Tiny crystals began to form
From whisps of dew drops floating high
Gathered in a cloudy shape 
Rising in a dawning sky

Before the sun peeked o’re the hills
The cloud rose higher joining more 
Droplet crystals merging there 
Glittering unique icy forms  

The cloudy weight could not hold 
That beauty all within itself 
Released its tiny flakes to fall 
Fluttering to the earthly shelf

As creatures, people slumbered on
The flakes fell fast, a powdered heap 
To greet the new day with surprise
Drifts of white snow piled deep

“It’s snowing!” came the glad refrain
As morning light revealed the show 
A new day brightened, clean and white
Refreshed in hope with fallen snow

Skimming along with the wind through America’s heartland I am impressed with the vast fields that go on as far as the eye can see, the rise and fall of the land a great ocean tide. Dotted here and there, miles in between, a single low-slung building, or two, hiccup the horizon, companioned by a modest cylindrical silo standing guard. One’s mind cannot help but drift back to those days before the land hosted such things, when peoples and animals lived and were free of solid, staid places. When sojourning was a way of life, scarce and bountiful, though muddied with those problems man still wreaks upon fellow man. Still, life was more nomadic then, for some.

The wind blows relentlessly o’er this sea of grasses, crops, and low lying trees. Now leafless this late November, crops harvested, there is a greyness to the textures of the land, the earth shades of brown, golden tones dulled. And in the midst of that ongoing landscape, those lonely dwellings.

No wonder the buildings share the surrounding gray patina. The wind has buffeted all traces of paint, sandblasting au natural. It is a wonder roofing materials hold firm in the wind, and more wind. A small motor home sits in front of an aged barn, rare evidence that this scene is of the twenty-first century. Names such as “Running Turkey Creek” conjure myriad stories in just three words.

What histories have been wrought in this wide open space? What laughter and tears in those lonely grey walls? What joys and sorrows felt in the heat of the summer sun, or the cold shoulder of a driving blizzard? No matter the temperature, it seems the wind has chosen this place to run and play.

It is obvious here that man is meant to work and toil, his task to care for the earth that was given to bless him and his descendants. And here is evidence of faithful stewardship of land well tended, cultivated, at rest now in rhythm with the seasons, a time to replenish and renew the soil so that it might produce and bring forth again. Yet no matter how hard he try there are some things man cannot control. Some things beyond his reach, his grasp, his authority. Even his best efforts show he is finite, though highly intelligent and gifted in many ways. He is, after all, still a man, a creature created. Just ask the wind.

Rocketing along at seventy miles per hour, our black Subaru stuck to the highway with all of its however many pounds fully loaded. We were literally left in the swirling dust by tanker trucks and a curiously fuzzy fishing boat. Covered with dead bushes and branches, at first it appeared someone was hauling dead wood to the dump. Then again, who in the wide open plains of Kansas would haul dead brush anywhere? More likely it would be burnt in a pile, or plowed under. Perhaps though, if the winds blew like this every day, burning would be nixed.

“It’s a duck-hunting boat,” my husband informed. And surely, that it was. Amazingly, as it’s tow-vehicle roared by with it, barely a leaf or twig was detected flying off the thing. It was poetry in motion watching it sail out of sight on the relentless Kansas wind, as it appeared to float off into the horizon.

Holding to the speed limit we were passed by vehicles of all sizes again and again. Maybe in this windy country people are used to practicing outrun-the-tornado driving. They all seemed to have left us behind, on a highway somewhere in the middle of Kansas cornfields. As my husband kept his eyes on the road, I kept my eyes peeled, just to be sure, for that girl with a basket, in a blue checked gingham jumper, with pigtails, red shoes, and a little dog. For as the wind swirled by we could almost hear the echo of her glad refrain, “There’s no place like home!”

Undulating plats of rich plowed earth
Pimpled with rounded bales of hay 
Stubbled whiskers glisten the dirt
Remnants of corn from harvest day 

Wind gusts swirl o’er endless seas 
Fallow lands renew once more
Wheat and corn to sprout again 
Repeat the cycle o’er and o’er

Metal cones with pointed hats 
Squatty silos filled with grain 
Sentinel outposts in the land 
Watch as seasons come again 

Thankful for its time of rest 
Fields their gift have given up 
With glad abandon wait again 
For blessings infused from above 

For some reason my psyche just was not up to it, walking into a situation that made me very uncomfortable. A place I had been many times before, and yet this time seemed threatening. I looked woefully at my husband…”I feel like I’m walking into the lions’ den.”

