If life is a box of chocolates 
What should I do with it
Give mine away to others
Share some of the sweetened bits
Set it on the shelf for later
Nibbling a little piece at a time
Or in some frenzied orgy 
Squander it all as mine 

Or shall I become an appraiser
Studying each tiny piece 
Determining if each is too bitter 
Or overwhelmingly sweet 
Bent on examining content 
Presentation and form 
If the centers are worth tasting 
Questioning where all it’s from 

Suddenly the experience of chocolate
A confection meant to delight
Has become a box of confusion 
Comparison, contest, a blight
What happened to joy in the tasting
As each bite uniquely explodes
Experiences melting into us 
Pieces of life, rich episodes

Oh may my box of chocolates 
Be one that I share and still yet 
Be able to savor the flavors 
Be open to new morsels I get
Amidst the sweetness and bitter
Rather than choosing what I prefer 
Take time to fully experience 
Each bite as it naturally occurs 

Do one’s assumptions that things will be hard 
Throw up barriers or prison bars 
Restrict them and others from their escape 
From the negativity that overtakes 
Their minds and hearts 

Does it claim the personal landscape
Cluttering, marring relationships made 
Confining one’s ways to those that won’t grow 
Withhold from them the freedom to know 
The joy of harmony 

Does it shut them in their own private guard 
Bent on reviewing only what’s hard 
It’s time to turn over a new furrowed ground 
Planting for positive thoughts to be found 
Expect new hope growing 

Whether in social or personal ways 
The words that we speak to ourselves everyday 
Color our landscape and tint each one’s view 
May false assumptions not block what is true
Plant positive affirmations 

Peace through the trials
Though burdens are mourned
Worries become less 
The heaviness borne

Cares of the world 
Suffering there 
Loved ones are hurting
Life’s hard to bear

Sharing with others
Thoughts from the heart
Uplift our spirits
Give hope a fresh start

Reminds us to drink 
From that well that flows free
The Water of Life
From Heavenly streams

Most of the above words were written nearly two years ago. Contemplating the thought of burden-sharing brought them to light again today as I arrived home from a Bible Study meeting, one I had seriously contemplated not attending, so weighed down I felt this morning. “But for God”—a well loved phrase that recalls to mind evidences of His working in our lives. These “But for God” experiences are precious, clearly indicating He is way ahead of us in knowing the best ways to fill our needs. 

The radio started playing… must I leave the vivid dream? Such drama, such story line! I could have remained immersed there for hours, carried away to who knows where on the interesting wisps of fantasy.  But today was study day. “I have a responsibility to show up,” I argued with myself while resting in bed. With the urging of nature finally rousting me out, I reached for my phone, noting a list of messages and a missed call. Not one, but two missives of encouragement to get me beyond myself. And a third received not long later. Three distinct encouragements pointing me forward.

A phone call, a text, a seemingly random word to let me know I was indeed not forgotten, and that I needed also to remember others. That the load in my backpack could be laid down, lightened, or (imagine!) thrown out. Of course the study today was poignant, right on the mark, and the rich fellowship a number of us had afterwards an extra measure of blessing. A burden shared. Opening the door for others to lay their burdens down as well. Trusted friends who share and pray up concerns, not use them as weapons against one another. 

“But for God.” Today I returned home and realized a lightness of spirit I have not experienced for a very long time. As though a diaphanous wind of change breezed through my mind and soul, clearing away inversion fog, helping me breathe clean air again. A heavy blanket falling off. Subtle yet mighty. Strong yet gentle. A tweak in my channel to erase the static, fine tune the peace. And ramp up my gratitude! 

Thank You, God, for knowing me better than I know myself. For allowing raw honesty with You… and for Your provision for lifting us up beyond ourselves! Thank You for others to share this journey… bless them please, as we bear our burdens together, and give them up to You. Thank You, LORD, in Jesus’ name, Amen. 

Not a tome about practicing yoga outside on a stormy day, this musing is about those soft baked pretzels, dough that’s formed and shaped, that still is pliable though firm. More flexible than its hard cast cousins that break with a snap, this pretzel has been given an ability to bend and endure pressure put upon it. It holds fast, requiring much strength to tear it apart. It has nothing to do with the pretzel’s ability… It has all to do with the Maker of the pretzel and the ingredients thrown in.

When I think back over my life and see the twists and turns, I often feel like a pretzel, one that has more bends in it than usual. Not unlike every other person on the planet, the shape of my pretzel is unique to me, though in pretzel-land pretzels seem to look alike. So it would be if we were all stamped out from a machine. Or made by hand in only one design. Glory be that our Creator has made each of us uniquely individual. And though the world says we should fit in with all the other pretzels, compare ourself to others to be sure we are in line, the truth is each of us was created as a priceless treasure. With twists, turns, nicks and various degrees of baking and brownness, we are, every one, fearfully and wonderfully made. How glorious to think of my life as an amazing gift to me as a beloved one, rather than just me existing as a broken disqualified pretzel, one that has not measured up, that is not good enough, that is unworthy to be recognized and cherished, just another plain old pretzel.

