Yes, I confess. The call of the night owl frequently captures me. The quiet when much of the world supposedly sleeps is a calm and restful time. There is something soothing about the silence, when busyness slows, the day rests. Occasionally surprises occur. For years parental high alert kept dear hubby and me anticipating the not-unusual late night phone calls that rudely jangled us awake from a deep sleep. Some were work related, or family emergencies, or random wrong numbers. Now as grandparents we are at those more relaxed years when late night surprises are rare. Yet in the still of the night silent messages do appear.

How about a plethora of hamburger emojis at 12:10 AM . . . what can a Nana do but respond with, “Hello!💞🥰”, when unsure which grandchild is sending the text? The answer comes next: a row of hamburgers alternating with tacos. Ok . . . “I’m hungry, too? Are you?” No answer. “Are you sleeping?” No answer. “Nite nite. I love you!💞😘” Finally, a response, and a “Good night” from an identified child.

A few minutes later, returning from a raid to the frig (oh, the power of suggestion), I noticed an audio message. Listening, I heard the sweet voice of a very special breed of night owl crooning it’s own good-night song into my ear. Though convinced we both needed to turn off the small screens earlier and GO TO SLEEP, this precious time late in the night hugged my soul! I’m glad I was still up to partake in it! “Nite nite, sweet owl! Off to bed I go!” 💞😴

Recently a loved one received results of a neuropsychological report that revealed three separate mental health diagnoses. Not surprising, for her dad sports one, her mother the other two. Endeavoring to encourage her I mused, “the stained glass of your life has just become more colorful.” For, after all, we all have a diagnosis, at least one. And, happily, that does not diminish one’s value.

Thinking about stained glass, formed from silica being melted at extreme heat, additives thrown in, minerals enfolded, and all manner of manipulation done to create beautiful colored glass, another life lesson came to mind. Like those most magnificent stained glass masterpieces, formed of intricate broken pieces being fitted together into a thing of beauty, so too can be the pieces of our broken lives. None of us are pure, clear, without blemish or imperfection, so colorful prisms we might as well be.

Perusing the exquisite creations my stained glass artist friend creates, I noticed that when the brilliance of light shines through, hidden beauty deep within the glass is revealed. Surely in the hands of a Master Craftsman the broken pieces of our lives can be fashioned together to reveal the deeper beauty and meaning out of our chaos. I care not to go down in a rubbled heap! A diagnosis, or three, need not defeat, but become another facet in the prism, another plane for reflection, a jeweled surface.

I relish the thought of being made precious, of being of great value, of being a beautiful treasure to the One Who made me and calls me His own. Who takes my broken pieces, and those of my loved ones, and fashions us into something much grander than we can imagine. What a wonder! May His light always shine through our broken selves, revealing the ongoing work of His redeeming hand. And may the glory go to Christ Jesus, Who shepherds us home!

My prayer for our beloved one, and all who grapple with the cloak of a mental health diagnosis, is that the hidden gems of life and beauty may be found within its depths. As we melt with the intensity of new understanding may we focus forward with hope and assurance to the masterpiece that is being fashioned. Beauty is born of tension, adversity, and all manner of unloveliness. Take heart, dear hearts! Remember from Whom your value truly comes, and let God’s perfect light, shining into and through you, make you wholly beautiful!

Zachariah 9:16- 17a declares:
The Lord their God will save them in that day,
As the flock of His people.
For they shall be like the jewels of a crown,
Lifted like a banner over His land—
17 For how great is its goodness
And how great its beauty!

In my growing up days our mother collected Blue Bubble dish-ware, depression glass made by Anchor Hocking, between the 1940’s into the 1960’s. They were our every day dishes, bowls, and glasses, and when newer dishes crowded the cupboard, Mother donated the beloved bubble set, keeping a few special pieces. One piece lasted all these years, a low-sided serving bowl that was kept for use at the family place in the mountains. That is, until a few days ago, when modern technology burst the bubbles.

Glass is supposed to be microwaveable, right? Silly me . . . spaghetti squash and sauce straight from the frig to the microwave is not a good idea when reheating in vintage bubble ware. Not noticeable until near the finish of my meal, a crack nearly circumventing the whole bowl became visible. My heart sank a little. Memories tied to the past bubbled up with every use of that bowl. Its time of demise had now come.

The bowl sat in a plastic bag for a day or two, awaiting trash day, and safe disposal. It gave me time to reflect on those days of long ago, when times seemed less fraught with global unrest. When family stood cohesively against the things that were set to tear it down. There was never a question of love and solidarity in our family. Even through disagreements we were always committed to one another, without a doubt. So different from today’s world, and the forces that are ripping at families, relationships, and beliefs. I am deeply saddened by the reality of it all, yet know I must “look far down the road,” as Mother used to say. “This, too, shall pass.”

When trash day arrived, the thought to take a picture of the broken bowl revealed that the crack actually only encircled about three-fourths the way around. In an odd sort of way this brought a smile to my soul. I daily pray for adult children and grands, some of whom have in ways divided themselves from the family. Although the foundation of love is always there, there is a crack that wants to divide. Interestingly, though this bowl was definitely cracked, it still held firmly together. I was happy to see that indeed there was still a strong unbroken part.