In the Old Testament the prophet Daniel was cast into the lions’ den, literally, for breaking a newly formed law. He prayed to God rather than the ruling king of Babylon, an offense punishable by death. Yet miraculously God provided, and shut the mouths of the lions. Daniel survived his all night ordeal, greeting the king at the light of day as the cover of the den was removed. God won. And those who had conspired to destroy that man of God were themselves ordered by the king to be thrown into the pit, where they perished. Today I feared lions. Tonight I am home, alive and well, my fears instead thrown into the pit.

Anxiety. How does one face such a fearsome foe, especially one that springs from fear itself? Today I asked the God of Daniel, the Biblical Creator God, the God Who through Jesus’ sacrifice has brought redemption to the world, the God Who promised His Holy Spirit would abide in those who chose to believe and follow Him, He Who walked with me into my lions’ den today, just because I asked Him.

I was desperate. I truly did not know how in my own power, creativity, intellect, or any other ability I would be able to deal with the day’s agenda. So, I asked. God and I had a chat, though I did most of the talking it seems. He is a great listener, by the way. I can tell Him honestly anything. And as I simply stated how afraid I was, asked Him to walk before me into the situation, to give me a spirit of peace as I walked into the place I was going, He began to remind me that the battle is truly all His anyway.

Fear does not come from God. It is a weapon from the enemy of our souls who would diminish and destroy us. Today God fought that enemy for me. Trusting in Him to shut the jaws of that fearsome foe, my mind stayed on His goodness throughout the day, and I watched in amazement as His Holy Spirit of Peace led me through. It was incredible really, in a deeply calm sort of way. Unexpected problems arose that were step by step resolved in an orderly fashion. Even the topic of anxiety was discussed with another dear one, and of God’s goodness to defeat it.

The longer I am a Christ follower the more amazed I am at the power, love, and trustworthiness of a Good God Who actually shows up when we need Him. Certainly there have been times I’ve wondered if He was really there, but after today’s experience I find honest openness and need (maybe desperation!), rather than a flippant vending machine attitude allowed me to see Him working. That “peace that passes all understanding” was evident not only in me, but also in the place I walked into, and the people I was involved with. Many prayers were answered today as dear Bible Study friends also lifted up prayers on my behalf. What a joy to experience such love! And to find again the pertinence of stories of the God of the Old Testament Who is still the living, breathing, powerfully alive God of today. I know. I survived a lions’ den.

Thank You, LORD, for Your abounding love towards us. May we recognize Your presence, listen to Your voice, and learn to walk ever more closely with You. For You are the One Who gives us strength to overcome, the One Who saves. The power is all from You, Lord! Thank You so much that You love each one of us so intimately! In Jesus’ precious name, Amen!

To read more about Daniel and the Lions’ Den see Daniel 6:1-28

Am I really listening, LORD
Taking time to sit with You 
Inquiring of Your thoughts for me
Lest I run on blissfully? 

I can throw out prayerful words
Flung while rushing out the door 
But have I listened, really heard
Words that You have spoken, LORD? 

No surprise I wonder why 
Prayers seem unanswered as I try 
Asking You to do my bidding 
Yet forget You as I am spinning 

Forgive me, LORD, for my pretense 
In such a way addressing You
With presumptuous arrogance
Assuming blessings I would choose 

Please realign my mind with Yours
My Creator, Father, Friend
The One Who has rescued me 
Designed my life, set me free 

To walk with You in Your design 
Fulfill Your will in me please
That I may finish earthly life 
Aligned with You eternally  

Yes, it seems weird. The first in forty-three years that we have not spent Thanksgiving with at least one, if not more, of our children. Usually extended family would be part of the gathering, as well. And actually that extended part did occur this year. Not with those in the town where we live… this year we traveled over 2,000 miles, driving to join dear husband’s family in Tennessee.

We are both deeply grateful for the opportunity to join our relatives this Thanksgiving. With three of dear husband’s siblings, and a brother-in-law, already flown off to heaven, having the remaining four – two brothers and two sisters – able to meet, along with one’s young grandson, and another’s son and wife, makes this holiday especially poignant for us. Only the LORD knows the length of our days, and as each year passes we relish the time together we have been granted.

I notice a certain contemplative stance among family members this year. A quiet pause, or a step away from the laughter and activity, as though watching and storing visual memories of this brief time. Perhaps the reality of our mortality presses in as one brother passed away last month, and we older ones are approaching the age when our parents died.

“But I live at high noon,” I declare, sharing with our nephew’s sweet wife the beautiful concept that “over the hill” really is untrue, especially to those who know God. Becoming part of God’s kingdom now ensures that “living at high noon” goes on and on… life never ending. I love the idea of living at the noon time of life forever, rather than being on the down hill slide. Evidence from those who have had near death experiences, or experienced visions of the heavenly realm, confirm that vibrant life exists there, the peak and prime of life at the fullest, complete as God designed it.

