Through tangled vines the light shines forth 
It matters not from where I see
The light is dancing midst the leaves
Past twists and turns, it reaches me 

The vines and trees in Czechy land 
Filter light as do the trees
Outside my door, or down the street
Or wherever in the shade we meet 

In Germany we found the same 
In New York State as well as France
The patterned shadows on the ground 
Are made from bright light shining down 

No matter where we choose to stand 
The light proceeds and follows there
To bring us life and joy to hark 
Lifts us from the world’s dark 

And even in the dead of night 
One only needs to open eyes 
To see the light that yet does shine 
The promise of a new day bright 

And if that day turns into gray 
The light still shines beyond the cloud 
Rest in the promise of that light 
It shines each day and through the night 

Those tangled vines that twist and turn
Are only seeking light as well 
The tangled stuff that skews one’s path 
Bids us come to light to dwell 

Our shadowed paths like pierced tin 
Marred and fettered with our flaws 
Cannot hold back the shining light 
Luminary patterns burning bright 

I needed this word today, germinated from Maggie Smith’s quote, posted by my Noom group coach:
Even when, especially when, Life feels cloudy, do your best to see yourself clearly. Try to articulate what inspires you versus what shuts you down, what excites you, what scares you. When you think about what you want and why you’re confronting who you are. Start there. Keep moving.

Some days turning on the inspiration switch is an act of my will. I grope for it. Other days, bounding out of bed, agenda in hand, life is full and rich, overflowing with things I want to do. But usually what I am seeking is that sense of connection and purpose that bubbles up from inside of me, not of my own doing, but from a wellspring beyond. Infusion of the highest kind that is the heartbeat of my life. Perhaps what I am confronting in myself is that overthinking thing, the bent towards depression, and the knowledge that everyday I can choose, must choose, to be inspired. Some days my battle weariness wins; other days I am alight with the fire of inspiration that pops with a word, a phrase, a thought. Or a thrilling view of creation that, from the majestic to the infinitesimal, is magnificent in its complex design.

Consider fractals. The mathematical concept still boggles my mind: a geometric way of measuring irregularities in nature, no matter the size, that find repetitive patterns throughout whether magnified or diminished. Think of a cauliflower. Here is what Wikipedia says about its fractal dimension:
Cauliflower has been noticed by mathematicians for its distinct fractal dimension, calculated to be roughly 2.8. One of the fractal properties of cauliflower is that every branch, or “module”, is similar to the entire cauliflower. Another quality, also present in other plant species, is that the angle between “modules,” as they become more distant from the center, is 360 degrees divided by the golden ratio. In mathematics, two quantities are in the golden ratio if their ratio is the same as the ratio of their sum to the larger of the two quantities. : (a + b) is to (a) as (a) is to (b).
The golden ratio appears in some patterns in nature, including the spiral arrangement of leaves and other plant parts.

All that to say, fractals are inspiring! They bring a glimpse of pattern to the seeming chaos of the world around us. Even in the infinitely grand or infinitely small, structure and pattern may be found. Volcanic explosions, cloud formations, sound waves, lava flows; everywhere, distinctive fractals exist. Tree branching, coastal lines, bifurcations of the circulatory system, patterns in paisley, cellular divisions; anything one might consider, really, in the natural world, including the function of the world-wide web. And even to mathematically demonstrating the existence of God.

When I consider the magnitude of worlds-within-worlds-within-worlds that we are and walk within, without seeing, I am inspired to learn more of the Master Creator behind it all. My eye beholds the backdrop of each day, the milieu in which I exist. My inspiration comes from the desire to connect beyond my milieu, to explore and understand from whence I’ve come, the incredible complexity and orderliness of this amazing world in which we find ourselves. It lifts me out of my personal chaos and brings order to my life. It urges me onward to live again, live more, live beyond. It helps give me the will to keep on.

For fascinating reading with beautiful illustrations, see Fractals: Patterns of Chaos by John Briggs, and The Colours of Infinity: The Beauty and Power of Fractals by Arthur C. Clarke.

Where comes this stiff-necked attitude
A veil in which to shield myself                  Predicting voices I will hear
When ‘round certain loved ones dear?

Confusing ‘tis for all of us 
How to navigate this trough 
Is bitterness inside of me 
The reason for my short rebuff?

LORD, help me please to understand 
Why I act this toilsome way 
Where in me is that rotten stuff 
That needs dug out and sent away? 

Is unforgivingness waiting there 
Am I massaging worn out wounds 
Just to sit in my content 
Have not to deal with their lament? 

Please grow me past what e’re it be 
This act that has its way with me 
Cast out my turn of being rude 
Cast out my ugly attitude 

Is dying to self an awful thing? 
Nay! ‘Tis but the process that ultimately brings
The best of us grown out 

I shudder and cling to that that I know 
My familiar rut, behaviors that flow 
Naturally from me 

Around and around in the same old track
Getting stuck deeper, so much that I lack 
Would I but be willing to let go 

To turn myself upward to those better things 
Relinquish the rust and jagged dings
Reach for the Lifting Hand 

Would You whisper in her ear
A word, to let her know You’re near
That You are truly real 

To be a place that she can dwell
To flee the strife that ‘round her swells 
To be her place of refuge 

I cannot reach her, LORD, from here
I’m bound by space, how she believes 
Yet for her my heart breaks 

Please hold her in Your safety grip 
Let nothing come to her amiss 
To rob her dwindling joy 

She’s too young for burdens deep 
Raise her from this awful heap
Of woeful worry, dread 

Whisper, please, touch her soul
Awake her spirit so she’ll know 
The God of Life Who is

When asked recently if there was someone in my life I needed to forgive, the long buried memory of a craft store owner (who unbeknownst to me was most likely a pedophile, or trafficker of child pornography) came to mind. Looking for a job as a clerk in his store, I was nearly reeled into his trap of picture taking – on the day of my interview, no less – but spared by God’s grace of motivating my feet to “RUN!” Still, here in my retirement, after forgiving that man years ago, I realized that perhaps I had not fully forgiven myself in my naïveté of nearly being lured into that situation. Could this be a part of the kaleidoscope of reasons why most of my life there has been the voice of “you’re not good enough” running through my mind?

It occurred to me while pondering this that humiliation does not come from God. It is a relative of condemnation, again not from God, but from the enemy of our souls who would suck the joy and life from us, and is bent on doing so. Oh, that I had not wasted so many years listening to that lying voice! Yet, God has used even that experience for my good while growing and refining me towards wholeness and completeness. And with great relief, for as God’s love and light is shown on those dark spots in me, that lying voice is going away!

Happily my earthly father, enraged by the man’s behavior, confronted him, defending me after I told my parents what had occurred. I am forever grateful for Dad’s demonstration of the godly love of a father defending his daughter. And though at times through my life I wondered if Dad was too strict, I never questioned his deep love and best intentions towards me.

Still, I have needed to hear God’s own words telling me who He says I am as His daughter. Affirmations to counteract the condemnations that fly at us from all angles from the world, or ourselves, enmeshing as wrong thoughts that play in our minds, around and around like a stuck record. Affirmations of truth that bring hope and light, and tell the lies to, “scat!”

Here are a few of my favorite affirmations. I encourage you to search out more, for those that speak to your soul. God knows exactly what each of us needs to hear, for after all, He is the One who created us!

