Sunny Pathway

Moving Time

2009-10-02T11:20:00.000-07:00

Those who read this blog regularly might remember my saying I would need to make two decisions. One concerned my foot and the other concerned blogging.

I’ll address blogging first. I’m making a change now and I suspect there will be more changes in the future. This will be my last posting on Sunny Pathway, but I’m not going away. You’ll be able to find me at a new blog called Solveig’s Insights.

I created Solveig’s Insights about a year ago as a place for sharing daily devotionals, but I stopped developing the site when I began publishing Thoughts for Inspiration on a daily basis.

Now the unused moniker is calling. The new site won’t be devotional in nature—although that might enter in occasionally—and it won’t offer daily postings. To find me you’ll need the new address. The URL is: http://solveigsinsights.blogspot.com/. Or click the title under “you’ll also find me at” in the sidebar to your left.

I’m not going to recount all that has transpired to bring about change now and later, but’ll share a bit. The original purpose of Sunny Pathway was to provide helpful information on how to live with health-related problems—while always keeping God as the center. I have health issues myself and I’ve learned adjustments are necessary. I’ve also learned that bringing God’s light into the dark tunnel of difficult circumstances means everything.

However, the blog I envisioned required resources and connections. It didn’t take long for me to realize my energy level made that impossible. In an attempt to stay on target with my stated purpose, I began writing about my personal health issues, and Sunny Pathway became a personal blog.

Even as this happened, I didn’t like the title as a moniker for a personal blog. Although it plays on the literal meaning of my name, it seems pollyanish—if there is such a word. While God brings light into difficult circumstances, claiming a sunny path as a general state of affairs is hard to swallow.

In addition to Sunny Pathway and Thoughts for Inspiration, I created Red, Red Berries, intended as a personal blog but morphed into an ideas blog. I stopped posting there about six months ago.

Fatigue is a problem. At one point I asked God for permission to quit everything. I felt He told me to finish Thoughts.

While working on the Thoughts material, one day I realized I could close Red, Red Berries. Embarrassing and frustrating, but necessary. (And I still need to figure out how to do it!)

On Sunday and Monday of this week I went into some sort of time warp. When I emerged, I knew living with a moniker I find irritating does not a happy blogger make. If I continue, I should change it—and I should change it sooner rather than later. Even though this doesn't seem like the opportune time.

Which leads me to the decision regarding my foot. I’ll be having surgery on October 14th—less than two weeks away. Feet are extremities and their healing process is usually slow. The next few weeks will be busy as I prepare for an extended recovery period. I might not post two times a week while trying to launch this new venture. That breaks the rules set forth by the exeprts, but I feel God understands and He's the One who matters.

But before I sign off, I want to thank all who have stopped by. Even with the ups-and-downs—and the fatigue—it’s been good. I’ve learned much and God has blessed me in the process. I hope you’ve been blessed, too.

And I hope you make the easy journey to visit me at Solveig’s Insights. The site is not totally ready, but it is up and running with one entry.

Book Review: Abercrombie Trail

2009-09-24T09:30:00.000-07:00

It's time for book reviews and I'm going to share something dear to my heart today. Candace Simar, author of Abercrombie Trail: a Novel of the 1862 Uprising, is a friend. Rather than talk briefly about several books, I’ll focus on one.

The Background: The Sioux Tribe is pushed into impossible living conditions. When payments promised by treaties do not come and when fathers have no way to feed their families, the Sioux turn against the settlers. This makes sense to us today. But the settlers, many of whom cannot speak English, do not fully understand, They live on isolated farmsteads and they're afraid. Neither people-group understands the other’s culture, although this confusion is only portrayed by the protoganist. In addition, the ongoing Civil War adds another layer. It all leads to a series of tragic events that profoundly impact everyone living in in the area.

The Storyline: When Evan Jacobson's plans don't materialize after coming to America in hopes of a better life, he finds a job driving a stage coach on the Abercrombie Trail. While at Fort Snelling where the trail begins (near St. Paul, Minnesota), Evan forms a relationship with the historic Bishop Whipple. He also meets and comes to an understanding of sorts with one specific Indian. But on the trail to Fort Abercrombie (south of Fargo, North Daktoa), he forms relatioships with numerous Norwegian immigrants like himself. They become his community.

In addition to Evan’s love interest, there’s the marriage of his friend to Bishop Whipple’s housekeeper. (Her name is Solveig and I suspect she was modeled after me because she has large teeth!) There's a marriage between a Lutheran and Catholic (considered a mixed marriage in the time-frame). There are scenes describing the brutal aftermath of massacres. And more.

As in all good writing, details give life to a story. I found Evan's relationship with the horses especially endearing. They understand him when he speaks to them in Norwegian. He ultimately calls on his personal relationship with them in a run for his life and the life of his passengers.

Reader-Responses: Word of mouth is the best form of promotion. So here goes. My copy of Abercrombie Trail came in July—when it was hot off the press. I glanced at it briefly, thinking I’d read it later. Then I was drawn back and I didn’t quit reading until the wee hours of the morning. But, of course I would like it. I identified with the Norwegian settlers—and I had two sets of great-grandparents who lived close to the trail. I didn’t have to know the author to be interested.

So I decided to test it with my neighbors. Not too professional on my part as all these gals love to read. But they also know what they like. What would they think?

The first neighbor told me she didn’t like historical novels but she’d look at it. I think she was suspicious that it would have an overt Christian messge. A couple of days later she dropped by to tell me, This was really interesting. She also said she read it in one sitting.

(Candy identifies herself not as a Christian novelist but as a Christian who writes novels. Abercrombie Trail isn't specifically Christian, but the persepctive or worldview is compatible with Christianity.)

The second neighbor read it when we were gone in August. When she brought it back, she said, It was so good I read it twice. That's quite an endorsement.

The third neighbor didn’t think she’d get to it right away. After idly glancing through, she read it in two sittings. It was one of those riveting things, she said, and I just couldn’t put down. She grew up in Nebraska, knew nothing about Minnesota history, and isn’t even Norwegian.

The publisher, North Star Press of St. Cloud, is one of the small publishers springing up around the country. I was concerned after learning Barnes and Noble has decided they will not work with the smaller publishers, so you cannot buy a copy through them. I don’t know about other chain stores. But you may obtain a copy through http://www.amazon.com/. Or, if you prefer, contact the publisher directly at http://www.northstarpress.com/. The book is 285 pages long. Cost is $14.95.

One more plug: North Star is printing a second edition because of the demand.

Endings and Beginnings

2009-09-21T12:05:00.000-07:00

A good ending is followed by a beginning. I’m on a threshold of sorts.

Some of you may have noticed I list my additional blogs on the sidebar under You’ll also find me at. I find it interesting that people who read Sunny Pathway rarely read Thoughts for Inspiration and people who read Thoughts rarely read Pathway. (No one reads Red, Red Berries anymore, because I haven’t written there for months.)

Everything on Sunny Pathway is current—it's an online journal. Thoughts is a collection of columns originally published on the church page of a rural newspaper from 1981 through 1992.

(An interesting—to me—side note. I was paid $10.00 for each piece—and I have no idea where it went. After the fact, I figured that over twelve years I made $6,240.00. What if I’d stashed it away and it had been accruing interest?)

I stopped writing the columns because, under time pressures, I had begun dashing them off with little thought or prayer. I was doing a lot of writing at the time, and they'd become a sideline. Off and on, however, I felt they’d be published someday. But they’re not devotional—just thoughts. They didn’t fit a genre. I dismissed the idea.

In the late ‘90s, after we retired, while on the way to visit a friend, wondering if God would ever use me again, I thought He told me I’d be a publisher. That was so preposterous that I laughed out loud while driving. But I didn’t forget it.

Sometime during the mid ‘00s, I began surfing the internet, discovered the world of blogs, and decided to give them a try.

It wasn’t long before it occurred to me to publish what I felt were my better Thoughts for Inspiration columns over a one-year-time-period as a sort-of blog. (Today some seem wonderfully thought-provoking and some simplistic.) Publishing them would be self-publishing, but publishing, nevertheless. It was an idea that somehow seemed right.

I didn’t know how exhausting the demands of daily publishing would be. When I learned I could post ahead, I began posting a week at a time—and then two or three weeks at a time. That gave me reprieves.

In June, I began fantasizing about finishing the entire year. In July I began working ahead. During August I focused on our vacation trips, but this month I’ve worked relentlessly with only brief forays away from the computer.

And yesterday I finished. At the end, I focused on pictures. Details aren’t pretty. This was an effort from someone who has never been into photography. (When I wrote as a free-lancer, Ken occasionally took pictures for me!)

As I neared the end, I could hardly think straight. But I had a question: What will I do when I’m done? And as I stretched out on the sofa yesterday after our noon meal, Ken echoed my thoughts. What will you do when your finish?

The question is with me this morning. What now?

There are two decisions waiting. But first, what did I learn?

The obvious is that I’m comfortable on the computer. Perhaps I’ll be able to learn helpful techniques now.

Then, there's the discipline factor. The project seemed foolish at times, but I finished.

Finally, going through Thoughts required reviewing my spiritual journey. As I worked, I spent time in the Word. God brought things to light so I've had to forgive, release anger, give up resentments. I believe I’ve become more pliable and it’s been good for the soul.

I don’t know what's ahead, but I suspect it will have something to do with my interior landscape. I found something intriguing this morning while going through a stack of material. Is that it?

I’ve aged physically and mentally over the last ten years, but somehow feel more alive—albeit a bit slower. God is beyond comprehension and quite fearsome at times. We can’t bring him down to a human level. And yet, I believe this awesome God engineered something in me I couldn’t have imagined. He is a wonderful friend.

Soil

2009-09-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

Soil. Dirt. Earth.

It’s black where we live. I’ve also been personally acquainted with some that was a yellowish brown and some that was a rusty red.

On Tuesday evening Ken and I had a picnic. Under a waning fall sun in Lindenwood Park—stretched along the Fargo side of the Red River of the North—we walked over dirt from our car to a table.

The park was one of the areas under flood waters last spring. When we visited it shortly after the water receded, the area was gray and filled with debris brought in by angry water—a battle zone.

Now, to the west of us, a toddler took halting steps from the table to his grandma. On the east, a three-year-old played hide-and-seek with a frustrated mom wanting visual contact. Their sounds mingled with the breeze and birds. Trees are beginning to show color. Rich smells of decomposing plant-life tickled my nose.

Oh, I thought, God is good.

I enjoy our condo, but we’re on the second floor and our private access to the world is our deck. There I enjoy sounds and smells—and the strong North Dakota winds—but I don’t walk across ground.

I rarely walk across the ground as part of my daily life. When we go places, I stay on sidewalks. Connecting with dirt requires effort.

I had assumed all dirt was inorganic until I read about it on Wikipedia. It seems dirt contains organic materials as well.

That makes sense. While on our trip, we gathered with Ken’s family at the home of his sister and husband in Spokane. Byron gardens a plot that was part of a horse stable. The soil is rich, and we feasted on unblemished and perfectly ripened tomatoes the size of grapefruits. The ears of corn were complete—sweet, with kernels reaching to the tip and none of them missing. There was a great deal of organic material in the dirt producing those vegetables.

Dirt needs water to produce. We stopped in Havre, MT, for a picnic lunch on the way home. I expected something semi-arid like its surroundings. Instead, one city block featured well-watered grass—lush like the grass of my childhood in central Minnesota—freshly mowed—so thick we couldn’t see the dirt under it. The dirt across the street was of the yellowish brown variety.

Back in Fargo, Lindenwood features manicured flower beds surrounded by grass that survives. But in June, grass planted to restore what was damaged by the flood was the fresh shade of green found only in new growth. All summer long traveling campers pitched their tents and parked their trailers on that grass. Did they know they were standing on soil redeemed by the sweat and tears of people willing to pay a price?

I read recently that our planet is not as solid as we might think. Disasters like earthquakes and volcanoes are not signs of destruction but signs of life. When the plates of soil that make up our planet’s outer layer stop grinding against each other—and when the core of our planet stops erupting its molten content—our planet and all the forms of life it sustains will die.

That brings a new perspective.

How much of this did Jesus understand during His earthly life? The Bible tells us He created the world and He holds it together by His Word. (Jn. 12:1-4; Heb. 3:3) He relinquished that knowledge—His omniscience—when He lived as a man.

But Jesus loved dirt and the things that grow in it. He used types of soil as a metaphor for types of people. He used seeds and grains as metaphors. And He used flowers as the image of artless beauty: Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet . . . Solomon in all his glory was not arranged like one of these. (Lk.12:27 KJV)

Flowers grow in dirt. As a layperson, I might have flashes of insight on dirt—soil—earth. Scientists know so much more.

God holds it all together.

A Sign?

2009-09-14T20:33:00.000-07:00

The last three posts required more from me than usual. Prophetic acts are a serious subject that is somewhat controversial—and I found the concept difficult to explain clearly and adequately. I thought this post should be lighter—and then a friend wondered if I received a sign after this latest prophetic act.

Well, perhaps. Not a sign as dramatic as an intense storm or as a flock of white birds that didn’t make a sound. (See Prophetic Acts, 1, 2, and 3 for an explanation.) But something did happen that will be quick and easy to write about, so I’m going with it.

An important tidbit: on the evening when Ken and I were at the confluence, we’d already put in a long day. We woke at 5:30 that morning.

But when getting into the car before leaving the confluence—around 7:00 p.m.—Ken looked at me and said, “Man, I feel good.

Now Ken is a laid-back sort of guy. And he spoke with enthusiasm! And he repeated the thought several times! Then he suggested we drive all the way home—that night!

I didn’t think I heard right. Was he trying to save money? “Definitely not worth it, I thought—even while realizing I also felt strangely energized.

I agreed we should drive as long as we could and then, when we were tired, we’d find a motel.

On to Watford City—through some beautiful farm country, by the way. We ate a light supper and we both felt good.

So on to Belfield where our highways intersected. There Ken suggested—being I had slept on and off all day—that I drive for awhile. And it seemed reasonable.

Armed with a coke, a candy bar, and a leftover apple, I took the wheel—and drove to Bismarck while he slept. I didn’t want to wake him.

He spoke before we crossed the Missouri—ready to take over rather than stop. And so he did.

We switched drivers again in a rest stop east of Valley City—after we’d passed all opportunities for a motel. There was nothing to do but keep going.

I was the one privileged to drive into our garage at 3:28 a.m.

Perhaps as remarkable as the trip was our lack of fatigue. We didn’t feel dragged out on Friday—or on any of the days following.

I’m not so foolish as to insist the drive was a sign. In fact, I hesitate sharing it because we had a friend who made a habit of driving while tired—and who died in an accident because he didn’t stay awake.

But when we told others about it, they remembered, they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. (Is. 40:31)

We don’t intend to drive like that again. We’ve passed the age for such shenanigans. Right now, however, I rather enjoy thinking it could have been a sign.

And regardless, the Bible verse fits. Renewed we were—and very, very grateful. There’s no place like home.”

Prophetic Acts, part 3 of 3

2009-09-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

Jesus said, I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. (Jn. 6:6 NIV)

Those are difficult words—they tell us Christianity is different from all other religions. And if you know people of other faiths as I do—and if some of them are truly wonderful people—these words are discomfiting. So please remember—regardless of what else I might say in this post—my conflict is not with people of a different faith but with their God.

For I believe the Word and the words of Jesus. And as a Christian, I must stand against other gods because they keep people from Jesus. Furthermore, when I engage in this type of spiritual warfare, I don’t fight with physical weapons but with spiritual weapons.

This all seems very complex and I admit spiritual warfare is a huge subject. I don’t claim to be an expert in the field, but I do know some things that have stood me in good stead. For that reason, I’ll share a bit about an encounter at the spot where the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers meet in western North Dakota. The place where they join is called a confluence and it’s become a state historical site complete with a rather small rotunda.

I learned a group of Buddhist monks would be arriving at the confluence to create a sand Mandela. This would take several days. When done they would dedicate it before dismantling it and releasing the sand into the waters for healing.

I won’t discuss the problem this poses for Christians as I’ve covered that in the two earlier posts. I’ll just say I recognized it was a time to wield spiritual weapons. (To read the earlier posts, scroll down to the two posts just before this one.)

Spiritual weapons don’t make sense to the natural mind, but they’re powerful. More powerful than anything our natural mind could think of. All spiritual weapons begin with prayer—simply talking to God and listening to His voice. Then we respond to Him—do what we believe He’s telling us to do.

It’s that simple. This somehow activates His Spirit. We recognize we can do nothing on our own—that our words or our response to His Word is not the source of power. He is the source of power to come against forces we cannot come against on our own.

It’s possible to take spiritual battles on without God’s leading. The only person to judge the motives of others is the person in battle. If we’re quiet, we know God’s voice and we know our own heart.

In the circumstances surrounding the Buddhist monks at the confluence, I learned a Christian group would be going to the location the evening before the monks arrived. While there, they’d praise God, pray, and declare His Word. Then, individuals or groups of individuals would also visit the site during the days when the monks created the Mandela, praying for God’s grace to thwart any aggressive act of Satan. Those simple acts were their spiritual weapons.

Before we learned anything about the monks, Ken and I had planned to stop by the confluence on our way home from Glacier Park—simply because it’s an interesting and lovely spot—and we decided we’d follow that plan.

We arrived Thursday evening after the door was locked and everyone had gone for the day. I wondered earlier that day what I would do—didn’t have clear direction—perhaps I’d do nothing prophetic at all. I meandered around the building once while praising God and praying and then felt impressed to walk around it again. Then I took a couple of pictures and we were preparing to leave when I felt impressed to walk around it a third time—this time laying a blood-line.

Explaining that is difficult. I simply said—out loud—words about the Blood of Jesus. I declared the Blood of Jesus defeats any work of Satan at the confluence or in any place affected by activities at the confluence. All three times around the building—and especially the third time—were prophetic acts.

Then I was drawn to the boat ramp, and there I felt impressed to throw three small stones from the river’s edge into the water—for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Another prophetic act.

It would be easy to dismiss those simple acts. Others had already been there, followed their leading from God. What difference did I make?

I can’t give an answer to that. Sometimes God tells us to do easy things—and this was one of those times. Sometimes He tells us to do hard things. Whatever occurs between God and us in prayer becomes our walk with the Lord, and it often leads to prophetic acts. Some fit into what seems normal because we are accustomed to them. Prayer walks have become a familiar type of prophetic act in some places. Breaking ground for new church buildings would be a more established prophetic act.

When done in faith, prophetic acts have power. When we’re obedient, God sends faith. He gives us confidence in Him and in His ability to do what we can’t do on our own.

Prophetic Acts, part 2 of 3

2009-09-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

For my Biblical perspective on prophetic acts, read the previous post. I think it’s important because prophetic acts can be disconcerting at times if there is no understanding.

Using Scripture as a rationale for doing prophetic acts –
The Bible tells us, All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work. (II Tim. 3 16,17 NIV)

We need to remember that the early church did not have the New Testament as it’s available today. Much of it hadn’t been written at that point. What had been written was initially available only to the people who received that particular letter. When Paul referred to Scripture, he meant the Old Testament. Today we use the Old Testament to understand many aspects of the New Testament and to learn about God’s ways. (We also need to recognize that the purpose of some OT practices were to teach principles to the Israelites who had been immersed in a pagan culture.)

When we use Scripture as our guide, we have an advantage over New Testament Christians. When we read our Bible we learn about Agabus. His example provides validity to prophetic acts and it strengthens the reality of Christians engaging in prophetic acts.

My early exposure –
Ken and I lived in Phoenix when we were young. While there I joined friends in several prophetic acts—but, try as I might, I can’t remember anything specific. I think they were all initiated by others—but it was such a long time ago and I’m really not sure. I do remember thinking at the time that prophetic acts were significant and that I played a vital role. I definitely knew what they were and accepted them as a valid response to God’s leading.

A story from the not-so-terribly-distant past –
About seven or eight years ago, when living in Minnesota lake country, I heard a news report that Buddhist monks from Tibet were coming to create a sand Mandela in the Fargo/Moorhead area. When they completed their work, they would release the sand into the Red River of the North for the healing of the waters.

This was billed as a cultural event under the umbrella of a local college, but I felt God told me the stated purpose was a disguise—a way to strengthen false spiritual powers in the region and a way to draw people away from faith in Jesus. Just as God directs His people to declare and claim God’s Word by faith through prophetic acts, Satan directs counterfeit acts. And just as it’s real with God, it’s real with Satan.

I also felt God impressed me to ask friends to join in a prophetic act, and I instantly knew what we would do. We would pre-empt the Buddhists by going to the sources of the Red—meaning the source of the Ottertail River and the source of the Bois de Sioux River—and then to the confluence where the two rivers meet between Wahpeton, ND, and Breckenridge, MN.

The Ottertail River begins on a Minnesota reservation where roads are limited. On a perfect summer day we made a journey north to a spot where the river is a mere brook flowing through a culvert under a local road. Making our way down a hill, we stood on an island of rocks and pebbles, sang praises, and prayed while the brook babbled and the birds sang. Then we left.