Gordon McDonald has written a book by that name, Living At High Noon, that addresses issues of mid-life. Over twenty years ago the title alone gave me courage that indeed there was light ahead when turning fifty threatened to unsettle me. Well worth the read and encouragement, living with Christ’s eternity in view makes dying a new, glorious beginning.

While most of our relatives ready to depart in the early morning to drive long hours home, dear hubby and I plan to visit here a few more days before starting our cross-country trek. Meanwhile, I reflect on the fact that our nephew’s wife, forty-five years younger than I, seems no difference in age. And for those of us who deeply enjoy the present reality of living at high noon, though our earthly bodies will some day have finished their purpose, our spirits will live on, not to death, but to Life! The Son is shining at high noon! With that assurance, and His unending care, life could not be any better! Yes, a new Thanksgiving this year, with eternal thanksgiving as well.

Contemplating my life’s path, I often wonder at the choices I’ve made. When I turned left instead of right, only to find provision for the road to the right came shortly after. When I’ve changed my mind and struck out in a new direction that over the years has challenged me to the depths. When I have stood up to other’s counsel, intent on doing things my way, and now look back at the results. Remembering the saving grace of God and His hand on me through it all, yet my struggle with who I am, even though I have been redeemed, made new in Him. Percolating to the front of my mind’s awareness is my need to revisit redemption. What really happened to me when I was born again? And has God allowed this tumultuous journey in my mind for me to experience yet His ongoing grace and restoration? So, here I am, ready to contemplate again.

Really, there has been no need for tumult at all. Some would look at my life, see all the incredible blessings and praise God from Whom all blessings flow. And I do, when not sloughing around wondering about things. I wonder if my tendency to overthink has been a target for the enemy’s darts of doubt, despair and discouragement. Obviously! “Listen up, soul! You have been redeemed, at the highest price, so start living and thinking that way! Stop dwelling in the past! March on!”

Myles Munroe, in his excellent book Potential for Every Day: A Daily Devotional, explains the difference of spirit and soul. The soul is one’s emotions, will, personality and is tied to our earthly body. The spirit, the life God breathed into us, became spiritually dead since the fall of man, but is awakened and made new, born again, when one asks Christ to enter in, the indwelling Holy Spirit teaching one’s spirit thereafter. The earthly soul relishes the elevation and recognition of its self, and so the ongoing battle of who is on the throne of one’s life: one’s self or God. There will always be one or the other driving the bus…

Since making the choice to let God drive the bus of my life I have been amazed at the evidences of His presence, the many rescues and saves, guidance, consolation, promises and encouragement, and His ongoing love and forgiveness. So what about redemption? I have been made new, yet my soul-self still hounds my mind with woes, depression, insecurity, frustration. No wonder we are told in Philippians 4:8 (NKJV) 8 Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things.

Psalm 130: 4-8 reassures and promises God will forgive and redeem His people Israel. For those who have accepted Jesus Christ, that forgiveness and redemption is a gift for all.

Isaiah 43:1 states: 1 But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob,And He who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.

I say to my self: “So, my soul. Forget not the promises of God! Forget not the ultimate sacrifice Jesus made dying to pay the penalty for your putrid sins, all those things great or small that separate you from God’s best for you. Remind yourself of His forgiveness! Forgive your self! Think only of those good things He brings! And be a light of hope and encouragement for those still lost in the darkness of their despair! Arise, my soul, and sing! You belong to God! Walk moment by moment with Him! He created you, and He proposes to make you whole!”

Redemption having been received is a living, ongoing process. Not static, it is a gift that is new each morning. My spirit must remind my quivering earthly soul that “God’s got this!” (to quote my dear friend Dede, who lives now in Heaven). God promises in the Old Testament in Isaiah 41:10 10 Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.

In the New Testament Jesus‘s purpose as Redeemer is recorded in Ephesians 1:7 7 In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace

And so, with thanksgiving, I choose to take Him at His Word. My LORD, the Redeemer of my soul. Day by day, moment by moment, rejoicing in the abundance of His love and redemption! All Praise to Him!

It has to start somewhere, those rushing torrents that carve our lands, bring a drink to growing crops, slack the thirst of drying throats. Zillions of collected drops flow as one seeking where to go, meandering, rushing, or cascading o’er. Perhaps a dewdrop starts it all… yet from where has the dewdrop come to softly land on arbor leaf, and grassy blade, quietly to give the earth a drink? From moisture in the air? Still, how does that rise to merge with clouds, pregnant then with heavy copious rain, falling into droplets that join and run in glad abandon, perhaps to form a river?

Such wonders are given to us every day, the lay of the land, nature’s ring of beauty unimaginable… something always more glorious to see. From grand magnificence to those invisible microcosms living within our very frames, rivers running through our flesh, nourishing, or carrying ill, depending. Mind boggling it is to fathom deep how these rivers began, continue to run, rejuvenated themselves by an invisible plan that goes on and on and on, until it stops.

