-laden.” Jesus again. How does He know? Refer back to the I AM part of this blog.

I admit I get weary too. I’m not sure when I can fly to Malaysia again. I’m not sure my vaccination will work or won’t kill me. I’m a nurse in a hospital filled up with Covid patients and I want to die when I put on PPE that feels like I’m shrink-wrapped and talking through a wad of Wet Wipes.

God is there and He’s waiting. In a world that can’t control a microbe, God is still in control. A sure foundation – won’t you go to Him? Jesus has His arms open wide, and once He has you, He will never let you go.  Heaven waits for another party and I hope it’s yours.

 

In Christ Alone

By Celtic Worship

 

 

 

Filed Under: Blog Post, Faith, Hope, Loss Tagged: Hong Kong, I AM, sure foundation
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September 12, 2020

For Those Who Can’t Forget

Mija Quigley of Princeton Junction, New Jersey, embraces the name of son Patrick Quigley at the 9/11 Memorial on September 11.

Mija Quigley of Princeton Junction, New Jersey, embraces the name of son Patrick Quigley at the 9/11 Memorial on September 11.

***** This is intentionally reposted the day after the day we all remember. Originally posted September 2014. For those whose 9/12 is just as hard as 9/11.

 

He heals the brokenhearted
 and binds up their wounds.

He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.

Psalm 147:3,4 (ESV)

Rosie and I resumed our walks around the pond this week. Summertime we are banned (well, dogs are) which is fine because I don’t like the woods in the summer. Inchworms and ticks and mosquitos…yuk.

Early this morning the cool air had settled across the pond, creating a thin layer of white mist, like a small cloud hovering over the still water and as I stood on the beach staring into it, I remembered it was September 11. I cry when I think of other people who have lost their children, even if those children are 40 or 50, so I stood there looking at the mist and then the perfect blue sky, just like that day 13 years ago, and I wept for them out of that place in my own heart that still cries.

The “We will never forget” that America vowed after that horrid day is an embarrassment now, like so many campaign promises. We did forget, except for this day, which has become mostly a soppy media event, where we again are subjected to smashing planes and burning towers and somber speeches. Then September 12th, we can forget again. But for thousands of families out there, they don’t forget. Their lives imploded, just like those two towers that came crashing down in smoke and rubble.

Someone once said that grief is not a process; grief is love. If you’ve ever read about the five stages of grief, I might add another stage; where you realize that 99% of the books written about grief, like the five stages one, are garbage, unless you’re grieving over your pet hamster. Grief is gritty but intangible, just like love. In fact as I stood there this morning, watching the mist curl upward like smoke, thinking of the horror of 911, and how many lives were forever changed in an instant, I thought this: Love stinks.

It stinks when you’re lying awake at night wondering where your prodigal child is, trying to rein in the wild and dark imagery of your child in trouble or danger, or worse… The phone rings and your heart flops over like someone just put paddles to it. You’re so mad at that kid, you could kill him. Truthfully, I remember catching myself being angry at Spence for dying. That’s what love does. I tell people with school age kids to just kick back and enjoy. And rest up. Even if the teen years go well, you still have to let go. Yes, let them go; uncurl your little mommy claws from their coattails and release. Like I said, love stinks sometimes.

My son was still alive on September 11th, 2011, but only for about four more months. I remember him saying he would go, he would fight. That’s when America said we would never forget. He had a soldier’s heart, the same heart that put him between a knife and a friend. Like Job, for many months, I cursed the day I was born. I wanted to lie down next to Spence and let the cool earth cover me. But instead I walked around with this gaping hole where my heart was, trying to smile, hiding to cry.

But here’s the thing; love is also the only thing on this crazy planet that gives our existence meaning, shape or purpose. That makes sense, because God is love. He is the ONLY one who can mend that sad little shattered heart, can rebuild the rubble piece by piece, stronger and better than before. It’s a simple equation and easy to remember; God=Love. No matter what.

We do have an option. We can choose to just not love at all. It’s safe and secure, like savings bonds. But unless you’re made of plywood, I’m sure you will spend your whole life knowing you missed it, the one thing that matters most, more than Emmy awards and Nobel Peace prizes or being cool. I remember holding a sobbing woman who was my age after a doctor told her she was going to die from liver disease. She cried with me because I was the only one who could love her. Angry, alcoholic, a life of loving a bottle first, she knew she might have to die alone. That really stinks.