But nothing in our fallen world is perfect. On the way home, we had to take shelter from a severe hailstorm in the Frazee rest stop. That night the local news informed us that the storm had continued into southern Minnesota where it culminated in a tornado. Amidst much destruction, a man had died. A weather forecaster pinpointed the spot where the storm originated—exactly over the spot where we praised God and prayed—and emphasized that there was no meteorological reason for the storm.

We saw a correlation—and whether or not our act and the storm were actually related, we were spooked. Initially, we couldn’t deal with going to the other source and the confluence. But eventually, everyone was remarkably ready again.

Before our second trip, we prayed for protection for anyone who might be vulnerable. We also told God we’d like a sign to let us know we were following His Word, but that we’d like a gentle, peaceful sign.

And so, on another perfect summer day, we traveled south to the source of the Bois de Sioux which flows out of Lake Traverse along the Minnesota/South Dakota border. We parked by a bridge that crosses the river just as it leaves the lake. People walked past with their fishing rods, but no one was interested in us as we sang praises and prayed.

As we finished, a flock of about fifteen large white birds with black tips on their wings swooped down in v-formation just above our heads—and then lifted without landing in the water. They didn’t make a sound. We learned later that they were pelicans. We received the birds as our sign, and I felt the silence was a sign that no violence would follow.

On the way home, we stopped at the confluence which is near the main bridge connecting the downtowns of Wahpeton and Breckenridge. Cars whizzed by as we parked in the “Y” between the rivers. Again, no one was interested in us. And again, we sang songs of praise and prayed. Then we had lunch and came home.

As far as we know, the monks did not come. There were no more news reports of their arrival or activities in the area—but we don’t have inside information. By faith we believe God did something.

Next –
Before leaving on our recent trip, I received an email about Buddhist monks from Tibet visiting the confluence where the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers join in western North Dakota. My heart sank—and then I remembered that Ken and I had already planned a stop at the confluence as part of our vacation—and I realized our stop would coincide with the monks activities. In that moment I felt God told me that I would do a prophetic act.

I’ll share what happened. It was not a solo act because others were involved.

Also, at some time I’ll say something about how I think we should feel about non-Christian religions as they make inroads into the fabric of American culture—and how we should respond to the people who bring them. They key has to be sharing God’s love. But how?

Prophetic Acts, Part 1 of 3

2009-09-04T04:33:00.000-07:00

A recent event resulted in my becoming engaged in a prophetic act on the final day of our vacation. My exposure to prophetic acts began a long time ago. They seem normal to me now, but I wonder if perhaps they are still as controversial to others as they were to me when initially exposed to them.

I'm going to use what happened recently as a reason to explain what they are and why Christians do them. In this post I'll take the academic approach by explaining the Scriptural foundation for prophetic acts. On Monday I'll relate something about my earlier exposures to prophetic acts. Later in the week, I'll tell what happened recently.

A Definition -
Prophetic acts are physical activities that have spiritual significance because they are done in faith as a response to a specific instruction or Word from God.

Biblical Perspective -
People of the Old Testament engaged in numerous prophetic acts. For example, early in the Exodus, before the Israelites had become a cohesive group, Amalekite warriors attacked them. Moses told Joshua to select a group of men to fight. As he, Aaron, and Hur watched from a nearby hill, Moses held his rod high—the one he held when the waters parted in the red sea. As long as Moses held up the staff in his hand, the Israelites had the advantage. But where he dropped his hand, the Amalekites gained the advantage. (Ex. 17:11 LT)

The battle dragged on and Moses arms became weak. Then Aaron and Hur found a stone for him to sit on. Then they stood on each side of Moses, holding up his hands. (v. 12b) Moses' prophetic act, along with the help and support of Aaron and Hur, resulted in victory.

The prophetic books contain numerous examples of prophetic acts. Jeremiah bought a field when he was in prison—and when influential people wanted to kill him. Why would he do such a thing? The Babylonians were overrunning Israel and he would never benefit from the purchase. He didn’t even have heirs who would inherit the land.

But after completing the legal transaction in prison, Jeremiah prophesied: Someday people will again own property here in this land and will buy and sell houses and vineyards and fields. (Jer. 32:15b LT) He instructed his servant Baruch to place the deeds in pottery to preserve them—a sign of God’s plan for Israel’s future.

Then there's Ezekiel. If you think John the Baptist was strange, read Ezekiel. God told him to draw a map of the city of Jerusalem as it lay under siege—complete with siege ramps and battering rams. (Ez. 4:2b) Then he was to lie on his left side for many days and on his right side for many days—all the while staring at the map—all the while somehow carrying or representing the sins of the people of Israel—and all the while doing additional strange activities.

Why? To depict the coming judgment—including food and water shortages. Even sinful people had a right to know, and God gave them the information they needed.

In the New Testament, Agabus (also mentioned in Acts 11) met Paul as he traveled to Jerusalem. Agabus bound his own feet and hands with Paul’s belt. Then he prophesied, So shall the owner of this belt be bound by the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem and turned over to the Gentiles. (Acts 21:11b) God demonstrated Paul’s future through a prophetic act.

Something to think about -
Moses, Aaron, and Hur saw immediate results when they responded with a physical act. Agabus at least saw results in the near future. How about Jeremiah and Ezekiel?

Our Month of August

2009-09-01T12:59:00.000-07:00

Welcome. Because I haven't posted during all of August, I thought I'd just share a few pictures from our month.

Ken and I went on several trips and, for the most part, took a vacation. We spent time at The Gathering, a spiritual event put on by a group we participated in when we lived at the lake. We attended a Holy Spirit Conference in the greater Twin Cities area. We gathered with Ken’s family for a reunion that lasted several days in Spokane. And on the way home we vacationed in Glacier National Park.

I’ll probably write about aspects of some of these events eventually. And perhaps even of a few sidetrips I didn't mention yet. But today, I want to take it easy and tell you I love road trips. Although I often fall asleep while Ken keeps a steady course—and this has been my pattern for years—I thrill to road trips. They may be inefficient use of energy when the car carries only two people, but what a joy to travel across God’s creation.

When we take major trips, we usually travel west—which means we cross North Dakota—and maybe that’s part of the joy. We have no mountains. Most of our lakes (perhaps all) are artificial. Our trees pale when compared to southern states. But oh, we have vistas. Truly, on a clear day you could see forever. And a glorious sky. Eastern Montana is more of the same.

Unlike Ken and most people, I’m less fond of the mountains—feel hemmed in. And I miss sunsets (usually not up early enough for sunrises). But I marvel at the infinite variety of God’s creation. Here are a few pictures taken during our August. To represent the entire month, I'll start in the Twin Cities area.

Water lilies in Como Park in St. Paul, Minnesota. I thought them breathtaking.

Ken waiting in background while I take pictures in the observatory of Como Park. My focus was the flowers, but I couldn't resist including the entire picture here.

Wild sunflowers near a scenic view overlooking Teddy Rosevelt National Monument. I think this is a fantastic picture, but must admit it's an accident. I simply wanted to isolate individual flowers and could only do so by moving the camera down. That means we can enjoy the glorious sky.

A sampler from Lois's delicate woodland flowers. Across the way, in an area with a full sun exposure, Byron grew the best corn, tomatoes, and zucchini we've ever tasted. I didn't think to take a picture of that. What a shame.

Family members in the pool. The most precious view of all.

Looking through the cedar forest. I'm especially proud of this picture becuase I've captured the lighting. Perhaps I am learning something about photography.

Me in front of an unusual giant cedar.

Ken overlooking the rapids of Avalanche Creek in Glacier Park.

A view of McDonald Valley on the way to Logan Pass in Glacier Park.

On the way home, we stopped at a city park in Havre, Montana. Green grass had just been mowed and a rose garden graced one corner.

Yes, the old cliché, God is good rings true when we spend time wandering around in His creation—whether on a walk in the local park or whether driving across the miles. Man has corrupted much, but God’s grace shines through. He—our living God—is good, indeed.

Sharing a Prophetic "Word"

2009-07-30T19:36:00.000-07:00

To continue my narrative from the last posting, the remainder of our time in Phoenix was good. If I missed giving weekly messages, I don’t remember. Although our group no longer functioned officially, we saw each other often and maintained relationships—some more closely than others.

Then our family moved to North Dakota.

Now I love North Dakota. There’s something about getting out on the open road here that thrills me to the core. And the people are the best. But I didn’t feel that way initially. The Red River Valley where we live is flat. Overpasses and underpasses—along with power lines—provide the landmarks.

I thought the area spiritually flat as well. Although we loved the small church we eventually found across the river in Minnesota, the people had little exposure to the larger body of Christ. I felt that they felt threatened when I tried to share our background.

During a quiet interval during worship on a Sunday evening, a song welled up from within. I wanted to share it—and silence lingered—so with all the energy I could muster I began to praise God in a song that expressed itself both in a tongue and in English. When I ran out of strength, I continued by praising God loudly in English before concluding quietly in tongues.

The ice was broken. After that night, God began to give me prophetic messages in English. Sometimes I felt impressed to quote a Bible verse—often verses I’d have trouble reciting by memory but they flowed freely as I spoke prophetically. Sometimes I was impressed to speak ideas I’d thought earlier during the week—thoughts that began burning in my heart. I was always amazed the way they flowed when under the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

And sometimes I just knew something I could not have known on my own. A guest preacher spoke one Sunday evening. During worship God gave me a message unrelated to anything I’d heard—and I didn’t obey the Lord by sharing because it seemed out-of-order. But when the preacher preached, I learned the message God gave me would have supported the Word that night—added strength to the sermon we heard. Another lesson learned.

God occasionally did funny things. On the way to church one Sunday morning, both Ken and I were impressed by the railroad tracks. One of us saw them as a means of adventure—of traveling into the unknown. The other saw them as limiting—a train can’t leave its track. During the worship I began receiving an impulse to speak prophetically—and knew it had to do with railroad tracks. I was nervous because I didn't want to promote a personal viewpoint, but I followed through. Although I know I can't recall the message verbatim, a rough summary would be encouraging people to find the track God had for them—seeking Him until He makes their specific track clear. Then get on track, stay on track, and let Him lead you to unknown destinations in the Spirit. Only God could have brought our seemingly opposite opinions together and shaped them into a message both Ken and I needed to hear!

In retrospect, I’m quite sure I never shared anything wrong in the sense that it was contrary to Scripture. However, I might have shared something wrong in that it wasn’t God’s Word for the moment. There are times when God emphasizes specific messages, and there were probably times when I responded to personal impulses rather than God’s impulses.

I could point to all the events of my life that were distractions—and to my fatigue when stretched beyond what I could have imagined. But God responds to reprentance, not excuses. Perhaps part of the problem was lack of a small, informal support group. A group where each had the same spiritual foundation and where each had a vital role to play as we corrected and encouraged the other.

Marriage is important. I think Ken and I have become each other’s ardent fans. But my marriage was—and is—not the same as a group of women who understand the trials, temptations, and struggles of living life as a woman.

By the time Ken and I retired, I was exhausted. In addition, the responsibility of speaking for God weighed heavily, and I wanted out. In one sense I didn’t walk away from God. I could have joined Peter at any time by saying, Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words that give eternal life. (Mt. 6:68 NLT) In another sense, however, I did walk away from God because I stopped listening to Him in my spirit. It’s been at least twelve years since God used me to speak prophetically.

Blogging has been an important element of my walk back. In the sidebar of the Red, Red Berries blog, I mention that writing is how I process thoughts. Sometimes it’s even the way I identify thoughts. Little by little, writing has turned my thoughts back to Jesus and His written Word. Not that I ever stopped reading. I processed His Word mentally, but not spiritually.

POSTSCRIPT
If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you realize it’s evolved since I began. I sense more changes are coming but don't know what they are. However, God's Word says, You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, . . . (Is. 26:3a ESV) With that in mind, the present seems an opportune time to take a break. Ken and I will be going on several trips in August; I'm trusting we'll have a time of resting in His presence and hearing His call. It's time to find His track!

I’ll be back in September—I think. Meanwhile, Thoughts for Inspiration will continue without interruption.

Blessings.

Prophetic Preaching

2009-07-27T05:27:00.000-07:00

While changing the sheets of my children’s beds one day, whispering in tongues as usual, I thought I’d run out of tongues—the sounds stopped coming in my mind. Then, to my amazement, Hallelujah began erupting from my mouth, over and over. And then I began praising God in elevated English. Although I understood the words, they weren’t words I normally used. Standing there, I began to laugh for joy because I realized the expression was genuine—it was the cry of my heart—and I knew I wouldn’t have come up with that type of praise on my own. That was the first time God supernaturally gave me ideas and/or words in English rather than in tongues.

I began meeting with a small group of five friends. We gathered informally in our homes to share life, to pray together, to praise God. Fabulous. It was much fun to be around them. Two were in their mid-40s. I thought they were old—so mature. Three of us were around 30.

A young fellow who had grown up in our church came home briefly. He’d brought the manifestations of the Holy Spirit to the congregation several years earlier and the two older gals knew him. The day before he left—he’d quickly become part of our group—the six of us met in the prayer chapel of our church. It was Wednesday morning, and he encouraged us to make Wednesday morning a time for a regular meeting.

Dutifully, we showed up the following Wednesday. None of us knew quite what to do. Then one of the gals looked directly at me and said, You’re supposed to bring a “Word.” And I knew as she said it—not earlier—that she was right. I even knew the Word meant a formal sermonette of sorts.

I was also mortified. I didn’t know she had received a word of knowledge. I thought she had caught on to me and that my secret desires were exposed. How did she know I desperately wanted to preach? So I brushed off her and the others—they’d joined her—by bringing up prayer requests. Until the gal announced once more that I should share from the Word.

Embarrassed and irritated, I stomped forward, opened my Bible, turned to a passage I’d read that morning, and launched into a Word that lasted over ten minutes. In a wonderful move of grace, God met us that morning.

The following week I did it again. The next week I did it again. And then again and again and again.

Eventually our little Wednesday morning group connected with a Friday evening group and the two meetings became a place in Phoenix where the Holy Spirit moved in the late 60s and early 70s.

But my focus for this writing is not the meetings but prophetic preaching. I have no memory of any specific message. I'm sure they were not deep compared to the revelation coming through God’s people today, but they were deep to us at the time. Some weeks I worried because I hadn’t received anything and Wednesday was imminent. But He always came through. And here’s the kicker: I don’t think I ever became proud of my gifting during that time. I was occasionally jealous of others—of their gifting—but my gifting seemed normal and it didn’t occur to me to be proud.

POSTSCRIPT:
As usual—and it pains me to use that phrase when telling what happened—the enemy made his way into God’s move. The organized meetings fell apart and each of us sought God’s direction as individuals for the next chapter of our lives.

Even sadder—for me, anyway—I still look back to that time as my best time. I didn’t actually know how deeply I felt that until after we retired. Yes, God has been with me and shown me remarkable things since then. He’s used me to bring His Word. He’s answered my prayers. But I’ve also clung to the past. Perhaps one reason is that I knew my heart hasn’t been as pure since those early days—and it’s the heart that matters.

The day I knew by the Spirit that I’d never moved on was a watershed revelation. For some time I tucked the reality away—bringing it out briefly at times to peek at the awful truth. But little by little I began searching, looking for the Way. And the Way always begins with Jesus. And Jesus is the Word.

Paul said, Now I want you all to speak in tongues, but even more to prophesy. (I Cor. 14:5) That’s because vital prophecy points to Jesus. It’s God’s Word brought to life in a specific moment or circumstance. But prophetic preaching is only one type of prophetic utterance, and all are remarkable.

My Personal Pentecost

2009-07-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

After I received Jesus and His sacrifice for my sin, I realized salvation was a big topic. Among other things, I learned about Gifts of the Spirit. Information wasn’t plentiful in 1967 and '68 and the focus was tongues, but I researched the subject and concluded it was valid. I visited a small Pentecostal church because I was drawn to the worship and teaching. However, I wasn’t interested in personal involvement because I was insecure and afraid of becoming socially backward.

Meanwhile, I prayed about anything and everything—including my inability to keep a clean house. We had three children at the time, Borgi in first grade, Ted in kindergarten, and Joe at home. But the problem was bigger than the children—I didn’t think right. I either yelled at the kids when they made a mess—or gave up and we lived in chaos.

After almost a year in a rental in Phoenix, we purchased a house situatated between the homes of two women who seemed like the world’s best homemakers. One a North Dakota farm gal—the other of Mexican-Indian descent. Beautiful women, but I felt intimidated.

Because both reached out to me as neighbors, I decided to invite them to a morning coffee on the first day of school after Christmas vacation—so we’d have fewer children underfoot. I planned, invited, and worried. Finally, on the big morning, I saw Borgi on her way to school, took Ted to kindergarden, and sent Joe into the back yard while I finished getting ready.

When all was in order, I went to the bedroom to change clothes. Meanwhile, Joe, a normal four-year-old, decided he wanted Cheerios. Entering my spotless kitchen, he tried to pour them into a bowl from the box—and little “o’s” spilled over the side, rolling into every corner of the kitchen.

Maintaining my composure, I began cleaning them up. As I bent over to reach under the refrigerator, the left sleeve of my dress gave—not a rip in fabric but a rip in the seam. I ran into the bedroom to change and could find nothing else. I returned to the kitchen to the smell of burning cookie-bars. When the doorbell rang, I stood with dress torn, Cheerios on the floor, and burned bars in my hand.

I don’t remember the next hour. I know I made coffee and served store-bought cookies—and didn’t say much. When they left, I picked up Ted and served lunch to my boys before hiding myself in the bedroom to cry. I was stiffling sobs when a friend called to tell me about special meetings where people were receiving their prayer language. Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow morning? Maybe you could pick me up after dropping Ted off?

If my planned event had gone well, I’d probably have said no. But I was desperate—not necessarily for God—but for relief from failure. And if God could help, I was open—even if it meant praying in tongues and being socially isolated.

We arrived during a short worship time. I looked around and saw a young woman about my age wearing a housedress with stockings (seams were still in style) and tennis shoes. Her hair was—well, it might be in style today. No makeup.

A mob converged on this reserved Norwegian Lutheran when I went forward, all praying loudly. Then the guest-preacher, a mild man, laid a hand on my head, quietly prayed, and told me I simply had to open my mouth to speak. Peace came and I closed my eyes. At one point I heard him say, Let her go. I had an idea. I’d heard people sing in tongues and it was beautiful, so I asked—in English—if I could sing. He said, Of course.—and I began singing in tongues.

I’ve sung quite a bit for my own pleasure and before groups, but that day my voice truly soared in the presence of angels.

Suddenly, I remembered Ted. Opening my eyes, I realized I lay prone on the floor. Really. I learned later I had been slain in the Spirit. I’d never heard about it then, but it did not seem strange. I sat up, asked someone what time it was, told them I had to leave immediately, excused my friend and myself, collected Joe from a nursery, and we left. Ted was waiting, but he didn’t seem concerned.

I couldn’t stop praying in tongues that day—either in song or under my breath. The boys and later my daughter laughed and laughed at Mom and her strange Spanish. The next day, however, I couldn’t utter a sound in an unknown tongue.

And yet—I somehow knew it was real and felt it would be wrong to walk away. I decided to try praying in tongues in the shower—so the background noise of running water would muffle the sound—and when I did, a dam broke loose. Since that time I’ve been able to pray in tongues at will. Then and now, I pray in tongues whenever I think of it. Sometimes I’m seeking a specific answer—sometimes I simply want to exercise my gift. After all, Paul said, I would like every one of you to speak in tongues . . . (I Cor. 14:5a NIV)

Of course, he also said, but I would rather have your prophesy. (v. 5b) But that’s another subject. For me, tongues became a gateway.

Of course, some of you will have a few questions.

First, I don’t think I began to dress weirdly andI don't think I adopted a weird hairstyle. But when my immaculate neighbor to the east began giving hints on organization, I listened. And although I never achieved a spotless home, our lives improved as order became the norm.

Did God cause spilled cheerios, a ripped dress, and burned cookie-bars to humble me? No, but He allowed me to struggle on my own and to reach a place of humility where I would receive—both from Him and from a helpful neighbor. But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumph . . . (II Cor. 2:14a RSV)

Time with my Birth Family

2009-07-20T07:59:00.000-07:00

This is a story about the older generation. Most of us fairly active. I hope you will find aspects of it interesting.

On Friday Ken and I went on a short road trip that we should have taken last Spring—to Winona, Minnesota, where we visited my sister-in-law Esther. Esther is the widow of my oldest brother Carmen who died about a year a half ago. The basics of their story is that he was a pastor, she was a teacher who went into administration, and they raised five wonderful children. But there’s more to the story than that, of course.

I’ve become our primary photographer—and so often the moment misses me altogether. I didn’t think to take a picture of Esther as she looks today.

I'm not fond of using the word cute to describe older people—it seems to trivialize them. But even with serious problems and although on a great deal of medication, I have to admit Esther is cute.

She became part of our family when I was in high school. She was beautiful, reserved, talented, and competent. She sang solos—with a voice that could fill a large church. Now she’s tiny—even her voice—and shriveled—with hands twisted by arthritis, a complication from the aftermath of lyme disease. She also has Parkinson’s—although that seems under control. But perhaps the most serious condition is the collapsing skeleton—and that she fell just over a week ago and broke several ribs. Her fall meant a move from her daughter's home to an extended-care facility. I was afraid of what I’d find and truthfully, it wasn’t good.