Symbiotic, in a way, are the river and man who has his way with it. Given permission to steward it, influence its course, man is also at its mercy. Still, without the river, the water there, even man will die. Where comes that water that is our nourishment? Not only for our bodies but beyond? The spiritual water that brings life, gives breath to this temporal frame? Like dew that invisibly forms comes water for our spirit’s needs, a provision made from someplace, Someone more grand, way out there, yet somehow deep within.

Holy Spirit come dwell in me. Let Your living water flow generously through my being and out into a parched world. That when the time comes for my earthly form to die, my flesh to return to dry powdery dust, my spirit yet vibrantly alive will rise hydrated with the living water of Your love! And gushing full the unending source, the River of Life, will never end running its course through me.

Thank You that it has started here. I am walking along Your steady streams of living water that run from those places high and low. And when I wander into dry desolate paths, somehow You always bring me back to drink deeply once again. To splash, to dip, to swim, to float, and rest in Your embrace. Thank You, LORD, for this amazing grace, this River of Life You’ve given!

“Not good enough” is a lie indeed 
It’s fodder spreading farther out
Than just the shame it breeds within 
Casting thoughts full of doubt 

So if I’m finally “good enough”
What does that portray of my worth?
That I’ll do as the last resort? 
That I’m ok though far from “first”?

Like a worn out fishing net
“Good enough” used for decor 
But not the choice for catching fish 
Just for looks, nothing more?

Is this how I see myself? 
Dream to be accepted as? 
Nay, this soul wants something more
Greater worth past earthly class

I’d rather take where God does meet
Patience wrought from tested faith,
With joy, refining work indeed 
Grown to perfect and complete

“Perfect and complete, lacking nothing” - being made whole

Thank You, LORD, only You uplift! 
You redeem us more than “good enough”
Wholeness, the best you have to give 
What an astounding gracious gift! 


James 1:2-4 (NKJV)
 2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. 4 But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.

James 1:2-4 (CJB)
2 Regard it all as joy, my brothers, when you face various kinds of temptations; 3 for you know that the testing of your trust produces perseverance. 4 But let perseverance do its complete work; so that you may be complete and whole, lacking in nothing.

Isaiah 41:10 hit me right between the eyes. Exactly the “verse of the day” I needed. It wasn’t that anything huge or horrible was about to happen, yet I was feeling stress anticipating all the “what-ifs” that could transpire. Mind spinning at warp speed, a migraine still lingered from the day before, as did physical aches from a robust osteopathic appointment. Still emerging from hot-mess-ville, I really needed to be on my a-game today to serve others coming soon to visit. Swimming towards the surface, reaching to break free from the weight pulling my boots down, my spirit leapt at the LORD’s words:

‘Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’ Isaiah 41:10 NKJV (underscore mine)

As I read His words over and over, memorizing them word for word, pulling the cloak of His protection around my fragile mind, an image began to appear, becoming sharper, more defined as His promises spilled from my mouth. Promises that not only told me what He was going to do: strengthen, help, uphold; but first declared who “He” is: I am with you, I am your God. Moses asked how to declare God’s name to the children of Israel, “And God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM.” And He said, “Thus you shall say to the children of Israel, ‘I AM has sent me to you’” (Exodus 3:14 NKJV).

What a joy to experience anew that the cloak of God’s promises brought the greater treasure of I AM Himself standing with and for me. Sure, I had the head knowledge that He is always with me, but deeper today was again reminded He is actually standing there intimately strengthening, helping, upholding me in my raw vulnerability. So, my hand in His, my self leaning fully on His infinite strength, I welcomed those I thought would bring chaos, and watched the LORD deliver us to a rest-filled day. It was amazing. Able to let go of worry, of trying to manage what everyone was doing, of protecting young minds from too much screen-time . . . a calm infused my soul and mind, and our home, as I “let it go.” Let go even more my clutch to protect those I love. Entrusted them more into the Savior’s hands.

Fear not! I AM! I will! Yes, We can take the LORD at His Word. For they are more than mere words. They are Him!

Years ago I read a book No Little People written by the well known Christian leader Francis A. Schaeffer. Now decades later the truth of the fact that there are “no little people,” no matter one’s stature, has come to shine its light deeply in me.

It has been a long fought journey learning to embrace God’s love and acceptance. Or, perhaps, learning to love and accept me, through the grace He has shown me. “Not good enough” has been an eroding, repetitive voice in the back of my mind since I was young. I recognize that voice in others, especially now that I can see its eroding effect in their minds, too. That drive to find one’s value in trying to become perfect, skinnier, more fashionable, wealthier, renowned, smarter… the list goes on and on. Endeavors not necessarily wrong in themselves, but detrimental when they become one’s god. Interestingly, the list only grows longer if one looks at it from a worldly point of view. No matter how high or far the earthly vista from which we view ourselves and others, we will never be enough, have enough, achieve enough, be satisfied enough. There is always want for more.