Nellie was one of my patients yesterday. She was 93, almost deaf and about four and a half feet tall. No matter what I said, she thought she was in a hotel and she kept trying to buy me lunch. “No thanks,” I had to yell at her. She smiled, gesturing to the couch in her room for me to sit. Her son was a retired teacher, she said, and I felt a bond with her because one of my sons teaches also. She asked how many children I had and I told her, again having to holler, that I had lost a child, but had two left. Her little wrinkled face creased into a sad frown.

“Oh I’m so sorry! How did he die?”

I couldn’t see myself yelling, “He was murdered!” so I simply yelled,

“It was 12 years ago.” And she nodded, accepting it as not a real answer to her question, but the one I wanted to give. Her smile was grace.

I think that’s how God is when we say, “Love stinks!” It’s not the right answer. But He knows there are no five easy steps, and then you’re done. We will never forget, whether your insides are hanging out and you are gasping for breath, or the pain has settled like an old friend in your favorite chair. The grieving really do want to move forward, to love again, instead of clinging to creepy altars, lighting candles. But we are changed, limping and frail, unfamiliar with ourselves.

Yet God, who refuses to remember our sins after we repent, can remember the name of each star. He does not forget our pain. Almighty Father, Jehovah Rapha – the Lord who heals, leans down and says, “Show me where it hurts.” And He presses His hand right there, in that place. And we love again. That comforts me today, as I think of so many broken hearts.

Love becomes grace, which turns back into praise; the right answer.

And every day, He is worthy of our praise.

Great is our Lord, and abundant in power. His understanding is beyond measure.    Psalm 147-5 ESV

 

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August 6, 2020

The Prize

 

“God help me to know and to live like the time is short. To give you all I have today. Tomorrow is really not promised.

  • Spencer Macleod

 

The quote you just read was written by a 19-year-old. Less than three years later, he left this world forever, his life complete three weeks short of his 22nd birthday. Above my bureau, which is splayed with earrings and makeup and half-used perfume bottles, a picture of Spencer hangs, printed on a board with his words etched across the top. He is holding a microphone, he’s in South Africa, sharing his testimony and Christian rap he wrote with hundreds of high school students. His face is tan, focused.  And he is looking upward.

Looking up – I have to post reminders around my chaotic life, reminders to reorient my perspective, my vision. Things are fairly dismal on planet earth. We try to speak hopefully of “maybe next year,” when things will return to normal, when we can meet for coffee without being assaulted with a book of rules (a restaurant today asked me to complete a form for the CDC. I declined.) We seek truth, we long for hope. We’re so tired we didn’t even go buy batteries and water for Hurricane Isaias. And God knows we all have enough toilet paper.

I think when you lose a child, you gain a piece of eternity. For the longest time, I simply wanted Spencer back. Don’t tell me he’s in a better place. A better place is sitting at my table, having coffee or pot roast. But slowly my gaze has shifted over the years. I’m looking up. “I press towards the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus” Philippians 3:12. This has been on a blackboard in my dining room for almost 10 years. I used to change the verse, but this one stayed. As my eyes catch the chalked scrawl, I am reminded of what matters. Look up.

So what is the prize? I’m not sure. Heaven, just for starters, and that’s reason enough. But I think to God it’s much more specific. He weaves and pulls and stops. And I think sometimes He just steps back and watches and waits. God is not in a hurry, not in a panic over all this. What seems like a fretful mess to us is not a surprise to God Almighty. He is big enough to name the stars of an immeasurable universe, but close enough to speak in a still small voice.

“This is life eternal, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.” John 17:3

It sounds like life eternal can start right here. I think that was something my son Spencer figured out as a teenager. He knew heaven was closer than we think. “To give you all I have today.” That’s exactly what God is waiting for.

I learned a new phrase a couple of years ago when my son Miles and his family sold everything and moved to Malaysia. “Third Culture Kids” or TCK’s, are children who spend much of their formative years in a culture other than their parents’ or passport culture. Three of my grandchildren are TCK’s now. Brooklynn, almost 12 and Olive, 10 have had to reconcile their lives to a place that is really not “home” culturally, but have also let go of a place they left over two years ago called “home.” They are in a sense, homeless,  although they love Malaysia. Quincy, age four, thinks he’s Malaysian, even though a classmate calls him “Olaf” who is a snowman. The “third culture” is neither here nor back there. It is a unique life that is separate from both worlds, shared with other TCK’s.

