Cut What?

Howling wind, rain beating on the windows, and the sound of hard-working sump pumps makes me want to curl up with a good book and read the day away. Instead, I worked in the basement for a while. My reward? Another armload for the garbage and one for the recycle bin. I plan to find my book sometime today, though. I hope you will too.

March . . . you never know whether you'll find a lion-kind-of-a-day, like today, or a lamb-kind-of-a-day with sunshine and soft fragrant breezes. Either way, it's time to venture into the outdoors, to rake, to prune . . . and to plan. 
 
Our yard needs a lot of work in the pruning department. Overgrown lilac bushes, unnamed foliage, and budding rhododendron have merged into each other, making it too unmanageable for me to care for. Thankfully, I found an expert to help me. 

He brought his blades, cutters, and even an electric chainsaw and set to work, stopping now and again to patiently explain his recommendations. He pointed out dead branches and the places where insect borers made a perfectly round hole into the wood to get inside and cause damage. I looked on, fascinated. Needless to say, when he finished the row of lilacs, the bushes looked pretty sparse." They'll grow back healthy," he assured me. I would never have had the nerve or know-how to make those cuts, yet they will prove necessary for the long-term beauty of the plants.

As I bundled up some of the fallen branches, I couldn't help but remember the words of Jesus in John 15:  

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and . . . prunes, that it may bear more fruit. . . . Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me (verses 1, 2, 4).

I've been thinking about what dead wood needs to be pruned from my life. About where the borers of faulty thinking have caused damage. How important to allow the Master Gardener to do His work. Can you relate?

So, whether the next few weeks mimic a lion or a lamb, I hope we'll both appreciate the value of a little spring pruning and remember the importance of shedding the "suckers" that hold us back from becoming fruitful and healthy.

Photos from google images

Bringing the Easter Story to Life

Are you ready for spring? I am.

Spring is coming and along with it, Easter Sunday, the wonderful time of year when we remember the significance of the resurrection of Jesus. 

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How do you celebrate Easter . . . personally, as a family, in your church? What are your special traditions? A Scripture reading for each day during the week preceding Easter? Decorations? Music? Menus? I'd love for you to share what makes Resurrection Sunday meaningful to you. 

If you're seeking to emphasize the spirit and significance of Easter in a fresh way this year, allow me to introduce you to Patricia Souder. Patti is a seasoned author, and she directed the Montrose Christian Writers Conference for many years. On her website, Alpha Star Drama, she is featuring four free scripts for Easter: “Puzzled at Passover,” a monologue by Martha; “Peter the Perplexed,” a monologue by Peter; “Innocent! That Man Was Innocent!” a dialogue between Pilate and his wife, Claudia; and “Mary Magdalene at the Tomb,” a monologue about the joy of resurrection. All can be previewed by audio or by choosing “script preview” after clicking on the title.

Patti writes, "I would so love for churches and small groups to use these to bring the Easter story to life as we live in an age where fewer and fewer people know the truth about God’s incredible love." 

You can find the Easter scripts and more at Alpha Star Drama.

Easter is a short three weeks away. I hope it's a meaningful day for you and your family as you plan special ways to commemorate the resurrection of Christ. And I invite you to share a tradition or two that adds meaning to your celebration.

On the Way Home, Part 2

Do you like to travel? If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose? Why there?

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I have friends who love the open road. Others look forward to an occasional cruise or a February flight to Florida where it's warm and sunny. One couple went to Australia to hike and breathe in the beauty of the Southern Hemisphere. And then there are missionaries and others who find their place to serve anywhere from Europe to Asia to South America and beyond.

Unlike these brave souls, I'm afraid I'm a little like Beatrice Curtis Brown's character, Jonathan Bing, who when he was invited to visit the king, sent back this reply:

If you please will excuse me, I won't come to tea;

For home's the best place for all people like me!

 

Lately I've been thinking about why "all people like me" might be more inclined to choose home if given the choice of whether to go or stay. For me? Having survived a car crash, the ever-present possibility seems to simmer on the back burner of my mind. On top of that, probably my introvert-ish nature craves the quiet, the predictable, the stable routines. It's a place I know in a world of unknowns. It represents family gatherings beside a blazing fire, writers' meetings around my dining room table, and hot cups of tea served with love to all who cross the threshold.

But I go.  

I go to visit my children in Lancaster where I play with two special grandboys and where the clip-clop of Amish buggies always stirs up a cloud of curiosity. My youngest daughter and I make our yearly pilgrimage to Lake Michigan to visit with my late husband's family, relishing in the sand, the wind, the waves . . . and the sense of belonging that comes with intentional gatherings and conversation. Last summer, we drove over 1000 miles to visit perspective colleges in the Midwest. On our last trip, we traipsed through no less than five airports coming and going.