Then the still, small voice of the LORD quietly shouts, if only one would hear: “Do not despise the small beginnings for the LORD rejoices to see the work begin.” Zechariah 4:29a (NLT)

God also reminds us that He has called us from our mother’s womb, and that He knew our name before we were born! See Isaiah 49:1, and Psalm 139.

In Haggai 1:13 (NKJV) He declares: “I am with you, says the LORD.” He knows us intimately, even more than we know ourselves. And gives us the ability to grow into the unique person He has created us to be.

All these and more are promises that no matter how puny one’s efforts or self might feel, our worth in the LORD is what is true and finally matters. We are and remain loved, accepted, cherished. What a wonder He would die to save the likes of me! What a delight to find the never-ending Source of comfort for one’s battle-weary soul! Comfort for any soul who would but accept His gift.

To study more on this topic see Jennifer Rothschild’s excellent Bible Study Take Courage. Several of the above Scriptures were listed in Day 5 of Week 2, subtitled “Small Things Syndrome.” It spoke to my heart!

Perusing Jacquie Lawson animated greeting cards last Christmas season, I came upon one entitled An Unexpected Nativity. In it a cat creates havoc in a barn as a dog chases it about. The cat runs over and under, on top of and amongst shelves of tools, knocking over equipment and a dangling lift rope that all pile together on the floor in disarray.
Light shines on and through the chaotic pile as a farmer, a man holding a lantern, removes his hat to gaze in wonder at the shadow cast on the wall. A shadow that would not be there without the light shining on it. A shadow of the nativity with shepherds, wisemen, Joseph, Mary and baby Jesus.

This card gives me hope. And reminds from Whom my hope comes. I really do prefer peace over chaos, and have found myself endeavoring to control chaotic situations. Especially the ones that surround me, like grandchildren wound up with energy exploding out of every cell. Of course, like herding cats, or trying to catch one that is in full speed ahead, controlling whatever the chaos might be is complicated. Sure, direction and boundaries are important, yet I have also found that simply moving out of the way is also a reasonable response to an oncoming tornado. Control is not always the solution!

Perhaps a lesson from the farmer is one to note. He was no where to be seen as the cat flew about. The chaos just happened, and then came the light. Sounds a bit like the Creation: darkness and chaos. And then there was light. My hope resides in the living God Who still brings light into chaos and creates something beautiful. And though He is ever-present, He has given man free will to choose, God not controlling every tiny bit of every situation. So why should I? Not that I could, yet a part of me senses relief in the thought, as non-earth-shattering as that might be.

No, I do not have to control my chaos, though picking up pieces or setting things back in order might be part of the plan. It makes for less tension, calms the situation more quickly, and helps maintain healthy blood pressure. I thank the LORD for every bit of grace He gives me, for like the unexpected nativity, His grace and light can always be found, no matter my turbulent situation.

Fear tries its best to spin about 
Wind me up, throw me out 
Of balance or off kilter 
To keep me running lest I find 
Not in control I unwind 
Into a restless fodder 
Fodder to be spun again 
Anxiety reeking stress within 
To look wherever I can sense 
Relief in desperation 

Peace quietly and gently calls 
“Come unto Me and let fall
Your chaos, it will be gone
No need to run, just sit with Me 
Tell Me of the fear you see 
Together we will overcome 
You’re not in this to do alone 
But only by your choice I’ll come 
Bid Peace to dwell within”

Peace is there if one just asks 
An offered gift, great sacrifice 
By the Prince of Peace Himself 
It’s not a gift that’s lightly given 
Gravely won from courts of Heaven 
Yet oft scorned by unbelief
Accept the joys you who believe
Peace beyond your grasp receive
Life’s power worth the living  

Recently I opened a long held treasure, a companion devotional to that excellent one “God Calling,” messages to Two Listeners that were edited for publication in 1935 by A.J. Russell. This companion devotional, “God At Eventide” was written fifteen years later, messages again received by the Two Listeners. I was overcome with the relevance and timelessness of Christ’s messages to a hurting world in these long esteemed classics of Christian writings. Though the years have gone by, these devotions reflect the words of our LORD that are unchanging, and applicable to every situation and generation. His care, and Love never fail, and as His followers we are to share that love with a confused, fearful, and hurting world.

