Grace for the New Year

Jan1

The holiday decorations are gathered and stored in their tubs until next December. I’m ready to lighten the house of the heaviness of surfaces covered and styled. Let there be lightness as I enter into the new year.

I become contemplative at end of year, thinking of the past, anticipating the next twelve months. Years, seasons ago, I listed multiple goals, steps to take that would help me accomplish them. Writing them on paper made them official, if not attainable. These days, I wonder at the future more than I plan.

The days of last year were uncertain for Sweet William and me, days filled with doctor appointments, unexpected hospital visits, surgeries, even a call or more to 911, waiting for the emergency-lighted vehicles to roll down our quiet lane. The year 2025 was full of unanticipated surprises. How do you put those on a list of goals?

Instead, choosing a word or phrase as a focus has become an imperfect practice. I’m amazed how the word chosen this year, Surrender, came to fruition in unexpected, even difficult, ways. As the year progressed, I wrote quotes on the first page of my bullet journal, things I wanted to remember, words that affirmed what the heart knows.

“What we want is control. What we need is surrender.” Holley Gerth

“Acceptance and relinquishment are the keys to our peace.” Elizabeth Elliott

“. . . the bliss of a yielded heart.” Lilias Trotter

And so, it has been a year of surrender, and thus a time of sanctification. Again and again, I turned loose of what I could not change, looking into my heart to see what I still held tightly. Wanting my own way left me feeling the frustration of not being able to make it happen.

Each time I prayed and asked the Lord to forgive my willfulness, knowing when I confess my sin, He is faithful to forgive, each time I felt the peace that comes from repentance and His grace. It is not a surrender to fate, what will be will be, but a surrender to the One who holds all things in His hands and does all things well. Why do I struggle against Him when I know His way is peace, joy, contentment, the very things I long for?

I’ve prayed for the Fruit of the Spirit to grow in me, knowing Jesus is the Vine to whom I am attached, and that life comes from Him. I must stay connected, yielded in heart to His work of growing Fruit in me, cooperating with Him in the process. If I continually resist the Lord’s pruning, I am fighting against what He wants to do in and through me. It is futile and fruitless.

Surrender is an ongoing, daily discipline I am learning to practice more. It searches the meditations of my heart, the words of my mouth, my actions and attitudes to those nearest me and to those I see at the  grocery, post office, or the return desk at Walmart. These interactions reflect my heart. When the laundry piles high and the schedule goes off course, when the unexpected knocks me down or when heartache lays me low, how does my sanctification look then?

While planning may be my love language – I do like a plan and love it when it comes together – I am learning to let go more easily. Waiting has never been my strong suit, yet I am waiting with more patience these days, understanding that patience grows in the wait.

The uncertainty, the difficult days, the challenges that are beyond my skill set must be given to my Heavenly Father. I am familiar with His strengthening power when I am at the end of myself, empty of my resources. He is faithful to lead, to sustain, to supply, to hold all things together every single time. He will always be all I need.

Traveling into a new year, I rest easy. No anxiety about the future. I trust my Father to walk with me every step of the journey, with a goal of resting all the unpredictability of the future with Him.

Let His ways be my ways, His plans my plans. May I be content to walk with Him, to wait for Him. The year ahead is in His hands. And so am I.

Grace for September – changing seasons

Sep4

The season is changing. I can feel it.

The giant sycamore leaves are falling, all crackly and brown. It is my yard’s first signal of summer’s waning days. The heat and humidity of a Kentucky August were something to be endured. A stroll through Walmart revealed the school supply shelves are empty, as darker shades of plum and maroon pillows and blankets fill the spaces. The Pop Shelf store draws me in with all things comforting and snuggly, smelling of vanilla and pumpkin. I am tempted, but I resist. I don’t need any more seasonal decor to unbox and then store away.

As I drive and watch the puffy clouds, I think the sky looks different this time of year. I sense the season is about to change, and I’m hungry for the first pumpkin pie.

I recall starting school in the heat of late summer, where the only air circulation was from a bank of open windows and a simple folded piece of notebook paper that became a fan in my hand. We perspired while we studied. As days went by, we wore jackets at the morning bus stop only to shed them in the afternoon as temperatures fluctuated.

I appreciate all the seasons, though I do have my favorites. Spring and autumn never last long enough. As summer and winter near their ending, I am eagerly anticipating the next season with its changing temperatures and landscape. I may briefly miss the beauty of a fresh snow or the dark green of the woods, but I’m ready to move on.