Homeless.  I started to think about this, how it must be hard for these two girls at times, but then I realized they are way ahead of most of us. If we call ourselves Christians, followers of Jesus Christ, then we are all homeless.  We are all TCK’s.

Jesus told us clearly that His kingdom was not of this world. Paul wrote,

“But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” Philippians 3:20

What am I holding on to? What am I keeping in my back pocket “just in case?” What am I stockpiling? Money? Facebook friends? Retirement plans? We have not chosen God – He has  chosen us. If His word is Truth, then “we are not our own, we are bought with a price.” (1Corinthians 6:20)

For a long time after Spence died, the world seemed one-dimensional to me. The life I lived before was gone, and none of it mattered anyway – career, friends, approval. I was holding on to my other two sons with a tenuous grip, but all else seemed pointless.  Even an ocean sunrise or fall foliage looked tacky and fake. My heart had disconnected and I deeply yearned for home, to just check on my son, and maybe have a small conference with Jesus.

Eventually, I resigned myself to life on earth.  Beauty came, but it was not in the ocean or the mountains. It was in the projects of Pawtucket, the faces of all the children who walked through the doors of our little storefront church, many scanning the countertops for something to put in their pocket for later. I found beauty in sitting at a breakfast table with three mentally retarded men, delighted in the new day and amused at their guest. Though my heart still ached for heaven, I had found contentment in the hidden places that God pointed to. Then one day, God gave me His joy. It wasn’t in my work, or even my family. It was when I looked up, across the clouds that blazed behind a dirty city landscape. I was looking for Him and He surprised me with a splash of joy, real joy that brings renewal and hope – just a taste of what’s to come. It’s enough.

Plant your feet firmly therefore within the freedom that Christ has won for us, and do not let yourselves be caught again in the shackles of slavery. Galatians 5:1 Philips

We are Third Culture Kids. We can’t go back; we seem to not quite fit in here. And as Spencer wisely noted 20 years ago now, “Tomorrow is really not promised.”  But there is a beautiful freedom in that, and we DO have a home, a better place, and joy within the journey. On that day, our homecoming, we will be complete.

Look up! Let’s keep our eyes on the prize – the high calling in Christ Jesus.

 

 

 

“God Be With You” by Selah.  Enjoy!

 

Filed Under: Hope, Loss Tagged: Malaysia, TCK, Third Culture Kids
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June 15, 2020

A Father’s Perfect Love

*** Dear friends- in the beautiful but sometimes perplexing spirit of Father’s Day, I am reposting this from 2017.  I pray it will bless and minister to someone!

My dad —circa 1962

Pawwwwwt Chestah!!

I can still hear the conductor holler over the clack and rattle of the train and the steady kachuk kachuk kachuk of the wheels on the rails. Port Chester, Rye, Harrison. Back then, in the 60’s, it wasn’t an odd thing for a little girl to ride the train alone. The conductors that strode like drunk men up and down the swaying cars knew my dad, knew that he worked in New York City like most men from Riverside, Connecticut and that he would be there, at Grand Central Station, watching for the wave of the conductor as he would signal me to go.

“There he is!” they would call out, as I ran from the train to my father.

New Rochelle! These places didn’t look much different to me until we reached Harlem.

“One hundred and twenty fifth Street!” I learned that was the final call before the last stop. The station was filled with people that were strange to me, dark-skinned with ragged clothes. But it was more than the way they looked, or didn’t look. They moved slower, like they had no where to get to, like trains and time didn’t matter much, not like my town, where men in crisp suits and new briefcases often ran to catch the train..

The seats were soft blue velvet and smelled like my dad, cigarettes and shaving cream. I liked to pull up the window so I could feel the air rush in and hear the tracks beat out their rhythm…kachuk, kachuk, faster and faster as we pulled away from each station. I could smell the air change as we pressed forward, farther and farther from the salt air of Long Island Sound and the heavy perfume of tall maple and elm trees, into the colorless exhaust of Harlem. It was different in so many ways.

My father took me to Radio City Music Hall several times — Nutcracker Suite, the Rockettes — all the things he knew a girl would love. I remember gawking at the bare legs flying up in the air in unison, because these women must be the “chorus girls” my mother made reference to when I behaved in a coarse way, like belching or chewing gum. But what I loved the best was going to his office, high above Manhattan, being “Bob’s little girl” and the pride he showed as he smiled down at me while people filtered through. I knew that I, his big desk and the view over New York City, made him feel special, like he did something right, and I loved sharing that moment.