And while waiting at the gate, I ran across these words penned by Elisabeth Elliot: "Traveling nowadays means what it has always meant; facing risks."* Then she cited the writings of an ancient apostle who shared his travel log:

In my travels I have been in constant danger from rivers and floods, from bandits, from my own countrymen . . . I have faced danger in city streets, danger in the desert, danger on the high seas, . . . I have known exhaustion, pain, long vigils, hunger and thirst, doing without meals, cold and lack of clothing.**

Talk about risk! These words put my travel frustrations in perspective.

So, maybe "all people like me" aren't as adventurous as others, not as apt to take risks. But often we go. We go because of the people we love. We go to be together. 

We go . . .because we want to be driven by love, not fear. 


Are you more apt to stay or go? Why? 

* Elisabeth Elliot, On Asking God Why And Other Reflections on Trusting God in a Twisted World, (Grand Rapids: Fleming H. Revell, 1989), 60.
**2 Corinthians 11:26, 27. 

On the Way Home, Part 1

Indianapolis Airport: Gate B7

Perhaps all the exhausting inconveniences held a little bright spot in an odd sort of way.

After a full day of waiting and watching our departure time bump in minute and hour increments from 12:40 p.m. to 10:30 p.m., our flight to Philadelphia canceled altogether. Weather issues on the East Coast, they said. That left my daughter and me standing in line at Gate 8 in Fort Wayne, IN. "I'm sorry," the ticket agent told us as he punched his keyboard. "I can't get you out of Ft. Wayne until the day after tomorrow. The only other option is to leave out of Indianapolis tomorrow at 12:22 p.m., fly to Chicago, and then onto Scranton.

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Indianapolis? Two and a half hours away? How would we get there? What good is a Tracfone at a time like this? My heart began to pound.

Another ticket agent who happened to be standing there began to scroll on her phone. “Here’s an option you might want to try.” She turned her screen in my direction so I could jot the number down.

Hoosier Shuttle. Maybe I could make this work.

Once we arrived at the motel, I called the number. Would anyone answer at 11 p.m.? I left a message and paced the floor. Soon my phone rang. “We’re booked at 7:30,” the lady said, “but I have seats for 5 a.m.”

We boarded the shuttle at 5:20 and sat on the front bench seat behind the driver and a gentleman passenger. Conversation began to flow in the predawn darkness. As the miles clicked by, I found myself listening to the man in the front passenger seat. With charcoal skin and a dark mustache, he wore a flat cap and glasses. Stories rolled off his tongue like thick molasses. One of six children, he was born in Mississippi. His dad picked cotton for two cents a pound. His parents didn’t have much of an opportunity to learn to read and write. Leftover prejudices saw to it that black ignorance remained the norm. “So they couldn’t better themselves,” he said. He told us his family had no running water in the house until he was fifteen or sixteen.

“How did you end up in Wisconsin?” the driver asked, referring to an earlier part of the conversation.

“The good jobs were in the north,” our new friend simply stated. “Many of my high school friends went to college to become teachers. Me? I went straight to work—made more money than them, too. I’m 62 now. . . . I’ve done okay." Later, the father of seven girls and one boy mused, “This is the best country in the world. You can better yourself if ya have a mind to.”

Topics jumped from the beauty and roar of Niagara Falls to how the Amish live to politics. “Ya know, the world is coming to an end.” He leaned up in his seat, pointing his long brown finger to make his point. “If the wrong leaders get into office and if they push the red buttons. Well . . . that’ll be it.”

“Where are you headed?” I asked as we neared the terminal.

“New York. I’m getting a car and driving it home.” He turned to me. “You live far from I-80?”

"About forty-five minutes."

He laughed. “There’s nothin’ at them exits all away across Pennsylvania.”

“Yep.”

I watched him enter the double doors, somehow feeling lighter having listened to his story, the story of a man so unlike me—a white woman from Buffalo and Pennsylvania who always took running water for granted and who’s never been to Mississippi or Wisconsin. I took a little of the conversation with me, and as we wait at Gate B7, I’m grateful for that little bright spot tucked in a couple of days of travel frustration.

And now, I just want to go home!


NOTE: Thanking God that we made it home safe and sound, even if it was twenty-four hours later than expected.

The Tug-of-War Between Dread and Trust

So, what are you looking forward to this year? A long-planned vacation? A family reunion? A conference or get-away weekend?  Spring?! I have a few things I'm anticipating. Visits with my grandboys--and their parents! Planting a variety of veggies in our new lasagna garden we prepared in the fall. Attending the Montrose Christian Writers Conference. Oh! And I have a book coming out in early September.

On the other hand, are you dreading some things coming up? 

I'll be honest with you. I find myself dreading quite a list of things. Things like filling out the FAFSA, a necessary form for my daughter to attend college. Or, figuring out what to do when my crawlspace is suddenly taking on water. Or, tackling the paperwork to obtain another year of health insurance. I find myself a little fearful and anxious about travel and health issues and even maintaining the house long-term.

I'm learning that dread and trust are at opposite ends of the spectrum. If I'm dreading, I'm not trusting the God who promises to walk beside me and be my refuge and strength through both the big and little challenges.