To everything there is a season. Life is a series of changes and cycles. I brave the frozen, hard ground of life’s trials, bundling up against the cold wind, praying for endurance and courage. When the brighter, breezy season emerges and days stretch long, I relax, ready to enjoy the reprieve and rest for a while, yet wondering how long it will last before a stifling heat burns hot, drying up my strength and resources, leaving me parched. If the harder season seems to last longer, it may be my perception more than reality.

As I remember my life, sometimes reading old journals, I perceive it is in the difficult seasons when I learned the most important lessons. My helplessness moved me to surrender control, to run to the mercy seat and fall into the Father’s arms. His Word became a lifeline, a strength and a promise that He hears me, He sees me, and He is with me. The waves and wind don’t look quiet as threatening as I shelter under the shadow of the Almighty.

In seasons of rough pathways and dark nights, I ask for His light, for ears to hear God and eyes to see His movement, faithfully aware that He is always working.

Each season offers its own beauty, its own flavors and aromas. I see it. Change comes, always. In it I am transformed as I shed old habits and attitudes. I will grow and flourish through the power of the Holy Spirit, living and actively working to conform me to the image of Christ. I will stop striving, quiet myself like a weaned child and listen for the Voice.

And this is my assurance, Christ remains the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I am forever in His keeping and in His care. I am loved with an everlasting love. I am His and He is mine. Always. Eternally. Evermore.

“I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise will be continually in my mouth.”
— Psalm 34:1 KJV

Grace and peace.

Sunday grace – the way of suffering

Jul27

Life has been a little challenging for Sweet William and me lately.

A recent foot surgery kept me off my feet for six weeks, riding a scooter through the house from dawn to dark instead of walking on two feet. I struggled with simple tasks that took twice as long to accomplish, creatively using a grabber stick to retrieve and pick up things, thinking outside the box to finish a simple task. I went at a snail’s pace through the house. Any meals I prepared were minimal. Mostly, we were fed by friends and family. I called for help so many times, that I lost track of who needed a thank-you note. When anyone came to the house and asked, “Can I do something?” I had a running list on my phone, something I needed from upstairs, in the garage, or on the deck, tasks that would normally have been simple for me.

Within the six weeks of my confinement and disability, Sweet William went to the ER three times, one resulting in a stint in his heart. We were at the mercies of others for me to get to the hospital and to bring him home.

People texted, emailed, called to check on us. “How are you? Do you need anything?” They brought delicious food, watered the plants, fed the dog, changed sheets on beds, carried out trash, washed dishes, moped up my spills, ran the vacuum, brought in the mail, picked up groceries and put them away, drove me to the doctor, drove Sweet William to the doctor, came early in the morning when our cat was sick outside where I couldn’t get to him. They brought their assistance and kindness, their smiles, their hugs and their own kind of sunshine. They shared their joy with us. Oh how we needed their joy. Oh how we needed them.

I sat in a waiting room recently as Sweet William was being evaluated for rehab, and beside me sat our good friend Steve who has chauffeured us multiple times in the last weeks. He smiles through each visit as if it is his delight to serve. And I see the face of God in him and in others who have served us generously, not just these last six weeks, but through the years of our neediness.

As I waited, I wondered about the days and years ahead for Sweet William and me. I don’t know where the road leads. Only God knows. Whatever our path, will He be honored in each day of it? I pray that He will be, that we live to the praise of His glory.

But how is He glorified in suffering? How is pain, heartache, broken bodies used for good in the kingdom of God? How do the troubles we endure produce fruit? How do we point to the cross and to Jesus when life is hard? How do we make a difference in our little part of the world while we live with its brokenness?

A sweet friend gifted me a book by Elisabeth Elliot, A Path Through Suffering, how it is part and parcel of the human experience from birth through final breath. She quoted Lilias Trotter, an artist and missionary in the late 19th century who commented on “ the bliss of a yielded heart.” The phrase attached itself to me, a longing deep within, and I ponder this kind of blissful surrender in all things.

All humanity suffers to some degree, yet we resist it, cry out against it, fight and flail to keep it at bay, pray for it to vanish. We moan, complain and ask, “why me?” when it comes. We endure it with tears, hoping it won’t last long. What would happen if I blissfully yielded my heart to whatever God is doing in and through me? How would that make a difference? How would it make me different?