-I am chosen before the creation of the world (Ephesians 1:4, 11) -I am a child of God (John 1:12) -I belong to God (1 Corinthians 6:20) -I live under God’s blessing (Galatians 3:13-14) -I am God’s workmanship (Ephesians 2:10) -I am forgiven (Ephesians 1:8; Colossians 1:14) -I have hope (Ephesians 1:12) -I am holy and blameless (Ephesians 1:4) -I am born of God, and the evil one cannot touch me (1 John 5:18) -I have not been given a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7)
-I have redemption (Ephesians 1:8) -I have a purpose (Ephesians 1:9; 3:11) -I am sealed with the promised Holy Spirit (Ephesians 1:13) -I have access to the Father (Ephesians 2:18) -I am a member of God’s household (Ephesians 2:19) -I am secure (Ephesians 2:20) -Nothing shall separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:38-39)

These are only a smattering of affirmations of who we are in Christ, and of God’s promises to us. I have found that the closer I draw to Him, the more unpacking of those soulful woes He has been accomplishing in me. Yes, He disciplines us as a good Father instructs a beloved child in how he should go; His way is Love, and His purposes are to perfect us. That, of course, includes getting rid of all that junk that tries to defeat us, and weighs us down. No matter the abuses or suffering we might have undergone, or are experiencing in this fallen world, God is always reaching towards us with healing and redemption if we would but turn to Him. At times I have had to plead, “God, help me to believe!” when my circumstances have felt overwhelming . . . God has not failed me yet. It is an amazing journey to finding keys to unlocking the doors to internal freedom. A wonderful gift from our Good God, indeed! One that ultimately allows the peace and love of the Father to shine through us!

It was a glorious snowy day. Snow had fallen through the night before, surprising the children of the farm with a glistening white wonderland as they peered out frosty windows that bright morn. Their day started early, for on the farm they had chores to do before school. The family had always risen with or before the sun, and enjoyed watching the sunlight slowly changing the dimness of dawn into day, the bright rays finally bursting over the mountains and across the valley. A beautiful, meditative time when the animals were stirring and roosters began crowing a glad good morning.

The children were fondly known as Mr. Boots and Horsey Girl to their Nana, who had special love names for all her grands. Nana, and Papa, too, were always charmed, and often amazed at the adventures Judson and Lee told them their two darling children had daily, working, playing, exploring and growing up on their farm. Adventure was just a step out their door, planned and expected, by surprise, or invented.

The farm sat on a high plateau above a long valley in an area that had not been overdeveloped as yet. Although, as more families desired the open spaces of the country, homes were popping up closer and closer to this farm’s oasis. Planning to live there for many years to come, Judson and Lee decided to keep their land private by design. Great berms of dirt were built surrounding their large acreage, with plans to grow native grasses, trees and an orchard to bring contour to the otherwise mostly flat land. What great fun this brought to Mr. Boots, Horsey Girl and their friends! In an instant sledding hills, mountain bike trails, and mud slogging were accessible right out their door. Each day brought new possibilities. And today the sleds came out.

Breakfast, chores and schoolwork finished, Mr. Boots and Horsey girl dashed up the berms again and again to slide down with glee, almost all the way to the horse pasture. The neighbor friends from across the street had joined them, happy laughter ringing in the air as they swooshed by each other to see who could slide the farthest. Ducks and geese quacked and honked overhead, some still migrating to warmer areas south, some staying local in the area. The farmland surrounding them offered prime feeding spots for birds. Untilled land grew wild sagebrush that looked like squat clumpy bushes draped in snowy shawls covering the gently rolling land of the plateau. It was wide open and free, with a beautiful view of the sky and surrounding mountains. The children sledded til chore-time came again, dinner and early winter darkness. Tumbling into bed, dreams came quickly of their joy-filled day.

Saturday morning dawned with the sounds of raindrops pounding on the roof. Not surprised by the quick change in Idaho weather, the family trudged out in the rain and slush to tend their animals. The beautiful snow of yesterday was quickly melting and rivulets of water were running down the berms. Puddles formed here and there, an especially big one where the round pen had previously been, the ground lower there from horses and mules walking the soft earth. Several ducks splashed and paddled about, completely at home in the wet weather. Mr. Boots and Horsey Girl gave each other that knowing look . . . if ducks could play, so could they! After a hot breakfast of oats, blueberries, and almond milk, out the two went, sledding discs becoming . . . CANOES!

It was amazing how fast the puddle had grown in size and depth that morning. The ducks were a bit skittish as the children launched their crafts into the almost pond, deep enough it was for the children to float in their boats. “Quack Quack! Quack Quack!” the ducks jabbered as the children pushed their sled-boats with stout sticks they used for oars. And soon a parade began, the ducks in front with the children pushing to catch up with them. “Duck Duck!” called the canoers. “Quack Quack! answered the ducks as the parade went around and around. It became a hilarious game, for the ducks kept quacking as the children kept paddling after them.

“Oh, what a grand day you’ve had!” crooned Nana over the phone as Lee and the children called to report this most amazing adventure! Papa and Nana had a good laugh imagining the Mr. Boots-Horsey Girl-duck-canoe parade that lasted, they were told, til the ducks got tired of parading and flew off to forage for food and rest. And just in time for two soaking wet canoers to head inside for soup, hot chocolate and dry clothes. Life was like this on the farm. Unexpected and fun friendships were forged between animals and humans, as were new delightful things to do. Just like this snowy-turned-slushy rainy-day newfangled game they would forever remember as “Duck Duck! Quack Quack!”

How will it feel to suddenly be lifted up? Will there be a rush of changing barometric pressure, a need for oxygen? I suspect that when the LORD returns all those details will be already addressed, no baggage preparation or TSA checks for flight necessary. Only the readiness of one’s spirit to fly away to meet Jesus in the air!

Can you imagine?! What an experience to be here, then suddenly there, no longer a part of this chaotic woe-frought world. To be delivered from those final battles of the end times. Will our ascent be slow and steady like a hot air balloon readying for take-off, or faster like a helium balloon streaking upwards and upwards towards the stratosphere? Will the trajectory be straight up, or curved, or like a fancy Fourth of July fireworks spiral? Stuttery or smooth? Will we get to hold hands with our loved ones? Find them there in the air if we take off from different “launch pads?” Will we be whisked away so swiftly that our disappearance from this earth will be undetected, or will those left behind be stupefied by the sight of it?

Having never hovered by parasail, parachute, or balloon, I can only imagine. Or will flight be like those of my dreams? Without the mandatory run and jump to take off, of course, but just as interesting and sweet. Peter Pan style with no guide wires, and no need for balance arms, though I suppose they could be useful.

The older my body becomes, and the younger my mind returns to wondering, the greater the anticipation seems. Some have experienced such things in their lives already. It thrills my heart to hear of these “encounters with heaven,” a foreshadowing, I believe, of things to come. Even better than stepping through a Hollywood “warp gate,” the real experience of entering a new reality, be it body flying into the air, or experiencing other prophetic manifestations of God’s Kingdom, the joy of experiencing it with the LORD is a priceless gift. “Test the spirits” we are warned, for in the last days there will be many signs and wonders. Dwell in harmony with the Holy Spirit. Listen only to His voice as He whispers deep inside those who have invited Him in. His sheep know His voice. Grow close to Him, ask Him in, and while waiting for Christ’s glorious return, be ready to fly!