The title for the January 4 devotion is “Your Mandate.” Needless to say that caught my eye, especially with today’s governmental overuse of the word. How different are the words in this devotional in comparison. Christ comes to us in love, drawing near to listen to our concerns and fears. He encourages us to remember the peace and safety He has supplied in our lives, to share and never forget His gift of Eternal Life, and the cost He bore for us. To remember others who are walking life’s treacherous path, to warn them of pitfalls and dangers we have encountered, to help ease their way. To joy in the glorious beauties of this journey, of creation proclaiming God’s goodness and greatness. And to tell others of the incomparable joy of knowing Jesus personally! “That is your mandate from High Heaven” is the final sentence of that day’s reading. Indeed! By the grace of God, a mandate I trust and will follow!

Myles Munroe, in his excellent book Understanding Your Place in God’s Kingdom: Your Original Purpose for Existence, states, “God’s number-one priority for mankind is that we discover, understand, and enter the Kingdom of God”(e-page 3272 of 4563 – Day 2 of Devotion section). This would sound like a simplistic statement at first glance, and yet the doing of it, the living of it, the walking in it, in truth takes a major reorientation to one’s view of life. Much of our culture, education, and many churches tout a worldly view of life, of right and wrong, sadly missing the mark of God’s design and intent. Rather than coming to know God personally, the world and religion frequently focus on humanistic endeavors instead of growing a relationship with God Himself.

In the Day 3 portion of the Devotional section, Pastor Munroe asks, “Why is it true that ‘all of us are seeking the Kingdom even if we all don’t realize it?’” No wonder the efforts to bring peace, right wrongs, uplift the poor, heal the ill, nurture our young . . . the list goes on and on of good overcoming evil in our world, and our desire for good to win. It is as though a built-in GPS is part of our DNA, orienting us toward home, if we would pay attention! Better yet, a “GSV” – God-shaped vacuum – that resides in each of us. Because we are His workmanship, He claims us as His own, and has given us a deep desire to dwell with Him again. He has breathed life into each of us. He is our Abba, Father, we are related. And made, therefore, for relationship!

In my experience the more the world’s effects are stripped away from our souls, the more we might hear God’s call, loud and clear . . . and come to know the Creator of All. How ever can I become real without recognizing the truth of who I really am? Should I listen to the world’s criteria for acceptance and success, or realize that when God says all our needs will be met by Him, He speaks truth? Of course, God is not a vending machine who spits out whatever we demand whenever! No, He is the best Father and knows how to guide us to maturity. And as with any parent’s experience with their “very human” children, relationship and learning, growth and maturity come more quickly when the child is willing to follow!

Whenever I think of “becoming real” my mind automatically links to that beloved story, The Velveteen Rabbit, and the wise old Skin Horse who has been loved so well most of his hair has been rubbed off. It seems life has a way of wearing places in our facades, revealing the underbelly of our disguises, uncloaking us to ourselves and to the world of who we really are. With God, Love Himself, to make us real, the process becomes so worth it, for being fully real . . . whole and complete . . . is, in truth, the deepest desire of our hearts.

When contemplating grace that’s given 
To those who’ve many decades lived 
Who growing older taste infirm 
Whose hair turns gray, whose vision blurs 
How interesting I am one of them 
Not captured up when younger

Remember when in days of youth 
We yearned to be but older still 
Dreaming of the days to come 
Pushing time with our will 
To no avail, but yet we tried
Our efforts then when younger

Adulthood, goal accomplishment 
Like walking gained, or diapers thrown 
Advancing to another stage 
A measure not just of one’s age 
But of growing wisdom 
Proof we’re more than younger 

Yet in adulthood still one sees
Behavior that belies the stage 
That makes one wonder if in fact 
The soul has grown as much as that 
The body has acquired age 
Years since we were younger

Tantrums like one’s toddlerhood 
Undisciplined acts that reveal 
Lack of wisdom living in 
Grown-up bodies, but again
Attitudes raise the question
Are we still much younger

Increasingly I understand 
More readily as years go by 
Why “child of God” defines the saved 
By incredible riches of God’s grace 
Children still we’ve stepped into 
God’s glorious hereafter 

Stashed under the bed for several years, the large octagon board with seven curved sectional pieces, and a bundle of eight straight short boards, was pulled into the light of day for repair. Inherited from my dear husband’s grandfather, the board holds stories of being carried from family to family through his grandfather’s beloved uncle’s yearly visits. An agricultural farm worker, who lived in a huge hollowed out tree in the summer, this uncle hopscotched to various family homes in the winter, staying weeks at a time. On his back he packed the thirty-inch octagonal handmade wooden game that had immigrated with family from Canada to the United States around 1866.