But to my surprise, I wasn’t devastated. Her personality is still evident. Even when we all trooped down to the facility’s dining area for coffee and root beer floats. (My other brother David and his wife Betty had joined us. And Karen, the daughter who lies in Winona and son Mark who flew in from Wshington, D. C. were with us.) The hostess in Esther came alive as she sat in a wheel chair—unable to do anything. Frustrated and embarrassed by what she felt was the poor service she offered her guests, her gracious demeanor was endearing and cute.

She became anxious and confused at times, even telling us in her tiny voice about waking up surprised to realize, I was alive! Ken and I asked each other later if she was happy to be alive—or disappointed. We weren’t sure. We might look at her life as confined, as narrow and small—but she has important things on her mind.

And all the while, through frustration and confusion, hints of irony and humor—and a wry smile. She was herself, and she was cute.

When she grew tired, we left to visit Carmen’s grave before going to Karen’s home where husband Jason had prepared a wonderful meal. Here, from left to right at the table in all our hoary glory: me, David, Betty, and Ken.

We moved into the living room and Karen, who had been going through her parents things, brought out a scrapbook that included pictures from our childhood. David and I paged through, remembering our distant past.

In our hotel room that night, just before 3:30, I woke up rejoicing in bed. Pure joy overwhelmed me, and I wondered why. Considering my personal status, I thought about my hip. It didn’t hurt. But I knew the joy was bigger than that. (You can check the last post to understand why the hip is significant.)

I thought of Esther’s smile. Even in her reduced state—she was herself. What a wonder.

I thought about the scrapbook. As David and I perused, a subject came up that’s painful for me, an ouchie from my childhood. David understood—he had experienced it as well—and he offered an explanation I found comforting.

But I decided the joy encompassed all of the above—plus. For over an hour before going back to sleep, I basked in the overwhelming sense of personally being in God’s will. And, difficult as circumstances are for Esther and her family, I sensed they are also in His care and His will.

We met David and Betty for breakfast in the morning before going to the extended care facility again for another good-bye on Saturday morning. Then I slept during most of our drive home.

An Overturned Truck and a Painful Hip

2009-07-16T16:07:00.000-07:00

Ken went with me to Grand Forks for a rheumatologist appointment yesterday. As we drove toward the freeway when the appointment was over, we saw a semi turned on its side in the middle of a busy intersection.

Police had set up barricades and rerouted traffic. People milled around with cameras. Men worked from two additional semis—semis with cranes. They were positioning straps they'd placed around the prone cab and trailer so they could set things right again. I wondered about the driver. What had he done—or not done—just before before the accident or as the accident happened?

But I was personally experiencing a red-letter day and couldn’t feel badly just then. The rheumatologist had asked his usual questions during my appointment and then I told him about my hip. I’ve been nursing it along for about five months, hoping it would get better, avoiding an appointment with an orthopedist for fear he’d recommend surgery.

Well, the rheumatologist began asking questions and he seemed to know my answers before I stated them. Then he poked and probed before saying he thought he could take care of it by giving me a shot. He left the room, his nurse prepped me, he came back to insert the needle, and as he walked out the office door he said I’d know in a day or two if it worked.

Finally, another nurse administered a remicade infusion, and when the procedure was over I found Ken. By then I knew the shot was doing its magic. We had a bite to eat and I was riding high.

This morning, however, reflecting on the difference between the way I was feeling and the way I'd felt yesterday morning, I began making comparisons between my body and that overturned truck. I realized I've been more or less overturned for several months, stuck with a painful hip in the busy intersection of life. God help me, I've cried over and over. What should I do?

And always, that nagging sense of guilt. I’ve had problems with my hips before and yet, in the excitement of one moment several months ago, I threw caution to the wind and ended up in need of a rescue. And perhaps the same is true of the rheumatoid arthritis. I might be free of problems today if I’d taken care of myself when younger. I wasn’t a good driver—I pushed my body beyond its limits.

Those sorts of inner accusations come from Satan and they're difficult because there’s truth to them. Satan knows how to torment. I’m so glad a doctor gave me a shot and fixed me up. I also know that unless God heals me completely, if I do something similar on another occasion, I’ll probably have problems again. Because of my medical history, my body is vulnerable.

Our pastor has been preaching on the book of Romans this summer. Last Sunday he focused on chapter 8. The chapter begins with, There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. (Rom. 8:1 ESV)

The chapter ends with, Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn. . . ? Who shall separate us from the love of Christ. . . ? [W]e are more than conquerors through him who loved us. (Rom. 8:33,34a,35,37)

It was a message I needed. I don’t want to imply sin doesn’t matter. I am, however, emphasizing that Paul reminded the Romans that there’s no condemnation because Jesus’ death justifies sinners.

When my hip hurt, I lived with forgiveness even as I lived with the consequences of sin. I can live with consequences because His presence lives within me.

Then there’s pain caused by sin against others. I’ve been guilty of that, too, and the condemnation I feel over those sins is even worse. But in this same chapter we read, And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good. (Rom. 8:28) That includes the sinner and those sinned against.

It doesn’t seem possible, but God says it is so. If we trust Him, we believe He will do the impossible. I’ve seen it happen, and I'm waiting for it to happen again. Meanwhile, acknowledging and repenting have a refining effect because God begins to work in me. And the fact that God can turn the results of sin into good brings peace. God promises He won’t let anything separate me from His care—not even thoughts of despair or condemnation. It's enough to fill a person with joy.

I may be overturned now and then, in need of rescue. But rescue is His specialty.

Jesus and the Anointing of the Holy Spirit

2009-07-13T03:00:00.000-07:00

Because the Holy Spirit is so often the unseen partner of the godhead, it’s almost impossible to talk about Him without looking at Jehovah or Jesus. In fact, some of our best insight comes through looking at the other two persons of the Trinity.

There’s a verse in Acts that almost blew me out of the water at one time. Peter was speaking with a group of Gentiles who had little or no teaching on God. He said, God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power. He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. (Acts. 10:38 ESV)

Just a short statement, words so easy pass over when looking at the larger story. But I was focusing on the word and the concept of anointing at the time, and I found the verse strange. Jesus was God incarnate—conceived by the Holy Spirit—Immanuel—God with us. So why was the anointing important to the ministry of Jesus? Why did He need an anointing? Didn’t He do the things He did simply because He was Jesus?

(The word anoint literally means to rub or to smear with oil. See Strong’s Concordance #4886 and #5480. When people live in an arid climate—as the Israelites did when wandering through the Wilderness—they often used oil to clean themselves because water was at a premium. And because spiritual purity or cleanliness is important when preparing to meet God, God provided instructions for the priests who would minister in the tabernacle. During cleansing ceremonies they sometimes poured water and sometimes rubbed oil on themselves as a cleansing ritual. The oil was prepared according to a recipe given to Moses by God. The concept of anointing expanded with time until eventually it evolved to mean receiving power from the Holy Spirit.)

Over time—and through a bit of study—I learned the Son of God needed an anointing because, although He was truly God, He had denied his God-nature and identified with human nature. Paul said, though he [Christ Jesus] was in the form of God, [he] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. (Phil 2:6,7)

In The Message, a contemporary paraphrase of the Bible, those verses read, He had equal status with God but didn't think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages . . . When the time came, he set aside the priviledges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. . . . He didn't claim special privileges.

This aspect of our Savior is so important. When Jesus made himself nothing, he separated Himself from Satan/ Lucifer who said, I will make myself like the Most High. (Is. 14:b) And He separated Himself from Adam and Eve who gave in to temptation when Satan enticed them with, For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil. (Gen. 3:5) To maintain being nothing, Jesus had to continually resist Satan’s bait. Even though He was God, He had to resist claiming or assuming His God-nature.

How easy it would be for Jesus as God to heal—or to walk on water. As God, Jesus could easily look into individual souls and give them a word of life—or reach the multitudes when preaching from mountaintops. However, Jesus continually released or gave up His God nature to embrace His human nature. He limited Himself to functioning only as a man.

If Jesus did everything as a man, how did He do what He did?

Through the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus said of Himself, the Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, that the Son does likewise.( Jn. 5:19) Do you feel the drama and the power of this verse?

Isaiah looked forward to this time when he wrote about the Messiah who would move under the anointing: The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news. . . . (Is. 61:1a) The passage goes on to list the things the Messiah would do, things a normal person could not do. After His baptism, Jesus went into the Wilderness where He rejected Satan’s bait. Then He returned to His hometown of Nazareth where he identified Himself by reading Isaiah’s passage in the synagogue: The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news. . . . (Lk. 4:18) And He listed the supernatural works He would do as a man.

The anointing brings Jehovah, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit together. The power of Jesus is established by the unity of God.

The Jesus who read the Scripture in the synagogue that day was different from the Jesus the townspeople had known. When He was baptized He received the anointing of the Holy Spirit through the will of His Father. After telling the people of Nazareth, Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing, (v. 21b) He went on to point out their sin. His words had power, and they tried to kill Him. His ministry had begun.

After Jesus' death, resurrection, and ascension into Heaven, and after He sent the Holy Spirit on the day of Pentecost, His followers became a closely-knit family of believers. And when they began expanding beyond the confines of Jerusalem, Peter explained Jesus’ ministry to Gentiles. He said, beginning from Galilee after the baptism that John proclaimed: how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. And we are witnesses. . . . (Acts 10:38, 39a)

The man named Jesus did the works of God. He was anointed by the Holy Spirit.

Praying in Tongues

2009-07-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

A little over ten years ago, a young fellow we knew faced a major decision. He was in his early twenties and it seemed his entire life—and the life of his wife—would be determined by this one decision.

We were quite involved with them. We were also newly retired. I wasn’t used to having Ken around all day and I felt self-conscious when I tried to pray. But the burden was intense. I finally told Ken I needed to get away.

We owned a lake lot at the time—with nothing on it but a leaky trailer. I had never driven there from Fargo (our home after retirement) on my own. On a cloudy, miserably cold spring day, I couldn’t sit comfortably in a park, so the lake lot with trailer was my destination. And because my heart was heavy, I began praying in tongues almost immediately. I have no idea what I prayed. That’s the beauty of tongues.

With confidence I took the first exit at Barnesville, not realizing that two highways exit the freeway about two miles apart. I should have passed the first and taken the second. And because I was praying, I didn’t look at the scenery or catch my mistake until I came to a small town I’d never seen before—and the junction I anticipated was nowhere in sight.

I would have turned if I knew which direction to take—remember, it was cloudy. Help came when another nice-looking young fellow told me I was driving north instead of east. I followed him to a landmark and made my way without further confusion.

That's an important part of the story, but not the main point. I kept praying in tongues. Couldn’t stop. When I finally reached our lot and entered the cold trailer, I didn’t know how to turn on the furnace—so I turned on the oven and burners—no small feat—before sitting down to pray.

Huddled in my jacket I wondered. What? What could I pray? I wasn't worried about theological implications, but I didn’t know God's plan for the couple.

God, I cried, what should I pray? Silence.

Then came a quiet thought, an inner prompt: Pray that he chooses life.

And so I did. Out loud. God, I pray he chooses life. Pause.

God, let him choose life. Pause.

Please, God, give him a desire for whatever will bring life.

You get the idea. Those and similar statements might have lasted all of a minute—but I doubt it—before I totally exhausted the content of my prayer in English.

I felt very foolish sitting there. So I turned the burners and oven off, locked up the trailer and drove home. And when I tried to continue praying earnestly in tongues, I couldn’t. I could only praise God with a loud voice—sometimes in song. I had a good time.

Telling Ken about it later—of course, he lectured me about the two exits—I could only conclude the praying had been done while I drove. Perhaps it was okay to get lost—the extra hour on the road provided almost twice as much time as planned.

And I’ve thought about the content of that prayer. The importance of the young man's decision can’t be overstated. I wasn’t sure, but I felt his salvation might depend on it. It turned out his health depended on it, too. And I never would have thought of something so simple on my own—so simple, but covering all the bases. I’ve recently read others say we must choose to follow God—and they use the phrase, Choose life. It was a new concept to me at the time.

The young man is in his mid-30s now. He’s walking with the Lord and he’s healthy. God has been with him and his family. I’ll never know for sure the significance of my part in the decision, but I’m convinced God did something that day.

And I’m so grateful for the gift of praying in tongues.

Next time I'll explore thoughts on the relationship between the Holy Spirit and the earthly life and ministry of Jesus. Today, it seemed a story with human interest would be helpful.

The Holy Spirit in the Old Testament

2009-07-07T03:00:00.000-07:00

In the Hebrew language of the Old Testament, the word translated Spirit (ruwach) literally means wind or breath. (Stong's Concordance #7307) According to Genesis 1:2, this wind or breath moved during the creation of our world: The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit (Ruwach) of God was hovering over the face of the waters.

Paul, a man schooled in Hebrew, understood the Spirit as God’s breath when he wrote a letter in Greek to Timothy, All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness. (II Tim. 3:16) That would be inclusive. Every Old Testament character who responded to God was responding to His Spirit. Just as the Holy Spirit had an active part in the initial creation of our world, He’s had an active part in creating God’s life in people throughout history.

Because space is limited, I’ll highlight just a few stories from the Old Testament where the presence of the Holy Spirit is specifically identified as He moves or breaths on God’s people. Moses needed craftsmen to build the tabernacle, create the tabernacle’s finely-wrought furnishings, and make elaborate priestly garments. God said to Moses, See, I have called by name Bezalel . . . and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship. . . . (Ex. 31:3)

Then, when the load was too heavy for Moses, God told him to appoint 70 elders who would share his responsibilities. God said, I will take some of the Spirit that is on you and put it on them, and they shall bear the burden of the people with you. . . . (Num. 11:17a)

After Gideon committed to obeying God’s call, he led his people against the Midianites. Then, the Spirit of the Lord clothed Gideon, and he sounded the trumpet, and. . . . (Judges 6:34) a new era had begun for the Israelites.

All Old Testament writers (and redactors) responded to the breath of God’s Spirit when writing the books of the Bible. Some of the prophets recorded their introduction to God’s Spirit.
Two prophets, Elijah and Elisha, didn’t write their own books, but I and II Kings tells about exploits they did in the power of God’s Spirit. I find the story of Elijah in the cave—after fleeing from Queen Jezebel—especially interesting because he tells us something about the voice of God while making it clear the Breath of God is not the same as the metaphor or the natural wind.

When Elijah found his hiding spot, he heard God ask, What are you doing here, Elijah? (I Kings 19:9b) He explained his discouragement and God told him to go outside the cave where he would stand on the mount before the Lord. (19:11b) But while still in the cave, a strong wind passed by. A really strong wind. Followed by an earthquake that shook things up. Followed by a fire. Elijah didn’t respond to any of them.

Then, after the fire, Elijah heard the sound of a low whisper. And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold, there came a voice to him. . . . (I Kings 19:12b,13)

Elijah had heard God’s question earlier. He knew God’s breath/wind/voice—knew it so well that he wasn’t fooled into thinking cataclysmic events (including a very strong wind) were the way to find God. In a real sense, God did speak to him through the physical wind, earthquake, and fire because through them he realized God was more than events. Nothing that had happened to him—and a lot had happened (read the account in I Kings 18 and 19) —was as important as hearing from God. His value didn’t rise or fall on his success. His value was in hearing God and responding to Him.

Once again, the quiet whisper of God's Spirit provided direction, and once again Elijah followed the leading of God’s breath as it resonated in his inner man.

The lesson for us? God’s Spirit knows who we are, where we are, and what we need. He will speak if we’ll only listen. It was true in the lives of the Old Testament heroes, and it’s true for us today. I personally testify that I need to remember this when I'm discouraged.

In the next post I’ll explore thoughts on the relationship between the Holy Spirit and the earthly life and ministry of Jesus.

The Holy Spirit and the Unity of God

2009-07-03T09:07:00.000-07:00

As one member of my family might, say, I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept of the Holy Spirit. The subject hasn’t actually come up with her, but she uses the expression and I think it defines my dilemma. The Holy Spirit is impossible to define, and I know I’m not unique in saying as much.

After commiting to writing on the Holy Spirit I quickly realized how impossible it would be to treat the subject completely or fairly. So, it’s with more than a little trepidation I’m stepping out—and I’m writing multiple posts. Remember that my thoughts are not definitive—but nothing on God will ever be definitive. I'm only trusting my insight will be helpful.

First and foremost, GOD IS ONE. Mark 12:29 records an occasion when Jesus affirmed this by referring to the Shema (known as the Jewish confession of faith): Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God. . . . (Deut. 6:4 NIV) In fact, throughout all of Scripture the distinctive of the God of Israel was His oneness. Monotheism—belief in one God was in sharp contrast to the polytheism of all other nations at the time.

But, God’s Oneness is infinite—so great that, in His Oneness, He interacts with Himself. When He does, finite human minds can only understand Him as plural.

Perhaps the best example of this is found in the creation story where we read, Let us (plural) make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule. . . . (Gen. 1:26) Even more interesting, in the Hebrew language of the Old Testament the largeness of God is revealed in the very first verse. Elohim, the word translated God, is plural in the Hebrew text.

That’s how God inspired the writing of the opening verse of the Bible. So the God who revealed Himself as One—to Abraham, to Moses, to the prophets, and to the other Old Testament people—also reveals Himself as so great He cannot be contained by any limitation.

The Bible consistently reveals God as three personalities. These three personalities or forms are usually referred to as three members of the Godhead—Jehovah, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Christians have made a doctrine of the three members and identify the doctrine of one God in three persons as the Trinity.

Many Christian teachers have sought illustrations to describe the unity of the Trinity. My preferred illustrations are the triangle and a musical chord—but both are imperfect. True, three sides are needed to create a triangle, and if one of them is removed, the triangle is non-existent. But each of the three sides has an identity of it’s own. I don’t think we can do that with God. His organic unity is an essential component of His wholeness. If Jesus or the Holy Spirit are removed from Jehovah, it would violate the nature of His oneness and Jehovah would be altered. Impossible.

Unity within a musical chord is helpful because overtones of any one note are related vibrations. They also contribute to the sound of any one note as heard by the human ear. Because chords add notes that correlate to overtones, there is an intrinsic unity in a chord. But overtones can be managed or manipulated. The image breaks at that point because we can’t manage or manipulate a component of God.

So God’s nature remains a mystery—and that’s not easy for some of us. It’s not easy for people like me who want to define and offer clear explanations.

To compensate, God makes us aware that His infinite nature is part of the wonder we experience when we contemplate Him. (Have you wondered how much we’ll understand the moment we enter heaven? Having become content with my limitations on earth, I now think I’ll continue to learn and learn and learn about the wonders of our God, including the Trinity. People make heaven into whatever they want it to be. I'm not so brilliant, but I love learning and I’ve made heaven into the ultimate learning experience.)

For the present, we can be content and rejoice because throughout history God has made it possible for us to understand something about His nature—the essentials—those things that can bring us into a right relationship with Him. To do that He revealed what we need to know through the person of the Trinity we identify as His Son Jesus. Everything about Jesus—even His death on the cross—reflected and reflects something about the totality of God. Everything in the Bible either points to Jesus or speaks directly about Jesus—because He is our revelation of God’s character.

But the Holy Spirit is also present throughout the Bible. He’s kind of like the unseen partner, working from the beginning in the background—always part of the Oneness of our God.

Next time, a look at the Holy Spirit in the Old Testament.

A Word of Wisdom in Action

2009-06-29T19:08:00.000-07:00

Fellow blogger Larry Who wrote a post on June 25 that provides a wonderful example of a word of wisdom. A word of wisdom is one of the gifts of the spirit listed in I Corinthians 12. I'd written earlier about the gifts of the spirit (June 15) and was so impressed by Larry's story that I asked if I could share it. He graciously said yes and, because I'm feeling a bit pressed this week, decided I'd pass it on today.

To clear up possible confusion, I'll mention that he refers to what happened as a prophesy or a prophetic word. My belief is that all spoken revelations and/or gifts are prophetic in nature but, because Paul identifies various types of prophetic expressions, it's sometimes helpful to identify differences.

I'd plan to insert his URL to take you directly to the specific entry I'd like to highlight. Well, my computer skills are improved but not improved enough. After struggling for over an hour with various posibilities, I finally posted something that didn't quite work. In desperation I decided I must go on to something else. So, I'm sending you to his blog address and trusting that you'll find the June 25 posting. His postings aren't long and the search will be interesting. Press here .

Cleanse Me with Hyssop, Part 2 of 2

2009-06-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

Hyssop. I'm interested in it. The Hebrews used it to apply the blood of their Passover Lamb to the top and sides of the door frames. If it wern't important, it wouldn’t be mentioned by name. My Bible dictionary tells me it’s a form of marjoram, similar to the caper plant, with clusters of small yellow flowers.

After the Hebrews left Egypt and slavery, when God gave them instructions concerning worship, Levitical priests used hyssop. It was part of the cleansing ceremonies after someone was healed of leprosy, (Lev. 14:2-6) and it was used when preparing water for purification. (Lev. 19:18) David drew from that background when he cried, Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. (Ps. 51:7) The context was his personal cleansing: For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. he said. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight. . . . (v. 3,4)

I’m going to make a leap here, so hang with me: God’s use of metaphor is consistent throughout Scripture. That’s one of the wonders of our Bible. When He told the Hebrews to sprinkle the blood of the lamb, the blood pointed to the blood Jesus would shed for the sin of all mankind—a one-time sacrifice. Blood pays the penalty for sin. It provides forgiveness.