Suffering is a common denominator to humanity, to all of creation, the result of sin entering the world. Sometimes it is obvious in the broken body, the aging process or the mental decline. Some suffer unbeknownst to others, with no outward evidence, hiding it and hiding from it, and no one comes to their aid.

I consider the suffering of others, and when I do, this season in which we find ourselves seems like a mild inconvenience. Others suffer so much more, right in my own church family and around the globe. I am not the only one when the days are hard, when the body aches, when the heart is burdened, when the end of pain is nowhere in sight.

So where do we turn? When I have no answers, I turn to the only Truth there is:

And we know that God causes all things to work together for good
to those who love God,
to those who are called according to His purpose.  – Romans 8:28 NASB

The economy of God is beyond my understanding. What is meant for evil, He can turn for good in some meaningful way. He brings beauty from ashes, though it may take time and not look like what I expect. I know this for sure, that my Father is always good when life is hard, that He sees through eternity’s lens while I see through a glass darkly. He has a plan that I cannot understand, and He is not obligated to explain it all to me. It is enough that He asks me to trust Him. Trust Him.

I remember how Jesus longed for His disciples to believe Him, to have faith in Him, to trust and not be afraid. I need those reminders, as they did, to fear not. There is nothing to fear when I am in His keeping and in His care.

I’ve heard the Father “speak” to my spirit through these months, “I’m taking care of you.” And I believe. There is nothing that comes to me that is not first filtered through His loving hands. He is wise and He is good. He is kind and He is faithful.

The days ahead are all unknown to me. My only choice is to trust and obey. And the bliss of a yielded heart is the aim and the destination.

May we live to the praise of His glory.

Sunday grace – Father’s Day memories

Jun15

It’s Father’s Day, and I miss my dad today. Remembering him is always sweet and tender. He went to Heaven in 2013, but his influence lives on in me. He was a wonderful father to me growing up and continued to love me well as an adult. I remember only a few times he got upset with me. Once was when I disobeyed him when I was in elementary school and lived on Teradon Drive in Louisville.

We moved there from the house on St. Andrews Road, the second house I remember living in. Dad built both houses, and he added a garage on Teradon. The house had green wood siding on top and Bedford stone below. A small porch led to the front door. It was a corner lot, and I enjoyed playing with Allen next door, an only child, and two brothers who lived across the street. There were Bonnie and Connie, sisters, who lived down the hill from our house, and an older boy named Denny who I had a crush on. Sometimes the group of kids gathered at our house with the big side lot and played for hours. Mother wanted me home where she could keep a watchful eye, so the kids came to our yard.

So many memories rise from my time at this home where I spent most of my elementary years. But back to the incident that vexed my father. The driveway down from the garage was a decline, and when the garage door opened, it swung wide. It seemed like the perfect swinging fun to me. There was a ledge on the inside to stand on and a chain at top that held it to the garage. I had discovered the fun of swinging on the door, but dad told me not to do it anymore. Maybe I was getting bigger and my weight was putting too much strain on the chain and door.

    One day while he was gone to work, I could not resist the temptation and the fun, and I started swinging from the door. And then the inevitable happened. The chain came loose. I was scared. I had disobeyed and before me were the consequences. I did what a carpenter’s daughter would do. I found a hammer and something to stand on so I could try to fix it and hide the evidence. And as I was frantically working, dad came home from work. He was upset, rightly so. He marched me into mother and told her what happened, and I got a switching for it. It was well deserved, I know that. And never did I do anything like that again.

Dad grieved over that incident all his days. He remembered a small girl with curly blond hair, sweat on her forehead, trying to fix the mistake and hide her disobedience. I never felt bad at him for doing what he must do. I learned a valuable lesson. But the deep, deep love of my father felt regret for hurting his little girl. He wished for a do-over, I guess.

Being a parent is hard, so very hard. A tiny newborn is placed in our arms, and we have no idea what to do with him or her. We have the experience of our own parents to draw from, and that is not always the best. They made their mistakes too, and often we drag them into the next generation. We want to be good parents, we really do. But we are imperfect humans, making mistakes, hopefully learning from them and not repeating them. Our human nature is flawed from the beginning, carrying a sin nature from the fall of Adam and Eve. We wound people because we have been wounded. And so we need a Savior who can redeem us, take all our sins and mistakes, cover them with His own blood, offer complete forgiveness, and somehow teach us how to live in His strength and overcome the self-centeredness we all battle.