I am a redeemed pretzel! Though humbled by that realization, gratefully I stand, by the grace of my Maker, even in the wind! Those cracks and twists let storms and gales blow though, buffing me and refining my shape. Blowing away the roughened places til smooth and sleek, I become a gleaming reflection back to God. Why do we wonder so about our identity, purpose, fulfillment, other than the fact we lost all that back when the first man and woman became pretzels. Determined to know it all, they lost their innocence and pure relationship with their Maker. They chose to listen to the grand lie that they could be makers, like the Most High Creator Himself. Sure, they were given the joy to be creative, to reproduce, but seemed to forget that all their creativity and offspring were a gift from God. And that ability was still a gift to them as they entered the broken world of pretzel-land.

So on those stormy days especially, when your pretzel shape is stretched to your limits, remember one’s true self and identity remains with the Maker. Run to Him. You are more than a mere pretzel in the wind!

Someone very dear to me recently updated her Facebook profile picture, baring her left shoulder to reveal her Medusa tattoo. So far her tattoos have been reminiscent of home: the lilac tree, deer, quail. Lovely works of art representative of important parts of her life. Representing not only treasured things, but also her choice of expression.

Then Medusa. I had to look up its meaning in today’s culture, and found its new symbolism. One website stated, “The Medusa tattoo is not regarded as offensive as it has now been adopted as an emblem of power for sexual assault survivors. Medusa is recognized as a victim rather than a villain, which gives the inkings of her a poignant meaning (the-sun.com). Another stated, “The meaning behind the Medusa tattoo links to the story behind this monstrous creature that has many protective instincts. Many people get a tattoo of Medusa tatted on their bodies to earn a sense of protectiveness from all the negativity surrounding them, especially to keep them away from all the haters” (wildtattooart.com).

These explanations helped me more to understand the choice, especially since our loved one works professionally against domestic violence and sexual abuse. Looking at the design of her tattoo brought other thoughts to mind as well…

Snakes covering the head, or mind, symbolically speak of another reality… that age-old war between the servant of evil bent to rule us and conquer our minds from the truth of God’s love, His gift of redemptive freedom, and the rebirth of our souls to eternal life. Might the opaque eyes of Medusa been blinded, perhaps from the horrors, but as well from the truth of the One Who would set her free? And the long nose – that in the Hebrew description of the character of God means slow to anger, long-suffering, patience – may it in some way symbolically speak to the hope that resides deep within, though in the Medusa seems grotesquely lost? The hope that somewhere, somehow our long-suffering has not been in vain?

It goes to show that the meaning of things is important to understanding the why one stands beneath a certain banner. Under-standing… it goes a long ways towards knowing someone, their reasons why. And like that long nose… patience, long-suffering, slow-to-anger… those long nose traits I would like to adopt, have “written on my heart” by God. Traits that identify me as standing under His banner… with eyes no longer blinded, but wide open, healed from the pain, washed new in the truth that I am a beloved child of God. Would that all who hold within themselves the deep agony of abuse, or trauma of any kind, come to know and accept the redemption of the Living God Who longs to heal us of our pain… to help us under-stand we are indeed truly, gloriously, freely, no matter what, beloved!

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.

To whom, child, are you offering?
To self-glory, or to Me?
Acclaim? The world’s acceptance? 
What gods do you really seek?

Yes, excellence may be a goal 
As you work, create, and strive 
Yet, who is that truly, deeply for? 
For Me? Or for your pride? 

The world demands you to conform
Rise above the churning fray 
I’ve conquered all upon the cross 
To free you in every way 

So take My hand and walk with Me
My words the same yet new 
My precious one, remember please 
My offered Life for you 

“Oh, how exquisite!” she exclaimed, while gazing out her window. The old woman’s yearning was rewarded with a delightful surprise, a very small red bird perched on her porch railing, looking this way and that. “I wonder what he is thinking?” she thought to herself. “He is so tiny, so different from the other birds around here. Where has he come from?” It was just an ordinary winter day, a bit gray and overcast, quite the backdrop for the bright red color of the bird. He stood out nearly as brilliantly as if it had been a white snowy day, crystal cold as it was. Like the glossy red berries of a holly tree, he was a little spot of joy.

Not wanting to startle him away, the lady slowly sat, her eyes ever watching as he preened, and fluffed his feathers, shook himself a few times, then settled down as if nesting on the wide railing. And there he sat. While she watched he slowly looked around, then rose up, faced her directly, and, with a tiny bow of sorts, began to sing.

Astonished, the woman sat transfixed at the song that poured forth from the heart of the tiny bird. Piercing her very soul, the sweetness sang to a part of her that needed that very song. She could not move as tears ran down her face, watering her hands clasped in her lap. A torrent of tears were unleashed, washing her clean, perhaps of regret, remorse, grief… she was unsure why she was crying, she just knew the song brought relief. And still the tiny bird sang on and on, his concert just for her, that very day, her porch railing his stage.