And when God told them to apply the blood with hyssop, the hyssop indicated God’s ability to cleanse or purify—to change the very nature of the sinner. Perhaps the aromatic herb already represented cleanliness—a fresh smell to brighten a difficult lifestyle. The Hebrews didn’t understand all the symbolism—couldn’t. Their job was to obey. (I'm not suggesting hyssop has ability to cleanse in itself. Only the sacrifice of Jesus covers and cleanses from sin.)

Slave mentality means lack of personal value. It can mean inability to decide a personal response and it almost always means inability to express personal responses. It often includes poverty, fear, inability to provide for family members. Slavery inhibits freedom, and it's difficult to overcome. Sin is horrendous and slavery to sin is outside God's plan.

But purity is frightening, too. It's an impossible goal. Obeying God is a different kind of slavery—a slavery that promises the elusive internal freedom. One of God’s glorious paradoxes.

It’s almost as important to believe God restores—purifies—as it is to believe He forgives. And it’s every bit as hard or harder. Accepting His forgiveness is vital—our eternal destination depends upon it. But entering into and receiving His life (because only He is good and pure) is our key to receiving the abundant life Jesus promised while still on earth. It’s also the way we pass His life on to others.

In fact, we can’t pass His life on to others unless it’s reality in our lives.

David said, Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from your presence, and take not your Holy Spirit from me. (Ps. 51:10-12) He knew that just as the Hebrews couldn’t make the transition from physical slavery to freedom without God’s continued intervention, he couldn’t make the transition from the slavery of sin to spiritual victory and freedom without God’s continued intervention.

One more Biblical reference to hyssop. Jesus said, I thirst as He died on the cross. Then soldiers used hyssop to lift sour wine to Him. (Jn. 19:29) We read, When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, “It is finished.” And he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”(v. 30)

Hyssop. Only John records the little detail, but there it is. Cleansing. Jesus didn’t give up His life until hyssop—cleansing—was part of the package. Everything we have comes through Him.

Dear Jesus, open my heart to receive forgiveness from sin. Open my heart to receive Your cleansing. Break down the barriers that keep me from receiving Your life. Amen.

Next time, a look at the person of the Holy Spirit.

Cleanse Me with Hyssop, Part 1 of 2

2009-06-22T03:00:00.001-07:00

Perhaps you’ve heard stories about people who met God while in a prison—and who then declare that even while in prison, they are free—more free than they had been when outside because they're free from sin.

I believe them. They don’t feel the need to pretend or hide their true feelings, so they're free to be themselves.

Very few of us are there—truly there. Aren’t there emotional places where you don’t go—can’t go—because something from your past constricts you? This isn’t freedom.

After reading the book of Exodus recently, I’ve been thinking about coming out of slavery. God led the Hebrew slaves out of their physical bondage in Egypt, but I’m thinking about a different type of bondage, of course—personal slavery to sin. God is dealing with me on some issues.

Slavery to sin has more than one form. Some people are in bondage due to horrendous sins against them—abuse of all types. When hearts are unable to respond to God or to others because they've been abused, they're experiencing isolation, a form of salvery, caused by the sin of others. But sin is a huge subject. Some people are in bondage due to personal sin. They’ve done something that separated them from God and other people, so they also live in a measure of isolation.

(Separation is God’s punishment for sin. The separation to Hell is the final or ultimate separation, but we can experience many degrees of separation or isolation in our daily life while still on earth.)

The Egyptians isolated the Hebrews by making them their laborers. Rather than enjoying the benefits and blessings of an affluent society, the Hebrews provided the physical labor that made everything work. Their basic status wasn’t caused by their sin but by the sin of their oppressors. Then God arranged for their deliverance.

But deliverance wasn't a quick work. First, Moses told them God wanted to set them free. What a joy that must have been. They believed. . . . And, when they heard the Lord had visited the people of Israel and that he had seen their affliction, they bowed their heads and worshipped. (Ex. 4:31 ESV) But then they had to go through trials to attain the new status. And as they struggled to understand, a different type of sin and bondage became a new reality. When they failed to believe—or to obey God’s Word through His leaders—they sinned on their own and isolated themselves anew from God and others.

The same is true for us. When God moves in our lives, we move into the joy of freedom. We’re no longer separated or isolated. But then we discover it requires a different mindset. We’re asked to trust and obey. When we do, we have new responsibilities. We learn following God requires brokenness and transparency before the One who loves us.

Knowing God is working in our behalf brings new desire to love God and please Him, sometimes at great cost. The Hebrews experienced plagues. They lived the terror of being unable to fulfill unjust demands and they experienced the uncertainty of day-to-day trauma. By the time of the Passover, they had first-hand experience of God’s ability to move on their behalf, but they were hardly comfortable with God’s strange requirements and promises.

Still, they participated. They packed their belongings, secured their Passover lamb, slaughtered it, daubed the blood of the animal on the top and sides of the door frames with hyssop, baked unleavened bread, and ate a meal that included not only the Passover lamb and unleavened bread—but also bitter herbs to represent their lives as slaves.

Next time, part 2 of looking at the purity issue.

A Great Time

2009-06-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

Did you read about our celebration? Our 50th Anniversary celebration? If not, and if you're interested in a family event, you can get the preview by reading my post of June 4. If not, my series will continue Monday.

The weather had been unusually cold and rainy the week before the event. Both Ken and I fretted a bit but comforted ourselves by the thought of no mosquitoes. Then, as a special blessing, the weather changed. Rain disappeared, the thermometer rose to the low 70s in the afternoons, and the mosquites hadn't had time to hatch. Perfect.

Our children with families arrived according to schedule. Ted and family—who came Friday, June 5—had some difficulty adjusting to the 9-hour time difference, but survived to thrive. The time alone with them gave us opportunity to get re-acquainted with almost 3-year-old Simon and 10-month-old Salome. They’ve changed since we last saw them in Ethiopia in October!

On Wednesday the 10th we all went to a lake resort in Minnesota for a few days. On Saturday we came back to West Fargo by way of Wahpeton, ND, where we lived for many years. This will be a straightforward account via pictures of a few highlights (almost all from the resort). When I bring up the idea of sharing pix on a blog, some members of our family are camera shy, so I've selected pictures that don't reveal identities.

First, because it was lovely (and spotless!), the resort. From our cabin we looked in two directions. On one side the lake. Here I focused on a birch with the lake as a backdrop. When I become a better photographer, I'll know how to make the white of the bark stand out the way it did in real life.

Through the front window we viewed a maple, an oak, a willow and a pine. The lodge is in the background.

There were wildflowers along the edge of the woods.

Our children rented a pontoon one day for fishing and touring. East Silent Lake is quiet and beautiful.

However, our children and grandchildren wanted activity, so the pontoon stood unused in the afternoon and evening in favor of kayaks and a canoe.

I thought I took pictures of the fun on the raft—but apparently didn't. Some used the kayaks to reach it while a few swam in the frigid waters. All converged to jump around and generally have a good time while the prudent (or the less daring?) laughed from shore.

There was fun on the beach, too. Here some of the teenagers and a parent get things started for the younger children. Later, Simon (center) with his 7 and 8-year-old cousins played together for almost two hours in the sand, each doing their own thing.

The baby and older brother went on excursions.

And played on the playground.

Ken and one of our son-in-laws caught fish from one of the private docks.

Here’s the beach in the quiet of the evening when everyone went to their respective cabins to rest up.

All family stuff—no great shakes for the rest of the world. But we had a great time. On our final night we had our only rain shower just as we were about to eat. Quickly moving everything inside the closest cabin, the girls arranged and served another wonderful meal. This time they surprised us with an anniversary cake—and I didn’t think to shoot a picture until we’d all had a piece. As we finished, Ken waxed eloquent about all being together under one roof.

And here's Ken on Saturday, looking at where the Ottertail River and Bois de Sioux River converge to form the Red River of the North between Wahpeton, ND, and Breckenridge, MN.

It wasn't all over, however. On Sunday we had a few extended family members stop by our condo to see the children and grandchildren. Fun to show them off.

Then the children left one by one. That helped the feelings of emptiness when all left. Although Monday, on the last full day of having someone with us, I was so tired that even the adrenalin was running low. Yet how I hated to see them go. I can't help but wonder when we'll all be together again.

P.S. I had Ken read this before posting and he laughed and laughed because I ended up with his backside after avoiding anything that revealed identities. If you got this far, I hope you were able to take it in stride the way he did.

Gifts of the Spirit

2009-06-15T03:00:00.000-07:00

Before looking at the gifts of the Spirit as listed in I Corinthians, I want to mention that praying privately in tongues is not one of them. Private prayer in tongues is simply praying in an unknown language. Personal use of a prayer language was a familiar practice among early Christians and among pagans of the time as well. Specific references to praying in tongues can be found in Acts 2, 10:44 ff and 19:6.

Praying in tongues makes it possible for me to pray beyond myself. There are times when I don’t know what to pray. I pray in tongues. There are times when I feel limited by English. I pray in tongues.

Praying in tongues builds me up. Praying in tongues comforts me. Praying in tongues offers release when I'm distruaught. Praying in tongues makes it possible to pray when I’m at a loss. After many years, my testimony is that I can’t imagine not being able to pray in tongues.

The fact that tongues can be abused—and used by spirits other than the God the Holy Spirit—should not be frightening. Satan counterfeits praying in tongues because it’s effective. He wouldn’t bother to counterfeit something than has no value. As with anything from God, motives make all the difference.

Whenever anyone desire to do something for God, self enters in. In fact, that self of ours is a huge problem. Just as focusing on fruit causes problems, focusing on gifts causes problems. As a person with a sinful nature, I'm prone to decide what I think God should do and, specifically, what He should do in me. But I can't. And I can't decide what gift or gifts God should give any more than I can decide I want to grow a specific fruit. Everything comes from God and depends upon allowing Him to do His thing.

When thinking about gifts of the Spirit, it’s helpful to remember that they’re external. They have nothing to do with me other than whether or not I’ve opened myself to receive a gift. Even the faith to operate in these gifts is a gift. And so, gifts are not a sign of maturity or spiritual growth. In fact, it seems new Christians often receive faith to move in gifts—a baptism of sorts into the supernatural workings of God. Then God begins to work in them—grow the fruit. Gifts might take a back seat for a season—until God gloriously resurrects them. But individuals have no control over the process. They can only yield or fail to yield to God.

In addition, I want to mention that what I'm sharing here could be considered old teaching. When people currently share about the gifts of the Spirit they often focus on the person of the Holy Spirit Himself. Or they might tell about something the Holy Spirit is doing in the world at this time. Both are good and worthy approaches. However, sometimes a return to basic texts provides a helpful perspective.

Now a brief look at the function of the public gifts listed in I Corinthians 12:7-10. Sometimes a public 1) Message in Tongues is given within a congregation or group. Then, rather than functioning as a private prayer language, the message becomes a gift for the Body of Christ and for the edification of all. This is almost always an extension of an active prayer language. There are miraculous stories surrounding this gift—of people in the audience who hear a message in a language they know. This happened in Acts. But Paul refers to speaking in unknown tongues of men and angels (I Cor. 13)—and I’m not going to argue with Paul. The possibilities are endless.

I’ve also experienced 2) Interpreting Tongues. This is simply an interpretation of the Message in Tongues. When I've received an interpretation, the message was almost always a thought or thoughts I’d had earlier—thoughts that suddenly became so focused that I had to say them out loud for the group's benefit.

The same is true of the 3) Gift of Prophecy which is a message spoken directly in the language understood. I don’t know why God gave both—but there I times when I’ve merrily sat in my spot with no thought of contributing. Then there’s a message in tongues and I know I must be open. Anything else would be irresponsible.

Prophetic words come in all sorts of packages. Quite often they're shared by someone within a group in a way that somehow identifies them as a prophetic word. Also, some preachers regularly preach with a prophetic anointing that moves the message into the spirit realm. And then there are those times when a prophetic message is spoken in a conversation without the speaker even realizing what they've said. But the one hearing the message knows.

4) Healing was familiar territory for me. Dad experienced healings off and on throughout his ministry—several remarkable. Historically, every major move of God was marked by healings. I’ve experienced healing and I see doctors—and find no conflict in that lifestyle.

Then there’s 5) Faith. What Christian hasn’t had to step out in faith on occasion? Scary, but we learn God is with us. I’ve found that when I try to drum up faith on my own, it's usually my doing. But if something happens outside my control that requires faith—or if faith is required to do something I feel God has called me to do—then I can call on Him and He faithfully provides faith. Remember, the gifts originate outside the self. That’s why we can’t work up faith on our own.

6) Discernment of Spirits and the 7) Word of Wisdom are often realities or thoughts I’ve learned through reading the Bible—but that God brings to mind in times of need. What Christian hasn’t experienced that? Nevertheless, there have been times when I supernaturally understood something within my spirit. And there have been times when I've understood a spirit working within another person. There were times when I knew exactly how to approach a problem. Those types of occurrences are God’s gifts or His revelation at work.

That leaves two I’d rather not discuss. First, the 8) Word of Knowledge or supernaturally knowing something. This doesn’t mean a general truth—it means something specific and it includes information that could be shared—probably for encouragement or correction. I stepped out with a word for someone once—and my word was wrong. After that, I started backpedaling—and since then I’ve moved in the gift only once or twice. On the other hand, I’ve been grateful when I’ve received words from others—sometimes key words.

And 9) Miracles. I’m so aware of damage done by people who claim God did or does miracles through them. While healing is actually a speeding up of the natural healing process, miracles involve creating something new or different. A miracle is, by definition, impossible. I don’t doubt the stories of miracles in the Bible, Nor do I doubt the stories of miracles embedded in Christian history because, Jesus is the same yesterday and today and forever. (Heb. 13:8) But I think miracles are more likely in areas where people have no recourse to meet their needs other than a miracle. However, I also think miracles could become more common if people turned whole-heartedly to God.

While I think it important that spiritual gifts be challenged at times—and carefully weighed—the gift of miracles especially carries the burden of verification. If not documented, all sorts of claims and charlatanry can follow.

Please notice that none of the gifts are necessarily outside our normal Christian experience unless they’ve been rejected—perhaps out of fear because they’ve been practiced in error. The key to healthy use of spiritual gifts is submission. People who operate in the gifts must submit to God and to each other. Leaders, especially, must trust others to hear from God. They must believe God can speak to more than one and that His Word is confirmed by multiple witnesses. They must be willing to submit to other people. If not, they will begin to think they are something or someone special.

I also want to suggest that the personal gift of praying in tongues I received so many years ago seems to open the door for the others gifts to flow more freely. But that’s an observation, not a doctrine.

Next time, a look at the purity issue.

We Don't Get to Pick and Choose

2009-06-11T03:00:00.000-07:00

Why do I feel so shaky when telling about my Pentecostal/Charismatic experience with its gifts of the Spirit? Is it because in my personal world most people reject what I’d love to share? Is it because I’m acutely aware of problems? Is it because I’ve not embraced the Holy Spirit's gifts as fully as I could?

Yes. To all of the above.

Paul provides a listing of gifts of the Spirit in I Corinthians. We read, To one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by the one Spirit, to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the ability to distinguish between spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues. (I Cor. 12:8-11 ESV) If you count the gifts as listed here, you’ll find there are nine.

In Galatians, Paul provides another list—the fruit of the Spirit. Here we read, But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. (Gal. 5:22) If you count the fruit as listed here, you’ll find there are nine.

I don’t think either list is conclusive. But many years ago, I either heard or read something that compared these nine gifts and nine fruits to the bells and pomegranates on the priestly garments. The Scripture reference was, On the hem of the robe they made pomegranates of blue and purple and scarlet yarns and fine twined linen. They also made bells of pure gold, and put the bells between the pomegranate—a bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate around the hem of the robe for ministering, as the Lord had commanded Moses. (Ex. 39: 24-26)

Pomegranates represent fruit, of course. Bells represent gifts—I Corinthians 13:1 tells us they can clang! In the Tabernacle of the Arc, the high priest entered the Holy of Holies only once a year—by himself—and it was a fearsome responsibility. If unclean, he would die. While the assistants waited outside, they listened for the sound of the bells and pomegranates as a signal the high priest was still alive and fulfilling his duties. So the pomegranates and bells provided a way to determine whether or not things were going well.

In the past I’ve heard so many link fruit and gifts—emphasizing they would rather have fruit than gifts because fruit reflects humility while gifts became a thing of pride. I don’t think God intended an either/or. We aren't to choose between them. In fact, we can't choose.

Fruit is organic. It grows from within and it develops over time. Gifts, on the other hand, are inorganic, external, and instantly received. Both come from God and neither replaces the other.

A quick look at fruit production: Consider apple trees that blossom in the spring. Although I’m not a scientific person, I know buds form and then delicate petals unfold. When the petals fade, they either drop or the wind blows them away to leave a miniature apple—a fruit—hard and bitter but containing everything necessary to be an apple. It slowly grows or matures until the fleshly part is crisp and sweet, and it can be enjoyed in a multitude of ways.

Many things can happen to an apple on the way to becoming mature. Soil conditions could be poor—water could be scarce—growing conditions could be crowded—worms could infest—wind or hail could damage—and then, after the apple reaches perfection, honey bees could find them and eat them. Each step of fruit production is precarious. Meanwhile, all the apple does is be an apple. It grows from within, but something beyond itself is at work.

Likewise, the fruit of the Spirit that grows in God’s people is also precarious—vulnerable at every point in its development—and then it can be lost even after it’s seemingly fully developed or mature.

Spiritual fruit develops only when we respond to God. If we focus on growing fruit, we lose sight of God and become self-obsessed. For example, if we try to grow the fruit of long-suffering, we don’t become long-suffering—we become pathetic. We cannot decide to grow the fruit of love by deciding to grow the fruit of love, either. And not joy or peace or patience or kindness or goodness or faithfulness or gentleness or self-control. Growing fruit depends on looking beyond fruit to our master gardener. Spiritual fruit grows and develops only as we respond to the life of Christ.

And here’s a frightening truth: if we aren’t bearing good fruit, we’re rejecting God’s Spirit. When we look to God, He deals with us. His dealings might be hard, but that's when our fruit becomes sweet and lovely. If we resist His dealings, we remain stunted bitter apples that no one wants. It's not a matter of choosing fruit over gifts or gifts over fruit. It's a matter of focusing on Him. Fruit is natural to healthy fruit trees—and good fruit should be natural for healthy Christians. If that isn't the case, something is wrong.

While we can’t try to grow fruit on our own, we can examine ourselves regularly to see if the Holy Spirit is doing something significant—to see if we’re actually allowing Him into our lives. Most of the times we know without an examination—because He is at work pruning, force-feeding reality we’d rather not face, showing us how to stand against spiritual attacks, and doing the things God does—because interaction with Him is an ongoing process.

Next time, a brief overview of the gifts of the Spirit.

My Pentecostal/Charismatic Roots

2009-06-08T03:00:00.000-07:00

I’m expanding the subject material covered in my blog today. In the past I’ve shared my Lutheran roots—and doctrinally I’ve never stopped being a Lutheran. I believe the truths revealed to Luther are the foundational truths of every Christian denomination. That doesn't mean other denominations are wrong, but they're not me. I know Lutheran doctrine can be expanded, but the basic teaching are the essentials, and I’m not willing to insist on more.

However, I have another major spiritual source—one I haven’t shared—my Pentecostal - Charismatic background.

First, let me share that on January 28, 1967, I met God—entirely within the Lutheran tradition. Shortly after, at the invitation of a gal I’d talked to once, I began attending a prayer group in our Lutheran church. After a couple of meetings that seemed normal, someone said something that begged a question. My new friend responded by lending a book to me titled, They Speak with Other Tongues by John and Elizabeth Sherrill.

I’d heard about people who did that kind of thing! My parents began their ministry in rural Montana where Mom contracted polio when my oldest brother was a baby. After Dad took Mom by train to the Minnesota University Hospital, he returned to Montana where he fellowshipped off and on with a group of farmers who had experienced a spontaneous outpouring of the Holy Spirit in the early 1930s. In the spring a member of the group, a man who farmed, received a prophetic word that Jesus was coming in the fall—and several didn’t plant their fields.

Dad had farmed before going into the ministry—loved farming, and that added to his distress. He tried to tell them that no one knew the day or hour—but they weren’t dissuaded. After that, both he and Mom erected a barrier against the Pentecostal experience. I grew up on stories of well-meaning but misguided Pentecostals.

But my friend had been good to me so I read the book, and I think I must have been ready for a supernatural encounter—which, by the way, was not alien to my parents theology. When I finished the book, I had spiritual eyes to see the Pentecostal experience throughout Acts and the Epistles—and I knew it was from God.

In the book, John Sherrill shares his salvation testimony—not unlike my own. I felt connected to him. He tells how, as a reporter, his editor sent him to cover a story on people who prayed in tongues—and how he came to believe the people spoke real languages. His interest piqued, he researched tongues and other supernatural gifts as practiced in Scripture and throughout history—material he covered in detail. And finally, he shared his personal pentecost.