I'm not alone in this tug-of-war between dread and trust. Way back in the days when the Hebrew people found themselves on the brink of the Promised Land, Moses spoke these words, "Dread not, neither be afraid . . . Yet in spite of this word [the people] did not believe (trust, rely on, and remain steadfast to) the Lord [their] God" (Deuteronomy 1:29, 32, The Amplified Bible). They wandered around in the wilderness for forty years before enjoying the blessings God had planned for them.

Lately, I've been challenged by the apostle John's words to "practice the truth" (1 John 1:6). The truth that God invites us to come to the throne of grace to ask for wisdom. The truth that He will never leave us or forsake us. The truth that He has a purposeful plan for my life and will guide me every step of the way. He invites us to trust Him.

With God's grace (and the help of the accountant), the FAFSA and health insurance paperwork are complete. Throughout the past months, over and over, God has given me every reason to trust Him. These serve as monuments to help me remember the truth the next time my stomach knots up and I find myself dreading instead of trusting. 

Dread not. Neither be afraid. 

Photos from Google Images.

Going Green

We do a lot of recycling in our house: paper, cardboard, glass bottles and jars, tin cans, plastic . . . Some weeks the lid to the recycle bin barely closes, especially if I've been cleaning out. Which, as I mentioned in my last post, I feel driven to do this time of year. I cleaned out the end table drawers, the kitchen closet, dresser drawers, and the linen closet. And I'm still going through Barry's papers and notes. I don't keep them all, but I want to touch every paper. I still can't get over how many subject areas he studied.

Sometime in the late eighties and early nineties, Barry served on the committee to begin the recycling drive in our community. We still try to conserve and go green as much as possible by recycling, composting, and opting for more natural materials and less packaging.

The other day I ran across an ancient text where the color "green" caught my attention:

[Most] blessed is the man who believes in, trusts in, and relies on the Lord, and whose hope and confidence the Lord is.

For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters that spreads out its roots by the river; and it shall not see and fear when heat comes; but its leaf shall be GREEN. It shall not be anxious and full of care in the year of drought, not shall it cease yielding fruit.*

In some ways, this season of my life could be characterized as "the year of drought," a year of firsts, of change, of learning to manage on my own, of handling everything from crawlspace issues to cars to single parenting. Maybe you can identify. Not that we haven't experienced many wonderful blessings, yet how easy to succumb to the "fear" and "heat" of daily adjustments and to "be anxious and full of care," resulting in a life void of the fruits of joy and peace.

 

I want to be like a tree with green leaves even in the dry times. Don't you? I'm learning that going green in this sense has a lot to do with trust. Confidence and hope in the Lord. Believing and relying on Him. And somehow God takes our loss and recycles it into compassion, sensitivity, and a stronger connection to the One who demonstrates His faithfulness in every circumstance.

So, the next time you put something into the recycle bin, remember that going green means more than salvaging paper, plastic, and glass. It has a lot to do with trusting God to write our stories in times of abundance and drought.

 

*Jeremiah 17:7, 8, The Amplified Bible

To Begin Again . . .

We made it through another holiday. 

I didn't know how this Christmas would be for me and the girls since Barry passed away in May. I have to admit, it proved harder than I thought . . . hanging the "Our First Christmas" ornament on the tree, shopping and wrapping alone, seeing the empty recliner on Christmas morning. BUT we did okay. We laughed. We sang. We stayed up too late. I love these five-star kids of mine--three daughters, a son-in-law, and two grandboys. 

I spent today cleaning out drawers and a closet. It's my way to unwind, to reflect and plan. One lingering Christmas thought keeps coming to mind. Maybe it's what I need to take a deep breath and begin again.

It's typical to remember Mary as the promised virgin, the mother of the Messiah. Can you imagine the responsibility of mothering this baby? This toddler? This young son? I can't fathom what it must have felt like to lose track of the twelve-year-old Son of God! And then to see Him grow into a man, the God-man, who had an agenda even Mary didn't always understand. 

This year I received a Christmas letter from a friend who lost her husband to cancer about a month before Barry passed away. Cherie's letter resonated with me:  "Do we give much thought to Mary, the widow? Jesus was 33 years old when He died. but first, He took care of the needs of His widowed mother. He turned His mother over to the care of John. . . . who took care of Mary as if she was his own mother." 
 
Losing a husband as dedicated and caring as Joseph must have dealt a hard blow to the woman who pondered so much in her heart. Did Joseph die before their children reached adulthood? Was Mary a single mom?

After Jesus' resurrection, we find her and her other sons among Jesus' followers in the upper room. She was present when another apostle was chosen to take the place of Judas Iscariot, when Peter preached his first sermon, and when the Holy Spirit came. Later, when great persecution came to the believers in Jerusalem, was she among those who scattered or did she stay? We don't know.

Whatever the case, she chose to number herself with those who believed her Son to be the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6). She stayed involved. She stood for the truth. She exhibited faithfulness.

What a wonderful example as we begin 2016. I want to be involved, to be faithful, don't you? 

Photos from google images.