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

I never thought of this Father too much growing up, the one in church. For one, heaven seemed very far away, so this Father must be too. My sister thought they were saying, Harold be thy name instead of Hallowed which made more sense because we had an Uncle Harold. Who ever heard of someone named Hallowed? Anyway, I had a father, right here and he was the daddy of the big desk and the Rockettes and whisky breath, the bedtime stories that would take you to castles with swords and knights and knaves, the scratchy kiss good-night from the thick stubble on his nighttime face. I can still see him waiting for me, outside the train, smiling like a big kid waiting for a friend to come out to play.

The visits changed. One day my mother called me outside, to the porch where she shook a glass filled with ice and bourbon.

“Your father lost his job,” she said. I was 12, I couldn’t grasp the full meaning of what that meant, nor did she try to explain. But I knew that things had changed, just like when my brother died four years before. The wind was turning around again. I looked at my feet and turned away.

The next time I met my dad at Grand Central station, he took me to a bar. Everyone there knew him, just like when he took me to his office.

He ordered a drink, and took out his cigarettes, shaking the pack and offering me one.

“I know you smoke. You steal my cigarettes all the time, so I’m giving you one now.”

I took it and put it between my lips.

“Always wait for a man to give you a light,” he instructed me, as he pulled his lighter out of his jacket and flipped it open with a swift shake. He reached across the table and waited for me to draw smoke, then lit his own. I don’t remember if we ate.

There was no Radio City Music Hall that night. We got on a subway beneath Grand Central Station, sitting in the front, near the conductor, so we could see the tracks ahead, the stations appearing bleak and dirty as we stopped along the way, the doors sliding open to swallow the rancid air. Finally the subway reached the end, then jerked backwards, sending us back again. We stayed in our seats, watching the tracks disappear into the dark, not saying much.

Even after I met Jesus, at age 31, years after the subway ride and watching the daddy I loved slide into a deep pit of failure and despair, I still didn’t trust this new Father. I was grateful though. I knew He had rescued me from the same snare that caught my dad, I knew He had had somehow fixed what was broken. The mess that teachers and cops and therapists had just scratched their heads at, God reached down into my heart and in a flash – it was like new. But love? I doubted it.

My father died at age 56, when I was pregnant with my second son. He had been sober for seven years and in an awkward dance of reconciliation, we tried to build a bridge over years of my pain and his shame. I wrote letters because it was safer, describing the raw beauty of the lower Cape, and he lived within the fierce gales and the unrestrained sea. He liked that the gulls kept flying, even though they couldn’t get ahead. Cancer took him away from me for good in 1981.

Forgive your father, my new Father spoke to me. I argued a bit — we had made amends. He’s dead anyway.

Forgive your father, He insisted. So I did. And a strange thing happened. I could love again. My old dad, and my new Dad too.

This Father’s day, love your father if you can. And if you can’t, I suggest you meet the new One. And forgive.

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6 NIV

No one. That seems a little exclusive, I know, but you are all invited.

It’s funny — when I remember my dad, I remember the dad who loved me, the dad who sat through the Nutcracker Suite, smiling, who showed me off to his friends. He was a good dad. But I am even more grateful to my real Father, the one who gave me life, who poured His love out into my heart – a heart that quit love, quit hope, like those people a little girl on a train looked out at in Harlem 50 years ago. I couldn’t name it Despair then, but I would come to know it well.

Thank you, Father, for your love that is pure and boundless and never fails. And for Jesus, who made a way for me to find you. Your name is not Harold, it is Love. Perfect love.

 

 

**** A beautiful song “How Deep the Father’s Love For Us” sung by Selah. Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKDujmtyAVk

 

 

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April 14, 2020

The Best Hiding Place

 

You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.

Psalm 32:7

It was the last place to look and the best place to hide. Growing up in the 60’s, where no place was too dirty, creepy or dangerous to explore or hide in, there was still something unsettling about the dank and dreary room off of the cellar called the “bomb shelter.”  

For one, it was black dark – no windows, no light switch. The small opening into it resembled more of a cave entrance than a doorway, casting a dim light onto a massive hutch that was left there. Using a flashlight, we discovered elaborate spiderwebs, a few boxes shoved against the wall and some rotting wood stacked in a corner. The hutch and boxes were filled with cans – canned peas, corn, potatoes, spam and baked beans. Oh, and lots of batteries. How utterly boring. Sitting on a box in the damp shelter, I could only think about how busy the spiders were over my head. And what was that noise in the corner? Mice? Monsters? As I got older, and my parents explained that it was all in case the communists bombed us, I knew my mother would opt for sunbathing in nuclear radiation over a can of rusty beans and sitting in mouse turds.