1 Thessalonians 4:16-17 16 For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. 17 Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord.

[If you would like to ask God to come personally into your life, it takes but a simple invitation to ask Him in. It is the most deeply personal and relevant decision a person can make! See my blog post titled “Asking God In” for a few thoughts and prayers. Blessings!]

Driving up Idaho’s Highway 55, I am always heartened by the stalwart greeting of old barns. Some dilapidated, some fallen down, some still standing proud, they are weather-worn grey or faded red, or green, some more newly painted. Metal roofs seem the standard covering in this part of snow country. For these higher mountain meadows are lush pasturelands for Black Angus and Hereford cattle. There may be other breeds here, but the black, and the reddish brown-and-white, I recognize from my childhood, and from years traveling this highway.

Jeremiah 6:16 states: Thus says the LORD: “Stand in the ways and see, And ask for the old paths, where the good way is, And walk in it; Then you will find rest for your souls. But they said, ‘We will not walk in it.’”

I love this verse. To me it is God’s admonition to hold on to the old ways, to remember and learn, to cherish and treasure those priceless gifts we have been given. More importantly, to cling to and walk in the path the Shepherd calls us to follow, with Him. For He truly is the only One who can lead us to that perfect peace for which we long. Man-made old barns remind me of this passage. They represent the foundational things, the hard work of one’s hands, the fruit of the earth, shelter and care, hopes and dreams.

Yet, as the last verse of Jeremiah 6:16 records, the pride, self-centeredness, and rebellion of man against God still remains. As life and our culture seem to be accelerating at warp speed, our children and grandchildren being taught progressively diluted values, and the disruption of peace in our world and nation more and more unsettling, it behooves us to take heed to God’s admonition to us through Jeremiah. For though He uttered those words thousands of years ago, God does not change. His words do not change. His character does not change. His commandments do not change. God is the ONLY aspect of life that does not change!

Why do we fight so to try to find that “better way,” when the best way, the good way has already been provided and shown? Like the people of old, we are stiff-necked, willful, and full of pride. Over and over again we must learn the same lessons. The Bible is full of the truths of life. It shows the good, the bad and the ugly. Yet beyond all our willful turning away from God and His assurance that His way is best and good, we still insist on doing it our way.

Like old barns, we are here for the duration, meant to stand strong and serve a goodly function. If our foundation is weak, if our support system is rotten, if our covering is flimsy we will not withstand the storms, the pressures of life, the tests of time. Ask anyone who has fallen on his face through failed self-effort; some were toppled because of their selfishness and pride. Those old barns that still stand were built on tried and true foundations. The builders paid attention, building in ways that would assure strong purpose for their barns, fruit for their efforts. They “walked in the old” proven ways that led to strong buildings.

It is a sad day when an old barn falls, or a newer one for that matter. For all that it represents has become part of the landscape, a silent guidepost along the way to those times of yore. It shouts, “Remember when!” and wraps our memories, hopefully, in towels of baked bread, homemade pie, warm fireplaces, and the ideals of life we’ve lived, or long for. For those promises will one day be completely fulfilled, in that grand place called heaven! “Stand in the ways and see, and look for the old paths, where the good way is, and walk in it; Then you will find rest for your souls.”

I have found returning to those old familiar places, the things in which I am grounded and rooted, growing more deeply in the verdant soil of God’s nourishment and care through dependency and faith in His Word, is where the peace that passes all understanding is found. No need to be fancy or gilded, young and super fit, without blemish or wrinkle, I can be like those old barns, stalwart and secure, a place of refuge and warmth, a place of peace. With God, my Maker and Master Builder, I can rest in the assurance He will craft me to be a dwelling place of His Spirit that He wants me to be. Like an old barn, may my life reflect the strong shelter He remains for me.

The procedure was necessary and would only take a few minutes. Outpatient. In-office. Not a big deal. Yes, it will be uncomfortable, but not for long. “You must hold still. Sit on the table on your knees, your rear in the air, head down in your arms.”

Humiliation has a name. Mortification. Though a medical procedure, done with precision, objectivity, and the greatest of care and compassion, a sense of violation slips in. It just comes with the territory. Even by consent it still hurts, invades, is embarrassing.

Gladly it did not last long. Results were good. Yet lasting effects dragged on. Mortification, like being fully anesthetized yet remaining wide awake, wraps one in layers of protective shroud, insulation from the reality endured. With time, it wears off. The saving grace: professional distance.

Now nearly sixty years later I awake whimpering with these memories. Remnants still of lingering hurt? Not that I am consciously aware of. So I lift it up for whatever it is, for the healing that needs take place somewhere deep in my subconscious.

Sometimes, like a surgical procedure, life events violate, penetrate into one’s soul – the mind, emotions, that part of us that links our earthly body to our spirit. No wonder the mind becomes the war zone where tortuous thoughts assail, the battle is fought for peace within. The enemy woos, offering to dull the mind with drugs, alcohol, ways to mask our pain and humiliation. Anything to keep the spirit from overcoming.

Take courage, soul! With light shown into our deepest, darkest emotional recesses, healing can come. It may be painful for a little while. It may be unwelcome. Feel totally humiliating, seem mortifying. Still, let the light of truth shine into those hidden places. Become free from those burdens. Be made well, whole again. No matter how long it takes. Stand and face the fear of it. Let mortification go!

Contemplating how to explain to our grandchildren the reality of God, whether or not one believes in His existence, the picture that came to mind was a fish tank, bubbling away, as fish of various kinds swam freely through the water. Or a school of fish, swimming deeper in the ocean. Some were older, some younger, and, of course, differing degrees of wisdom were in each according to their experiences and what they had been taught.

“There is no such thing as water!” exclaimed one small fry in a heated discussion in his school. “It is a made-up myth, just a story to get us to do things and think a certain way. To keep us from exploring our world and figuring things out for ourselves! To take away my freedom to live my way!” As he swam away the other small fry wondered at his outburst. Water was not something easily proven to these fish who swam deep in the sea. How could they know? For they swam in it, were a part of it, breathed life’s air from it, found food in it, lived in it. In short, in it they “lived and moved and had their being.”

No wonder it was hard for a small fry to grasp the concept of water. He was so immersed in it he had no knowledge of any other existence. Then one day he met a wizened old sea turtle who had a story to tell. “Yes, there is such a thing as water. I’ve seen the light, small fry. Been to the top myself, and out onto the shore many times. It’s a different life there than down here in the water. It’s hard to describe. The air is crisp and clear, but sometimes foggy and cold or dripping with water. It is warm when the light shines bright and hot. It’s the place where I was born, digging my way up out of an eggshell in a sandy nest, and running like crazy to get into the water to swim. Oh, yes, there’s water, small fry. There’s water! We’re in it!”

Never exposed to such information, the small fry was stunned. Could it be true? That he lived in water this whole time, and never realized it? That water was actually what supported his life? That though he denied it, it was still there nourishing him, sustaining him? “Interesting,” he thought. “Maybe I need to learn about this water. Guess there’s more to consider about being a fish and what I am swimming in.”