Suddenly the music began to fade, the small red bird nearly spent. Back to preening, fluffing feathers, resting on the rail. “Thank you, tiny one,” she whispered. “The message you brought has encouraged me this gray day.” After long moments of pause and quiet reflection the woman sensed something rising up within her. Something she could barely contain. As a warmth cascaded over her, she began to sing. At first a bit warbley, then with more strength as her voice took flight. At the sound of her trills the red bird rose up on his wee spindly legs and, puffing out his tiny breast, joined her in song. They sang together in complete abandon until they were both filled to overflowing.

When night time came, moon glow softly gleaming through the clouds, the red bird, content with fulfilling his day’s mission, and in no hurry to depart, hunkered himself down to rest. Iridescent, his feathers reflected the soft light of the moon, creating the effect of him sitting in a warm pool, enveloped in his own down comforter. In the still night he had no need of twiggy shelter… he was cozy there, still on the railing in his own soft radiance. Even in rest it seemed his very being… hummed.

For days the red bird stayed, singing, preening, fluffing, singing again. Refreshed with offerings of water and birdseed, he brought joy and laughter back to the heart of the lonely old woman. And since those days, if one listens carefully, the sound of their singing just might be heard, winging on the wind… the song of an ageless old woman and a curious little bird.

Addendum: A day or so after writing this piece a beloved verse ran through my mind. I wonder if it has visited you, too. No matter our age or stage, may hope flutter within us always:

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all…”
—Emily Dickinson

Holidays passed, the New Year firmly entrenched, a lapse in time seems to hang in the air. Emotions have run high for so long… is this what it feels like when the swells of rising tide recede back into the deep, away from the rocky, sandy shores that have been beaten and lapped and carved upon? Does the sea ever wonder at the pauses, the doldrums? The gentle sway of windless days, and calm nights? Must it always be a torrent, proud flow, tsunami force to make its presence known, to be alive? Or may those quiet, peaceful days bring glad refrain and purposeful rest to an ocean wide?

The older I become the more I crave peace-filled days. Less churning, more learning in quiet ways. Weary of sensory overload, I find myself pulling into my shell, much like a hermit crab. Let the wild and crazy things that raise adrenaline to soaring heights, roiling froths of glistening foam… let it all skid and slide away, wash far out to sea. Even those things that have interested me…

It’s okay to be in a recessive wave, or tidal pool, to rest these days. The storm has lasted, oh, so long. Other vessels have sailed through such straits. So with assurance, let’s pause before sailing on. Held in security that does not fail, though the boat is rocking new and soon to charter an unfamiliar course, somehow the adventure will go on, the route already planned… no need to worry about details. Right now in faith let’s rest awhile… relishing the view!

It was a little thing. Just business cards. A handy way to share information about my blog. But for some reason the image on the front looked off-center, the font on the back so small I could barely read it. According to company policy I could call if not completely satisfied, so I did.

I was delighted with the lovely people who listened patiently, helped me upload pictures of my concern, gave me replacement options, and quickly initiated the reorder. No cost to me. The new cards would be express shipped. And they were, delivered to my door.

Eager to compare the new cards to the original, I gingerly opened the two boxes. After pulling a card from each, confusion crept up my face… they looked exactly the same. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Had they before? Had I made a royal error, thinking the workmanship of others was wrong, when I had been at fault? My heart sank as I grabbed a tiny see-through ruler… yes, the cards were both the same, the images centered.

Calling the company, again, I explained my concerns and remorse for the error I had made. Though reassured by the customer rep, I asked once more: “Do I not need to pay for the replacement cards that actually did not need centering?” Again she insisted I did not. “Even though it is my error?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “it is okay.” My voice broke as we continued to talk. She offered me company credit with the original discount I had received, enlarged the font on the back of the original card for me, and instructed me how to place the reorder. Again, one hundred cards. No charge.

To some this may seem like a little thing, just an incident of company policy, great customer service. But today my tears came for the poignant receiving of unmerited favor, grace, when I had been in error. And through that forgiving grace came reconciliation of the problem, at the cost of the company granting their favor, again supplying remade new cards. Just a moment. A speck in the great expanse of time. And yet, an incredible experience of how God’s grace reaches towards us: unmerited, readily willing to help us, paid for by Him, forgiving, fixing, loving, redeeming… amazing!

It is a wonder to me that each of us are adopted sons and daughters into the Body of Christ, grafted in, if you will. Wild unruly things, some thorny and rigid, others more easily flexible and supple, grafted into the Vine of Christ, He the Vine, we the branches, grafted amongst those naturally growing branches of His chosen people, the Jewish tribes. When I contemplate the love He has demonstrated for me… His sacrifice through death for my eternal salvation and life, I am humbled at this wondrous reality. My love for others pales in comparison. Oh, to love so perfectly and completely!

Becoming a blended family has brought this grafting experience into my reality. The interweaving of four children all from the same father, two each from different mothers, has been our very own experience of grafting. We all, no matter our background, race, religion, heritage, are given life by the same Father. Entrance into this world is gifted by Him who has designed the miraculous possibility of new creation and birth. We might think to take credit for producing our children… no, we participated in receiving a gift given to us.