I wanted to swing on that garage door because it was a pleasure I could not resist, disregading the warning of my father. The pleasure only lasted a little while. My dad was justified in what he did, I knew it even then. He was a good father, kind and loving, patient with me and the children in the neighborhood who needed skates adjusted or a chain put back on a bicycle. He took me to church, loved my mother and me, and was an example of what it means to follow hard after God.

Through the years, he became even more dear to me. He loved me like a father should. I miss him today. Happy Father’s Day dad. You were the best, and I love you so.

Tuesday grace – watching the moon

Mar11

I wake in the middle of the night with the light of the waxing moon shining in the window. It’s brilliant in the dark sky. And I remember, the moon is growing in its fullness. Waxing Gibbous. It will soon be a month until Passover.

While much of the Christian world is observing Lent, the Jewish population is anticipating the beginning of Passover on April 12. There are things to do, preparations to make, houses to clean and leaven to be removed. It’s a process taken seriously.

This time of year, I’ll be watching the moon’s changing. Because I am an early riser, I see the moon through the kitchen window as I wait for coffee. Sometimes I walk out the back door and gaze at the pre-dawn sky, me shivering in the cold night air. I see the moon as it sets in the western horizon, as birds awaken and begin their morning serenade. This is my season, the one I too anticipate with joyful song.

The Feast of Passover always begins on a full-moon evening, families gathering at tables to retell the story of the nation of Israel’s release from the bondage of Egypt. It is one of the most important festivals of the Jewish faith. And it is opportunity for passing their history and their journey with God to the next generation. It is a time to give thanks for God’s deliverance and a time to celebrate redemption with family and friends.

Passover prepares me for the dark days of Jesus’ last week on earth as the God-man. His entry into Jerusalem as a triumphant king and the plot to kill Him. The secret conversations about betrayal and arrest. The very last Passover meal with the disciples who still vie for supremacy, them falling asleep while Jesus agonizes in a shadowy garden. The arrest and mockery of a trial. The Via Dolorosa, blood trailing behind a beaten-beyond-recognition man. The cross, His words, the sky darkened as the earth shook. And the resulting confusion, fear, hiding and waiting for who knew what.

I know this story well, having heard it from my parents when I was but a child. I know that Sunday comes and tears turn to rejoicing. But I need to linger in the suffering of Jesus, the extraordinary price He paid for my restoration and communion with the Father. He settled the debt for my soul’s redemption, and I need to remember.

Passover became significant to me when my Aunt Dottie brought it to my attention through the teaching of Zola Levitt. I was fascinated with the way it connected Old Testament to New Testament, the killing of the Passover lamb that shadowed a prophecy, God would provide for Himself a Lamb. The pieces began to fit together like I’d not seen before.

Reading the Gospel accounts of Jesus last supper with his followers, I see shadows coming into the light and its deep significance for me as a Christ follower. Jesus’ last meal with His friends in an upper room was the festival of Passover. It was the occasion of Him giving them His last words of encouragement and instruction. It was there He told them to love one another just like He loved them. That last dinner was a tender time of communion with those who had been with Him through victories and miracles and hopes for the coming kingdom of God.

During Passover, Jesus washed the dirty feet of a dozen men, took a towel and served them on His knees to their astonishment and protests. He was Lord and Master. How could He be doing this lowly, slave-like task? They could not grasp it as He told them they would be blessed if they did the same.

At the Passover table Jesus revealed that one would betray Him, stirring up confusion, suspicion, and self-doubt. Who could possibly do such a thing? And for what reason? Besides, these were able-bodied, strong men who would surround and protect their Teacher. No! That could not happen.

Jesus implored His friends to abide in Him, to dwell in, find their home and comfort in His presence like a branch receives life from the vine. Little did they realize that He would soon be taken forcefully from them, with the worst days of their lives on the heels of Jesus’ arrest. They would need a place to go, a shelter under the shadow of the Almighty, as their world reeled and shook with the events of a Passover weekend.

They did not understand, those faithful followers, men and women alike, what Jesus was about to accomplish. Though He tried to tell them on other occasions, they were dull of hearing, listening to their own thoughts of triumphing over their enemies, of securing an earthly kingdom where they would sit at Jesus’ left and right, ruling and reigning with Him. Victory and conquest, that is what they were expecting.