Just a little bit of encouragement visualized in a cracked vintage bowl from my past. Surely, all is not lost, even when the fracture seems irreparable and long. Through abiding in God’s love all things are possible. I’ve heard it said, “God starts with the impossible!”

Slowly she opened her eyes. The dark, dank space was familiar, a place of isolation, a place she had sunk into before, a place to flee from those who tortured her. A hiding place all her own. She ran to this place in desperation. She had nowhere else to go. She needed this place to rest, to breathe, to gain courage to run again.

Magnolia was just fourteen when she started to run. Lost from her family when young, she found herself living in a one room shack at the end of an isolated mountain road. She had been there five years, with a couple who insisted they were her aunt and uncle. But she knew better. No relative of hers would have stolen her from her Ma and Pa, and taken her away. No. No one in their family had ever been like these two. Little did she know what was to happen to her when she agreed to go to the hospital with them, “because your Ma and Pa have been in an accident. Come with us. We’ll take you to them. The hospital contacted us to find you.” It had all seemed so real back then. If only she had run from them!

Five years. Magnolia had always been a compliant child. Doing what she was told. Trying to please. Desperately needing affirmation and love, as do all children. Yet the kind of love and demands these two made on her had begun to be frightening. Something deep inside her rebelled, threw up warning signals in her soul that she did not understand. It was confusing, bewildering, and only through building walls of defense around her crumbling self could she go on. Sure, she did the chores, and complied with their demands, for that was what she had been taught to do, yet a whispered voice inside kept repeating itself, “This is wrong.”

Magnolia had no idea where she lived. Only her name, Magnolia Evans, was hers. Her new family had changed her name to Priscilla Barton. It had been a game they played, they told her; then decided they liked to call her Pris instead. “It fit’s you,” she was told. And so it was.

Hiding in the small cavern she had found on a rare day when her captors were away, Magnolia had freed herself from the prison walls of the locked shack, deciding this was the day to run. She had had it. Bruised and beaten for the last time, something had welled up inside of her that said, “Enough!” She had listened and observed well over the years to know that the road had to lead to somewhere. Were her parents really dead as she had been told? She had wondered many times, thinking that surely they would rescue her from this horrible situation if they were alive, yet year after year no one came.

It had been surprisingly easy to slip away this day. Sure she was unconscious they had been a little lax as they left and locked her in. No ropes this time. Little did they know she had learned to fake unconsciousness, really a wall of defense as she pulled inside herself to withstand what they did. It was a survival mode that seemed to come naturally from down inside of her. And it worked well, like an insulating blanket that kept the abuse outside her being. However else could one endure such treatment? It was unbearable if one actually stayed in the moment and experienced it. No, it was better to withdraw deep inside, behind her own closed walls.

Dark now, Magnolia knew her time had come. The cavern was well away from the shack, and though the couple never mentioned it, she knew she must go before they returned. Her plan . . . follow the road and the river, but stay far away from sight. No way would she be caught again. There was only one way to find out if her family was still alive . . . to run from beyond the walls, and seek the truth for herself.

Is there a thing about objectivity that ends up being a way to disengage one’s true self from the depths of things? That keeps one’s surface content firm, or hardened like burnt sugar atop creme brûlée, when the authentic good stuff lies beneath? Or solid like the ground we trod upon through the glorious Yellowstone caldera, when beneath our feet is hidden heated stuff that might some day erupt? It has in eons past, and fissures now of bubbling mud, and geysers testify hot stuff really is under pressure down below. We humans are not so different than creation around us . . . after all, we, too, are made from dust.

Our difference: we are given a spirit, and choice. We are higher than the land and the animals, though one wonders at times at behavior humans display. Still, we are layered and complicated, like the layers of nature that surround us.

Driving in the mountains I was overwhelmed with the beauty of a partly cloudy autumn day. Every view was stunning, and as the car raced along my mind took mental pictures I wished I could print out to gaze at again. The balance, or imbalance, of color, texture, and form . . . the analytics made no difference; beauty exuded from it all, just in its being. Blazing scarlet maples, brilliant yellow aspens, glowing yellow tamaracks flanked by evergreen pine, fir and spruce. Vast golden meadows, farmed land, and pastures dotted with cattle, or a horse or two. Barns of every age and stage, reflective of man’s life trajectory, the oldest fallen in a heap of precious weathered wood. The juxtaposition of worn wooden fence posts, posts and wire sagging as though the composer of that song fell asleep while drawing the musical staff. Split rail fences that have remained strong for years against mountain weather exclaimed zigzag splendor along the way. No need for precise symmetry and order here for function and peace to endure. The beauty was astounding suddenly, and all I could do was gaze, realizing how much I appreciate being in this place.