We are so like the small fry, determined to define for ourselves the realities of our existence. For those who have come to know Jesus Christ, the Light of the World, we are told of God, and truths far beyond our mortal understanding: “For in Him we live and move and have our being” (see Acts 17: 22-31 NKJV). Oh, that the world, still lost in the darkness of the deep, could accept the truth from the One who lives beyond our existence! Even more astounding than the old sea turtle’s tale, Jesus comes from a heavenly place, and tells us it is real! He promises us “living water” (see John 7:37-39 NKJV), and eternal life beyond the life we now know. Come! Choose life! Learn what He has to say!

She sat stunned, unsure how to receive the news. The thought of it, how he had been taught, was beyond her comprehension. His grandfather had lived that way, finding “great return on his investment” by diversifying his wealth and allegiances among many. Little did she know this included his affections.

“How many?” she inquired. “I have been honest and faithful to you. You need be honest with me. That’s the least you can do.” He paused, holding her close, this man her husband of many years. He did love her, sure. But she in her poor offering to him was not enough. Investing only in her was too risky, his grandfather’s example had led. Where she lacked, or withheld, he would find elsewhere. “Four hundred and twenty three,” he finally replied. “Or maybe groups making up that number.”

The number was unthinkable. “Four hundred twenty three? What? What? What does that mean?” Her mind could not imagine the depth of his betrayal, his “diversification.” She felt frozen, her body, still being held in his arms. She could feel nothing but the gasping beat of her heart. Still he held her, lest she disintegrate into a thousand pieces onto the floor. And as she began to feel the thaw, and the actual fracturing of her soul, each tortuous moment brought her farther into the truth of their relationship, truth she had to face.

“Can I not be all for you?” she whispered. “Give you all I have withheld, so you need not look elsewhere?” “I do not think you can fulfill my needs,” he replied stepping away from her, pretty boy that he was.

They had been remodeling a home, painting walls and freshening a space they had inhabited for years. They had always been a team, and like any couple had their differences. How had they allowed these errors in thought and action lead to this awful revelation? As she sat struggling to make sense of the whole thing a plethora of thoughts paraded through her mind: “What do I do now? Do I stay here, or go? Who will support me? What about the children? Where is my HOME?” She was inundated with confusion, yet under it all she did have a foundation that she had been taught: belief in God, staying true to one’s vows, looking to God for her answers.

Music was playing in the background, piano music, ethereal and grand, yet soothing and soft, coming forth as blue notes played by gentle hands. She listened while sitting, her Bible opened in her lap as she searched for solace in God’s Word. She was devastated, wounded to the depths of her being, still she knew where she could turn to find her steady ground. Searching the Word she sank further into the realities of her suffering, for the path she was on now required it. Looking up she saw a child approaching her. Gazing through turmoiled eyes and mental haze she could see a tentative smile on the child’s face. It was then that she heard, clearly, and without doubt, “Home is within the sanctuary!” Sanctuary? Yes, of course. That sanctuary deep inside where God’s Spirit Himself dwelled in her. No matter that her life was shattering as a fragile crystal glass, she herself always had sanctuary in God Himself. She would, indeed, carefully, one step at a time walk through these broken shards, leading her children, to find her way home.

Have you noticed how consistent are the laws of nature? Nature has been carefully and thoughtfully constructed, not a willy-nilly whirly gig that randomly spins. Even the changeable things, like the weather, volcanoes, earthquakes, are somewhat predictable in their presentation, though cloaked in uncertainty. Most things do remain conventional. Gravity persists in its properties. Day and night comes and goes. The stars and moon shine no matter what goes on in the dark. And the sun illuminates our galaxy, even to places invisible to the human eye.

Negative energy, I have found, has a profound effect when I encounter it. It may be something as simple as another person’s propensity towards discouragement or expectation of problems; the tone I hear in an email or text that sounds confrontational; a presumed correction to an opinion I have shared that feels like I have not been heard. Any number of everyday experiences that others might laugh off, or not recognize. Why the sensitivity to such things? Maybe I have encountered those feelings enough in my life to recognize them quickly. The challenge: how to get past those black holes that, set like vacuums on super high, threaten to suck me in . . . or at least drain me of the joy and enthusiasm I had before. Feelings, of course, are capricious, and one certainly cannot rely on feelings alone to guide one’s feet or decisions. Still, they need dealt with, lest they take rule.

To escape my black holes I head to my favorite writing chair, cloister myself in the silence, and listen, with God’s Holy Spirit, to what is going in inside of me. Why the disturbance to my peace? What are the real reasons for the ruffles that cause the waves? The sooner they can be identified, faced, and fished out of my slough, the sooner will I know how to best side step the appearance of the next black hole. Whether a black hole of my digging, or one opened by another, it is still up to me to navigate the terrain.

Black holes have their own consistent properties. In space they have been found to so powerfully attract whatever is around them, nothing caught in their huge gravitational pull can escape their depths. Happily the personal black holes that yank at my mind can be overcome, with the silent contemplation of honest and open prayer, sometimes with the help from others, but in all, the brave facing of them. Sure, denial of a dark presence might work for awhile, but eventually it needs to be faced ere it suck me in.

Darkness is a formidable foe, indeed. Yet one that can be overcome. Strike a match in a completely dark room and see how instantaneously the darkness recedes from the light. Light a candle and the glow increases. It truly is phenomenal, and lovely, the warmth of light in a cold, dark, lonely, confusing place. What joy that in our dark experiences light still shines if we would but look for it. More faithful than the turning of the days, this Light (that does not require night vision goggles) never ends, a light grand and powerful enough to overcome all manner of black holes.

John 1:5 (HCSB). That light shines in the darkness, yet the darkness did not overcome it.

John 8:12 (HCSB) Then Jesus spoke to them again: “I am the light of the world. Anyone who follows Me will never walk in the darkness but will have the light of life.”

Psalm 139:12(HCSB) even the darkness is not dark to You. The night shines like the day; darkness and light are alike to You.

Gray truly has been given a bum rap. Touted as the signature color of depression, or loss of sunshine on a cloudy day, it carries the accumulations of assigned characteristics that over the years have built up to a resounding “yuk!” It has been cast as something to avoid; the mess that’s made with too many watercolors mixed; the days lost when one is unable to go, go, go, do, do, do; the sadness that comes as one tries and tries again to make sense of overwhelming trauma or grief. Though worn by many folks as professional garb, one that maintains a certain air of objective business distance, there is still something intriguing about gray. In whatever form it might be.

I have heard there are 256 shades of gray. In the color scheme of things white is the absence of color, while black is the amalgamation of the whole color spectrum stirred together. What a treasure trove hides in black! All the colors mixed around just waiting to be found! Yet black does not call to me. I do not like the total absence of light. My life is only alive as I grow in the light. Maybe that is why I am so drawn to gray, and all its various shades. Do not get me wrong . . . color embellishes and brings joy to my life! Yet, the mystery of gray invites me in.

There is light there to see the colors if one would linger a bit. The gray of depression holds lessons for the sojourner that may be found nowhere else. Blues are deep, rich, waves that crescendo through one’s soul. Burgundy and red, sorrows poured out at Gethsemane. Greens a hidden birthplace of new life, a sure promise. When light is invited to join in those dark, dark places suddenly all that was black turns to shades of gray, then to color – muted perhaps – then more vibrant as one walks farther with the light. It really is a phenomenal experience, one that cannot be hurried or forced. Rich earth is revealed when the plow digs deep, allowing light to bring forth healing life. The process is worth it! The journey life changing!