Instead, there would be soldiers, an arrest, a fleeing for their very lives. Denial and forsaking their Master. Darkness and chaos. A mock trial with rabble rousers calling for the release of a criminal instead of the innocent Lamb of God. They could not see Redemption sitting at the Passover table with them, truth unfolding before their eyes.

Before they left the upper room of this Passover finale, Jesus gave them unleavened bread and fruit of the vine, and He called it His body and His blood. He told them to eat it and drink it. As they remembered their slavery and emancipation from Egypt, they were now to remember Him. They did not comprehend then, but later they would, and thereafter they would think of Jesus’ life and death, the salvation He provided, each time they ate and drink in His name.

It happened on a Passover. The Lamb of God slain for the sake of the world. His death would mean deliverance and freedom, the like they had never known.

It is time to remember and prepare for the celebration.

Sunday grace – a sheltering tree

Feb16

Once again it is winter wonderland at my old Kentucky home.

Suddenly surrounded by trees laden with snow, it is beautiful despite the inconvenience of being homebound again. I’m thankful for online access to church services that let me join in at some level. Not the same, but it’s something.

The branches of the trees hang heavy once more. I hope they are strong to hold steady, that they will not lose more limbs. The trees in our yard hold memories for me, like friends who’ve weathered storms. Many of them were planted by my hand, or by my dad’s, who taught me what little I know about gardening.

As I made the bed this morning, I spied the little tree through the window, lovely in its coat of white. It is a shoot that originated from trees now dead and gone. Decades ago, my father-in-law, who was a trucker by trade with a farmer’s heart, brought us one small sapling from his own yard. The one become several, a mini grove, that gave us plums if we got to them before the birds.

The small-stature trees aged and eventually died, and a neighbor cut them down, leaving only low stumps that caught the lawn tractor too many times. I marked the stumps with rods stuck in the ground, colorful cloth flags waving on each to mark the hazard. A couple of years ago, I saw a shoot emerging from the rotting stumps, and to my delight, it was a little plum tree. I’ve trimmed and shaped it and watched it grow taller, and its blossoms were breathtaking last spring. It comforts me, somehow.

Recollections are drawn forth by the trees as I gaze out windows, walk the yard, or check branches for bird nests in the summer and fall. There are trees planted where we buried two beloved pets. Leafy maples gave shade as I sat in a swing while the grandchildren played when they were small. The two oaks I planted from tiny seedlings are about the same size as the two oaks planted by squirrels. Three small Bittersweets were added just last summer, because I cannot help myself.

This morning when I stopped long enough to admire the beauty of the plum tree, I thought of my father-in-law, his gentle nature and kindness, the way he shared with us what was important to him.

A good friend gave me a small ornament several years ago at Christmas. Rather than tuck it away in a box of paraphernalia, I hung it close where I sit each morning with coffee and Scripture. It reads, “Friendship is a sheltering tree,” a quote from a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I think of that one line often, thankful for the friends who have blessed my life in ways too numerous to count. Their strengths and personalities enrich me. They speak truth and challenge me to be better. They offer encouragement when I struggle. We cry and laugh together, and we work alongside one another. They have nurtured me and cared for me when I was weak and struggling. They pray for me.

Friends have been a sheltering tree in my life.

I remember how a prophecy of Messiah said He would be a root out of dry ground, life where it was not expected. A people would be revived by a promise fulfilled from a promise-keeping God. Jesus was called the Root of Jess and a Branch.

A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. Isaiah 11:1 NIV

When Jesus ate the Passover with His disciples the night He was betrayed, He called Himself the Vine and gave them the title of branches, instructing them to remain in Him and He in them. He is the lifegiver and from Him we receive life.

He also called them friends. I find this so dear and tender, and yet bewildering. Those who were still bickering over their own importance while Jesus washed their feet were called His friends. He calls me a friend too, the one who sometimes bickers just like the disciples.

The online sermon this morning left me with two questions: What does Jesus want to do in me? And what does Jesus want to do through me? I’ll be pondering this, asking for the Lord to speak and show me His desire. I want to know. I want to stay fully connected to the Vine and draw my strenght from Him.

I hope to be a sheltering tree for my friends. I want to speak life to them, using the power of my words to build others up and help them become stronger (Ephesians 4:29).