When I find myself too steeped in objectivity, or subjectivity for that matter, a drive and respite in the mountains seems to pull my perspective back toward the plumb line of God’s great plan. Gazing over vast vistas reminds me how great God is, and that no matter how overwhelming troubles and concerns might seem, how small they are in comparison. No matter the strife, no matter the woe, the beauty of God’s creation still shouts His praise, light shining brightly day by day, light chasing away the darkness throughout each night. God is above all.

Thank You, LORD, for Your incredible creation. As we view the world around us, let us take the time to truly relish this amazing gift You have bequeathed to us. To steward well all we have received. To linger a little longer in this place that shouts Your glory. And let us, please, take some of its layers home with us to the valley when we go.

Psalm 121 (NKJV). I will lift up my eyes to the hills—
From whence comes my help?
2 My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth. 3 He will not allow your foot to be moved;
He who keeps you will not slumber. 4 Behold, He who keeps Israel
Shall neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The Lord is your keeper; The Lord is your shade at your right hand. 6 The sun shall not strike you by day, Nor the moon by night. 7 The Lord shall preserve you from all evil; He shall preserve your soul. 8 The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in From this time forth, and even forevermore.

Fuzzy hotdogs set to roast 
Grow alongside mountain’s ditch
Cattail flowers skewered on
Sturdy tall straight narrow sticks 

They sway in wind and pouring rain
Turn fluffy when the summer’s done
Ripened seed heads set to fly 
Autumn currents bidding come 

Spiky leaves persist their spread 
Ever homey in their grace
Marking marshy wetted lands 
As cattails beckon stay and play

Children enthralled driving by 
Sure that hotdogs there do stand 
Will wonder til that very day 
They hold cattails in their hands

God, where are You now? I’m sitting here straining to hear Your voice, a word, a whisper in my ear, an answer to my prayer. I know You, LORD, and yet at times I think I must be deaf inside; or expecting You to answer cries or questions perhaps I should already know the answers to?

Or is it that I’ve cried before the same lament You’ve heard endlessly from Your humanity, Your creation, Your children worn? Am I stuck in pity thick, or is there a place still deep in me that with a disturbing word from someone dear, or the world at large, resurrects this sore predicament?

Perhaps Your silence gives me time to think, to pause, to meditate, to marinate in whatever is, to let the muddied waters settle down so clearly I might see again? To consider Your written words that never change? Thank You I can hide in You while dealing with uncovered wounds, or fear, or stubbornness, or pride, or whatever it is that binds my spirit now. For even if I hear not Your voice telling me just what to do, I’m finding solace with You LORD. Thank You I may dwell in You.

Romans 8:38-39 (NKJV) 38 For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, 39 nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

“Whirr” go our electric toothbrushes as we start our day, or ready ourselves to retire. A normal part of the daily flow, for some reason the differences in our toothbrushing experiences caught my attention, ushering in the whim of toothbrushes reflecting one’s personality. It’s really not that big of a stretch. After all, children’s brushes are designed to reflect a child’s preferences (as well as whose brush is whose). So why not our toothbrushes reflecting our personalities? Just a thought anyway.

I noticed recently that though both brushes are the same brand and model, they sound different. One is higher in pitch; one is lower. Sometimes to my ear they are harmonious. Other times they are a major and minor key, a bit at odds. This does not surprise me one iota, for harmonizing major and minor keys can happen when both instruments are agreeably playing the same symphony. Other times, it is not music to one’s ears when disharmony overrules. As a treatise on marriage, need I say more?

This major/minor anomaly playing through my mind for sometime, I began to notice other variances in our brushes. The two bases are exactly the same, though mine is set at “sensitive,” my husband’s set at “clean.” Numerous settings per base do not change the sound of one’s brush, however. There is a consistent base pitch. Not surprisingly mine is a higher pitch, hubby’s a lower, more masculine thrum.

While exploring that feature I noticed the stems where the actual brush head attaches, though the same on each base, are different. Hubby’s is firmly seated and steady, mine is flexible and wobbly. Contemplating our personalities, I laughed out loud. Yes, he is more firmly seated and steady, and I am more flexible (sometimes) and wobbly. How interesting is that? Toothbrush analytics, right there at our bathroom sink!

This revelation spurred on other interesting observations. We both use the same size brush head now, but previously he used a larger brush, mine the smaller. He uses mint gel, I use mint paste. His extra healthy teeth can miss a brushing occasionally before bed. My mouth demands morning brushing, then nightly brushing with Clinpro (to decrease sensitivity) preceded by proxy brushes, followed by a nightguard. Yes, he is more easy going overall; I laugh and say, “I’m really not high maintenance!”

So, all this to say, one never knows when insight and revelation will hit you right between the eyes, or in this case, right between the teeth. Sparkling clean and minty fresh we are securely ourselves for another day. And with that, we keep on brushing!