Perhaps that is why I relish cloudy, rainy, snowy days. Days to take solace in blankets, a warm fireplace, and hot tea or cocoa. Time to let the demands of the bright shiny-day world fall away. With no excuse needed to hide away when I feel like it, those cloudy days beg me to stay, reflect, and grow. Like old barn wood, gray has a story to tell.

What colors do I see in those somber shades? Who has trod those misty, foggy paths? If suffering has been endured, was it overcome, and how? Where is the light coming from that illumines the darkness to make it gray? And while there where do I see Hope abounding? These are some of the thoughts I ponder about gray. For as my hair claims more and more silvery strands I want to embrace and enjoy the shades of gray I am in. Gray is not a death toll, it is merely many colors mixed together with varying reflections of light. Come on color! I know you’re in there! We can find each other and rest, reflect, mourn or dance til the sun shines again!

Some days it feels like “Incoming! Take cover!” is the clarion call in our lives. We are battle worn and weary, yet have no choice but to go on, one step at a time. “When will it end?” we wonder. “When will peace and tranquility come again? When will the infighting and division stop? How do we navigate through it?” The impact of an insecure world brings a challenge to our equilibrium. Where is our point of balance in it all? How do we find our sea legs in an unending storm?

2 Samuel 16:5-14 records a portion of King David’s experience when his son Absalom conspired to overthrow him to claim the throne of Israel. David chose to lead his family, and those of his kingdom who were loyal, out of Jerusalem, leaving behind a select number of his household and priesthood. He had purpose in those choices, endeavoring to honor God, protect his people, yet move to safer ground. Even as “a man after God’s own heart,” he was fraught with challenges, seemingly every step of the way. Bone weary, sick at heart at his own son’s endeavor to overthrow him, David’s responsibility was to lead his people, even so.

I wonder in amazement at the pertinence Biblical accounts have for today. Historical events, they are recorded to give us insight for our own daily challenges. As we view our conundrums, they provide templates as we search for our way through, to see clearly the path we should go with the wisdom and lessons our forefathers learned so long ago. Wisdom and lessons to bless and preserve us.

Enter Shimei. For some reason the encounter with this man, with his clod throwing, dust kicking, and cursing at David, during David’s weary march, has been deemed important for our insight. Perhaps more poignant, as David trusted in God’s purposes, was his response to Shimei’s relentless attacks. Though David’s servants proposed killing the abrasive man, David replied in 2 Samuel 16:11-12 (NKJV):

11 And David said to Abishai and all his servants, “See how my son who came from my own body seeks my life. How much more now may this Benjamite? Let him alone, and let him curse; for so the Lord has ordered him. 12 It may be that the Lord will look on my affliction, and that the Lord will repay me with good for his cursing this day.”

This response amazes me! Yes, David recognized that Shimei was a Benjamite, a member of one of the twelve tribes of Israel, and ultimately one of God’s people. Yet he was clearly offensive! When clods are being thrown at me, whether physical or verbal, I want to return fire, NOW! How is it that in some instances in Scripture fighting back is appropriate, other times not? It causes me to wonder. Might it have something to do with a greater picture than I can see? Do I need to reign in my fight or flight response and consider what my tormentor (also a creation of God, and perhaps a fellow countryman) is doing, and why? As I desire to become a more godly person this story of Shimei gives me pause. As does David’s response. Even under fire one can tune their heart towards peace.

The boys had settled their energy down, after a silly made-up song sung directly to their toes, then to knees, legs, body, nose . . . the final refrain, “and the nose knows it’s time to settle down!” Who can guess where these spontaneous silly songs come from to fill the moment in a fun way? Grabbing their bare feet and talking directly to their toes as though crooning into a microphone . . . it really was hilarious watching the kids giggle at the antics, even without tickling. Somehow the need for personal attention is so fundamental to one’s growing, even speaking to toes feeds tiny souls.

The grands and I sat on the couch, all of us on our small screens, as the boys trounced video pits and falls, their sister did artwork on her iPad, and I tried to write, while mostly watching, oohing, ahhing and laughing with them. The boys were conquering, we girls creating. Meanwhile, Papa’s iPad softly closed, his recliner rocked back a notch, and the sound of his soft snoring merged with our granddaughter’s sweet singing.

Potatoes. Each and every one of us. Tumbled in a heap like a sack spilled out. What a blessing on a hot summer day to connect with our grands while their parents were elsewhere. To feed growing bodies and souls who are always hungry, not only with food, but with the nourishment that comes only from spending time being together, in close proximity, connected. To share laughter, questions, wonders. To just be. Such a satisfying and precious time . . . lumped together here on a couch in Idaho.

The phone thrummed on the dresser awakening me to another of my friend’s “oops!” video chat dials. Becoming rather infamous in this communication phenomenon, she wears the mantle with good humor. And I know I can roll over and go back to sleep if need be.

Scrunching my pillow while burrowing back under the covers I calmed back down to that pre-sleep space of gentle breathing, slowing heart rate, listening to the sounds of air moving in the room, drifting again into dreams. How many times when curled on my left side in near fetal position have I had to readjust to not listen to my heartbeat between my ear and the pillow? I like the sounds of silence, sans thump, thump, thump, and other noises of the night. Just peaceful quiet.

This morning was different somehow. Curled cocooned the thumping in my ear was rather soothing, surprisingly. As I listened, observing my mind opening towards the new day, watching thoughts begin to stretch and awaken, there came a vague sense of tension. What would the day bring? How would I accomplish all the things? How would conversations play out that were a bit concerning? Even before feet were on the floor my mind was nearly out the door! Woah back, mind! Settle down . . . and listen. Be silent. Wait. Pray. Open up and be still.

Thump, thump, thump . . . the drone of my heartbeat, cadence mostly even, kept on. While lying there snuggled in, just resting, waiting on the day, listening to what God might say, I detected a small shift, a little release of that edge of worry. My heartbeat thrummed along, a gentle witness again to me that I was not in control of today, and need not be. Beyond myself came the source of life that willed my heart to beat. Me? A recipient of a strange and glorious experience of being alive, in a body to carry me through this place. It was quite comforting really, listening to that gentle sound in my ear. A whisper that, though by myself, I was not alone; God indeed was near.

Some days I feel like my pocket is filled with woe. Perhaps an imbalance in my brain contributes to a propensity towards depression, the cup half empty, rather than half full. Although I do not set out to choose woefulness, it certainly is a deep and fertile soil to plow, to unearth and bring to light hidden lessons. And so I write, whatever pops into my mind. And happily, much of it is fun and joyful, too. I am not all shades of blue, though ultramarine blue indeed is rich, and a favorite watercolor choice.