The slim volume is hard to find now. There are newer books—but that’s the book that spoke to me. Even so, I didn’t reach out immediately. Knowing the Pentecostal experience was valid didn’t mean I wanted anything to do with it.

We lived in Phoenix, Arizona, at the time which gave me a measure of freedom—we were a long way from family. I began attending a small independent church on Sunday evenings. The pastor, Charles McHatton, had a Baptist background, but I was struck by the similarity between him and my father. Both preached a solid Word from the Bible. He was an expository teacher—gave me a foundation that’s stood me in good stead. For example, he taught that if the devil can’t keep you from a truth, he’ll try to push you overboard and make you a fanatic. One must always search the Bible. He called prophecies similar to those of the farmer in Montana Angel of Light Deceptions.

On January 3, 1968, God dealt with me to go forward and receive this strange gift of speaking in tongues—because that was the signature gift at the time. Ken was not happy—until he saw positive fruit in my life and was eventually convinced by Scripture as well. In time, we even took our children to this crazy church, attending our Lutheran church Sunday morning and our Charismatic church Sunday evening.

Ken had always planned to return to our home territory after he finished college—and we had lived in Phoenix several years longer than anticipated. So in 1974 we moved to Wahpeton, North Dakota, where he taught electronics at the North Dakota State College of Science.

After moving to Wahpeton, we found a Pentecostal church in a town across the river—in Minnesota. We also learned that in our relatively small North Dakota community, attending two churches confused our neighbors and friends. We eventually left our Lutheran church to become full-time Pentecostals.

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. The Lutheran church of our heritage had changed greatly since our childhood—the small Pentecostal church with a Norwegian background was comfortable and the people were good people. We felt we’d found a home.

So often testimonies like this end abruptly with a happily-ever-after ending. Reality, however, is that life is a mixed bag of the good and of the not-so-good. Sometimes they're inextricably entwined. As people, we haven't yet escaped from our human propensity to sin. But even so, God has been faithful. That's our miracle. I'll be sharing more on the subject in future posts.

A Celebration

2009-06-04T03:00:00.000-07:00

Twenty-five years ago, our oldest daughter Borgi asked us if we wanted a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.

That type of occasion has never appealed to me. As a the youngest child of a pastor, I was often carted off to such affairs—probably because my parents couldn’t afford a babysitter. Anniversary celebrations might be great for others, but I never overcame my distaste for them.

Borgi was motivated because other couples in our church—the parents of her friends—had been celebrating in just that fashion, but she was relieved by my response. She knew her brother’s involvement would be minimal and our youngest was just a young child at the time.

We did do something as a family. We settled on take-out pizza rather than dinner out because then we’d have more freedom to interact.

You might have figured out where this is going. This month we’re about to celebrate our 50th. In addition, Ken turns 75 and I’ve just turned 70. This a summer for milestones.

Of course, in the second-twenty-five years our family has expanded numerically—by four spouses and seven grandchildren. We’ve also expanded geographically—one son and his family live abroad and one daughter and her family live in Las Vegas. Getting everyone together has been, so far, an impossible task. At some point—and I know I did it more than once—I verbalized my desire for everyone to be together for our anniversary. I don’t want any presents, I said. I’d just like to get everyone together in one place at one time.

Last fall the phone rang. Caller ID indicated our youngest daughter’s home. Ken answered expecting to hear Sarah, but Nadya, her youngest, a first grader, was one the line.

First, she told him to get Grandma because she had something to say that she wanted both of us to hear. I was already on my way to another phone. When she knew we were both there, she read an invitation to a family gathering at a lake resort in Minnesota in June—at which all your children and grandchildren will be present.

I was too stunned to say anything. Ken finally asked, Did you say lake resort?

We heard this sweet little voice say, Yes, I did.

I can’t recount any more of the conversation because I don’t remember it. We didn’t know how to respond to her, to Sarah, to our other children. Neither of us slept well that night.

All along I’ve been fearful something would happen—and that it wouldn’t come about. In fact, although we’ve talked about it and made plans, it hasn’t seemed real until two weeks ago. We called Ted in the UAE on a Friday morning—which was their Friday evening. He and Simon were reading. He put the phone on speaker so Simon could hear and we asked him if he was coming to visit. His little sweet voice said, Yes.

Something about the certainty in his response made it real for me—and Ken understood when I mentioned it later so I think he felt it, too. Simon’s coming. His parents and baby sister are coming. Our daughter and family in Vegas are coming. Everyone will be together.

And now the time is upon us. By our time, Ted and family leave the UAE around 3:00 PM today (Thursday). They arrive around 6:00 PM tomorrow (Friday) . Sarah and family comes Tuesday. The others are more-or-less local and their schedules vary. We’ll all be at the lake together for one day and we'll probably get together a couple of times the following weekend. There will be no program.

Concerning blogging while they’re here—I’ve written ahead and prescheduled the postings so they will appear as they usually do. However, the material I'll cover will be different, an expansion of sorts.

Because we'll be busy, I probably won’t monitor or respond to comments when our family is with us. I probably won't even respond until we’ve had time to rest and recover.

If you think of it, send blessings our way!

Exploring the Blogosphere?

2009-05-28T18:27:00.000-07:00

The blogging world seems somewhat slow this week. Is it my imagination? Or perhaps the combination of the Memorial Day weekend and the onset of summer? Whether real or imagined, I’m going to take advantage of the lull by mentioning a mistake I made last week—a mistake made when I wrote in the middle of the night on May 19. I mixed up the names of two blogs—and anyone following through would have been confused.

Because the mistake concerned a blog, I’m going to highlight not only the two of interest—but a few more that I didn’t get to last time around. If you’re interested in looking these up, go to the sidebar on the left where you’ll see a segment titled, Links and Blogs I Visit. Scroll down to the title that interests you and click.

So, on May 19 I mentioned Yesterday, Today, and Forever—and said it would be a joy to anyone with ties to agriculture. Wrong blog. While Yesterday, Today and Forever could bless someone connected to the farm community, farming is not part of its content. I meant to direct readers to Getting Down with Jesus. (The mistake has been corrected in the posting.)

Getting Down with Jesus comes from a gal who’s worked professionally as a reporter for a major newspaper. She and her husband left it the city to return to his family’s farm—where they worship at a local country church with their two young girls. She has a gentle spirit that probes interesting ideas. And she’s an excellent writer.

(I’m not sure if I just stumbled on this track, but it seems many of the bloggers I visit are young stay-at-home mothers. For some of them, blogging is a way to connect with the outside world. It also offers a place to write creatively.)

The blog I mentioned by mistake—and which I’d planned to bring up next month—seems unique to me because the lady’s children are adults—and she has grandchildren. Someone I can identify with. Although I’m quite sure she’s not as old as I am, she’s above the norm age-wise, and I appreciate that.

That’s why I’ve found her format so amazing. My approach is to keep everything as simple as possible. She’s rather complex—but I’m getting better at finding my way around. To find her original material I have to click stuff and the learning curve keeps presenting itself. Let me just say, I enjoy it when I do. Of additional interest on the site are her ties to her homeland and her translations of German hymns. So I keep learning new things on several fronts.

If you’re looking for something short to pick you up, try Today’s Inspiration. These posts (by a fellow this time) can also be received via email—the easy way to do things—and his morning offerings have been exactly what I needed on more than one occasion.

Yvette from A Journey Through His Garden posts only occasionally, but when she does, she’s worth reading. She’s also adjusted to a different country, and she includes stories about her family. Then, there’s her poetry.

On a totally different track, Conversation in Faith is written by a veterinarian with a wealth of material on medical issues. This is pure information. She’s been covering ramifications of health-related scenarios. I’ve not kept up, but I keep going back when I can because I find her material—as well as the many links she provides—helpful and interesting.

Finally, this time around I want to mention Tiffany Ann Lewis. My link takes you to her website. However, I’m highlighting her now because her recent Monthly Manna offered such a beautiful picture of God’s grace. To make sure I don’t miss this monthly material, I’ve subscribed to it by email as well.

Blessings—and enjoy.

Losing Ourselves for Something Bigger

2009-05-26T01:31:00.000-07:00

Watermelons cost less than $3.00 at a local store on Friday, the day before Memorial Day weekend, and I purchased one. As I made my way through the checkout, the gal at the till let me know I could leave it in the cart. Then, Sure will be glad when this weekend is over, she declared. Everyone’s getting pop and watermelon.

For her, Memorial Day means problematic shoppers. I don’t blame her. She didn’t experience my history. But, at the risk of sounding like a tired, old-lady—which I often am—let me share something from my past. And make an observation.

I don’t remember my first parade, but I suspect the most vivid memories are from 1946 or '47. A group carrying rifles led the way in dark blue uniforms. They marched in step but not with precision.

Then four military men in varied uniforms carried flags—the only sound the shuffle of feet on asphalt while people saluted as they passed.

Then the men from World War I, also in dark blue, with Doc Elliot—a congenial fellow—as drill sergeant. But on Memorial Day he didn’t smile. His command was comprised of middle-aged men, out of shape and out of practice. I can see their sober faces.

And then the young men straight from the European and Asian arenas of World War II. Royce Peterson, a huge softie, gave commands to the human machines that made up this group. Every gun at an angle identical to the one next to it, every arm and leg movement perfectly synchronized—khaki uniforms with white embellishments performing as one. Why do tears come when I remember?

On any other day, these were the casual people of my hometown. People I knew. In a few years I’d babysit for Royce and Jeanette’s children.

Years later the Peterson’s oldest son Bill would write for National Geographic and make a reference to the Memorial Day parades of his childhood. (Life in Rural America, 1974, p. 10) He could not have witnessed his father in the full vigor of a just-returned veteran—he mentions the parades as lazy events of his childhood. But he felt their importance enough to include them. I find that interesting. He went on to criticize our government’s failure to protect Appalachia.

I wasn’t offended by his views. I’m not offended by a checkout gal who thinks of Memorial Day as a trial. I don’t really long for a past that is gone. And although we’re in a conflict—or war—or whatever you want to call it that I believe is equally as serious as World War II, I wish it would go away. Don't we all?

But what disturbs me most is our loss of purpose—our lost sense of identity. I know anyone can say as much, but I want to add that observation I alluded to earlier.

Please understand that, contrary to what some might say, no one thought our country was perfect during or after World War II. People complained about the government then, too. I remember the conversations. And they weren’t expecting a perfect country in the future.

What they had was a vision of something bigger that our country. In fact, when the American GI’s fought, they didn't fight for America. Some fought simply because they were drafted. But at the same time, the concept of decency, the value of human life, the importance of freedom loomed large. And to a greater or lesser degree, they fought against evil.

I love my country, my nation. I think the United States of America is the best place in the world to live—after all, it’s the destination of choice for the displaced people of the world. I also think that if we focus on saving our nation, we’ll become self-serving and somehow lose it.

Jesus said, For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life? (Mt. 16:25,26 NLT) The principle holds true at every level.

A fairly popular saying made the rounds a few years ago: The family that prays together, stays together. People rallied to the cry and the family as we know it began its demise.

When we try to save ourselves, we become self-focused and self-serving. Saving a country—like like saving a family—like saving an individual—depends on losing sight of personal gain for something bigger, something more important.

But how do we focus on something bigger? We have to be discreet. Prayer makes a difference. But perhaps we need to rethink our motives when we pray—for individuals, for families, and for country.

I’ve prayed for our nation off-and-on ever since becoming a Christian. I've prayed for blessings, protection, wise leadership, etc.—certainly prayers in line with God's Will.

Or are they? I've recently begun to rethink some things. Even when praying for a move of God, I thought it important because our nation needed it. This is subtle, but I was praying self-centered and self-serving prayers for my good, for my country's good. It was all about me, me, me, me, me. And, we, we, we, we, we.

Is God simply part of an equation? Or should He be the center of my focus? What should I pray regarding our nation if I focus on Him? If He’s the center, and if our nation and other nations simply revolve around His plan, would that change my prayers?

Rhetorical questions to bring home the point that we need purified motives. We need to pray for His Will—and then we can ask Him to bring about His plans for mankind.

When we do, our country will probably be blessed, but that won’t be the issue.

It’s time to forget about ourselves and to lose ourselves in something bigger. Bigger than problematic shoppers and memories of the past, bigger than whatever stands in the way of seeking God.

God's Soil

2009-05-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

In August of 1966, Ken and I moved our family from the Minneapolis suburb of St. Louis Park to Phoenix. The reason had nothing to do with climate or spiritual growth—but with completing college. Although we both came from educated families, we had elected to drop out of formal schooling. That shouldn’t be an element of self-esteem, but for us it was. He tried to go back at one point on a part-time basis but we actually had three babies at the time—aged 4 months to three years. I tried to work part-time, too—we needed money to live—but we couldn’t keep it up.

So two and one-half years later, when they were five, four, and two, he answered an ad for a job that offered a great deal of overtime—meaning that as the children grew we’d be able to save money. The plan was to finish college and return home in five years.

Now this blog posting is not going to be about our time in Phoenix. Just included that for a bit of human interest. It will also introduce the concept of soil—one of the first things we noticed about our new city was the dirt. It wasn’t black but red!

Ken had traveled a bit when in the Navy, had been exposed to the world. I’d been as far east as central Wisconsin, as far south as Des Moines, and as far west as Fargo—with a brief excursion to Montana with a youth group during which I really hadn’t noticed the soil.

At any rate, I marveled over the red dirt. It seemed impossible that anything would grow in it—but we had a cactus garden in the house we rented and our grass was green. When we purchased a home, we planted an olive tree, a plum tree, two apricot trees, a carob tree, three junipers, five dwarf natal plums, roses, a hibiscus, and two pittosporum. Along the front of the house, everything was exceedingly small—we were watching pennies—but roses grow quickly in Phoenix so they filled-in for a season.

People assured us everything would grow and it did! In fact, they flourished, and the hibiscus became my favorite—its bright red flowers bloomed throughout the hot summer when nothing else would. Thirty years later we had an hibiscus tree with red flowers in our home that lasted several years—compliments of daughter-in-law Patty. During the summers, I moved it to our deck, as pictured here. I loved it, in part, because it reminded me of that second home which I grew to love so much.

Recently, while in Custer, I picked up a placemat in a restaurant that featured soil—i.e., dirt. So interesting. Of course, one of the things it mentioned is that some soil is red. It also identified soil as a natural resource.

Anyone who thought about it would have known it was so—but I hadn’t thought about it and found it interesting. And because it’s my inclination to think along these lines, I thought about the stories Jesus told that included soil. The ESV translation of Matthew 13:8 reads, Other seeds fell on good soil and produced grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Other passages use the word ground, but I think we can safely assume that word also refers to soil.

Jesus grew up and lived in a rural setting, familiar with soil and it’s properties. He knew some was better than others. Some simply needed working or cultivation. And he compares us to soil.

Here are some interesting facts about soil taken from the placemat: cotton grows in soil, we build on soil, soil is fun, roots need soil, we depend on soil, worms live in soil, soil has minerals, soil filters water, wells are in soil, soil has texture, baseball is played on soil, soil feeds the world. In addition, from the same list, we should prevent soil erosion, protect our soil, and keep soil pollution free. (National Association of Conservation Districts, http://nacdnet.org/)

So, do we appreciate the wealth of our life in Christ—the life He planted in the soil of our being? And what are we doing to prevent erosion of our spiritual resources, to protect our walk with God, to keep our lives free from pollution?

In a way, I hate to make the spiritual applications, because the thrill of enjoying God’s provision thrills me. But it seems appropriate.

As for our family, we saved like crazy, Ken graduated from college while I did odd jobs to help (my degree came many years later.) Phoenix is where I finally entered into salvation and where many other exciting spiritual events occurred in our lives.

As for our home and plantings, the plantings did much to help us sell. And as for coming home, Ken grew up in the northeast corner of South Dakota, I grew up in west-central Minnesota, and we moved to the southeast corner of North Dakota—home.

We stayed in Phoenix a total of eight years—until August of 1974. Our impetus for moving at that time was a surprise fourth pregnancy. Wouldn’t do for one of ours to have roots outside the Midwest.

Life has it’s troubling times, but it is also very, very good. Wherever God plants us, we live on His soil so our life has incredible value. It’s a miracle. Furthermore, He’s worked in our hearts to produce His life—He’s creating us into good soil, too! And that, my friends, is another miracle.

Blogging in the Middle of the Night

2009-05-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

At the time of my last posting on this site, I had a head cold; it’s since dropped into my chest. Ken took me to the walk-in clinic Sunday where a doctor prescribed medication and, while washing my face tonight (Monday), I realized I have a rash rather than the flush I thought I'd observed earlier, a sign of an allergic reaction. Since then it’s spread to my arms, and my legs are beginning to itch. I’m actually afraid to go to sleep for fear of breathing problems so decided I’d try writing. Unable to come up with original ideas on my own, I'll do something I've been meaning to do for some time: mention a few wonderful blogs—knowing I’ll have to check whatever I say in the morning to see how it reads.

Morning—The rash is subsiding and I didn't take any more medication. I’m feeling better but waiting for a call from my doctor. I know I’ll be okay—but desperately need the energy to clean a dirty house! What I wrote makes sense and I'm going with it:

Mentioning a few blogs: After posting on Darwinian evolution on May 14, I read a May 17 post by Jennifer at Conversion Diary and I loved her approach—totally different than mine—actually enticing. I was less than thrilled with her May 18 post, but can’t let that stop me from highlighting what truly inspired me.

I especially want to highlight the work of my friend Cindy at cindyhan 111—who lives right here in Fargo!—even if I might have mentioned her before. Cindy is a poet who has many other things going in her life. Her blog took off like wildfire—something I found interesting when so many say they don’t like poetry. Cindy’s work is accessible and fresh. The most remarkable thing about Cindy is a relationship with God that draws people in rather than scares them away. She has a freedom that welcomes people of all spiritual persuasions.

Then, I've added a few blogs to my blogroll and also want to highlight the following: Be About Your Father’s Business is always insightful and challenging. Family Fountain contains much good teaching from a pastor’s heart. Larry Who takes you on a wild ride, and he tells an exciting story. It's interesting to hear how God moves in different people's lives. Getting Down With Jesus will be a joy to anyone with ties to agriculture, i.e., farming—although that alone wouldn’t hold me—it’s so much more.

Taking pictures for blogs is still my nemesis. I use three a week for Thoughts for Inspiration, most of them shot by members of my beleagured family. The posting today is about God’s faithfulness based on His Word to Noah after the flood. He promises that seasons of planting and harvesting will never cease. A helpful promise when faced by flooding and a late spring planting season. I’d planned to feature a picture of apple blossom buds—and because I wasn't feeling well, asked Ken to take a picture of a tree at church on Sunday morning. But, I wasn’t involved in his departure that morning and he forgot the camera. He suggested taking a detour on the way back from the walk-in clinic that afternoon, but I wasn’t up to a detour at that point.

I forgot all about it until around 9:30 (still Monday in my world at the time of this writing), so then I asked him to take a picture of a budding tree in our condo yard. Although the sun had set, he obliged—pretty neat fellow, don’t you think. Because dark was advancing, he used a flash—and took a picture with the afterglow in the background. I found it so interesting and ended up printing the entire picture rather than cropping it. I wanted to feature the afterglow as much as the tree! And I’m sharing the cropped version in this blog.

Theories of Creation, a Matter of Faith

2009-05-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today I’m going to address a topic on which I’m not well-informed—but one on which I have a strong opinion. Doesn’t sound promising, does it?

Let me share a bit of history. In 1981 I took an undergrad class in cell biology. During the semester, the professor attended a seminar conducted by a grand-daughter of Dr. Louis Leaky. My professor was impressed, and when he returned he announced that in ten years Darwinian evolution would be a proven fact. Now, he was a man I knew and respected, but I had to take issue. I told him I’d remind him of his statement in ten years.

I didn’t have the heart to say anything when I last saw him about three years ago. That would have been unfriendly.

What's happened in me is that I rarely think of the subject any more. But the May issue of Christianity Today ran an article on St. Augustine of Hippo and the Biblical account of creation. It appears the theory was a hot topic in the fourth and fifth century. Augustine wrestled with this very topic throughout his career. Why do I find this funny? Perhaps it’s that human nature is consistent—some things never change.

Augustine’s thoughts intrigued me. He believed God created the world in one instant or moment—but that this created world had embedded within it the capacity to change or develop—or evolve. He compared it to a seed which is complete—but which contains the blueprint for something seemingly different. In other words, various forms of life could emerge.

Augustine addressed the topic in part because he didn’t want the church to latch onto a secular theory that rejected the Biblical account. So he accepted the creation story literally—but identified concepts differently. And, as one might expect, his ideas came against those who did reject the Biblical story outright—Caesar’s personal physician, for example.

There were other tenets—also interesting--but I don’t want to suggest I am on Augustine's bandwagon, either. I know I don’t have a scientific mind, but I can think—sometimes rather clearly. Rather than put together an argument of sorts, I want to share a few observations.

Darwinian evolution—a theory that insists upon random selection—hasn’t been conclusively proven. In fact, according to material I’ve seen here and there, recent discoveries are problematic for scientists promoting Darwinian evolution. Yet those who believe the theory object adamantly to revisiting their conclusions. To support their ideas they come up with additional fictious possibilities based on their yet unproven theories.