Circa 1950’s. Not even close to our bomb shelter.

An article titled, “How to Help Your Child Deal with the Corona Virus Scare” caught my attention the other day. First I need to ask, Who is scared? I don’t think kids are, unless their parents make them that way. Even when we had to perform air raid drills and squat under our desks, (Yeah, that’s gonna help when an atomic bomb plops down on your town) I never felt scared or even mildly anxious. Why? Because the grown-ups took care of all that. The line between their world and our world was very clearly drawn. Air raid drills were a fun distraction to the droll tick tock of classroom life. And bomb shelters were a spooky hiding place. “The grown-ups are talking. Go play outside,” was the mantra we lived by. And we were good with that. I didn’t really want to be a part of their world – fat musty books and Walter Kronkite, politics and the work my dad marched off to “in the city” every day.

Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” Luke 18:17

What a strange thing for Jesus to say!

There is a beautiful purity and child-likeness to faith. Real faith has no sentiments, qualifications or even belief systems. It just is, like the trust my grandson Quincy has when he rides his daddy’s shoulders. No fear, no worry that he will be dropped or concern even that daddy might get tired. In a valid sense, he becomes part of his dad, joyfully dependent, with a secure seat and a great view. This is a beautiful picture of how Jesus wants us to come to Him. I must remind my skeptical, critical self that my opinions are irrelevant; my objections over how God runs things are foolish at best – an affront to His holiness and sovereignty at its worst. Again, the line is clearly drawn.

I confess I get scared. Walking the dog at night, a sick child or grandchild too far away to touch and see– and heights! But I remember a specific moment in time when I lay down my worst fears – the kind that grip your chest or make you gasp for air in the middle of the night. It was just a week after I lost my son Spencer and Miles, his brother, was home from college for the funeral. It was time for him to go back, to FLY back and suddenly I felt a wave of terror sweep up and over me and I collapsed.  I lost one, why not another? There is, of course, some truth to this rationale, that’s why fear is so crippling. Yes, it could happen again. In fact, I’ve known parents who have endured this horror twice, on separate occasions. But just then I thought, God, I can’t live this way. I can’t live crippled by What ifs and the hopelessness of No guarantees. Truth was, I was not in control. But in the rolling and churning ground under my feet, I still believed God was. So I surrendered ­ – not so much Fear, because some fear is healthy and reasonable. What I was really releasing was my sense of control, my crumbling kingdom, uncurling one stubborn finger at a time until it was gone. I was humbled, and I was free.

God, in His grace, understands our fragility. Doubt, fear and Why God? swirl like a consuming whirlwind around us lately, kicking up clouds of those devilish microbes and bacteria. But here’s a secret. There is a hiding place. In fact, God made it just for His kids and it’s so much nicer than a musty bomb shelter. Is is a beautiful wide-open place, where you can move and spin and breathe in and laugh and sing out loud. You can see far from there ­ – not as far as God can, but enough to know that you’re safe. Your Father’s got this, and He’s got you.

Fear exploits. And it morphs into group–think and we can quickly go from hoarding toilet paper to viewing our neighbors as microbe spewing murderers, sneering and cursing behind our masks. Fear manipulates and multiplies. It stalks and thrives in the shadows of uncertainty and is far more contagious than Covid 19, and I think more devastating.

I’m not sure Jesus cares that churches were closed for Easter. He’s more concerned about you and me, behind our masks and closed doors. He is there when you look at the mounting bills, the news, the bottle. He is there when you are really scared and you think you are all alone. You’re not.  

“Follow me.” Jesus again. The path is not always clear and soft, the way can be difficult and obscured. But let him lead.  He knows the way to the very best hiding place of all.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.

Psalm 91:1

 

You Are My Hiding Place by Selah – enjoy!

https://youtu.be/uUx2WcC9JKo 

 

Filed Under: Faith Tagged: bomb shelter, Covid 19, hiding place, hoarding
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March 11, 2020

Five Hard Lessons for the Christian (or Read the Fine Print)

Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it. Matthew 7:13-14

                I feel like I say this a lot lately, “Life is hard. It’s supposed to be.” I say it to crowds, or friends or sometimes strangers. I would not have to say this in most other countries except maybe France, because they know this already. And sometimes I get this back: Blink. Blink. Respectful silence. I know they want to argue. Many know it can be difficult, but most do not agree that it should be. In fact, our culture sets comfort as a priority.