Mixing those various shades of blue with other brighter or darker colors of the spectrum births wondrous hues. Greens, browns and blacks, purples and mauves, blues mixed with anything adds depth and dimension. Blues are rich, and like the color of my eyes, can rim one’s view as do the celestial skies or the oceans deep and wide. A tendril of that thought leads me to wonder, do green-eyed people resonate somehow with plants and trees and all things green? And brown-eyed ones with the earth, the mountains, the desert sands? Not necessarily! Just a-muse-ment. For my blue-eyed self, I have often dreamt of running, jumping and flying my body up into that beautiful blue sky, daytime or night. Those of us gifted with physical vision see out of a black pupil, black the result of all colors mixed together. So no matter the rim of our view, most of us have been given the capacity to see our world through the full color spectrum.

When “a pocket full of woe” popped into my mind, spinning thoughts that begged to be expressed, I wondered where such pondering would lead. To play on words again, pockets are generally dark, perhaps even dismal. Some might hold treasures of used tissue, a rock or seashell with accompanying sand, a beloved child’s truck, a well read note, candy or gum wrappers, or other assorted items. So why “woe” when so many other choices could be made? Is it because we tend to stuff woeful things down deep inside some dark place, buried, hidden away? To be taken out, examined again when it feels safe? To be reviewed, contemplated, commiserated, relived once more? It appears from my experience that some pockets are very deep indeed, others much more shallow. Is this why some can seemingly throw off those woeful experiences so easily, letting them slide off their teflonated souls? While others must dig out the very last shreds that cling like entwined fibers of lint built up in pocket corners? It does make me appreciate those other shallow pockets more easily exhumed of hidden hurting things.

The choosing of what goes in my pockets is part of the equation, too. How glorious to think of the many choices one has, including the choice to carry or not, and for how long. For those items that are wedged deep, or that I insist need be packed around, I also must choose to do the work of digging them out. Some, my treasures, are delightful. Others that weigh me down might finally be discarded. But only after they are brought to light again.

It is interesting that darkness has such an antipathy to light. It likes to hide, keep hidden, stay covered, confine. Degradation, disease, decay, rot and ruin flourish in the dark; whereas light brings the forces of healing, renewal and freedom. Even in painting, the absence of darkness and color brings whiteness and light. The less burden, the less impurities, the less hidden, uncovers and lets light shine.

In examining my pockets over the years I have found the steady light of God who created light to be the healing force of my life. My pockets turned inside out, sometimes one at a time, I have felt like those muddied kid’s jeans thrown in the wash, tumbled and thrown about as the contents of my pockets have been shaken out to make me clean again. It has only been when I have gazed at those hidden pocket things, realized fully what they were, and given them up if hurtful, forgiven the ones who placed injury in my pocket, and kept the de-light-ful ones as real treasure have I become free from the burden of overstuffed pockets full of woe . . . lightened and repaired when the light shines into my dark places.

I also have the choice to let the light shine into my pocket. It is a fearful experience at times, painful and even shameful when I have to admit what I have in there. Struggling with feelings of being accepted, being good enough throughout my life, I have found solace and great relief in coming to know the love, forgiveness, and transforming power of a Savior God who died for me so I could have new life. One whose Light has pierced and overcome the darkness, not only of my life, but for the lives of all through eternity. Jesus Christ is my Confidant, my Champion, my Savior Who knows all my darkest shameful secrets and hidden pocket things. Brought into His light, and being forgiven of them, I am renewed, changed, made clean again. He has separated my sins from me as far as the east is from the west. Man’s judgement (including my own!) has hurt me far too long. Christ’s acceptance of me is my salvation! He is the light in my pocket, who turns my woes into joy-filled new songs.

I recently received word that a dear childhood friend “passed away in her sleep last night.” Have you ever wondered how the dying experience will be? What one’s living spirit actually encounters as the body expires, letting go of this part of life? Will it be a wrestling match of sorts, a release finally of all those things one thinks one must control? Or a gentle passing from here to there, a soft step into eternity?

I think of another friend’s mother who is transitioning still. She is lingering, her body frail, her breathing yet easy, her consciousness gone to that place only she knows. What is she thinking? Or are thoughts too temporal in these moments? Are there concerns for loved ones that keep her captured here? Is she delaying her departure in any way, reluctant to leave? Or are there still greater reasons those left behind might never understand in her long dying process? As for my childhood friend . . . did she have any inkling when she retired last night that the greatest adventure of her life was about to begin?

When my dad died many years ago it was interesting to see evidences of God working in all the details of his dying, the mending of our relationships with him and among family members . . . knitting us closer together, bringing “all things to completion.” There were things far greater in meaning being accomplished as this final physical event of his life took place, and impacted so many people. The same occurred when Mother died over twenty years later. The minute details that were addressed, the presence and absence of family at her bedside, the preparations of medical help already in place when needed. Decades earlier when our maternal grandmother passed on, evidences of God’s presence were there as well, with the additional blessing of seeing her spirit ascend upward as she breathed her last.

In these departures of our loved ones there is that deeply private and personal experience of dying that is just their own. It matters not if one’s dying is comfortable, expected, traumatically shocking, painful, sudden . . . in each case that person must ultimately face this next step of life themselves. I am thankful for the many witnesses of near death experiences (NDE’s) who have shared their testimony. One dear patient I worked with reported, “It was like taking off a heavy old buffalo robe when I stepped out of my body. Then I saw my mother in heaven, sitting on a log a short distance from me, brushing her hair. She was about the age of thirty, did not speak to me, but smiled. I’m not afraid to die again.”

I also wonder at one patient I attended who was unceasingly distressed in his unconscious state in those hours before his death. What was his spirit experiencing that he should thrash and moan so? Was his agitation an indication that he was unwilling to go, that he was in pain, or that his vision of what was to come was distressing? What about our sweet baby great niece who was here one moment and then, with no warning, was suddenly gone the next? Did she delight in angels accompanying her home? Many reports of NDE’s include ministering angels, more evidence that something spectacular, indeed, does comes after life here. Another friend’s father rose up from his coma, opened his eyes, looked up as though seeing through the ceiling, smiled radiantly, and exclaimed, “Hallelujah!” just before he took his last breath. There are many many witnesses continually proclaiming the reality of life after death. I would love to have been one of those hundreds to whom Jesus appeared after His resurrection!

Until it is my time to go, the Holy Spirit of the Biblical Triune God, witnesses to my spirit that I can truly believe the life and proclamations of Jesus Christ, and everything written in God’s Word. What a blessing that God has supplied to us a Comforter and Helper to walk not only through this life with us, but into the next. Getting to know Him brings solace to me as I contemplate the unknowns of dying. I am thankful to have the BEST traveling Companion at my side now and when my time comes! He’s already been through every possible situation, has been from here to there, and has conquered death! I’m trusting in Him!

Philippians 1:6 (NKJV) 6 being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ;

John 14:16-17 (HCSB) 16 And I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Counselor to be with you forever. 17 He is the Spirit of truth. The world is unable to receive Him because it doesn’t see Him or know Him. But you do know Him, because He remains with you and will be in you.

John 14:26 (NKJV)
26 But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in My name, He will teach you all things, and bring to your remembrance all things that I have said to you.”

Acts 2:38-39 (HCSB)
38 “Repent,” Peter said to them, “and be baptized, each of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. 39 For the promise is for you and for your children, and for all who are far off, as many as the Lord our God will call.”