People who compare today’s church with the church of Galileo’s time don’t want to acknowledge the change in the church’s influence. In reality, the church today is not regarded highly enough to impact scientific controversy. Any suggestions that the church is exerting undue influence doesn’t work. But there is a group which can police scientific discovery: the education system and its network. They have the power to suppress independent scientific data.

When someone discusses Darwinian evolution and tries to find out what another has to say on the subject, they rarely talk in terms of what a person thinks. It’s almost always turns into what the other person believes. Because beliefs are linked to faith, asking someone what they believe recognizes the tenuous nature of the subject. Accepting Darwinian evolution requires leaps of faith as broad or broader than accepting most of the Bible-based theories on creation.

I’m not interested in proving the world was created in six 24-hour days or, if you prefer, six extended periods of time—but one day I realized I could apply faith to the problem. The Bible says, without faith it is impossible to please him [God]. . . . (Heb. 11:6 ESV) If someone proves that God created the world, the possibility of a faith response is lost. We’re in no danger of someone proving anything about the earth’s creation. It’s beyond human understanding. Not that it shouldn’t be studied.

Accepting Biblical creation—believing God created— gives us one more opportunity to reach out and receive Him in faith. I think He experiences joy when we think things through, understand our options, and choose Him.

I am interested, however, in resisting Darwinian evolutionists who insist they have a corner on reality. They choose to believe the theories they prefer—just as I choose to believe the theories I prefer. Claims for anything else are silly because they haven’t proven random selection. It’s a theory.

A theory!

A theory with far-reaching implications. If Darwinian evolution is true, we lose the sacred nature of human life—of all life—and even of our planet or any other physical bit of creation.

Darwinian evolution is also a theory that’s lost its moorings. I suspect much of the current noise on the subject comes because they are running scared—trying to cover up their shaky foundation. And their insistence on pushing random selection is contrary to honest intellectual pursuits.

"Where, O death, Is your Sting?"

2009-05-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ken and I made a trip to Custer, South Dakota, for a funeral this weekend. It was a fairly hard trip physically—we left as soon as we could on Friday (not until noon, later than we’d hoped), traveled through rain, and didn't arrive until almost 10:00 PM. We left early Sunday morning, did a bit of sightseeing on the way, decided we couldn't handle another night in a strange bed, and arrived home about 9:30 PM last night.

So all day I’ve struggled off and on: should I write about the trip—we did drive the Needles Highway, took a sidetrip through the Badlands, saw wildlife, viewed South Dakota's state capital building, and drove through Hubert Humphrey's home town. Or should I write about the funeral—a huge topic because it involved people I care about. The man who died was a cousin’s husband. She is just a few years older than I am, not really an older sister but someone important to me.

I’ve hesitated only because I don’t want to violate her or her family’s privacy. And yet, this funeral was one of the most beautiful I’ve seen, an event in need of focus and comment. And for that reason, I'm going ahead.

They married young—she just out of nurse’s training, living in Minneapolis, and he just out of the military where he'd finished duty in St. Paul. He from the southeast and a culture different than that of rural Minnesota. She, off the farm, trained to be a supportive wife. He had opinions while she’d learned the Norwegian art of reserve.

She was important to me as a kid and, later, as a young adult. After they were married, Ken and I were engaged and attending school in Minneapolis. Because my mother had died earlier, my cousin more or less schooled me about things I need to know. I spent time with them. But then they moved and we moved. They had children and we had children. They were busy and we were busy. And so, our relationships became a sporadic, long-distance relationships.

Somewhere along the line, God entered the picture and I needed my older cousin for support. Although I didn’t know exactly where she was spiritually, I felt I could share my experience with her. And she understood! She received my testimony with joy even though my spiritual walk was a bit different than hers.

Where was her husband in all this? I occasionally wondered, but he wasn't someone I could confront. Two years ago I wanted to visit them so we worked it into another family trip by spending a couple of nights in their Black Hills cabin-home. Although I didn’t quiz him on the subject, and although I can’t offer a concrete reason why, I came away knowing he walked with God.

In his search to live rightly, he turned to God and was greatly altered. God had produced fruit in his life. I wanted to emulate his total transparency.

With the help of hospice, she took care of him at home. One day he told her with a sense of wonder, I can plan my funeral. So he did. For music he selected Beautiful Savior; Come Ye Disconsolate; Blessed Assurance; Precious Lord, Take My Hand; and Amazing Grace. Just before the close of the service, one of his grandsons sang the Irish Blessing.

At the end, he held on until a sister could make a final visit. His children gathered to say good-bye and share their love. He had no pain.

In a gathering in the reception hall of the church after the funeral, the children shared stories that revealed their dad’s changes through the years. We laughed and my cousin was beautiful in her joy over God’s dealings and provision—and in her loss. Because the loss is real.

When extended family gathered in the home later, she told me that during a lengthy stay in a motel when he received out-patient treatment for his specific cancer, they experienced tender unity. One night she said to him, This has actually been a sweet time.

He said, It's been like a second honeymoon.

I felt they gave everyone who knew them a testimony of how to live in the face of death. We can’t plan to experience no pain. That was a unique blessing. But the Holy Spirit blessed them with great faith in the love of Jesus. As my cousin also said, Death is the final and ultimate healing. What more can we ask.

I don't want to close without giving thanks to those who told me they prayed for us. Although tired, we made it without incident. Also, on Saturday, the day of the funeral, I felt God helped me and blessed me at key times. So thanks.

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: Death has been swallowed up in victory. "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" (I Cor. 15:54-55 NIV)

God's Creation

2009-05-07T15:31:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I had a Remicade infusion to treat rheumatoid arthritis—something that happens once every eight weeks. Ken felt like making the trip with me. For one thing, he was interested in seeing river levels in the Red River Valley after the flooding earlier this spring—so he did the driving.

The trip between Fargo and Grand Forks isn’t exciting—the terrain is flat. Really flat. And while flooding is still issue for some of the smaller cities to the west, the only evidence of flooding that we saw was just north of Fargo—where I29 crosses the Sheyenne River by a hamlet called Harwood.

National newscasters do not understand the nature of overland flooding. Not all flooding in North Dakota came from rivers. When deep snow melts quickly—and when the soil is saturated from heavy fall rains—the water can’t soak in. It has no place to go except into the next field. Waters from fields flow downward and join until they rise above the roads and then the state highways and then the freeways. It eventually reaches rivers, but damage often occurs before it gets there.

Such was the nature of much of the flooding in our Red River Valley and by Harwood. There is a small river, but most of the water traveled overland to get to it. And although water no longer covered the freeway yesterday, it ran freely in the deep ditches. We were good citizens throughout the crisis, so this was our only view and we were impressed. Yet, I admit imagination based on prior experience is necessary to envision miles and miles of water deep enough to flow over the freeway—a foot or more over the freeway.

On the way home, I forgot about floods and looked at the sky. When the land is flat, skyscapes often grab a viewer’s attention. After a long, long winter and a gray, gray spring, yesterday’s sky was a glorious treat.

I had the camera with me because I planned to take a picture of daffodils in our daughter-in-law’s garden when we came back to Fargo—which we did. Jesus said, Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. (Mt. 6:28b,29 ESV) I’ll be using a picture of the daffodils within the next week for the Thoughts for Inspiration blog, but here’s a preview. Aren’t they lovely?

But when looking at the sky, I remembered that I had the camera and I decided to expand my subject matter. In my amateur way, I think I took some awesome pictures. Truly, The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. (Ps. 19:1 ESV)

Without intending to, I captured some of the expanse we live in. The wide open spaces. It looks bleak and barren right now. Not so. This summer the fields will reflect the farmer's planning and hard work. Our soil is some of the best!

Ken and I will be leaving tomorrow for a funeral on Saturday. We should be home Sunday or Monday. If you are a praying person, we’d appreciate prayer for the journey. Blessings. Have a great Mother’s Day.

Blessed by some Young Debs

2009-05-04T13:22:00.000-07:00

Awake, awake, Deborah! Awake, awake, break out in a song! (Judges 5:12a ESV)

Last Saturday I traveled 70 plus miles to Minnesota lake country. There I attended an afternoon and evening conference hosted by Firestarters, a group we had fellowshipped with when we lived in lake country ourselves from 1999 to 2003. They were a youth group then—most in high school.

Now they’re young adults. Many married and some with children.

This was a conference for gals—Young Debs between the ages of 16 and 35. I knew the focus would be worship—the signature message of Firestarters’s. I didn’t know it would be worship through the arts.

Now, just a week ago I’d gone to a poetry workshop in Fargo. It was interesting—but I came home depleted. Although the intent was to encourage aspiring poets, I felt discouraged.

To think that God knew ahead that the two Saturdays were a unit. The young Firestarters brought teaching as good as I’ve heard. This Saturday I came away inspired, energized. I’ll provide just a glimpse of one specific teaching below.

In it entirity, the focus was tapping into God’s creativity: whether in writing, in the visual arts, in music, in dance, or even in prayer. I wanted to take pictures of each of the gals as they presented their material, but I couldn’t make myself do anything that would distract from the message.

They weren't overly impressed by themselves, however. There were breaks—some to practice what we learned. But there was a silly break, too. Approximately one hundred young gals (I was included only because of my long-time association with Firestarters) divided into groups of ten to eight. Then each group selected one member to dress as a Deborah, using newsprint and TP—to compete for a prize.

I'm sharing this because that's when I took my one and only picture!

When the final message closed, I realized I wasn't tired. Interesting, because I was so sure I'd be tired as I had been the week before. I planned to stay overnight with a friend.

Instead, as the miles passed on my way home, I didn’t sing or engage in obvious praer. I simply rested in the soft, gentle, explosive Presence that filled the car. Resting with Him in total confidence was the final blessing on a powerful day.

Teaching Tidbit: In Writing by the Spirit, a young woman named Heidi said we write from the body, the soul, or the spirit. None of these are necessarily bad. Writing from the body concerns secular work—the type she does for the local paper that employs her as a reporter. I did it for years with a farm paper. The concern is clarity, volume, and time—meeting deadlines.

Writing from the soul releases emotions. Much poetry stems from the soul—that had been the focus a week earlier. I have no problem with poetry that reflects the ecstasy or agony of the soul, but I don’t want to live there.

Writing from the Spirit comes from the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. This teaching—fairly early in the afternoon—turned me on and tuned me in. I knew I was where God wanted me.

The Race

2009-04-30T19:37:00.000-07:00

After three serious posts, it’s time for something light. So I’ll tell you something we do for fun at our house. Ken and I watch The Amazing Race.

Do you know what it is? A reality show in which contestants race around the world. Eleven teams begin each race. At the end of each leg they come to a pit stop and the last team is usually eliminated. (Exceptions are more than I want to deal with here.) In each episode, contestants complete two challenges related to the location they’re visiting. Some are funny, some are hair-raising, some are physically demanding. And the transportation from challenge to challenge is exciting, too, because they often have trouble communicating with the nationals—and road conditions are unfamiliar.

We tell detractors of reality shows that The Amazing Race is different than other reality shows—but we can’t say for sure, because we don’t watch the others. In fact, we aren’t big television watchers, but one night several years ago I was restless and did some channel flipping when I noticed two middle-aged women above a huge waterfall. I think they were in South America at the time. They were deciding which one would ride in a boat and do something as part of a race. If I remember correctly, they did well in that challenge but lost the leg of the race. What intrigued me was the comment of the gal who went to the waterfall. After losing, she said the race was worth it just for that experience.

We became avid fans the next time they started a series—when we could watch from the beginning. One night Ken observed, If you were younger and in better shape, you’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? I would.

The irony of this is that he’s become a fan, too. I think the appeal is two-fold. Any race has an element of excitement—and there’s a $1,000,000 prize for the winning team. Then, the challenges of each episode reflects the unique culture of the country they are visiting. Extra hype isn’t necessary. Although competition is intense, contestants seem to maintain a level of civility with each other. After all, they work side-by-side during episode after episode—and they recognize that they’re in a game. Most of the contestants say they entered for the experience, but they also want to win.

Right now, off and on during the week, Ken and I are actually discussing the fine points. When all but three teams are eliminated, those three will run the last leg to complete the race. Well, we’re currently down to four teams and neither of us is willing to predict who will be eliminated. At this point, all four are strong teams with strengths and weaknesses. We can't predict a winner, either.

I suppose I should make a spiritual point so I will mention that when we run the good race of faith, we don’t compete with others. We compete with our human nature. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, but if we walk/run with God, we’re winners! And, if we walk/run with God, when we stop to listen to His voice, we have internal confidence or assurance that we’re winners—even when we’re struggling through a spiritual challenge. Some of those spiritual challenges are funny—even when they’re happening. Some of them are hair-raising. And some are physically demanding—they require endurance. So we don’t need extra hype when living the Christian life, either.

I admit I’m in it for the experience—if you mean the reality of walking/running with God. I intend to stay in until the final leg—and know I will because I’m depending on God’s grace. Furthermore, I predict that I and my many Christian friends will all be winners. That’s the way it works in God’s Kingdom.

Not so with The Amazing Race or any race organized by people. Our human nature wants to beat others. It’s one of our perennial struggles or battles. So, one team will be eliminated this week. One team will win the following week. But who will they be?

The Power of Good Works

2009-04-27T13:21:00.000-07:00

A story has haunted me all weekend—even while spending most of Saturday at a workshop. It’s not original with me—I heard it from a Christian teacher—but I’d like to share it.

The teacher had a dream in which he saw an image of a derelict he knew. In his dream, God asked questions and he knew that when God asked, he would wait for the revelation. Then God showed him the derelict’s life-story, a story of childhood abuse and neglect. As might be expected, the derelict became a nasty teenager and then a nasty adult.

One day, sitting on a park bench, a stray animal passed by. Normally the derelict would kick or snarl, but that day he just looked at the animal. The response was unusual. The next day God arranged for the animal to pass again. This time the derelict gave the animal a scrap of food.

Because the derelict responded with those few gestures of compassion, God gave him more opportunities--and as time passed, the derelict’s compassion expanded. Eventually, God gave the derelict an opportunity to hear the Gospel of Jesus and he received salvation.

There’s more to the story—but here’s the point. When he did a good work from the heart—before he knew Jesus—God built on that response. His good works actually became a bridge for him—made a way for him to receive God’s grace.

The story troubled me because it didn’t fit the doctrine on good works as shared in my doctrinal statement. Because of the story, I started questioning something I’d never questioned before.

Is there a Scriptural precedent for good works leading to salvation? Scripture must be our guide, but it seems the characters we read about in the Bible come to us as fully-developed people of faith. We don’t know what preceded their walk with God.

Well, there’s Gideon. He and his countrymen lived in caves and dens, trying to produce their crops in secret so they wouldn’t be robbed by the Midianites. While thrashing wheat in the secrecy of a wine press, the Angel of the Lord appeared. Gideon’s lashed out: if the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us? And where are all his wonderful deeds. . . ? (Judges 6:13a ESV) Apparently, in spite of his anger, Gideon was marked for a special anointing before the Angel appeared. God saw something in his heart.

Talking with Ken about this was interesting. He mentioned the Good Samaritan. The Good Samaritan was a character in a story Jesus told, but I began thinking about other Samaritans. Of the ten healed lepers, the one who returned in thanksgiving was a Samaritan. Jesus commended his faith. (Lk. 17:11-19) And Jesus met the woman by the well in Samaria. She witnessed of him to the people of her village who then came to hear Jesus for themselves. And many more believed because of his word. (Jn. 4:41)

Ken also said that he feels Jesus said things that confounded Pharisees. The teachers of the law had everything down pat, and Jesus unsettled their theology.

I realized that when it comes to theology, I rely heavily on my background. Luther received the foundational understanding of The just shall live by faith. (Rom. 1:17) And one of the verses that became my favorite after coming to God has been, For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. (Eph. 2:8,9a)

There’s a problem with putting all one’s theological emphasis in one place, however, so I’ve always given credibility to James 2:17: So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. But none of these verses address my central question. Can a good work become a bridge to God?

People have the capacity to respond in kindness, and I'm sure everyone reading this blog has done acts of kindness. In fact, Americans routinely give to people in need. My personal feelings on that has been that some give for recognition—but some give as a response to the prompting of the Holy Spirit—and some give simply because the heart is touched. Here’s a thought: is the heart ever touched apart from the Holy Spirit?

I know I’ve done good works for the wrong reason—and the results were much better than they would have been had I followed my sinful inclinations. Perhaps I wanted to look good—sometimes because I felt competitive. Perhaps I knew I had to obey the law. Or, perhaps I wanted to make up for something that bothered me. Trying to make restitution rather than turning to God. See why I liked to focus on faith and de-emphasize works? God forgives.

And yet, when I review my walk with God, I realize that every time I responded with genuine compassion, I received grace. This was true before and after I entered into a vital walk with God.

So I've revised my thoughts on good works—although I'm not ready to make a change to my doctrinal statement yet. I need to think about it. If you're interested, here's a preview:

1) Good works have significant social value—even if done for the wrong reasons. Tragedies are avoided when people do the right thing out of fear of reprisal or condemnation. However,

2) Good works cannot pay the penalty for sin. Only the Blood of Jesus has power to cover our sinful nature. But,

3) Good works can be a response to the voice of the Holy Spirit. By responding to Him, we open ourselves to His grace—regardless of where we are in our walk with God. Good works in this context can become a bridge to receiving His revelation, His grace.

For those not into doctrine, I’m sorry for this extension. Theology and philosophy have been major interests for me. Perhaps God is unsettling my pat solutions to theological approaches. I’ll try to get back to normalcy in the next post.

A Statement of Doctrine

2009-04-23T05:27:00.000-07:00

After so much hype on Tuesday, it turns out the most remarkable thing about my doctrinal statement is what I don’t include.

Quite a few years ago I published a tabloid-size newspaper-insert. This statement is similar to a doctrinal statement I put together for it. Being I’m now publishing for a different audience, I thought I’d include an addendum dealing with thoughts on other issues—as well as further thoughts on these issues—explaining why I limit myself in my basic doctrinal statement.

In the end, however, I felt that would be divisive and counter-productive. When I ran my thoughts by Ken, he agreed. In my world, the doctrines as stated here are sustaining and empowering. When viewed in their Biblical context, they provide food for meditation. Because they offer so much, I suspect I'll occasionally elaborate on one or more in future posts.

A Doctrinal Statement

God is creator of heaven, the earth, and the universe.

This God is One, but He is existent in three persons: God the Father—Jehovah; God the Son—Jesus; and God the Holy Spirit. He is all-powerful, everywhere-present, all-knowing, and eternal.

The Bible is a supernaturally inspired work of God the Holy Spirit. It reveals his nature by telling the story of his participation in human history—and it reveals his nature through teaching, prophecy, and poetry.

Jesus was born on earth of a virgin and He lived a perfect, sinless life. As a teacher, He introduced principles related to a Kingdom unlike any kingdom on earth. He performed miracles. He shed his blood and died on a cross to pay the penalty (atone) for sin. He rose from the dead to defeat Satan and secure eternal life for believers. He ascended into heaven where He continually prays (intercedes) for people. He will come again to judge all people and then He will reign in righteousness over those who belong to him.

All people are separated from God by their sinful nature. No attempt to remove guilt by doing good works can ever change a sinful nature or pay the penalty for sin.

The blood of Jesus can purchase (redeem) people from their sinful human nature, and it is available to all who repent or turn away from sin. People supernaturally receive this vicarious sacrificial payment through God’s grace by faith in Jesus Christ (justification). The Holy Spirit works in people’s hearts, encouraging them to receive the life of Jesus and drawing them to God the Father (salvation).

The supernatural ongoing work of the Holy Spirit within Christians includes:
- the indwelling work (sanctification) of the Holy Spirit that produces fruit of the Spirit and
- the outpouring of the Holy Spirit that offers gifts of the Spirit for ministry.

All who come to Jesus Christ and belong to Him are supernaturally joined together to form His invisible Church. As Christians walk in unity with God through the work of the Holy Spirit, they are ready to do the good works of God. Walking in unity with God makes it possible for Christians to walk in unity with others.

Confession versus Confession

2009-04-21T18:34:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I spend a lengthy period of time surfing the net. Yesterday was such a day and I was struck by a trend—trying to convince atheists that Christianity is true. First a person claiming to be an atheist—and I suspect they are—challenges the blogger with questions. Then the blogger comes back full steam to refute and convince by arguing passages of the Bible, etc.

I’ve heard of atheists who became Christians (for an example, see Conversion Diary in the blogroll), but never an atheist who became a Christian because someone argued them into the faith. Every testimony that I’ve read from an atheist-turned-Christian included a catalyst that challenged their basic worldview. Then they began looking for God and seeing His hand where they hadn’t see His hand before.

I also noticed interesting variations in how the word confession is used. Both uses are correct, but the implications are the opposite.

Confession can mean acknowledging guilt. Or, confession can mean a statement of faith—as in the Apostles Creed. The common denominator between the two meanings is stating what you believe is reality or truth.

Confession as a statement of beliefs might elude most people—but it’s alive among bloggers. In their confession mode they uphold basic doctrines, share the truth of the confessions, engage in dialogue about the confessions. They try to convince atheists that the Christian confession is the true confession.