Jesus gave us the example and told us that remaining in Him is vital. Without Him, we can do nothing. He is life, and He gives life, a life we can get from no other source.

Jesus is a sheltering tree

Sunday grace – waiting in the dark

Feb3

I turn the calendar page and marvel how time flies.

January’s snow and frigid temperatures finally gave way to the sunshine and 50 degrees, and I see the grass again. The lake across the road finally thawed, while the geese and mallards enjoy a chilly swim. Nature calls me to come and see, to listen to sounds of life.

In the early hours, from my rocking chair by the fireplace, I look to the window, watching for sunrise in the pre-dawn, knowing it comes a few seconds earlier as days lengthen. Light breaking into the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. The light . . . I long for it, crave its coming, need its nourishment and energy.

How I’ve needed the light to brighten my thoughts, to shine on the path and to show me the way. It isn’t that I dread the night. At bedtime, I sink into the shadow of sleepiness, snuggling under warm blankets, thanking God that He gives us sleep and rest.

When I was a child, I was frightened of the dark. Sometimes my mother would send me next door to my aunt’s house to fetch something at nighttime. I would run and quote a Bible verse there and back to bolster my courage. Did mother know she was helping me overcome my fear by the Word of God? Perhaps.

Sometimes I go to the back deck in the evening as I let the dogs out for the last time. I look up to the sky, observing the seasons of the moon. Last night it was a crescent with a bright star positioned at its curved point. I think how God planned this, “Let there be lights in the vault of the sky . . . separating the day from the night . . . for signs and for seasons and for days and years . . . two great lights—the greater light for dominion over the day, and the lesser light as well as the stars for dominion over the night” [Genesis 1:14-18]. God separated the light from the darkness. Both are His creation.

I love how Jesus proclaimed Himself as Light. “I am the Light of the world,” He said. We are a people still desperately looking for light.

But sometimes we seek it in places and things less than, searching for the bright and shiny, the quick brilliant sparkle, the feel-good flash of glitter and glow. We long for something, but what the world offers is shallow and fleeting. Its luster fades too quickly, leaving us on a quest for something more to satisfy. But it cannot sustain us.

Scripture says the Word is a lamp to my feet, a light to my path. When darkness remains long and I begin to feel lost, I must trust God’s truth. He will give me enough light for the next step. Though I may wish for the map marked and illuminated with all that lies ahead, one next step with Him is really all I need.

“Follow Me,” Jesus said, not explaining what that was going to look like. It is in learning to trust Him that I grow in my faith, when it is light and when it is dark. He is familiar with both and disturbed by neither.

“To you the night shines as bright as day. Darkness and light are the same to You.”
Psalm 139:12 NLT

As I wait through the remainder of the short winter days and longer nights, I cannot help but anticipate the season of spring. I will look for buds on the trees, their prediction of tiny leaves beginning to form. I’ll check beside the front porch for  the crocuses that surprise me every year. I’ll listen to the cry of the cranes flying high in their V-shape formation, calling to one another as they move to their next destination. The birds will begin to sing in the early morning, Canadian geese will find their mates for a new family, and the days will grow longer little by little. I will wait for the next season, for surely it will come.

You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.
Psalm 18:28 NIV

Monday grace – needing a little help

Jan13

We’ve been snowbound this week, and I’ve had cabin fever.

I remember my youthful, adventurous 30s when I traveled 25 miles on a snow-clad interstate, determined to get to work. There were only a handful of people in the office that day, some who lived a much closer distance. I was fearless, with responsibilities. There may have been a bit of pride involved in doing what I did.

Decades later with wisdom learned and a body not quite at the same endurance level, I am not such a risk taker. I know my limitations. I know who depends on me to be upright and on my feet. There are critters and people who want to eat, so I am careful and cautious, not that same younger woman risking life and limb.

The landscape has been beautiful and destructive. From my windows, I counted 6 trees with broken limbs in and around our yard. I love my trees, and I grieve a little. A small willow that holds significance for me is bending to the ground. Bend but don’t break, please!

I notice the trees deeper in the little woods offer support to one another, branches intertwined, roots doing the same. It’s the lone trees in the yard or the ones on the periphery whose branches fall from the weight of heavy snow and ice.

Nature teaches me. Isolation is unhealthy. Even the feral cats huddle together in their house for warmth. Our dogs want to be near, wandering from room to room as I work, cuddling close as I sit to read or type. Standing alone may look strong and independent, but it is not the way to flourish. We need one another, just like the trees supporting each other in the storm.