Looking back through my kaleidoscope of memories I see myself gazing out the west window of our former home, where we lived for about thirty-five years, raising children, a garden, dogs, cats, a horse, quail, raccoons, owls, deer, the neighbor’s chickens, frogs, a huge toad, and our very own Canadian goose. On a three-quarter acre lot, the back half of the property was lush and green, full of bee-loving clover and pasture grass, watered by rain and flood irrigation. It was a haven for nature’s creatures, complete with trees here and there to supply needed shade, and a pond my husband dug to collect the overflow of abundant water other irrigators let go unused, our home near the end of the lateral. We had green pastures and still waters, the vision I have in my mind when I think of those very peaceful places promised in Psalm 23.

Recently I watched an interview with Steve and Debra Cleary of Revelation Media speaking with Shaunti Feldham, author of Find Joy. Listening to their conversation brought another perspective to the meaning of “green pastures.” In doing research for her book Shaunti learned that green pastures in the arid hillsides of Israel are much different than our western pastures of lush, abundantly watered green spaces. Envision a shepherd leading his flock of sheep in rocky, dry landscape. As the flock follows the shepherd, step by step, notice here and there a sheep lowering its head towards something between the hard rocks. These dry, hard landscapes are the “green pastures” of Psalm 23. For as the air moves over the hillsides moisture condenses and trickles down between the rocks, providing needed water for small green plants to grow. The sheep are not rolling in clover. No, they are walking one step at a time behind their shepherd, finding provision along the hard rocky way. Enough provision for each day as they follow, trusting the shepherd to lead them to and through green pastures. Shaunti points out that “trust” is not really trust if we are depending only on what we can see. Trust is having confidence in One who has provided before, and has been found trustworthy to provide again.

As I mulled this in my mind new light began to dawn. In a culture of abundance it is easy to become so tuned to immediately met needs, comfort, and pleasure, that we forget from whence come such blessings. We begin to worship and depend on the blessings, rather than the Provider, the Creator, our Shepherd Who still offers to lead us through life. In just the last few days I have found myself becoming increasingly overwhelmed with the plethora of information available to hone my writing skills. I am like a sheep in knee deep clover, bewildered by so much abundance I know not which way to turn. Least I founder in too rich a pasture, I need my Shepherd to lead me through this lush place! I know I need Him when life is hard. How much I need Him still, day by day, when life seems easy, even overwhelming by the abundance of it all!

This picture of sheep thriving in hard, rocky “green pastures” will long remind me that God never promised us a life of ease. That was forfeited in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve both chose to listen to lies, and follow their own understanding. Yet, like those sheep thriving in an arid wilderness, the Shepherd is calling those who are His own. He desires that none should be lost. He is here, whether life is in a season of ease or hardship. As I enjoy the blessings He provides, may I remember He Himself is the green pasture. No matter in scarcity or abundance, His provision is always sure. Come, dwell in Him.

Quietly it slipped inside the minds of those who would bend to its tantalizing thoughts. Words of eloquence that sounded like truth, but as they were formed by man, for his purposes, they were not. Yet the masses did not know the difference, for the words sounded sweet. And as long as the words tickled their ears, wooing them towards that utopian desire of better things, they followed like sheep in search of a shepherd.

We truly are like sheep in our design. We have been created to be led and for relationship, with a deep desire to have all things well – our utopia. To live in peace, wellness, abundance, wholeness, our need for these things silently driving us forward in search for them. Why else the desire to improve self or society? To raise our children with moral values and characteristics to carry on and better our world? Do we purposefully set out to destroy, to make ill, to depress, harm, maim, injure, belittle, and suppress one another? It depends on to whom one has been listening. From whence comes one’s indoctrination. For indoctrinated we all are, by something or someone. And in our imperfect understanding we stumble forward.

To whom are we listening? To whom do we want our children indoctrinated? As their parents we are responsible for the growing of their minds. What is being put into those precious sponges? Are they being indoctrinated with truth, near-truths, blatant errors, lies? Or so much chatter from the world that neither parent nor child know what to believe?

Therein is indoctrination’s unveiling. All of us drink from a well of information each day. Foundations in this country where freedom of choice still presently exists, allow us to examine, truly ponder from where we are filling ourselves. To look objectively at people and countries to see how their citizens fair: are they thriving? are they free? are they enslaved? are they oppressed? do they have freedom of choice? is their government endeavoring to become the god of their lives, or is it serving them? is there freedom of belief, or suppression? is the information I am listening to truth or error? is the god they follow man made or the Creator of life Himself?

What flag or banner do you claim to walk under? For all of us are being led, one way or another, the weaker following the stronger, or louder. In given the freedom of who we would follow, we also are given the opportunity to consider the consequences. What will be the end result? Can I trust whom I am following, being indoctrinated by? Am I willing to sacrifice my children’s lives to this or that way of thinking when I see what the results may be, either for their good or ill? It is a heavy, weighty responsibility. And one that I must prayerfully consider.

I choose to be indoctrinated with Truth. Not man made “truth” crafted from emotion-based thinking based on fears, passions, anger, despair. But from a higher source, from the Creator Himself. His Truth does not change. He allows me to wonder, question, wrestle to comprehend. I am made free in Him and become more free as I grow in understanding. He initiated relationship with me, bending down to meet me where I am, to free me from all that hurts me, separates me from realizing His love, and keeps me soaring into whom I have been created to be. He gives me peace that passes all understanding. I can entrust my children and grandchildren to Him for I know His purpose is to give them abundant life. He does not promise my life will have no challenges in this fallen broken world; He does promise He will walk with me every step of the way, if I ask Him to. I have been walking with Him consciously since 1970, and never once has He lied, deceived, used, or harmed me. All things in my life, especially those hard things, He has worked together for my good. As I continue to wrestle with the realities of life, He is still there. And in the end eternal life is my destiny.

This is the kind of indoctrination I welcome and desire for my family and world. That we can all step out of the hurting mess of the kingdom of darkness and walk instead, now, in the healing ways of God’s Kingdom of Light. My call to y’all: we have a choice! Choose carefully whom you and your children will follow! Choose Christ who gives us life! Beware of false indoctrinations that slither in to steal, ensnare, wring freedom and joy from our lives. They are insidious and cunning. Run to the One who gave His life for us. Not to religiosity, but to the Person of God Himself. There is no greater proof of love, than Love Who died in our place. This amazing Love teaches us how to live. And how, through Him, to truly redeem a hurting world, one person at a time.

“Somewhere in all that mess must be story,” I thought, carefully pulling the brush through our grandson’s wet hair. It was classic, like perfectly teased under-layers of the bouffants of old: hidden, tangled, and a bear to straighten again. How had his hair arranged itself so magnificently? No surprise – no brushing results in the growing of snarls, birthing a rat’s nest in a few short days. A teachable moment had landed in my lap. Literally. A freshly bathed eight-year-old boy, hair dripping, hairbrush in hand, awaiting his doom . . .

“Where’s my hairbrush? Where’s my hairbrush? Where, oh where, oh where, oh where, oh where’s . . . my hairbrush?” The silly song Larry the Cucumber from Veggie Tales sings burst from my lips. Such a well loved song, so ridiculous but forever fun, for everyone knows cucumbers do not have hair! Or so we think. Perhaps cucumbers get rat’s nests, too. Their twining vines certainly suggest the possibility!