Our family has also been a flourishing example of differences in individuals, personalities, life choices, experiences, interpretations of how their father and mother raised them, and their embracing or rejecting those teachings. Much like the struggles we have with our Heavenly Father and His teachings (understanding, accepting, rejecting) so are we with our earthly parents. “Have I been rebelling against my father all these years?” I cried to the LORD during a time of recent deep grief. Surprised by that insight I wondered at the deeper truths of it and how it may reflect how have I been rebelling against God as well.

We are all grafted in some fashion in this earthly life, no matter the station we inherit, or attain. We are never the original source… we have all come from parents before us, who came from parents before them, and so on, all the way back to the creation of the first man and woman. Grafting. The joining of two separate entities into one cohesive unit… a loose definition on my part, but you get the idea… none of us can claim pride of our own self-made autonomy. Though individuals, we are closely interwoven. We are grafted to our very core. No wonder God ordained that “the two shall become one” in marriage. Two entities, one cohesive unit.

When a host accepts a new graft, a wound, or opening, in the host is necessary for the graft placement. The graft must integrate into its new medium, accepting the condition of the stronger host in order to flourish. So it is in this world, whether pertaining to family, employment, health issues, spiritual realities, or other concerns. We are all part of something or someone bigger than ourselves.

Am I willing to submit to God’s plan? Accept His design for the grafting of me He has created? Am I willing to receive all He has to offer when I put my hand in His to follow Him, to learn what He has to teach me of becoming healthy and strong? Jesus claims in John 15:5 (NKJV): 5 “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.

May we choose wisely to whom or what we become grafted… and ultimately to the long-term result.

Considering those years long ago when grade-school relationships were hard and capricious, I wonder at the differing abilities we each employ to cope with hurtful ways people treat us, and one another. Some laugh off the taunts of others, ignore them, or serve back a bucket full of the same. Others become insecure, even depressive, stuffing down deep emotional wounds, unsure what to do with them. No matter our age, purposeful or accidental offenses occur.

And what of physical injuries? Did those two hits to my head one afternoon goof up my brain somehow? Softball hitting one eye, hardball hitting the other? Evidence shows even such apparent mild trauma can have resulting effect as to how the brain physically functions. Who knows? For various reasons we react and respond to life in the ways we do, many factors impacting us.

It took many years before I realized I had been a victim of bullying in school. Only in adulthood did the understanding dawn, and many pieces fall into place regarding my insecurities and sensitivities. Of course, some I have to claim as just unique to me; others were fostered from people in my environment. Forgiveness has been a huge factor in my healing process. At our ten year high school reunion, one of my primary bullying friends sought me out and asked to be forgiven. She had come to faith and seemed genuinely sorry for the hurts she had caused. I was thankful to be able to hug her and say, “I forgave you years ago!”

So good is God to be working in our wounded hearts if we let Him. For even though remembrance of an offense remains, the process of forgiveness frees one of lingering anger and bitterness that if left to fester would prolong the repetitive cycle of hurt in ourselves. I am so glad to have been well into the forgiveness process when my childhood friend came to me. As others also expressed remorse, forgiveness was easily granted.

I have been forgiven so much in my life, being ultimately forgiven by my LORD. Surely it is a joy to extend that grace to others, freeing myself from the burden of resentment and hurt. Yes, it has been a process in every instance, but worth each step. It is a win-win all in all, for the person forgiving, and for the forgiven.

You’d think a scar would fully mean
The wound has finally healed 
Then years go by and suddenly 
A festering’s revealed 

Mind and heart scroll upon 
Themselves a memory deep 
“Pain-body” is a term I’ve heard  
For wounds, once sound asleep 

Then anything remotely close 
To the cause of that old pain  
Renews the memories of that hurt
One’s defenses grow again

Like dross sloughed off of gold refined 
Memories bubbling to the top 
Still need acknowledged and then let go
Again until they stop 

Pray give them up, do not lose heart 
Turn mind to things of hope 
Wounds indeed can finally mend 
Within God’s healing flow 

Battered, bruised, wrapped around 
Poles, like lanyards where I’m found
Extended beyond my earthly reach
To realms of questions, concerns too deep
For my shallow mind

Yet while I whip and freely wave
On stormy winds, or balmy days,
I find myself securely held
By ties that bind, cannot be felled,
Contain my fragile mind

What keeps me fast to life secure?
That floats me not away from here?
‘Tis beyond my reach, attempts to hold
God’s amazing grace, truth be told
My eternal tether sure

The doorbell rang, I looked outside 
There stood a tiny child
Bundled warm from top to toe 
She stood in winter mild 

Curious I ope’ed the door
Wondering what she’d brought 
With luminous eyes she looked at me
And our gazes locked 

In moments brief she calmly spoke
Without an uttered word 
She read my soul of weighty grief 
Love flowing out from hers 

Then with shy and sweetened smile 
Her whispered words began 
“I brought a little tree for you
To watch life grow again”

To my knees I lowered down 
And opened wide my arms 
She fell against my trembling frame
Smiles crumpled as tears drowned