Closed to keep our privacy in 
Louvered blinds try they might
Cannot hold back morning’s hail
Sunlight shimmering through 

Shimmering not just southern light 
Reflection too from gleaming lake
Lying eastward down the hill
Glistens on the wind 

How else could it float inside
To greet me through shuttered blinds 
I watch it dance in front of me 
Waving and glittering

Perhaps says scientific proof 
Wind is swaying supple trees
Though in the seen that’s likely truth 
I fancy lake’s bright call to me 

Another miraculous day has dawned 
As waves keep dancing to the tune 
Across our bed and o’re the lake 
Light shouting silent song 

Golden rays fill the weary sky
The glow pouring over all like paint poured out in an unmeasured “whoosh!” 
Cerulean blue the backdrop for colors burning up
Their intensity throughout the day increasing slowly 
From the cool of the morning dawn
Crescendoing into evening heat 

Slowly the cerulean darkens by shades
The brilliant orb of light taking leave
Bowing out that other spheres might have their turn sharing mesmerizing light
 
“Don’t go!” cries creation
“The magnificence of beauty is intoxicating!
Can we not dance in it awhile
Rest in its glorious vibration 
Float on streams of liquid color
Be carried away to lands of our dreams?” 

“But of course,” replies the sun, as though patiently addressing a child or younger sibling
“I must go for awhile, so you might sleep
Slip away to those lands of dreams
Ride comets amongst the stars 
And return on the morrow that we might play again.” 

I’m not sure where to start today . . . there’s an emptiness that’s moved inside, a heaviness of despair it seems, that’s taken residence in me. Have I invited it to stay? Despair a kind of cloaking thread that keeps the busy world away as I traipse slowly on instead? I doubt this is how You would have me live, abundant life promised to us. Yet . . . in these shadows dark and grim there is richness found to mine within. Ok. I’ll trust to find out why, and what the lessons I should learn. To seek and find rebuke or praise, admonition or cheering on this way.

Meanwhile, LORD, would You care for those my heart is breaking o’re with grief? And if I’m to DO love t’wards them some way, You’d reveal what way that is best? I’m stuck here it seems, creative joy losing it’s bright nourishment. Although in writing out my heart I sense an inkling of content. Perhaps honesty is what that is. Facing down the gloomy doom. And laying it before Your feet, with praise: You’ve overcome this tomb!

The ebb and flow of endless waves 
Salted droplets in my hair 
God walks beside me by the sea 
His breath I breathe eternally

He cradles me in sheltered care 
Storms raging round my fragile form 
While infant, growing, fully grown 
When aging as my life here’s done  

Through sunset’s painted colors bright
Assurance that He’ll always stay
Into twilight, starlit night 
Then the dawn, the bloom of day

His rainbows circling earth clear round 
Though only half that I can see 
Again, again promises out aloud
Our God, my God ne’er leaveth me 

“Help me” was the texted phrase 
Sent to me late one night 
Children winging silly words
But did I know? Were they alright? 

Their good mom in another room 
The children bored, so they said 
Random pictures, confusing words
Reaching out just to be heard 

“Do I need to come to you?”
“No, we’re fine,” was their reply 
“Just being funny, that is all”
Does Nana hear a deeper cry? 

Me thinks I need hold close again 
These children so dear to my heart 
To hug away the deeper wounds 
The growing-up kind life imparts 

“Help me, please!” a cry we all 
No matter what our age or place
Utter loud or whisper small 
We crave safe shelter of Love’s grace 

A friend requested prayer recently for a loved one rushed to ICU, his body seizing, breathing support needed. I could not help but feel the pain of their suffering, the patient and his family, the hurt that seems not to end. Tribulation of this world poured out again, again. “LORD, help me see the hope somewhere, keeping eyes on Your promises true. Lest the pain consume us whole. LORD, turn our eyes fully upon You.” 

Long ago a story read told of Jesus taking on those things that cause our suffering. That He is there with us in the midst of our pain, buffering the awful sin and destruction that means to do us harm. It’s hard for me to fully understand when looking at the vast landscape of worlds and worlds of suffering that seem ne’er to end. And yet, I know from my own life, the truth of Christ’s offering, to be with us throughout the depths, through all the ways of our anguish. Oh, that pain would all go away! Still, it does not.

“Oh, LORD, hear my cry! My heart is loath to take on another’s pain, when all I want is peace to reign. Oh, LORD! Be with them now! Let them know Your presence sweet! For how else can we truly rise above the hurts of this world? Resurrect us please, each hurting one. You know the angst each of us bear, in all the ways our agonies are born. LORD, I pray, meet each one there. In You alone is hope and power, to lift us up beyond, to endure, even now and here.”

I just about choked laughing out loud when our eight year old grandson sweetly asked, “How long have we been stuck with you today, Nana?” It had been one of those long days. Our daughter had taken one of their dogs, a ninety-five pound Rottweiler mix, to a trainer who lives sixty minutes or more away from their home. She had loaded him, his collapsible carrier, food, toys, and two muzzles, one smaller than the larger one he was wearing, and left the house around 11:00 AM. That left me to captain the chore details, and get the kid’s bedding washed. No problem.