I talked with a beautiful younger friend today, a real live phone conversation. It was good to hear her voice, the inflections, the excitement, the pauses as she recovered emotions over a tender sharing. Those feelings don’t come through in a text or email, no matter the varied emojis trying to express for us. My spirit was lifted having spent an hour with her, even by long distance. And the Lord knows how I need my spirit lifted.

Connection is important for us all. It is a necessity. Relationship is a gift God gave Adam and Eve. “It is not good for the man to be alone,” He said. And that is still true.

When we express our need, it may feel vulnerable, like we are incapable, or weak, unable to stand on our own. The truth is none of us can. Jesus set us an example as He gathered twelve men around Him, visited and ate in the homes of friends, traveled dangerous roads with his band of disciples, men and women. They did life and ministry together. They ate and celebrated together. They rested and played together. He taught them and they learned.

The phrase “one another” appears multiple times in the New Testament: be devoted to one another; live in harmony with one another; serve one another; confess your sins to one another.”  Can these point us to fellowship and togetherness in the body of Christ?

It takes some humility to admit I need you. Thinking I can do it all by myself is foolishness. Sometimes I limp when I walk, and I could use a supportive hand. When I cry, a handkerchief handed to me is a blessing. I want to laugh with you and celebrate with you and bear your burdens as you do the same for me.

Can we do what Jesus instructed, not only by His words but by His living? Love one another. Can we fulfil the law of Christ by being His body, knit together and supporting each other?

Being a loner is lonesome.

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor. If either of them falls down,one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”
Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

It is the wise who knows she needs help and isn’t afraid to ask.

Monday grace, friends.

Sunday grace, a New Year

Jan5

It is a new year with all the looking backward and looking forward. We evaluate, resolve, set goals, plan projects. What worked? What didn’t? What needs to change? How can I improve? It’s only been a few days of newness, and I’m already tired.

I have been a planner and a goal setter with the best of them. I’m learning I have little control in this life. I’ve heard it from two friends already this new year, “not what I planned.” And such is life. How can I look toward this year differently?

Having lived seven-plus years, I know myself. I know my strengths. I grimace at my weaknesses that still appear regularly. I want to use what time I have remaining in the best possible way. I want to be authentic and genuine. I want to be more of the person God made me to be.

I’m a work in progress, an ongoing transition of being transformed. I am still becoming.

Time looks different to me now, limited in a way I had no concept of when I turned eighteen. Sweet William and I attended so many funerals last year, reaffirming the truth that life on this earth, as we know it, is not permanent. Lord, teach us to number our days.

How can I make the most of what is left of this one beautiful life I’ve been given? This I ponder. I want to say ‘yes’ to what I’m called to do. I need to say ‘no’ to what I’m not. My candle burns short. I want the flame to burn bright to the end.

I fear sleepwalking through the rest of my life, barely aware of the path I’m on, moving in autopilot, doing what I’ve always done. I hear the call to live life fully, no matter the circumstances. I ache to do something significant, though it be small. I long for the abundant life.

Challenges await me. Hills and valleys will be part and parcel of my journey. There will be sunshine and rain, and I can plant flowers. I will experience joy as well as sorrow, and I shall laugh with those who laugh and weep with those who weep.

The God I serve has a plan I cannot comprehend. He knows the way, charts the path. He orders my steps, and sometimes makes me stop in my tracks.

As I contemplate Jesus’ life, His three years of ministry, I marvel at His focus to stay the course despite opposition, in spite of friends and enemies who wanted Him to dance to another tune. He would not. He marched to the beat of a heavenly drum. He knew His mission. He listened for His Father’s voice. He followed the plan calculated before earth had a foundation.

Sometimes we make it too complicated with our rules and regulations, our action plans and resolutions. Jesus made it simple. Love God. Love others. Do the right thing. Hold to the truth. Follow the path.

The prophet Amos spoke words to the people millennia before me. They seem profound and yet simple. They seem appropriate.

This is what the Lord says to Israel: “Seek me and live . . . “ (5:4)

This is the path I’ve been looking for.

Sunday grace.

Revised and reposted from January 2020

Sunday grace – summer ending

Aug20

It’s been a while friends. I took a summer break, as much as that is possible for me, the ever-ready bunny swirling along like I’ve got good sense. I tried to let my mind rest, which is an endeavor for one prone to plan and push and produce, always checking those myriad tasks off the list. Because there is some pleasure in a good check mark.