“My heart hurts so 
I miss him too 
I hope that this will do
Maybe watching this tree grow 
Will bring him here to you”

As days passed by, and seasons changed 
She often came to me
We shared stories of my son 
Our hopes, the things we’d see

And always with her luminous eyes 
Her gaze intensely keen 
She listened to my empty heart 
And filled it up again 

I’ll ne’er forget that tiny girl 
Her gift to me back when
Brief though our time together 
My heart began to mend 

Her tree grows still to this day 
Wide branches throwing shade 
It’s tall and strong, a resting spot
A hallowed place it’s made 

When e’er I sit there quietly 
Under rustling leaves 
Voices of my girl and son 
Laugh round me on the breeze

As I ponder the New Year, and think of the past, evidences of disdain continue to pop up in my world, like an unexpected booming firework, its sound and lights startling.

Webster defines disdain as: a feeling of contempt for someone or something regarded as unworthy or inferior : SCORN. As a verb it means: 1: to look on with scorn 2: to refuse or abstain from because of a feeling of contempt or scorn 3: to treat as beneath one’s notice or dignity. One of its many synonyms is disrespect.

Respect is certainly an attitude every person is worthy to receive. This holiday season has brought a welcome relief from the highly charged emotional battles of 2021. Mock, scorn, and disrespect seem to be turning towards solace for one another as we share each other’s grief… the sufferings and deaths of loved ones.

As a world we are weary. What a blessing the coming of Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Christ and the promise of God saving us from ourselves. Then the New Year with its hopes of new beginnings and a better year ahead. It is as though the whole earth has sighed with relief, breathing again after holding its breath wondering what man would do next…

Disdain, scorn. A tiresome, ugly thing that stomps through our lives, throws tantrums, especially whispers doubts and discontent in an attempt to divide us and exert its will. As old as the Garden of Eden it yet strives to control the thoughts of man. To whom am I listening? When disdain presents fear or doubt I might have to ask myself that question again… especially when I am thrown off course, vulnerable areas of my life are attacked, my faith is challenged, the pressure rises. So far, even when I struggle to understand, God has been faithful to see me through. His promises are unchanging and true.

What joy to find again that amidst all confusion, God will not be mocked! He still arrives on time. He is still available to us if we would but open the door. His name Immanuel means “God with us.” How do I know? I met Him long ago surviving my first onslaughts of disdain. And still, though the earth trembles, the sun rises and sets each day, and we are given life and breath to breathe. My body may die, yet my spirit will live on, and I can dwell now in that peace that passes all understanding… God has been saving me in many ways all my life. When one opens the door to Him, He is waiting with open arms of love and grace! His invitation is always available, never wears out, is for everyone. It is our choice. Yes, God has already won the fight against disdain.

The timer started, wrestlers tense staring into each other’s eyes, mocking, watching, anticipating the first move. The high school gym was hot, fans, referees, athletes all dripping in the late afternoon heat. It was the final match, everyone was ready for the long day to be over, yet this was the finale, the peak of it all. As the match began the minds of the two opponents, long time competitors, snapped into singular focus, the noise, the light, the irritation of sweat receding as they began. Nothing mattered more than the task at hand. For this they had trained, worked, competed, and sacrificed. Win or lose, both had already won. But play the game still they must. It wasn’t over yet.

Somewhere along this trek through life a “wrestler” has come my way. I’m not certain how he so casually sauntered in, but the presence of his competitive nature has been very evident for years. He pops up in my mind to challenge me. Why? Just for his fun of it, I guess. Or for my destruction. He is relentless in his efforts to win. He plays the same old tunes, has the same old moves of trying to take me down and out. And, frankly, is tiresome. Ever so slowly, however, I am learning those wrestling moves; especially how to feign an attack and claim my upper hand. Sometimes he wrestles me with flat out lies, fear, discouragement, and worry. He has studied me well, knows my weak points, and never hesitates to take advantage. He has whispered worrisome lies in my ears for so many years that I have had to learn to cast them out of my head, and replace them with truth. Happily I have a righteous referee who fully knows this game, and coaches me well. It is an ongoing, life-long, match.

World class wrestling I personally understand. “World” is that wrestler’s name, who endeavors relentlessly to subdue each of us to his will. Whether we win each match, or are beat in temporary defeat, we, too, like those high school wrestlers, have already won. We can get up again. The game goes on. And by God’s grace we find ourselves still standing!

John 16:33 (NKJV) Jesus says: 33 These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”

Deuteronomy 20:3-4 (NKJV): 3 And he shall say to them, ‘Hear, O Israel: Today you are on the verge of battle with your enemies. Do not let your heart faint, do not be afraid, and do not tremble or be terrified because of them; 4 for the Lord your God is He who goes with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you.’

Some days I wonder about purpose, how important my life really is in the big scheme of things. Sure, I birthed two children, step-mothered two more, and am loving them all, plus seven grands. Over forty-three years I have loved and stayed faithful to one husband, worked and served in nursing, have ridden the rocky road of life in them thar hills, and learned more and more how to keep my mouth shut. Sort of. Maybe that’s why I write!