             Okay, I admit I like comfort too. I love my flannel sheets in winter, and I secretly covet those car-starter-uppers on days when snow and wind make just a short walk to the driveway feel like an arctic trek. But I also have learned the benefit of being challenged – at work, at home, in church. Here is where Pride collides with our incompetence or sometimes laziness, where a mirror is held up to self-righteousness and we are uncovered. Our first instinct is to cover and deflect. We get angry, petulant. “I have my rights.” Well, actually you don’t.

Hard Lesson #1. God’s kingdom is not a democracy.

           There are no rights for God’s children because it is an unimaginable privilege and undeserved gift to even know Him, let alone be “joint heirs” to all that is His. Leave your rights at the foot of the cross and make sure you read this disclaimer carefully:

And if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him. Romans 8:17

           Ah, the hard part!

Hard Lesson #2: You will suffer if you follow Christ. No sissies allowed. Read this too:

Count it all joy, my brothers,[ when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. James 1:2-4

            Don’t worry – be happy! We get a variety of trials and they are good for us, because there is no other way to have a faith that is real and unshakeable. And then you get to be perfect, complete, lacking NOTHING. Wow! But first, the fire…

Hard Lesson #3 God does always answer prayer, but sometimes He says No.

           He’s God. He can do whatever He wants and it’s always right and for our good.

Hard Lesson #4 You have to love everyone. E-ver-y-one! No exceptions.

           In fact, God will intentionally bring you unlovables, all those people you really can’t stand. (refer back to Hard Lesson #2).

Hard Lesson #5 It’s not fair.

So the last will be first, and the first last. For many are called, but few chosen. Matthew 20:16 

            Back to the narrow gate. It’s not that Jesus doesn’t want us all crushing the gate, or having to create a wait-list because the line is so long. Jesus really is calling, but few are answering this call. They hear the call, but opt out of the “difficult” part. We want results, guarantees, position. On this side of heaven, there is no reward. Instead you will likely be laughed at, scorned as foolish or ludicrous.

            You don’t mean to tell me that you believe the whole Bible? My mother would ask, one eyebrow raised as if to coach me away from saying something she considered idiotic.

            Yes, I would say. The whole thing. Because it’s not just a book, it is life, from the Giver of Life.

            But what about Blessing? The Promises? Ah yes – lots of those. But read the fine print…

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 

            Do you love me? Jesus asked this of Peter three times. Exasperated, Peter finally said, “Lord, you know all things.” He does, He knows what is love and what is just lip-service or lukewarm compliance.

            Called according to His purpose. What if His purpose for my life is obscurity? Or more humiliating than that – a laughing stock, an offense? Elisabeth Elliot noted:

Did the earthly life of our Lord appear to be a thundering success? Would the statistics of souls won, crowds made into fruitful disciples, sermons heeded, commands obeyed, be impressive? Hardly.

            At the foot of the cross, there is a lot of room. There’s no box seats, or roped off sections. It’s you, it’s me, staring into this unfathomable love despite the seeds of evil that are implanted deep in every heart. He is calling me from death to life, into a love I am incapable of but for His immeasurable grace. 

            Follow me. The way is difficult, uncertain. I stumble, waver or sometimes stop dead in my tracks. Which way now?

Jesus Christ had to fathom every sin and every sorrow man could experience, and that is what makes Him seem strange. When we see Him in this aspect we do not know Him, we do not recognize one feature of His life, and we do not know how to begin to follow Him. – Oswald Chambers

            There are times where nothing is familiar. No GPS.

And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. Isaiah 30:21

            God is there, always. Even in the dark, or when the pain is so loud you can’t hear him. Jehovah Shammah: “the Lord is there.” And I am His, the only one that I care to please, and He will lead me according to HIS purpose. Then one day, I will meet him at the narrow gate. I don’t know for sure, but I think Jesus will be there with a huge smile, holding it open just for us. I hope I see you there too, as we enter into the fullness of His joy and glory. Then real life, the one we were made for from the start, will begin.

 

 When Love Was Slain by Selah – Enjoy!

 https://youtu.be/6mcxNJ1BFLU

 

 

Filed Under: Faith, Hope, Love Tagged: narrow gate
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