Now the schedules resume as piano students return from their summer break, all of us a little sluggish at the keyboard. It will soon be routine again, and we will feel the rhythms begin to sing their melodies.

The gardens flourish and late summer flowers bloom in the yard, zinnias, black-eyed Susans, and sunflowers. The pink ladies and day lilies are giving their energy to bulbs for next year. I’m surprised as much as delighted by the flowers, how they choose to grow in places I didn’t plant them and in spite of my less than good gardening skills. They have minds of their own and a determination to live.

I hosted a tea party a few weeks ago, a group of high school girls and their discipleship leaders. It was fun setting the table with the pretty dishes, flowers, candles, and tea cups that have history. My grandchildren had many a tea party with the china cups, as I taught them how to hold them carefully so as not to break them. With children, all that was needed were cheese and crackers, pickles and carrot sticks, while they dressed in hats and make-believe clothes, carrying fans in their hands, and it was a tea party. How many times did we gather at the table making memories? I hope the teens will remember that they are loved. I want the same for my grandchildren.

Four cats are living under our deck, appearing at the Wright House a couple months ago. A smallish mother cat and her kittens had nowhere else to go, I suppose, and I began putting out food and water, assuming they were hungry and looking for a safe place. They are skittish, fearful, jumping at unexpected movements and noises. After two weeks of coaxing Li’l Momma, my name for her, began to show her face when I came out the side door. Finally, she is not so afraid and welcomes me as I bend to scratch her ears and pour kibble into the dish.

Sweet William and I toss around ideas about what to do with these wildish newcomers, as I buy another bag of cat food. The kittens are having none of me, their eyes watchful, their legs scrambling down and under the deck at sight of me. Maisie is no help. She is not a cat-loving dog, having never had opportunity to be well acquainted. She likes to chase things. Though she cannot get to the cats, her bark is enough to startle and send them scampering to their safe place.

I’m still hopeful I can woo the kittens to accept my presence and understand I am the source of their food, water, and shelter. Will they ever understand that? Do I ever fully understand and appreciate that God the Father is my source of those things and more, the very breath I breath and the lungs that expand? I hope I am learning to be more grateful with each passing day.

I’ve been learning a song on the piano, old and familiar, with a different twist to the melody and chords. I find myself singing, “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear calling on my ear, the Son of God discloses.” This song of my childhood holds truth of an ever-present Savior who wants to speak words of love to me. To me. Astounding.

Admittedly, it has been a hard year for Sweet William and me, and part of the reason for my few words. We’ve carried some burdens, our own and others. We’ve cried tears and prayed fervently for miracles while surrendering and bowing the knee to the only One who has answers to life’s hurts and pain. We’ve had to trust without seeing, believe with hope, and look with eyes of faith, knowing He works all things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. His ways are not my ways. I am short-sighted and want immediate answers, relief from suffering, and sorrow turned quickly to joy.

The treasures of my life are friends and family, younger and seasoned. They help hold me together. I gather them to myself like I gather flowers from the garden. They brighten my life and lift my load. They cheer me and make me laugh. They show they care and they pray for me. I’m so thankful for community, for those circles twined together like morning glory vines climbing higher and rewarding me with beauty.

I smile at the simple pleasures these days. The cardinal sipping the watermelon rind I left on the deck railing. The smell of lavender. Catching a glimps of kittens playing with each other. The crisp cool mornings so rare in August. My strong morning coffee as I hold the Word and sit with Jesus. This is my life line, the truth, ancient and relavant, written on pages, calling me to a higher place and shining the light of His love into the shadows that threaten. It is the kindness of Jesus as God speaks peace to me when life would overwhelm.

My “ship” feels a little battered, sails torn and the hull nicked and scarred by the storms of life. Oh the battles waged and the victories won by the Captain of my soul. My mother used to sing a song in her strong alto voice, and the words offer assurance.

Sometimes when my faith would falter, and no sunlight I can see,
I just lift mine eyes to Jesus, and He whispers “Pilot me.”

“Fear thou not, for I’ll be with thee. I will still thy Pilot be.
Never mind the tossing billows. Take My hand and trust in Me.”

Sing on, O my soul. He is my Pilot, and He will go with me through every step of my journey.

Sunday grace.