Our granddaughter helped get the laundry started while the boys headed to their room. Getting them to clean without playing is like telling dogs and cats to put spilled toys back in a basket. Surprisingly, though, the boys tackled the job. Perhaps a bribe for each when they finished, of two chocolate covered cherries brought over earlier by Papa, helped. It only took a few urges to get the chore done.

Sir Google helped us learn that chocolate covered cherries were first crafted in 1929. We calculated the children would be 13, 16 and 19 when the making of chocolate covered cherries turned 100 years old. When you are 5, 8 and 11, those ages seem light-years away. Having chocolate covered cherries during the holidays has been a family tradition for a good long while. My husband, born in the early 1940’s, remembers his father bringing the confections home each Christmas. Perhaps his dad had snacked on chocolate covered cherries when they were first introduced to the world. When Papa asked the children, as they sucked cherry juice from holes in the chocolates, how they liked them, our granddaughter exclaimed, “I love them!” Chocolatey grins from the boys confirmed their approval. I wondered if this younger generation will carry on our family tradition.

When our daughter returned around 5:30 PM, after time with the trainer, then stopping off at work, she was clearly tired from a full day. Her phone rang. “Oh no! The trainer wants me to come back either today or tomorrow to apply the second smaller muzzle.” Her dog was clearly not happy, anxiously trying to pry off the larger muzzle. It would take two to get the large muzzle off, apply the small one, and put the large one back over top so the trainer could work through both muzzles. Our son-in-law unavailable that evening meant the children, already stuck with Nana for seven hours, were going to be stuck with me for a few more. So, with pizza ordered for our dinner, off our daughter drove into the night.

The extra hours with the children were fun. Admittedly tired we all piled on the couch to watch short movies. “Alien TV” was a favorite, about three alien reporters who come to earth, (Paris, France, in fact) to study human interests such as bicycling, camping, gymnastics, and going to the gym. Imagine the little creatures’ assessments and bungled, misunderstood attempts at trying everything out before reporting on these strange human activities. They were hilarious and we were roaring with laughter when the children’s mama finally returned.

Sometimes I feel like the alien when I hang out with the kids. They are, as their mama would say, “Lego and Minecraft” nerds. Add to that Harry Potter, Star Wars, and all kinds of science info shows. They want to tell me about everything, in minute detail, much of which is alien to me. Still I listen and try to be a place of comfort in their lives, learning a thing or two, and hopefully imparting some truth to them as well. If nothing else, we are alien generations growing together. All totaled, our grandchildren were stuck with Nana for ten hours. A happy place in the universe for their Nana to land, especially when the eight year old commented later as an afterthought, or perhaps as reassurance, “I like being stuck with you!”

Have I finally let go, Lord? Of those burdens that have weighed me down . . . those worries for loved ones? Things I cannot control, or really have much influence on, other than to love and pray. Have I finally let go, that thing in me clutching to my breast those precious ones growing and now grown?

It’s as though a release has entered in, beyond myself. I believe from You, LORD, for long I have wanted to just “let it go” and still that spirit of worry wrapped it’s tentacles around my heart and mind.

Thank You for that sweet blessing of visiting part of our family yesterday; for laughter, a silly card game with our daughter and two grands while the three men talked, dear hubby, son-in-law, and our son. I have been starved for family time and love, I think. A time to verify all is well indeed with them. A wide, shining ray of Your love and presence with us in just being there, together. Like a wee caged bird, trembling in the loneliness of its isolation, I have been set free as You have opened the cage’s door for me! Thank You, LORD, for this blessed space to fly and breathe! This blessing for today!

“Nana, should we pray?” asked the eight year old grandson. The three P’s were sitting at our counter, come to make reindeer cookies. A snack of apples and peanut butter sat before each of them, taming tummies a must before creative work. “Well, yes, if you would like. Would like to offer the prayer?” “No, you do it, Nana.” So I did. “And keep the cats off the table!” they all sang in unison at the end of the prayer.

Prayer time with these three has always been a little tenuous. Not a practice in their home, I endeavor to love by example. And prayer before meals is a grace toward the LORD I desire to uphold. Keeping the cats off the table has been an ongoing battle at their house, one they are slowly winning. Part of our prayer together reflects the first time I prayed that with them on a particularly annoying cat day. It has been a happy “P.S.” ever since.

Today’s “P.S.” of keeping the cats off the table brought an additional comment: “Well, that hasn’t worked for us.” Interesting. A teachable moment just jumped onto our countertop. I grinned and replied, “Well, God’s not a vending machine.” “A vending machine?” came the query. “You know, a machine you put money into to get something out of. It’s not like God is something magic we can just tell what we want and He produces it. But He is always there to help us through everything, even if we have to keep getting the cats off the table.” That seemed to satisfy the thought for the moment, and on the conversation flowed to how we were going to make cookies.

Enamored with all things Harry Potter, these kids think magic is cool, and that it brings instant results. As I reflect back now on that brief catty moment at our kitchen counter, I thank the LORD for His provision in bringing truth into these precious children’s lives. One more small stone of truth in their foundation, I hope, of lives that will be built upon the Rock of God’s love. Foundation building is a long and tedious process, especially if done well. LORD, may our efforts be proven strong, and would you please keep the cats of deception, untruth and lies off the tables of these precious ones hearts, and those of their parents, as You pour out Your Love. Thank You in the ways we might be a part of that.