It has taken me a lifetime of listening to understand that I need to listen more. Knowing that life is neither all about me, nor is it about my opinions. Oh, how I desire to speak my understanding of God’s truth to those I see hurting, and to those who have rejected God’s love. It is hard to make the choice to stay away when my presence may be a stressor for an already stressed out loved one. It is frustrating, yet freeing, too, when I am given permission to not enter what feels like a battle zone. A blessing in disguise one could say. So I stand on the promise that God does hear my prayers, and that my trust in His working His plans for my hurting loved one is well founded. For that shred of “you need to fix it” in me still whispers, “Can ya hear me now?”

As I sat listening to dear husband’s report of his visit to a loved one recently, my mind reflected on this active silence I have been practicing. Hearing, listening without interrupting for clarification as I am want to do; endeavoring to love well by setting aside my impulses to understand immediately. I do feel muzzled at times, but am becoming more comfortable with that for it lessens the possibility of frustration and misunderstanding. Perhaps the lesson in patient endurance is for me, as God and others endure my thought processes as well. It sends me skipping to God’s Word for encouragement and consolation especially when communication gets messy. “Can ya hear me now?”

I am so thankful for a place I can go, whenever I need to be heard. It matters not if I am eloquent, well prepared to present my case, factual, realistic, even fully truthful. For in standing before my LORD my tumbled thoughts are brought into the light of His Truth so I can see clearly, become more honest with myself, embrace the truth of the situation, get real and see the bigger picture. He makes my crooked paths straight. Sometimes I am full of shame, embarrassed, remorseful. Other times I am vindicated, encouraged, reassured. Always I am loved, accepted, instructed, forgiven, restored. And heard.

“Can ya hear me now?”

“Yes, yes, loud and clear!”

When I was very young the goal of becoming perfect seemed the highest ideal I could imagine. From where that thought germinated I have no idea. It is only in the last several years I have more pointedly pondered the meaning of that desire, perhaps endeavoring to solve a mystery in me. In reading God’s Word it has become more clear why such thoughts would come to a child, each of us created with a deep desire to regain original wholeness. Throughout our lives there is that thing that urges us to strive for it. To have not only ourselves but all in our world be just as it should be, perfectly complete. Elsewise, why that bent to fix the broken, to reconcile, to heal, to make well, to become better, to grow? Jesus said in Matthew 5:48 (NKJV):

48 Therefore you shall be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect.

Perfect. Something I am still learning about. It has always seemed elusive, forever out of reach. And yet, there is that thing about it that just won’t let go.

Beginning Derek Prince’s study of 2 Peter 1: 2-7, Be Perfect – But How?, I was inspired by his quote on pages 10-11: “… each of us, in our own particular allotted place can be a small, perfect circle.” A circle, perfectly round, complete without disruption of any kind. His further example of God being the greatest circle Who encompasses the whole universe brought to mind an interesting scientific fact. Rainbows, the sign of God’s promise to never destroy the earth again with a worldwide flood, are in reality… circles.

Certainly, that bow we see in the sky, partially or wholly arcing from horizon to horizon, is but a reflected reminder, a sign for us to be assured in the might of a storm, that God has not forgotten His promise. Yet it goes beyond what we can see… for the bow continues beneath the horizon of our vision.

Today I needed this reminder that the God of grace, by Whose process we are being perfected to become those whole and complete small circles, has numerous rainbows of promises that go far beyond the horizon of our vision or understanding. When storms of grief, despair, fear, remorse, or any other trial takes residence in our minds or our worlds, we can in faith look beyond our turmoil to God’s promises that forever remain intact, perfectly encircling our greater universe.

What joy in the journey to be encouraged by rainbows, a “reflection, refraction, and dispersion of light… resulting in… a multicoloured circular arc.”(Wikipedia). What a privilege that we may also reflect the light of the Father in our own circle of influence. Of course, we cannot become perfect by our own efforts, no more than water droplets can just decide to form a rainbow. It is the light reflecting through that creates the magnificence. Our wholeness and completeness is an unfolding gift given by a Perfect Father who created us, who knows His unique design for our lives better than we know ourselves.

It is a glorious thing to come upon evidences of God’s presence throughout one’s life… from the grand and obvious as we gaze on His marvelous creation, to the infinitesimally small as we look deep within. Learning to listen for His voice, accepting His gift of relationship through Jesus Christ, our small circle intersects with His. If we would but look and see, be still…He is here, with us… and there, beyond our horizon… always encircling us with His Love. We need not be perfect to come to God. His hand is extended to us to bring us into perfection and completion. Like a rainbow… though we may not see it all… His light shining through us is what makes us perfectly whole.

It’s snowing! It’s snowing!
White flakes floating down
Crystalline stars of ice
Bearing from above 
Pristine gifts from Heaven 

A welcomed sight amidst 
Bright or dreary days 
Reminders that far beyond  
Is One who emanates 
Exquisite unending Love 

The sun shown brightly on a light glazing of snow that gave hope for a white Christmas. My brother popped by, early morning elf delivering family gifts, and as we visited asked, “Have you read your email?” While I searched the cousins’ thread of news, he quietly announced, “Ron died last week.” It took some time for this to impact me… it just didn’t seem real. Our treasured cousin, gone?