Carefully the process began – me holding drippy strands just so to counteract the downward brushing, while young boy hands held his head to soften the pulls. “Did that really hurt, or were you thinking it might?” No answer indicated it was time for him to do the brushing, learn how to tackle the snarly mess himself. And learn the ways of hairs.

It was a near-revelation to this scientifically and fact-minded boy that in the night, while one lies sleeping, hairs tangle with our turning and rolling, pushing blankets over our heads, burrowing into the covers. Then the tangles get more tangled when left a mess, to tangle even more. The building of a rat’s nest was an interesting concept to him, especially when applied to the back of his own head. The untangling was just as interesting. While pulling apart stubborn tangles gently so the brush could then push the belligerent knots down, down, down the locks of hair, then out, his interest peaked to learn that water helped slick up the process. Then the soothing feeling of a brush pulling through untangled hair, freely massaging the scalp without those awful pulls; and the victory of conquering the tangled mess himself. Throw in the joy of that close conversation of a boy and his grandmother sitting together, and you have a sweet communion at the end of a busy, rather tangly day.

It made me wonder about those tangles in our lives that we ignore as we race through life, focusing on what we want, without considering the basics: taking care of our body, our mind, our spirit, our work, our service to others. Putting these things in right priority usually results in less convoluted days, or if neglected might result in a tangled mess. Even when I seem to be doing my part, life might tangle suddenly on its own. Plans and expectations are twisted, challenged, even dealt an unsuspected death blow. And like that young child, maybe it seems too much to try to untangle ourselves, or we are too busy focused another direction.

I have found the untangling of my mind to be the greatest challenge, and relief, of all. When my thoughts are straight, everything else falls naturally into place, like a brush gliding through untangled hair. When the tangles inevitably come, I know where to find solace, and clear and untangled thinking once again.

Isaiah 42:16 (NKJV) is a promise of God’s grace in the untangling our lives: “I will bring the blind by a way they did not know; I will lead them in paths they have not known. I will make darkness light before them, And crooked places straight. These things I will do for them, And not forsake them.”

Written from approximately 739-686 B.C. this section of the book of Isaiah is prophesying the coming of the Messiah Jesus Christ, and God’s provision and grace in that process. He is the mighty de-tangler of our lives, no matter the mess we find ourselves in. Separating the tangles may be painful at times, yet the result is worth the patience and endurance. For through it all, we are held close in God’s lap, like my grandson in mine. If we are willing to come, in our drippy tangled mess to sit closely with our Abba (Father) God, we will find He has the most gentle of hands. And as He can see through the snarly mess when we can not, His wisdom and insights are always what each of us, persons-still-growing, need.

May the water of God’s Word, His conversation to us, flow through our tangles to help separate them, and release those things that have become bound. It matters not our age, or the problem, God is ever ready to help us become free again.

Do you hear me now? Are you listening? Listening to me? Or listening to the thoughts that tumble through your mind as words I say birth rising pictures for you to see, think on, to form response to, and answer while my story has continued on?

Oh! I want to be heard! Not just the sounds of my words passing by your ear, checking in and out as through a turnstile. But heard. Understood. “Stood-under” – that you would become a reinforcement, a brace, another soul who walking this oft’ treacherous road could say, “I do hear you. I see what your soul and spirit are trying to say. I see and will try to understand the deeper meanings you are trying to convey. And I like that you have invited me to this place in you. A place of honesty, past the layers of protection and defense, diving for the marrow. Maybe even I will trust you to listen, too. For really in our interchange we are linking arms together to walk this road.”

That’s what I long to do well. Hear those who have turned to hear me. And even more, lift them up by hard-won lessons, insights I have been given. Others who may receive encouragement to keep pressing on even so. Who might benefit from this small offering of my life touching theirs. Really hearing them, who would share themselves with me.

“Holy Spirit enter in, our tuning fork, for only You really know what’s going on deep inside each one of us. Help us put aside ourselves to listen well. Come with us through every day. Be our laughter and our joy, for You are the wellspring of all that is good! Keep us listening especially for when You call . . . ‘Do you hear Me now?’”

A lump rose up upon my wrist
Overnight it’s stealth unseen
Surprising me on yester morn 
Look! A bump where none had been 

A “ganglion cyst” I labeled it 
For one had been there years ago
Yet this more grand than the one before 
This one spanning wrist to hand 

Hey, look at me! it seemed to say
Attention here, if you please
And if not I’ll wend my way 
Into your consciousness kindly seize

I’ll creep and curl around your joints
Cause pain to rouse you that I’m here 
Restrict the movement of that wrist 
Or just lie low, a mounded blur 

We’ll wait to see what Doc will do
Poke, deflate me void of shape 
Or cast me to carbuncle lot
There unwanted bumps forgot 

Til then I’m standing tall and proud  
A lump you will not soon dismiss 
For after all I’m heralded here
In written word, this lumpy’s bliss 

While dressing this morning my mind revisited that scene of many years ago when I first wondered why my eyebrows seemed near lacking. The answer I remember most was, “Perhaps God forgot them when He made you.” What? At the time it seemed a reasonable answer to my young mind, but as I have matured I have grown to know that God does not make mistakes. Still, my eyebrows have remained wanton, and I have learned to live with them. What’s a girl to do? I do remember a gal who plucked out all her frustrating brows, much to her eventual dismay. They did not grow back. At least I have something to work with.

This must have been a deep seated issue for me. “Fingers, toes, and ‘Thank You, LORD,’ she has eyebrows!” were immediate thoughts when cradling our newborn daughter. It seems silly now that such a thought would even cross a mother’s mind. Yet, when I see our daughter’s beautiful face I remain thankful for those lovely wing-like brows above her eyes. And they are still lovely to this day, thankfully surviving her eyebrow piercing days.

One day when readying to go out with my husband, I was hurriedly finishing my makeup, brows near the last step in applying my “war paint,” as our son-in-law affectionately calls it. My dear husband was more poignantly blunt: “You’re just drawing lines on your face!” Good grief! I thought I was practicing some artistic feat, trying to get the most natural, un-“lined” look possible. I guess it is all in the eyes of the beholder. I do wonder if my artistic endeavors have ever worked, or not.

More recently I was sharing time with three of our seven dear grands, snuggled all together in a heap on the couch reading stories. I have become a science project to them in some ways: visible veins on my arms and hands a grand curiosity, my “ginormous” legs a wonder, glasses fascinating, and loss of skin tone hilarious. How I have maintained any sense of dignity is mind boggling! The coup de gras came that day (I had used the darker brow pencil – the one that matches the “Granite” colored brow gel, swept over those invisible hairs so I can see where to draw those lines) with the innocent question, “Nana, why do you have black marker lines in your eyebrows?” Argh! I’d been found out! What could I do but tell the truth? Explanation given, in as matter of fact demeanor as possible, the children seemed to accept my strange reasoning, while I mentally resolved to use the other, softer colored brow pencil from then on. And I have.

Many times I have laughingly said, “You cannot get away with anything in this world!” I have found this to be true in my life, especially when such questions pop out of the mouth of babes! Though the truth might be embarrassing, or occasionally even hurtful, one might as well face into it bravely. Thank the Good LORD for laughter or we would all be sunk! Especially those of us with half full . . . or half empty . . . brows!