The next cat to shoo away: hurtful sibling rivalry. Dear hubby and I reflected on that this morning. How to intervene in more godly ways when the inevitable squabble between children ensues. Another stone to chink in their foundation. Help us, LORD, for the blessing of these precious children. In Jesus’ name, Amen

The angst that history has recorded of families divided during the Civil War, brother against brother, father, uncle or cousin; sisters, mothers, aunts, relatives of every age and gender, torn between long-held beliefs, cultural practices, and personal opinions, plays on my mind as I view the discord amongst family and friends as we endeavor to love one another, respect each other’s opinions, and still function somewhat cohesively in light of the stressors of our day. It has been a long while since such overt divisive events as the pandemic have set up camp in our country. The invasion has been subtle and covert, like the hatch of a parasitic worm that is growing and multiplying as it seeks to take over its host. And like a cancer growing, the host, our country, is seriously ill.

A wise friend once shared the analogy of the effect of crisis on one’s psyche. It fills up one’s balloon, so that all the other equally important points of one’s life become obliterated from view. It is overwhelming; it is suffocating; it is all one can think, imagine, see. It becomes one’s primary focus. And if fueled by fearsome rhetoric, valid or not, one’s focus and fear remain high.

How to find common ground in such a state of chaos and unrest, over widely varied opinions regarding this invisible disease that plagues our nation and world? How to find trust in government officials and media who have betrayed our trust? Who have proven questionable interest in many of the issues of our day? There is much to consider as we each endeavor to ferret out the truth for ourselves, to find the right path to follow, and to love one another in the process. It has been a challenge. Am I basing my decisions on fact, fear, truth, lies? It is a conundrum when so much of our foundation as been shaken.

Somewhere in all of this I have found a place of peace I can run to to be still, listen to find wisdom beyond human understanding, and make decisions from that foundation. Man’s opinions are like a strainer trying to hold back the sea – all clamoring, yet where one place holds the sea back, another allows the water through. I have found a place where I am held securely, no matter what happens. Whether I live or die, my life is secure. And in that is my solace. My body might die, but I live on. It is my assurance. It is the Rock on which I stand, my secure foundation.

My hope for this country, for my family, and friends is that no matter our opinions, as strong as they might be, that we will never lose sight of who we are. That we could pop the balloon of fear and division, and reach for those good things that enhance and bless our lives. That in respecting each other we can look past our differences to what we share in common – a vast, grand country and values of common ground. Let those deeper things we share and hold dear knit us together. Look for preserving that which is precious and true lest we lose it. And remember, above all, that beyond ourselves Love never fails.

Thank You, LORD, for the clarity You have brought to my mind today. In the interesting clutter of possibilities of where to settle my attention, You have reminded me, again: You first, relationships second, my interests third. When I am confused between relationships and my plans, thank You when the way is made clear. Sometimes my plans will take precedence, yes. But other times, like today, it was crystal clear I could watch a recorded event later, and be free at the “live time” to attend to other important things. Thank You for that possibility! Perhaps a little thing for some to navigate, yet it seems a daily challenge anymore . . . how to delegate time, set boundaries, make the choices!

Thank You, LORD, that in this whirlwind world You are always a center of peace and calm. Nothing that happens on this earth or in our lives is too big, too startling, too horrendous for You! You are greater and beyond all the messes and failures, the setbacks and broken promises, the discouragements and unending questions of, “Why?” Though we fail and stumble, like a toddler desperately trying to walk, You are ALWAYS there to help us up, hold us when we are hurting, guide us along, cheer us on, teach us how to climb, and rejoice with us in victory!

Thank You, LORD, that You never leave us! And that You are calling us to Yourself even as we wander off; that You carry us when we can go no farther. And that You have given us the capacity to dream, imagine, want to create. Thank You, God, for this glorious place of possibility. You love each of us more than any of us could love each other, or ourselves. Help us to know You, to realize Your embrace, and love you, too. Restore us, most gracious LORD. Help us to grow! In Jesus’ name, Amen!

God IS love! 1 John 4:16 (NKJV) states: And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him.

Is it any wonder that weariness has pervaded our land? That trudging through the slough of the pandemic, enduring unending political turmoil, and imagining every possible outcome from the attacks on our country’s very foundation have threatened one’s sense of tranquility? Add in the never ending intrusions of social media, online fixes, and constant data updates on any subject, solicited or not . . . no wonder we are tired. Our minds are under assault . . . nearly 24/7.

Recently I had the pleasure of spending time with several of our grands. Relaxing after a day of school they were riveted to a very animated – and loud – episode of Minecraft something or other. My mind could hardly handle the incessant jabber and noise that was pouring into their home. “Turn down the volume, please!” worked for a bit, ‘til boundaries were set, and the thing was turned off. The whole scenario reminded me of an article I read recently from the Amen Clinic that addressed the addictive overload that our minds battle. “Sex, Drugs, Rock N’ Roll, Smartphones, Video Games, & the Brain” (link below) is well worth the read as it succinctly reminds us how insidiously these things entwine themselves around our minds. Presenting input either of good or of ill, the snare remains the same. I have found this to be true in my own experience.