I had a few hours to sink into my grief before family was due to arrive that early evening. I knew Ron had been ill, and was thankful to have spoken and emailed with him a few months previous. Still, loss has a way of sneaking up on us, and seems no respecter of age or time.

As the tsunami of emotions peaked and crashed on the shore of my soul, I sat before the LORD crying out reasons for my sorrow. It came clear again why we experience such pain when the love of those we love is severed by death, divorce, or whatever reason. I firmly believe, whenever possible, embracing the pain as it occurs, rather than saving it for another day. It is far less hurtful to face it early on than to carry an ever-increasing load of grief that builds upon itself the more we ignore, deny, or stuff it.

God revealed some deep things to me as I cried not only for Ron, but for the loss of those precious family experiences we once shared as children. He, his brother, my brother, and I enjoyed numerous summer visits, though our families lived nearly seventeen hundred miles apart. I miss those carefree days of tromping in the woods, fishing the river, chasing chipmunks and lizards, and just hanging out together. Life in general, the living out of morality and values, is much different now, challenged in new ways that are determined to separate families and friends. No, no time in history is ever without its angsts, but those times of life with our cousins were beautiful and uplifting. I grieved for many things in those Christmas Eve tears, cleansing tears that needed to be shed in today’s tensely wound world.

Not having scheduled deep grieving and crying as part of the day’s events, amazingly enough the tears eventually dried. Wondering how ever the day would unfold, and still feeling drained, I was thankful for dear husband reorienting my numb mind as we completed a last minute grocery run. Later at home, the tides of emotions continued to recede as we readied for the evening, and I was able to thoroughly enjoy our family, to be present in those moments without being overly burdened.

God is good, all the time. He meets us wherever we are, no matter the situation. He is well acquainted with sorrow and grief, and can certainly help us walk through our own. Speaking the grief outward and upward to Him allows that pain to be redirected off an ever-looping track inside of us, as He listens and lifts our burdens. Sure, we may need to talk with Him again and again. Praise be, His shoulders are broad and strong enough to carry whatever we bring! And like children being consoled, encouraged, or even corrected for our good and growth, indeed, in every instance He sets us free, in process, or in whole.

Thank you, Ron, Rick T., and Rick K. for the precious memories, and for your love throughout the years. Thank You, Father God, for all the special people who bring Your love and joy into our lives, people though when they die seem to take a great part of that love away with them. Thank You, LORD, that You are Love, and that You are still here, Immanuel, God With Us, today and every day no matter how overwhelming our grief may be. Thank You, LORD, You can bear our pain, and fill those empty places in us with Your Love, with Yourself.

John 1:14 (NKJV) 14 And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

All the gifts were wrapped for Christmas, but this one box of sparkly white wooden snowflake ornaments. The exquisite snowflakes, most likely laser cut, were intricate, nine different designs, two of each. Somehow they had captured me one day as I shopped for a birthday gift. Who needs more ornaments? Were we even putting up our tree this year? Still, the ornaments begged to come home with me. Now the mystery trying to solve itself… what actually should I do with them?

This is the first Christmas I can recall that we have not put up our tree. Up in the garage attic, it rests just a bit out of safe reach for us old folks. Yes, the wreaths are up outside, and the nativity is set in place on the sideboard. Flickering candles and a red poinsettia flanked by sprays of silver fronds grace the center of the mantle. Miniature lights glisten in the pine bough swag under the mantle and over the fireplace. A new addition, the pure white gnome angel our daughter-in-law recently crafted for us, is silent sentinel over all. It appears this year the snow globe tree and the eight-inch tall air-fern Christmas tree will stand duty. With no large tree as usual, hopefully our home still reflects that Christmas warmth and cheer we anticipate each year.

My mind flittered again through possibilities for the ornaments. Gift the whole box? Suspend them at different heights in front of a dark wooden door in a tree shape? Nothing seemed to settle in my mind… until this morning. Quickly I started counting on my fingers while saying the names out loud, all the names of our children, their spouses, and our grands. Seventeen, if you count dear hubby and me. What fun! With eighteen ornaments there is “an extra one to grow on!” An extra for hopes to come.