Envision a beloved older uncle, shades of Pere Noel (complete with hat and beard, I would think), stomping his snow-covered boots on the porch, crokinole board and pack strapped to his back. Relatives would welcome him in with glad refrain as he brought fun and entertainment to their far apart homes. Playable by any age, the only requirements were a sharp eye and steady shootin’ finger, to send checker-like pieces across the smooth board into various zones, and to shoot away other’s pieces. Hilarity would take over for awhile, deflecting attention from the hard work and things of life, precious time to visit and play.

Repairing an antique such as this, parts loose that had been glued and screwed together several times, broken pieces grafted in over the years, has been an interesting challenge for dear husband. Some of the pieces that are to fit puzzle-like atop the octagonal back board, have understandably warped in the last hundred-fifty-plus years, shrunk some, and bear the marks of previous repairs. How to make smooth and snuggly-fitted an old, aged, warped thing, still beautiful in a rough sort of way? How to fit together rigid pieces, set in their ways, that want not to yield to rejoining? How to restore the original maker’s design when many others’ attempts have seemingly failed, or altered it completely? How to handle a broken thing with care, to bring it back to life and purpose again?

Oh, the lessons to consider while laboring over the crokinole board! How like our lives and families enduring the trials and hardships in a changing and challenging world. The efforts to fit together pieces that seem disjointed, don’t want to merge, resist rejoining, or that are enduring pressure threatening to break and destroy. The crokinole board is just one more testament of lasting endurance, and of the strength one might forget is the stuff we are made of. Yes, we are parts and pieces, separately or in concert with those around us. However we find ourselves, I hope to remember our Maker has fashioned us of stuff that is meant to last and endure. And He is always available to repair, refashion and restore us to beauty and purpose. We are made through great love and care by His grand design.

Isaiah 45:18 (NKJV)              
For thus says the Lord,
Who created the heavens,
Who is God,
Who formed the earth and made it,
Who has established it,
Who did not create it in vain,
Who formed it to be inhabited:
“I am the Lord, and there is no other.

Genesis 2:7                                                                                             And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being

Genesis 1:27
So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.

Isaiah 41:10
Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’

Psalms 5:8 
Lead me, O Lord, in Your righteousness because of my enemies;
Make Your way straight before my face.

Where was it coming from? Lovely instrumental music playing on the wind at 1:30 in the morning as I sat quietly in my office recliner, pausing at the end of day. It was pleasant and winsome, soothing and melodious, and altogether unusual to hear this time of night.

Peeking out the window revealed mist and fog, the rains earlier in the day filling the air with dew droplets just waiting to land on limb, branch, blade, or arbor. Surely the annual State Fair had already left town, though fireworks earlier in the evening heralded a celebration from somewhere. Perhaps there was a connection between the two. It is amazing how clearly sound can travel from miles away. Nevertheless, the music was beautiful, comforting, and a welcome prelude to sleep.

As I readied to retire, the music drifting away, I was encouraged that somewhere out in the great vast world, music, the harmony of the spheres, is playing. It can nurture and fill one’s soul, inspire and uplift, shed a sense of hope across one’s being. I needed that tonight. Thank you, LORD, for that sweet, gentle sound playing softly in the mist.

Listening to Robert Childs’ story of his love for violin making, his “listening to the wood” as he crafts instruments that sing, reminded me how quickly toe-tapping fiddle playing can lift one’s spirit. Hours of tireless workmanship go into the honing of each specific violin crafted especially for its designated player. Resulting harmony created through individual voices of those instruments brings a glory, light and shine to the music produced. It is fabulous, and one can hardly be downcast for long when fiddlers come to play. Deep connections formed between the Childsplay musicians, playing those beautiful violins, are evident as their music flows in concert.

My father grew up in a music-loving family, many of the siblings playing various band instruments. Envision small town parades and concerts at the park gazebo, young and old participating or watching as music filled the air. Even the wail of a funeral dirge, or the mournful sounds of Taps winging through the breeze lifted one’s spirit to soar with it. Music of the spheres, created to inspire, encourage, bless our souls. In our world weighed with such heaviness these days, music has brought solace to me today.

Longing for more, I turned on one of Cable TV’s Music Choice channels. Soothing instrumental music and lovely pictures brought nonintrusive companionship. Where does the music take you? My soul this eve just needed rest. Mind on overdrive wears one out! There is only so much jabbering, opinions, drama, and action one’s psyche can endure.

Listening, floating on the notes, being lifted away from earthly stuff . . . it is healing to get away! I remember taking time out to just listen to music, long ago when I was much younger. Yes, it is a good and beautiful thing, especially when it brings peace to one’s soul. Au revoir . . . the music’s playing.