Not long ago, as my husband and I drove towards Yellowstone to meet dear relatives, I began to feel strange as though I was emerging from a hole (like one of those deep wells one hears of a child falling into). My spirit was tight, like a straight jacket had been placed around it. And as we drove farther away from town and the frenzied fray, the more loose and free I began to feel. Never having had this kind of experience before, I was somewhat astonished to discover myself in such a state. Being cloistered and isolated, focusing on many online communities and classes, enduring the ongoing narrative of social dissension, carrying family concerns . . . there have been many overlapping intense mental demands over the last couple of years. And I realized, was even surprised, at the degree of mental exhaustion in myself. My brain even felt physically tight!

It is no wonder that fear, anxiety, and depression are such huge mental health problems in our world and in the younger generation. Many are so paralyzed by the overload they are easily sucked into screen time and do little else. Conversely, others have claimed, or are driven by, a sense of high alert, the pursuit of busyness and accomplishments, finding the better thing, and (for some) a frantic “get ‘er done!” momentum, leaving behind needed time for rest, reflection, and relationship. I barely knew how this snare had taken hold of me, yet was so thankful for our travel time, literally, to have relief from it.

Happily, I know where to find true rest in the midst of anything, in the peace and promises of God. Even so, my human physical mind, my brain as an organ, needed time away from the stressors, a change of pace or scenery, a different focus, or no focus at all. It could be as simple as a daily walk. Perhaps that is what I need to do more of here in town, even on the days I’d rather not leave my self-imposed restraints. I am thankful to still have a choice!

Help me, LORD, to choose to take courage to face each new day in Your strength! And let the winds of Your wisdom and peace blow through my mind so I do not become a prisoner to the world’s enticing and incessant demands; or a false narrative I might deem more important than listening to You! And help me please to remember to take the time to breathe and to enjoy Your magnificent creation!

https://www.amenclinics.com/blog/sex-drugs-rock-n-roll-smartphones-video-games-the-brain/

Free from the bonds of earth and of others
Still there’s a need for an anchoring limb 
Does it imagine it’s independent
Of the wide world it’s growing in?

Where does it spring from, come into being 
This whispy, exotic, diaphanous thing 
That proclaims with a boldness a certain uniqueness
That shouts to be heard among rooted things?

If not for the gravity that keeps us all grounded
It would undoubtably drift happily
Yet it needs water, air moisture to live by
For in itself it is not fully free

Come to the water, the water that’s living 
If freedom is what your heart deeply longs 
For rooted or airborne the Master Creator 
Is where your true freedom will fully be found 

Everyone’s life is a gift that is given 
Independence a lie, do you not see
For we are all dependent on something or someone 
Yes for our lives, for the air that we breathe

Thoughts of Old Testament altars bring to mind massive stone table-like structures where the blood of sacrificial animals poured out for sins of the people have left indelible stains. The killing of the bullock, the ram, the lamb, the dove, whatever animal was being offered suggests a chaotic scene: the holding of perhaps a struggling or bleating animal, the merciful and swift killing, the offering of its shed blood, and the aroma of the fat portions being burned. All the while the people worshipping God as the priest carried out these duties. When I consider acts of sacrifice, whether it be in this physical way, or in the laying down of oneself for the good of others, this picture plays in my mind. There is something bewildering about it all.

The shedding of blood is not something one typically considers a picture of beauty or one to be dwelt upon. Gruesome scenes of killing, the taking of lives in violence, are usually what come to mind – the horrors of wars and murders played out for viewing whenever a TV screen is turned on. It is a part of our world that I prefer to avoid. Yet it is there nonetheless.

Then enters the Hope of Christ. With His final sacrifice of shed blood for the past, present, and future sins of all mankind, the practice of sacrificial blood and burnt offerings ceased for God’s people. What an amazing thing! No need for more dying! Christ has done it all for us!

How then can I reconcile that in following Christ I should “die to self?” Immediately I think of the blood-stained stone altar, me being the one being sacrificed. It’s interesting how one’s thoughts might jump to nebulous conclusions. But in this case one need not fear. For the stone altar of sacrifice and death has been replaced by Christ’s sacrificial gift, the altar of grace.

An altar of grace is amazingly different than that cold, stone altar of old. Gone are the individual requirements for the sacrificial animal to be without spot or blemish, for the priest to be intermediary to make the offering, for rules and regulations to be followed so one can be deemed forgiven of sins. No, the altar of grace requires nothing from the one approaching, other than the receiving of the gift already given. It is a place of life rather than of death, for Christ, the One who sacrificed Himself there in our place, has fulfilled all the former requirements. He is alive and has defeated death!