It matters not the tree, the gifts, the decor… the true meaning of Christmas is so much more! And each time snow falls from Heaven I will remember these thoughts of holding of our family close. An ornament for each, to take their way as they go. I cannot keep my dear ones physically near, no more than I can hold a snowflake in my palm. Yet like snowflakes swirling through this worldly time, I will enjoy the beauty of their lives blessing mine, while releasing them back into the heart of God.

~~~

Whenever you see a snowflake fall   
Thousands of millions of billions of trillions                                     Remember each flake shows a bit of how much                                            You are cherished, cared for, treasured, and loved

Millions of tiny paratroopers invaded my yard today 
Falling from an overcast sky, dark and cold and grey
“Whence come you?” I  wondered aloud as my gaze was cast
To watch the snow flakes tumble down, winter here at last

Or could they be but dandelion seeds blowing on the wind
On a balmy summer day, to lift and float and spin
To carry far those tiny wings to plant into my lawn
Yellow flowers, for wine or food, I mostly wish were gone 

A wondrous place this earth we tread, miraculous things each day
Grace our life with bless or curse, bring joy or bring dismay
Tis how we look at it, I guess, what holds for one the key
With smile or frown we look upon what comes to you and me 

     ~~~

One grey winter afternoon, as dear husband and I watched snowflakes lazily floating down from the sky, my aging eyes saw tiny paratroopers, the shape of dandelion seeds, disc shapes with a rudder tail below to guide and keep upright. “Do you see that, the paratrooper shapes?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said, “my eyes are getting old, too!” 

That reminded me of a time long ago with my family at a cabin in the woods. One snowy evening our maternal grandmother sat gazing out the window at the deepening darkness, snowflakes highlighted by the outside corner light shining brightly. “Look at those stringy snowflakes!” she suddenly exclaimed. We all thought this hilarious, for, of course, everyone knows there is no such thing. Or is there? The flakes were falling so fast that they did indeed looked stringy. In this place of miraculous occurrences, no matter aging eyes, stringy snowflakes and tiny paratroopers may certainly be seen! 

In days of gray when life seems all a-winter, may you find flurries of surprise and your soul be filled with wonder! And may unexpected possibilities renew your heart with hope and joy! 

Pregnant pause, the muffled din 
Ceases clamor, listens in 
To the sounds of silence 

Tires crackle an icy road 
Pierce the quiet, presence told 
Then vanish in the silence 

The lingering laugh of children pulled 
Toboggans careening round the wood
Til bedtime claims their silence 

Trees and bushes heavy full 
Wear coverings of frozen wool 
Birds, squirrels tucked in silence 

Scrapes of shovelers out at night 
Clearing paths before the light  
More snow, then deeper silence 

Snow a wondrous glorious gift 
Icy manna softly drifts 
Blesses us with silence 

Reflections in the darkness cold
Brighten shadows of snowy folds
Blankets of whitened silence 

And in the silence comes the bid
Find the wonder, Love that’s hid 
In the still of silence 

As Christmas time comes round again
Our hearts review of life begins
To ponder truths or whys beneath
The things we do, prospects to meet
The yearnings deep beneath the smiles
Lonely, wounds, unending trials

And still the night returns to day
Then night again as carols play 
And deep within our hearts we wonder
“Why, oh why is all a blunder?”
Yet, deeply deeply still within 
Hope comes to us again, again
For on that night so long ago
Hope truly came, Emmanuel!

“God with us” none can compare!
Our burdens, hopes, and dreams to bear
He comes to us yet every day
“Accept His love,” the carols say
And through the deep of life though mean
Christ’s peace is ours! His light is seen!

May joy and laughter fill your hearts!
For though the darkness did impart
Shadows on your life’s walk way
Begin anew! There’s hope today!
And join the carols’ glad refrain
“Rise up! Rise up! You live again!”
And share the joy with those around
Emmanuel! Our Hope is found!

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” sang a sweet voice across the expanse of snow. I sat slumped in my car, wrapped in fleece jacket and down coat, unsure of what to do next. Christmas was less than three weeks away, and although I was near “ready” in the secular sense, I could tell my spirit was ill at ease with… something.

Was it that frustrated conversation with a loved one yesterday? Was shrinking anticipation what tipped the scale? Retreating into myself I remembered that long-term solitude is not a foreign concept to me. It is a soft, safe cocoon, a place of rest and tranquility. What’s not to like? Yet, is this where I am to dwell? Cut off from those I love?

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” came the sweet voice across the snow. I had heard that voice before. It was familiar, full of joy, enthusiasm, and fun. It reminded me of days gone by, days spent with loved ones celebrating the holidays. Children exuberantly unwrapping gifts; the smell of hot apple cider, yams, turkey or ham wrapping everyone in a warm winter hug. Those special times of dwelling together. Would we enjoy those days once again? I have to believe so, for though this COVID thing has swept a trial of exile across the land, we are an undefeated people. We are creative, resilient, and, like the remnant of Israel in their exile years, we have a great God in Whom to place our faith. Like them, we have hope!

My ears perked up and my spirit stirred as I listened again to that “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Maybe, just maybe, there was a new message singing to me across the cold barren landscape of my dejected soul. Perhaps, instead of the jolly “Ho! Ho! Ho!” wrapped in a red fleecy suit, this voice sang, “Hope! Hope! Hope!” – a new song for my spirit to sing. Yes! A new song, though not really new at all. It has been sung throughout the millennium, yet is new every day. “Hope! Hope! Hope!” the voice sang on, swirling the snow, lighting up the dreary landscape, lifting my shoulders once again. A smile began to creep across my face, and that warm winter hug cradled my heart. Just as it has for millions of hearts since that blessed first Christmas morn. “Hope! Hope! Hope!” I recognized it then… the voice. The angel’s voice! Hope sings on!