Check out Childsplay at https://childsplay.org/

It cut. Deep. The hurt more than she had met before. Slicing, ragged, the dissection impersonal and careless. Inflicted without remorse. Not even a shred. It was as though she did not exist, was of no value, just a useless toy to be played with, abused, and tossed away. The wounds would not be forgotten. No, these would leave an indelible mar upon her soul, forever. So horrific that she herself would insulate herself from them, burying them so deeply, training her mind to forget, to suppress, to deny such things had ever happened to her. Survival demanded so. What more could a six year old do. It was all too bewildering . . .

Andrea Jones* knew she had lived a troubled life. Moving from foster home to foster home, she was tired of not belonging anywhere. Yet at the same time, there was a sense of security that she could slip out of a threatening situation if need be. Her case worker truly was on her side, and knowing her past, was careful to place her in safe homes. Only once had she had to move because of a threat. That had opened a case against the foster couple, who were now in prison. Other homes she had grown out of age wise, too old for those wanting grade schoolers only. It seemed there was always something. Andrea had learned one sure thing – nothing was for certain.

Middle school had proven the same. The kids there were very cliquish, bullying not uncommon, from the subtle insults and put-downs to the outright public kinds of harassments meant to belittle and embarrass. Being a foster kid was a liability in her school. And she was among the very few. Perhaps her stubborn will to survive kept her going, and her love for writing and art. She could pour out her confusion and hurt in constructive ways, rather than hurting herself or others.

There was something in Andrea she herself did not understand, that pushed her to keep on. Excelling in school she won full scholarships to study art abroad, and with the help of her case worker, who had become a good friend and mentor, found a supportive community in her new country. It would be there she would begin the long process of true healing.

Several blocks away from the apartment Andrea occupied was a Children’s Home. Founded by a reputable charitable organization Andrea had heard about in the States, she was drawn to it. And to the laughter of children playing in the yard. She had always loved kids, and being around them. She had a tender heart especially for those who seemed withdrawn or isolated. It was as though she could read their body language, could hear their spirit’s whispers and cries, hear the hurt that was hidden inside. It resonated with her own spirit, like tuning forks in synchronized vibration. Art, with a minor in teaching, were her avenues of study, and the Children’s Home drew her like a bee to the honey comb.

Andrea war readily welcomed into the Children Home’s volunteer group. The staff were delighted with her credentials and offering to help. Her combination of a tender heart, willingness to give, and a gift of teaching art would fill a much needed place in the services offered to the children. Andrea felt in a strange sort of way that she had found a home there as well. Family. She had found family who truly needed her.

Six months passed. Andrea loved her classes at the University. She had taken Spanish throughout middle school and high school, and was very comfortable in her bilingual situation; both English and Spanish were used at the University and at the Children’s Home. As her experience with teaching the children continued, so did clarity come that she truly loved working with school-aged children. It mattered not the grade level. She realized her calling was in this area of sharing her art. Little did she know the benefits she would receive as well.

It all began one winter’s day when Andrea was cleaning the art room at the Children’s Home, Hogar del Corazo’n, Home of the Heart. Maria, a petite third grade girl wandered in with a stack of papers in her hand. “Miss Andrea?” she asked in faltering English. “May I speak with you?” “Of course, of course, Maria! Please come in. What can I help you with?” Maria approached Andrea slowly, and shyly handed her the stack of papers. “What are these?” asked Andrea softly. “Some pictures I have been keeping since I came here,” answered Maria. “I wanted to show them to you. I thought maybe you could help me know what to do with them.”

Andrea sat next to Maria at one of the painting tables. As she set the pictures one by one on the table she was stunned at what she saw . . . pictures drawn that took her back to her very own childhood, of things she herself had experienced. Things she had tried to forget. Things that this barely nine year old child had drawn. “Maria,” she gasped, “please tell me about these pictures. Are these your drawings?” “Yes, these are mine, Miss Andrea. And this is me before I came here. For some reason I thought maybe I should show them to you. They make me so sad. I don’t know what to do.” “You were right to show me, Maria, and they make me sad, too. I know how sad feels. We can find out what to do together.”

From her case worker’s help in the past, Andrea had no question the kind of help this child would need. This small opening into Maria’s heart was like the tip of a plow beginning to slice into the earth, turning over new ground, exposing hidden things to air and light. It was frightening, yet for this small child Andrea felt a rush of concern and protection, empathy and compassion, and a true desire to bring comfort to Maria as she journeyed through her grief. “I cannot believe the feelings this is stirring up inside of me,” she thought to herself. “It has been so many years. How could I still be feeling hurt from that mess from so long ago?” Perhaps this cutting open by the plow would yield a different result . . . perhaps steps towards true healing would occur as Andrea helped another to understand her own hurts. To comfort another with the comfort with which she herself had been comforted would in a strange and miraculous way bring freedom to her soul as well.

Isaiah 51:12a “I, even I, am He who comforts you.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4. Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

* The characters and places of this story are entirely fictitious and do not represent any known persons or places to the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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