When I approach this altar, thinking of “dying to self” as letting go of those parts of me that might be my best, or the worst, I am surprised, and delighted to find I am actually falling into the arms of Jesus. The altar of grace is a wellspring of life, not death. The more I place upon it, this place actually of refining, the more freedom I gain in walking into God’s kingdom, leaving the kingdom of darkness behind, and the scars it has wrecked upon me. It is a wonderful place to be, full of warmth, healing and abundance, life overflowing, hope restored, the place to receive joy in my spirit. It is a place of invitation, a gift already paid for, just waiting to be opened. “Come,” says the Lamb of God. “Come, follow Me. Receive the grace I have poured out for you.”

And so I go. Sometimes tentatively, other times with hastened steps. Each time finding that “dying” truly is not the awful thing I thought it to be, but more the shedding of worn out, unnecessary things; of unconfessed sins needing forgiveness; of forgiveness and grace I need to extend towards others; stuff of reconciliation needing tended. It is not the giving up of the best of me, but of becoming the better me, the one I have been created to be. All redeemed in His arms of grace. “To life!” exclaimed Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. To Life, indeed! And Amazing Grace!

What do I really hunger for, LORD, when my body seems well nourished, yet my angst to chew fills my mind. Is this a sort of “gnashing of teeth,” an emotional, mental, physical, or spiritual hunger that drives me on? Am I just bored? What’s the deal? Is it just because it is time to eat, whether or not I physically need it?

Is it time for a walk or some other form of exercise, besides moving my jaw? Am I anxious? Tired of doing the same old thing and just needing to get out of the house? Marking time within myself, rather than working it out on a grander scale for the good of others?

And why is it that the mundane things of food preparation seem to be so bothersome at times? Goodness! I praise You, LORD, for food to eat! What’s with the skimping by on eating what’s easy? What is it I am really hungry for?

I think it is You, LORD. For Your peace that passes all understanding. For Your rest amidst daily events. For the contentment and tranquility in any situation life brings my way. To dwell unending in the presence of Your Spirit serenely. With dashes of humor thrown about for fun!

Thank You for helping me determine what is driving those hungry impulses. So that I might direct them and myself toward the correct destination, instead of them driving me! And for filling my every need. In Jesus’ name, Amen!

For many years a small wooden puzzle has had a place on my shelf. Perhaps Mother gave it to me, or I found it amongst her things. The picture is of a Mama rabbit with several wee bunnies surrounding her, and the words “Always anticipate a miracle.” This small 1.25” wide x 1.75” tall four-piece puzzle represents much greater things to me. Just a tiny trinket to some, I find myself loath to part with it.

I have thought about the message of the puzzle over time. Anticipation, miracles, and the admonition to always anticipate them. Miracles potentially happening at any moment is a concept oft overlooked. Like the prolific reproduction of bunnies, perhaps miracles in the unseen world are just normal supernatural events. Ones that we miss recognizing if our vision is tuned to our carnality and worldly things, rather than fine tuned to spiritual things. Like delightful baby bunnies popping out of hedgerows unexpectedly, miracles might surround and delight us, if we could only see.

Paul admonishes us in Philippians 4:8 that “whatsoever things are true . . . noble . . . just . . . pure . . . lovely . . . of good report . . . if there is any virtue and anything praiseworthy,” that we are to “meditate on these things.” To tune our minds to the goodness God rains down on us. To look for the positive in all that is happening around us. To search for the light in the darkness. To perhaps always anticipate a miracle?

So often we are distracted with life’s problems and concerns, for those things shout at us more loudly and persistently. Yet as a member of God’s Kingdom we are granted the peace of God, which passes all understanding, if we would but keep our hearts tuned to the LORD (see Philippians 4:7).

Webster’s partial definition of a “miracle” is 1: an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs (the healing miracles described in the Gospels) 2: an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment (The bridge is a miracle of engineering)

Isn’t it a wonder that our gracious Heavenly Father would enter our lives in endless, amazing ways? That all of life itself is a miracle in which we dwell? That the goodness and beauty of life may wash over us in unusual moments, yet even more so in the mundane and the everyday?

Synonyms for “anticipation” are contemplation, expectance, expectancy, expectation, prospect.

So perhaps with a change in the way one views, perceives things, the more surprised by the miraculous one might be. A tiny shift in oneself may open a vista of great and wondrous things.

“I love you, too,” she said to me. Yet I wondered. Her actions pushing me away, or so it seemed, says otherwise. Neglect at reaching out towards me, behaving in ways I think she should, do these negate love she might feel somewhere deep inside still . . . for me?

And then “three fingers pointing back” convict me quick of times I’ve failed her, and others in my life, ones I have been given to hold dear. Does my silence and comfort in my solitude say to them I do not care, because my actions do not enough show my love there?

Ach! LORD, help! I am a mess indeed, at loving well, living as You show I should. Forever will I fall short, of Love in action freely felt and acted on rightly. Infuse me, Holy Spirit, please, to prompt me when and how to be a vessel of the love You pour out to others, yet through me. In myself I am a vessel poor.