But perhaps most people associate the word confession with admitting guilt. I think of my grade-school friend Dorothy. One day after school she asked if I’d wait for her when she went to confession. So the Lutheran’s pastor’s daughter waited on the steps of the Catholic church—even though it meant walking six extra blocks. To my mother's credit, she smiled when I explained why I was late getting home.

Today, one of my favorite blogs is by a Catholic convert from atheism who recently shared her thoughts on the merits of the Catholic Rite of Confession. (Again, check Conversion Diary on the Blogroll.) I think you’ll be challenged and blessed by her story.

One of my favorite Scripture passages reads, If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. (I Jn. 1:8,9 KJV) The last phrase of The New Living Translation reads, cleanse us from all wickedness. I love this confession, because I know I need cleansing.

Here’s my first point. Are we Christians so intent on confession as a statements of belief that we’ve lost sight of the larger meaning of the word confess? If we focus on doctrinal statements, we become obsessed with being right. Isn’t it dangerous to focus on being right—and possibly ignore the call to confess sin?

Paul wrote to Timothy, Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth. (II Tim. 2:15 NIV) The word of truth at that time consisted of the Old Testament plus a few letters circulating from one city to another. But it was enough—basic truth illuminated by revelation from the Holy Spirit.

And now, my dreaded second point. I can be quite authoritarian at times, but I haven't felt I had the last word on doctrine for years. And in the middle of that quandry I feel impressed to write a doctrinal statement—a confession of my faith. In fact, I plan to post it later this week. This is so out of my comfort zone that I’m writing this blog to explain the blog that’s coming—to prepare you before you get the real thing. If, as I’ve stated so many times, no one ever gets it right, will I be humble enough to let God to show me where I’m dead wrong? And would I get it right the second or third or fourth time? And if not, why bother? Then, can a person have a confession of faith without thinking everyone should agree? If people don't agree, can I fellowship with them freely? Of course to the last question. The rest is a can of worms.

I’m not going to be inclusive—a term applied to what some call the emerging church which, if I understand it right, accepts or includes many things that shouldn’t be accepted or included. But I do think God is bigger than doctrine. And yet, doctrine calls. Oh, woe is me.

Resisting Evil

2009-04-16T14:18:00.000-07:00

On Monday I wrote, among other things, how the Thoughts for Inspiration blog received hits from countries around the world—and about a comment from a sweet-looking girl who said she liked the blog. She looked like she was Thai.

I'd already thanked the girl, but on Tuesday I thought I should reply. I remembered that successful bloggers expand their numbers by making comments and by commenting on comments. So I scrolled back, found the comment, brought it up, and clicked on a porn site.

For five days Thoughts for Inspiration—dedicated to sharing glimpses of truth from God’s Word—provided a link to a porn site. Reality didn’t even register right away. I just knew I had to get it off. My little trauma was not being able to figure out how. I could have asked on a question board—which would be the same as announcing the porn site's location.

Yesterday—Wednesday—I decided to remove the specific posting in hope of removing the comments as well. I did, it did, and then I posted again. That worked on the blog site while messing up the RSS feed, but I was so relieved I laughed.

As a result of this, however, I’ve made two changes on all three blogs. To encourage openness, I removed a restriction related to being a registered google user. That was obviously ineffective anyway. But I installed the device that holds comments until I screen them and decide whether or not they should be posted.

I hate the idea of screening comments, but it feels right.

A sidelight of all this was my reaction to the people involved in porn—and to Thailand. I’ve read several accounts from both Christian and secular sources about human trafficking. They identified Thailand as a country where beautiful women and children are routinely sold for profit and sexual exploitation. I understood my angst was insignificant compared to the evil experienced by the victims—perhaps even the young girl pictured. Imagine being sold into a life of torment—and sometimes, parents sell their children in order to feed other members of their family—and sometimes, young girls sell themselves as a matter of survival. And imagine the misery of the hardened people who do the buying and selling.

Thailand has been added to my prayer list.

Praying for another country didn’t come out of the blue. When our youngest daughter was in Indonesia I prayed daily for Indonesia until she and her husband moved to the States. But, although my prayers had been intense—they lasted for a season. When our oldest son moved to the United Arab Emirates, I prayed for that country, and—those prayers lasted for a season. Last October we went to Ethiopia for our granddaughter’s baptism, and again I offered prayers for a country, but—they lasted for a season.

In December, when busy with the month's demands, it occurred to me I had stopped praying for these countries and that I should at least pray about praying for them. When I did, I felt God gave me a simple approach.

I can’t pray for them intensely on a regular basis, but I can pray for them simply—with a sentence or two—each day. And that’s what I’ve done. Even on days when I’m busy, I have time for a few sentences for Indonesia, the United Arab Emirates, Ethiopia, and now Thailand.

It occurs to me that those sentences add up. I think I've become a dripping faucet like the widow who prevailed against an unjust judge (Luke 18:1-8). Hopefully, others are praying with me. Answers might be a long time a'coming. Maybe God will answer tomorrow. Whatever, He hears and is pleased.

I’m concerned about two things. One, because praying for these countries has been a private matter between the Lord and me—something I’m still establishing—I’m afraid sharing it openly will bring attention and pride. Two, I don’t think Satan knew I was doing it because I did it quietly. Now he’ll be on me with distractions, devices to move me away from the commitment.

If you’re a praying person, think about asking God if there is something specific you should pray for that would include resisting evil—for a country, a person, an industry, a political circumstance, a school—whatever—and see if it could become part of your life. Remember, you aren’t committing to lengthy, intense prayer. Many prayers add up. Especially if God initiates them.

And God Showed Up

2009-04-13T12:29:00.000-07:00

Of course I know God is everywhere present. It’s one of His unexplainable characteristics that we know to be true because we’ve seen Him at work. Plus, He tells us as much in the Bible.

But it’s always nice when He lets us experience Him, especially if we’re in the middle of something new, strange, or challenging. And we had an unusual Easter this year.

First, our worship experience was different.

Because of the flood, a major dike runs down the road between our church and the Red River of the North. We didn’t meet at all one Sunday—most churches didn’t, due to a blizzard. On Palm Sunday we met in a theatre. On Thursday we had our one-and-only Holy Week service in an auxiliary room of the Assembly of God Church. Yesterday, on Easter Sunday, we met in the South High School auditorium. This space is familiar to Ken and I because we go there for our grandchildren’s concerts. The space was big enough to accommodate the congregation with two services. There was a decent stage for our worship band. But by this time our plight is familiar and TV cameras were present. The entire scenario irritated me—until we started to worship. And God showed up.

Second, our family experience was different.

Ken and I were alone. Although this has always been a time for the families of our children’s spouses, we usually spend time with one or the other when they’re on their way or coming back. The only interaction this year was a quick drop-off of small gifts for the local grandchildren—who are kinda embarrassed that grandma still gives them something for Easter—don’t let them know I told you.

At some point I decided the celebration was bigger than family. We scaled down our dinner from ham with the trimmings—Ken grilled steaks and I made pilaf and salad. In the afternoon I read Anne Rice’s Jesus Christ: the Road to Cana. Guess what? We had a wonderful day, and God showed up.

Third, my writing experience was different.

Since I felt impressed to take time off from Red, Red Berries, I’ve focused on my third blog, Thoughts for Inspiration—adapting and editing way ahead. Now, on one hand, working on Thoughts is a blessing because it fulfills a Word I felt God gave me. On the other hand, it’s old material. I’ve referred to individual pieces as relics from my past. But I feel I have to complete the task, so I keep going.

I’m working on July now—hardly related to Lent or Easter. I was so intent I only posted once last week for this blog.

Blog readers are interesting. According to my confusing stat counter, this blog has picked up a few readers. If I only post once a week, they fall off—which will probably happen after last week. Sorry. As for Red, Red Berries, I think I personally know everyone who ever logged on—just a handful, although I felt it was my most important writing. But Thoughts receives occasional hits from other countries, and some spend a little time. None have returned, but I get excited every time, because that blog focuses totally on Scripture.

I have no idea what triggers these hits—well, maybe I have an idea now. On Wednesday and Thursday I made some changes in the format—going back to the beginning of the year. On Saturday I decided to look at the confusing stats—and it indicated 109 hits. Really. 109 hits!

About 60 were from me from when I changed the format of the short individual posts. The rest came from South America, Europe, the Mideast, Asia—and a few from the states. Most stayed briefly—they may or may not have read the short one-day posting. But many stayed between five to twelve minutes. One—from Turkey—stayed over 53 minutes. (Maybe they had a phone call and didn’t log off? Oh, where do I get those negative thoughts.)

Were the people who spent time already Christians? Were they searching for God instead of a god? Were they looking for a Word about Jesus? Were they simply mildly interested? Could God use this? Did God use this?

I know I can’t log on to Thoughts 60 times a day to generate hits from other parts of the world. But I sure called Ken in to look at the stats with me, and the two of us marveled. Of course, I had to check the day’s postings to read what they read. Holy Week material. Let me just say, I felt our God showed up.

Praise Him. Praise Him. Praise Him!

More Incomplete Definitions

2009-04-08T06:28:00.000-07:00

There's no better time to seek God and His Son Jesus than during Holy Week. He always offers more to His children when we take time with Him. Keeping that in mind, I'm offering a few more incomplete definitions.

God -
the ultimate issue of life

God -
the great unknown (Remember, we see through a glass darkly.)

Courage -
facing the ultimate issue

Courage -
grappling with the unknown

Seeker -
a person who acknowledges their need for more revelation of the unknown

Seeker -
a person willing to pursue unsettling revelation

Quandry -
a confusing state of being that can lead a seeker toward revelation and unsettling change

Quandry -

a glorious state of being that can lead a seeker to Truth

Lord, thank You for grace. Move on us to seek You and Your Son, for You are the Ultimate Issue of Life. Prepare our hearts to receive a greater revelation of Jesus who gave His Life so we could receive Life. In Jesus Name. Amen.

Blessings! And have a great Easter.

The Snowman and the Flood

2009-04-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

The hardest thing about floods is that they take so long. I can’t really remember when or how this began. I only know I initially felt guilty for saying I loved blizzards when the aftermath of too many blizzards is a flood.

Because we’re in no danger, I unintentionally began reliving and working through the negative emotions left by the flood of ’97. It’s been cathartic and healing. I realized yesterday morning that our experience in ’97 wasn’t as bad as I had let myself believe. I don’t think I’m minimizing or denying anything by saying that. In fact, at the time I didn’t feel overwhelmed—the overwhelmed emotions came when thinking about the event later. Somehow, I gave it all to God—and now it’s neither a good or bad memory—just a memory of a stressful event that’s over.

Much of the fatigue during a flood comes from the intense focus. Are other things really happening in the world?

Television coverage has included pictures of farm families leaving homesteads surrounded by a ring dike. Leaving knowing they are probably going to lose it all. And they’re upbeat. While I know a special grace covers such situations—it covered us in ’97, too, even though we were far from evacuating—their attitude seems deeper than mine was. Perhaps, as farmers, they’ve learned to deal with the aftermath of unpredictable weather. Truly, all we stand to lose is stuff. That can be both good and bad. I’ve been downsizing ever since the flood— primarily because we’ve moved a few times. Downsizing has been liberating.

But in the end, whether or not in danger, an extended flood means fatigue. I can’t explain why, but it’s so. It might even be fatigue that makes the memories hazy and difficult later. So many of life’s little comforts are gone because life is dramatically disrupted. There’s the issue of conserving water. Streets are almost impassable because road crews are working on flood control. Authorities want us to stay home anyway—to stay out of the way. Little things, but they’re repeated inconveniences. We want normal again.

Then, consider the people who haven’t been able to go to work. I get my hair done at a shop in the mall. When I realized it was open Monday, I quickly called in for a haircut. “You know,” my beautician said, “a lot of people don’t get paid unless they work. And they’re not working when everything is shut down.” It didn’t take long to realize she was talking about herself. And that made me think of the many struggling because of the financial crisis. If we can be exhausted by a flood, think of the disheartened people who’ve lost homes and jobs to that front.

Relaxing in God’s Presence doesn’t come naturally for me when I’m tired or preoccupied. My mind wanders. But I’m not normally at the other side of the curve, either, and I’m certainly not into expletives or their substitutes. Nevertheless, yesterday I woke up with, “A pox on blizzards.” And I meant it! I wanted a new environment now, but another blizzard was dumping about twelve more inches of heavy wet snow that will eventually melt and drain through our bloated Red River of the North.

The short-term blessing is that accompanying cooler weather has delayed the melt-down and river levels are declining. But no one knows what will happen when this snow melts and our dikes will be about as tired as we are.

Then, although waking up as negativism personified, I opened the great room drape to see a snowman across the street. He had wobbly stick arms waving in the wind and a scarf around his neck. A neighbor couple formed it sometime after dark and there it was in the morning light.

Have you ever had something completely cut through your mindset, take you into another world? We don’t have many snowmen in our neighborhood—we’re all over 55. (The last snowman was two years ago last Christmas, created by our granddaughter Emily for our youngest daughter’s children when they visited.) But something about that brave creation yesterday, standing defiantly against the stress of flood reports, convinced me we still have the capacity to enjoy life.

To celebrate I made caramel rolls, but this blog is long enough so I won’t tell you about that. I’m just glad something penetrated me, took me beyond myself and the present trauma. I ended up ignoring my email inbox and spent much of the day writing. I actually thanked God for the snowman. It came as a present when I needed one.

Here he is—photographed this morning after his stick arms were removed by the wind and his facial features were distorted by the melting temps. I think he’s still rather elegant—and a very brave fellow. Just what the world needs in the face of a flood.

Floods

2009-03-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

When a community is under siege—as during a major flood—we discover what motivates us. I’m not normally into community pride, but throughout the last week I’ve been proud of Fargo, Moorhead, and the surrounding cities (we live in West Fargo).

I say this though we’ve not personally been part of the battle. We’re adjacent to Fargo but a long way from the Red River of the North. Our closest river, the Sheyenne, was the source of frequent floods in the past so a huge diversion project was built a number of years ago.

Ken and I, feeling we can’t to do anything physical to help others, listen to the news and do our part by praying and by staying off the streets so we don’t interfere.

Nevertheless, the flood has been difficult. We feel for those evacuated, including a couple we met at church whom we’ve learned to love. We wonder where they are and how they’re faring. We feel for a young friend who’s given herself to help by preparing food. And, I have to admit a selfish preoccupation. I feel for myself because I’m reliving another flood.

In 1997, Ken and I were in the process of retiring. We’d accepted an offer on our home in Wahpeton, a house just three blocks from the river—but the sale hadn’t closed. We were in danger of losing what, to us, was a great deal of money when the Red River of the North rose to unprecedented levels at that time.

Now memories surface as we watch newscasts and see fatigue in the faces of people on the front lines. Fatigue is the common denominator among the workers and homeowners during a flood—because vigilance is required over an extended time period.

When I think back, I realize we were strong, able to carry the load. But what struck me most this week is that in 1997 we had other issues that overruled the flood. Life goes on, even during a life-and-death struggle.

Our daughter Sarah (then 22 years old) lived abroad. She had fallen in love with a national and talked about living in Indonesia the rest of her life. Then, retirement required huge adjustments, and we were making a decision about where to live. We couldn’t deal with our past—not even our recent past—because we needed to move forward.

Now, during this flood, two of our grandchildren—the ones living in Fargo—have worked on sandbagging crews. Matt is a senior and Emily a freshman. Patty, their mom, says they came home tired and sore—but they had a good time. They worked with friends and attitudes were great. She added that they’ve learned so much about teamwork when passing sandbags from person to person across yards and around houses. They’ve accomplished something that couldn’t be done any other way. I’m so proud of their willingness to put themselves on the line (pun intended), but I also remember how, in 1997, high school students sandbagged around our house.

The world seems awed by the effort to control this flood. Our son living in the United Arab Emirates saw coverage on international channels and called to make sure we were okay. Sarah, now living in Las Vegas with her Chinese Indonesian husband and their children, called again last night to tell us she keeps hearing about us on the news. Then I remembered we made international news in 1997, too; she called from Indonesia after seeing coverage on an international news program.

Our daughter in Minot has called. Siblings have called. Cousins have called. Friends from the past have called. History repeats itself.

Sarah has lived in a number of states as well as in a foreign country—and she says the rest of the world should learn from North Dakotans. “In North Dakota,” she’ll say, “things are done in a way that makes sense.”

Well, good sense surely isn’t limited to North Dakota—or northwest Minnesota. But this flood-control effort supports her statement. It’s enough to make a citizen proud.

While on my way to read about the flood of Noah I stumbled onto this verse at the very beginning of Genesis: And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. (Gen. 1:2b ESV)

It’s hard to visualize God hovering over the Red during this flood. We only need to remember that God used the chaos as material for His creation. He brought order. In one sense, we can say our officials have created order out of chaos during this massive effort. But looking beyond, will something entirely different be created in the aftermath of this flood?

Of course, engineers will think about contingencies for possible future floods. However, I want to look at spiritual order. Behind the physical realm we have a spiritual realm. What is God doing in that arena while people fight for what they know and love? What order might God bring to Fargo, Moorhead, and surrounding communities? Will we be interested in what He offers? Will we be willing to receive it?

Maybe He’ll bring an awakening as people use common sense and begin to seek God.

Our Youngest Grandchildren

2009-03-24T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have a special treat today. At least it seems special to me. Pictures of our youngest grandchildren.

Those who have followed this blog for some time know we have a son living in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates. In October of last year we met him and his family in Ethiopia for their second baby's baptism.

A trip of that magnitude isn't something we did lightly. Both this blog and my Red, Red Berries blog featured the trip. I focused on the children and their parents plus the event. It was worthy, interesting subject matter, and it was hard for me to think of anything else at the time.

Equally obvious, we haven't seen their family since then. With their first baby we received pictures regularly, but Mom and Dad are typical in that they haven't chronicled this second child as often they did the first. We haven't had a lot of pictures to look at.

Let me tell you that Grandpa and Grandma went kinda crazy when they came. Simon has changed a bit, but Salome was especially exciting to behold. As Ken said, we really needed to see our little girl as she's beginning to develop.

Ted said the pictures were staged. They were billed as "Simon and Salome Reading." I'm not sure which picture came first, but here you see their faces. (I especially enjoyed the activity of the first picture!)

Aren't they beautiful?

Lent, Repentance, and the Blood of Jesus

2009-03-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

Repentance is both painful and comforting. I can’t explain how that works, but meeting God in desperation and confessing personal guilt—deep, raw guilt of motives as well as actions—becomes a place of restoration. And I agree with others when I say I somehow never feel condemnation from God—only restoration.

I have a bit of a problem with looking to Lent as a time of repentance, however. I don’t think repentance should be limited to a season. But I appreciate the focus anyway. God knows how to reach us by arranging life around our liturgical mindsets. I’m reminded of something I heard my dad (who was a pastor) tell my mom. He said, “I’ve learned that when something happens to people spiritually, it usually happens during Lent.”

My parents communicated on all sorts of topics all the time. I remember only a few of their conversations, but I remember the two reasons he gave: during Lent he preached on the cross of Jesus and the Blood of Jesus.

I seem to remember him preaching on the cross quite often—or at least making references to the cross. But the Blood was a uniquely Lenten topic for him.

Fast forward to my mid-20s when I learned in a Bible study that, “the life of the flesh is in the blood . . . .” from Leviticus 17:11. (RSV) Leviticus says a great deal about blood, but I wasn’t walking with the Lord at the time, and the concept didn’t resonate. How could blood shed almost 2,000 years ago have anything to do with my guilt?

I’ve shared in other posts how God gave me a life-changing revelation one morning when in my late-20s. He actually did it by bypassing the subject of Jesus’ blood. I accepted His sacrifice by faith because God said so in His Word. Not until my mid-40s, when I took a class in cell biology to satisfy general college requirements, did I receive a revelation on Christ’s blood.

Biology was a new world for my non-scientific mind. I’ve not retained a lot from the class, except for one thing: life is in the blood. Science and Scripture are in total agreement on the subject.

I can’t provide an adequate description of the process any more—but I can tell you our blood cells absorb the inorganic elements we eat and breathe and convert them into organic material. Somehow carbon—yes, the funny black stuff of charcoal briquettes—ignites with oxygen—and little fires burn in every cell of our body. That’s why we have body temperatures.

Life is in the blood, because that’s where it happens. Where non-living converts to living.

Jesus’ life was/is in His blood. Because He’s eternal—because His eternal existence entered human form and brought eternity along—the effectiveness of His blood sacrifice never ceases.

Yeah, blood is bloody, messy. Polite people often want to downplay the importance of Jesus’ Blood. We miss much if we do. God is bigger than our inability to understand His plan for bringing us to Him, and I think He excuses our ignorance to a point. But the more we appreciate the value of His Blood, the more we appreciate the value of His sacrifice.

When Jesus became Immanuel, God with us, He became human. Messy blood carrying His infinite nature coursed through his veins and arteries. Have you ever wondered if He fell while playing and scraped a knee? Did His blood clot to form a scab? That precious blood with the imprint of eternity.

A worthy subject any time of the year—but certainly a worthy subject during Lent. There’s power in the blood of Jesus.

Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, . . . let us draw near to God with a sincere heart . . . . (Heb. 10:19a,22a NIV)

For you know it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life . . . but with the precious blood of Christ . . . . (I Pet. 1:18a,19a NIV)

Deliverance: Launching Out on a New Journey

2009-03-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve been attending meetings this week. Knowing in advance that this would be the case, I’d begun writing something so I could post it today. But I was so tired that I rolled out of bed late and decided to skip the morning’s meeting. That’s when I was inundated by multiple references to St. Patrick on television. It’s Saint Patrick’s Day!

St. Patrick is one of my favorite historical characters. If anyone exemplified God’s grace, he did. So I’m going to briefly share a bit in hopes of encouraging you to do a search on the man, and then I'll use him as a launching point for a few things from the conference.

Captured and enslaved by pagan Celts, St Patrtick learned the language under gruesome conditions before escaping to his family in England. Then, in response to God’s call, he became a missionary to the people who had imprisoned him.

He changed their culture. It’s not always bad to lose an ancient culture. Slavery and a whole lot more were abandoned. For the benefit of all, even those who objected.

It’s also true, as you may have heard, that much later the Irish saved western civilization. When the barbarians overran the Roman empire, they ransacked England and Scotland along with the rest of Europe, but didn’t get to Ireland. So Irish monasteries remained intact and the monks continued to laboriously copy the old manuscripts of our Bible and other documents. Although most did not read, some did. Christianity in Ireland continued under the influence of Scripture.

Historians focus on the civilization aspects of Irish achievements. But love for God motivated the missionaries who traveled to Scotland, England, and finally, continental Europe. It’s an exciting story. Without a doubt, they saved European civilization. They re-introduced the Bible and a Christian world-view because their goal was spreading Jesus. Makes me want to shout Hallelujah.

Meanwhile, it’s off to more meetings this afternoon and evening.

The meetings are about, of all things, deliverance. When I was a brand new Christian I taught a fourth grade Sunday School Class on the Exodus titled Delivered out of Bondage. Individual lessons went something like, Delivered out of Slavery, Delivered from Pharoah’s Army, Delivered from Thirst and Hunger, Delivered from a Life without God’s Word, etc. I’m not actually sure about any of the titles—that was a long time ago—but you get the idea.

It was good material, a good beginning in my Christian walk because there are so many applications. In fact, without any trouble I can apply it to Patrick and the Irish!

Some people expand the deliverance concept to individual bondage. They look around to see a hurting world in need of relief, sometimes from pains inflicted by cultural conditions, but often inflicted within a culture by imperfect people.

For some reason, this threatens some people’s theology. They might insist the Christian is without problems, without wounds because Jesus took care of it on the cross. Or, more realistically, they insist people should strengthen themselves so they can reach out by faith and receive the deliverance Jesus provides.

Well, Jesus definitely took care of our problems on the cross. His blood covers our wounds. He also wants us to strengthen ourselves in faith so we can reach out and receive. Look at Saint Patrick. He struggled with forgiving his captors until he finally received deliverance. Then he loved them enough to risk his life for them.

The Irish didn’t know how to call out by themselves to the God who loved them. They didn’t know about Him. But the Hebrews did know something about God and they didn’t know how to get out of bondage by themselves, either. While it’s possible to receive deliverance by ourselves, sometimes we need help. Our knowledge of God is incomplete and our faith is weak.

The Bible makes it clear that God wants to heal our wounds. David wrote, He restoreth my soul. (Ps. 23:3a KJV) More importantly, Jesus said, “Come unto me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls, . . .” (Mt. 11:29,29a NIV)

These are my hasty ruminations rather than the teachings of the seminar. I won’t try to share the teacher’s focus, because that’s his material, and much of it provides a new perspective. But I will share one thing he said yesterday afternoon. Deliverance isn’t an end; it’s a beginning.

I knew that but didn’t know that I knew it, and it was good to hear it explicitly stated. Deliverance from Egypt launched the Hebrews on a journey to the promised land, and that launched them on still another journey. That’s true of every deliverance. Deliverance from unforgiveness made it possible for Patrick to love and it launched him on an amazing journey filled with miracles of grace. Likewise, deliverance from horrific Celtic practices launched the Irish into a glorious heritage of their own. Think of it. Bask in the wonder of it all.

Meanwhile, I must be on my way. Blessings.

A Special Blizzard Memory

2009-03-13T17:23:00.000-07:00

A meteorologist from CBS visited Fargo this week to experience our blizzard. He was impressed and he called it a spring blizzard, but I’m not sure it qualifies. This is early March! We live where winter lingers.

I enjoy a good blizzard. They carry good memories.

My favorite revolves around a special time with my father on Easter Monday, the day after Easter Sunday of course. A day of school vacation.

Dad was a pastor. For reasons unknown to me, he traveled quite often to the headquarters of our denomination in Minneapolis—a two hour drive from our home.

After arriving home late from an extended family gathering on Easter Sunday, Dad said, “Who’d like to go to with me to Minneapolis tomorrow?”

When I think about it now, I suspect he was tired and wanted someone to help him stay awake. As a pastor he’d just completed a busy Holy Week followed by extra services that morning.

But at that age I didn't think of my dad and tired in the same sentence. What I did think was that one of my brothers was going to have a fun trip with him. Before they could say a word, I yelled, “I want to go.”

Everyone laughed, but go I did. I think I was in fourth grade.

We were up by 6:00 and on the road shortly after 7:00 on a gorgeous spring morning. The snow had almost all melted. Grass was greening and trees were budding, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and I had a whole day ahead with my father.

During his meeting I read from a library book, never a hardship. Then he took me downtown to Dayton’s (before the existence of even one mall) where he found a department specializing in clothing my size. I only wish I still had the yellow sundress with stars arranged in a Big Dipper motif that he bought for me that day. And as if that wasn’t enough, we ate in the lunchroom on the top floor with huge windows overlooking downtown. I noticed the sky had turned gray, but only because I missed the sun.

On the way home he stopped at a friend’s. Arnie was a fishing buddy and a confidant. I finished my book while Hazel prepared a light supper of herring, cheeses, and her homemade bread. When we left, it had started to snow.

Weather forecasts then were not what they are today. Dad had no idea a blizzard was in the works. It wasn’t cold, and the snowflakes were huge lovely affairs. Very soon they whipped across the windshield and swirled along the sides. Within a short time, we couldn’t see the road. A total whiteout.

Dad inched forward, occasionally felt the edge of the road and steered ever-so-carefully back toward the center. And then we went in the ditch.

If he was concerned, I didn’t catch on. After all, I knew my dad could handle anything, and he knew just what to do. He unlatched the trunk to retrieve blankets and we settled in for the night.

But before we went to sleep, another car came inching along, almost bumping our rear end. They stopped, Dad let in cold air when he got out to talk to them.

Hearing them did stir a bit of concern in my little girl’s consciousness. They were local and knew where we were; Dad did not. With blankets and assorted other items I transferred to the other car while the men pushed our post-war Chevy further into the ditch. And we inched along again, this time toward shelter in a small hamlet less than half a mile away.

One business serviced the hamlet—a bar.

I’d never been in a bar.

Going into a bar, let alone spending a night there, would almost eclipsed all the other events of this huge day.

But everything about it disappointed. People we knew milled about waiting to use the one phone so they could tell family where they were. One couple had already talked to their son-in-law who drove a jeep. Before Dad made his call, the son-in-law came, telling us we were in center of the storm—that snow was falling only lightly just a short distance away.

So Dad and I joined the other couple for another scary ride. The son-in-law’s account didn’t quite match reality.

After midnight Dad and I trudged through deep snow from the street to the house where Mom waited. It was an anticlimatic end to a perfect day.

Well, I grew up, married Ken, and we moved south for a few years before returning north and settling in North Dakota.

Several years later, Dad died a slow, painful death from prostate cancer. On weekend visits about midway through his struggle, I would sit up with him during the long nights. Once, during the total silence of the early morning hours, I reminded him of the Easter Monday blizzard and all the events leading up to our trip home.

“Did it all happen on one day?” he whispered. He remembered each event separately—but couldn’t quite put them together.

Was I mistaken, an adult who combined her little-girl memories into one huge collage?

It doesn't matter. It was a wonderful spring blizzard. And my daddy made me feel special.

Through a Glass Darkly

2009-03-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

Paul wrote to the Corinthian believers, For now we see through a glass, darkly. (I Cor. 12:a KJV)

Ouch. What an image. Can’t we see clearly?

Paul spoke to people who had received revelation from God when he said we don't see clearly. Obsessed with self-importance because of their revelation, the people had lost sight of the need to respond to others in love.

As their spiritual mentor and father, Paul tells them understanding is temporary and partial as long we live on earth—and that even revelation from God is partial. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, But when that which is perfect [Jesus] is come, then that which is in part shall be done away . . . For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. (I Corinthians 13:9,10,12 KJV).

I think this is a truly humilifying passage. (Okay, so humilifying isn’t a word, but the alternative is humbling and humbling sounds positive in some circles. Humilifying gives a comic, negative image, so I decided to coin it.)

Plainly stated, until Jesus comes again, we will never have a complete understanding of truth.

So much for getting it all together. Our vision will always be inadequate, incomplete. Other translations read: we see in a mirror dimly (NKJV & NAS), see but a poor reflection in a mirror (NIV), or, we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror (NLT). Anyway you say it, our insight is inadequate until Jesus comes again to reveal all things.

This is devastating because the Bible also teaches that we must understand spiritual truth—that revelation from God is vital.

Peter responded to Jesus with, You are the Christ, the Son of the living God. Jesus replied, Blessed are you, Simon Barjona, because flesh and blood did not reveal this to you, but My Father who is in heaven. (Mt. 16:17 KJV). Peter, a good Jew who knew Old Testament Scriptures about the coming Messiah, could not recognize the Messiah without a revelation.

When Peter received the revelation, Jesus called him Blessed. But Peter needed more revelation later. (accounts of Peter in Acts)

This might seem obscure to some, but let me share an example from life of how vital it is in daily life. I grew up in a Christian home, knew the Word of God, questioned it as a youth, and came back to it as a young adult. (Regardless of what some who desire to discredit it may say, I believe the Bible is the most accurate of all historical documents, and I didn’t come to that conclusion without research.)

But the truths of the Bible weren’t real in my daily life because I couldn’t experience forgiveness for my Sin. Jesus’ death on the cross almost 2,000 years ago didn’t seem to apply in the present age.

Until one day, after reading a hefty chunk of the New Testament, I knew. Yes, I knew because God said it was so in His Word, but I also knew because I received a revelation as I read the Word. It was a quiet experience. With my oldest daughter in kindergarten and my boys playing outside in the sandbox, I sat at our kitchen table, read, thought, and knew. The Father gave me a revelation and my life changed forever.

Did I doubt it at times? Yes. Often, at first.

After a time it occurred to me that regardless of my doubts, I still wanted to love Him, to serve Him. That hadn’t been the case before the revelation. Something essential had changed within the core of my being—and that became my evidence of the indwelling Presence of God. He’s alive within me.

I can walk away from Him—I have walked away from Him. I can sin—I have sinned. But beneath it all, I don’t doubt God is real. I don’t doubt He forgives my sin.

That was one revelation, over 40 years ago. But revelation continues to come, and there’s the rub. I know I’ve not received a full revelation of His salvation and never will on earth—I see darkly, dimly, obscurely. Troubling as it may be, every revelation is incomplete.

No wonder Paul said, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling (Phil 2:12). It’s not a simple matter of plugging into a set of rules but rather of tuning into God’s voice for revelation, knowing all the while you’ve received only part of the truth.

It’s humilifying.

Joley and Gymnastics

2009-03-02T16:53:00.000-08:00

Friday morning I woke up with a song. The words were original, the music was from the Wizard of Oz. It went like this:

We’re off to see our Joley, the wonderful Joley we love.

Joley is our granddaughter, and we were off to see her compete in the North Dakota State Gymnastics meet.

A bit of history is in order. Joley’s mom, our daughter, started Joley in gymnastics because she needed an outlet for her energy—at the ripe, old age of three. Talk about cute—a group of little boys and girls running and jumping into pits filled with foam, learning to do summersaults and cartwheels.

She loved it and grew into the sport. Then watching her became torture. There’s nothing quite like watching someone on the balance beam—doing the splits while jumping and then landing again on the beam, or pirouetting, or performing those awful backward flips. Of course they fall at times. Ken would comfort me with One thing to remember when they fall is that they’ve fallen before. They know how to fall.

And, although Joley did well in all four events, the balance beam became her specialty. As a Sophomore she won first in the state meet.

Last year she took first in the region but fell when competing at state. Not an unusual occurrence. This year, a week ago at regions, we saw her give the performance of her life on the beam. She didn’t wobble once and the score was the highest I’ve seen for the event in our state.

But every meet begins with a clear slate. None of the above matters.

This year the state meet was four and a half hours away—but we wanted to support her. And there was another factor. She decided some time ago that this was the end of her gymnastics career. This was her last gymnastics event ever.

State meets are grueling with team competition Friday night followed by individual competition Saturday afternoon. I can’t provide a blow-by-blow, but as a group they did incredibly well on the uneven bars and vault, were way ahead of their nearest competition. Then the beam, and Joley fell. So disheartening. And she wasn’t the only gal on the team who did, she wasn’t even the first to fall. Their margin for victory at that point was so slim, too slim to maintain, really.

The schedule placed the other team just before Joley’s team for the floor exercises, the other team's strongest event. I so wanted our kids to win—even though I only knew most of them from a distance. I had to fight the desire to see the opposing team do poorly, remember they were also good kids who deserved recognition for their achievements.

Wouldn’t you know the other team was performing beautifully. I didn’t see how our gals could top them. I had a discomfiting thought. These girls were cut from a cloth similar to Joley’s team—good kids with deeply ingrained work ethics. They needed good performances just as our kids needed good performances. I began to pray for them. I asked God to bless them, one by one.

When our girls were ready, the Minot fans stood and cheered. I want to think this encouraged the girls. They knew there were people behind them no matter how they did. I’m not sure they even expected to win at that point, because at least four would have to provide nearly-flawless performances.

Of course, you know what happened. We’ve missed more meets than we’ve been able to attend, but we’ve seen enough over the years to recognize the unexpected. And when it was over, we won.

And our Joley? Well, let Grandma brag. I’ve always loved watching her on the floor, her second-best event. She not only provides the necessary gymnastic moves—and they’re spectacular—but she holds the positions, maintains the extensions, and she moves with the music. Her facial expressions change to reflect the changing mood of the music. Her scores for this event reflect her art.

Joley has competed on the high school team since seventh grade. During those years, her team has won several second places, but this was her only experience on a first place team. She was captain. Here they are. Joley is holding the award.

But we were only halfway through. On Saturday afternoon, one more grueling meet.

Again, they did well, but not as well as the night before. I won’t go into the details because they aren’t as spectacular. There were high moments and low moments. Until the end.

After going through all the awards—and our girls including Joley received some—an Outstanding Senior award is given. This includes both athletic ability and leadership. Well, you guessed it. Joley received the award.

Even writing about it today brings tears. Her other grandma cried, too. Even Mom had tears in her eyes. At the same time, I felt for one of the other girls who must have been a strong contender.

Now that it’s over, we have to give everything to God. For Joley, apart from all the ribbons and awards she’s won over the years, it’s been good. She’s learned to win and she’s learned to lose. Both prepare a person for life.

Although gymnastics is an individual sport because they compete as individuals, the encouragement the girls give each other is palpable at times, even when they’re overcoming their own disappointments. In real life we need to work with others, not compete against them. I think she’s learned the lesson, in a big way. As I’ve said before, God is good. Very, very good.

Definitions

2009-02-25T08:38:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I diddled with ideas that began as skewed definitions. They're usually incomplete because they highlight only one aspect of a word. Eventually I often added additional definitions to highlight still another aspect. While rummaging through stuff yesterday, I discovered an old notebook. Perhaps some of you will find them interesting.

Paradox: defies logic; describes reality

Art: creating infinity within predetermined boundaries

Art: using that which isn’t literally true to reveal that which is true

The second definition of art is familiar to anyone who's studied either the visual arts or literature. It's fodder for a post in itself.

The first definition of art came to me when glancing at a pen and ink drawing of a flower in the most unexpected place. My attention was suddenly arrested. Confined by the size of her paper, her subject matter, and the limits of her medium, the artist created a world that took my breath away. Prior to that day I freely said I didn't understand visual art. Although my understanding is still woefully inadequate, I think I understand the driving force that pushes the artist to create. This is surely fodder for a post in itself, too, but I've said almost all I have to say on the subject. Besides, thinking about it is almost painful, almost visceral because it grabs me inside.

Have a good day.

Decisions, Decisions

2009-02-24T13:41:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I received a call from a friend who winters in Arizona. She’d read my last post for this blog and was concerned about my physical health. I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anyone.

And yet, the problem had potential to affect all aspects of life. Stepping outside of God’s plan—being out of His will—is not healthy.

The details are boring. I wrote them out and realized they’re of no interest to anyone but me. I deleted them. Suffice it to say, I’m not going to have a website, at least at this time and perhaps never.

I made the final decision yesterday but decided to sleep on it. By the time we went to bed, I was sure, and I slept well. Already, I’m wondering if a website might not have been the dead end.

I've told our children and others than I didn’t need to write, it was just something I could do. I’ve realized this past year that perhaps I do need the release writing offers. Ken gets tired of it at times, but he’s also recognized its value—so he encourages and supports it. He’s a good man.

And me? Personally, I’m back to square one. In a real sense, the direction of my blogging has been changing every since I began, and I sense more changes are ahead. I appreciate every reader, and Sunny Pathway seems to have picked up a few. Some days I wonder why, but it’s interesting and enjoyable for me. And I feel God is somehow part of the equation.

At this point, I have three blogs. The most recent venture is Thoughts for Inspiration. Each posting was originally published as a weekly column for the Daily News of Wahpeton, ND and Breckenridge, MN. Although I wrote them quite a few years ago, at that time I felt they would be published elsewhere some day. But life goes on, that chapter was done, and I forgot them

One day I realized—can’t remember now what triggered the idea—they could be published on the web. So, after receiving permission from the Daily News, I began editing, adapting, and publishing on January 1. They’re short, very short, not really devotionals but thoughts.

I won a few awards for my writing in those days, but only an Honorable Mention for Thoughts. A friend told me that was because they didn’t fit a category. They’re not newsworthy as news is measured by the world, and there’s nothing to generate personal interest. They merely focus on God’s Word, the most rewarding topic possible. That's why I like them so much. I began posting them on January 1 of this year on Monday through Saturday.

Getting up every morning to get them out was a major hurdle at first. I didn’t tell many about my new venture because I wasn’t sure I could keep it up. I figured they could be posted ahead but couldn't come up with the procedure. Totally by accident I did it one morning—but was confused about how it happened. After I enlisted Ken’s analytic skills and followed his suggestions, I learned to do it. Well, most of the time.

That somehow changes everything—so I decided to tell the world. To check out Thoughts for yourself, you can click on the appropriate box in the sidebar or click here.

Trust in the Lord

2009-02-18T20:44:00.000-08:00

Our son Ted took this picture on a blustery winter day in late December of 2007. He was home for his first Christmas in this part of the world in almost 20 years. The reproduction here is to small to see that the sign reads Dead End.

Ouch. But I was impressed because the picture captures something I feel at times. Our corner of the world can seem like the end of the world. But isn’t that true of any corner? Every place has its limitations.

And this is home. Both Ken and I grew up fairly close to area. We returned after living elsewhere during the early years of our marriage.

Not all dead ends are related to geography. The past couple of weeks I’ve again been facing a dead end of sorts. At least, I’ve come to the end of a road which may or may not have a hidden path out.

Rather than labor over the details, let me say that when I read about Israel’s exodus from Egypt today, I had more sympathy than I’ve had in the past. You know the story:

—after the Israelites witnessed the plagues against the Egyptians
—after they followed Moses detailed instructions for the Passover
—after they received farewell “presents” of gold and precious materials

—they followed Moses out of the land of bondage into a trap seemingly arranged by God. Caught between a trained army and a body of water they couldn’t cross, they would have traded slavery for life. God had other plans. (Exodus 14)

No person is actively pursuing me or plotting my demise. I can’t identify any enemy other than Satan, the eternal enemy of my soul. But if God had plans for the Israelites, perhaps He has other plans for me.

Yes, He does. I know He does because I’ve confronted difficult circumstances before and I’ve learned He’s always at work. I just don’t know what His plans are. And I don’t know how to prepare.

All God asks is that I wait for His revelation. All I want is to know what to do. But if He gave me a task, I might resent it because it wouldn’t be what I’d planned.

There you have it. His plan. My plan. Sometimes they come together. Sometimes they don’t. And I won’t know where God will take me or what He’ll offer for several weeks.

On a blustery winter day I’ve come to a dead end. Once again, I have to return to my trusty life’s theme verse: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. (Prov. 3:5-6 KJV)

God knows how to make the struggle new and the verse fresh.

Lord, I need you. Help me.

A Night Out at Home

2009-02-12T17:05:00.000-08:00

Ken and I watched Enchanted April, an English movie airing on TCM last Monday eve. I’d heard it was about women’s relationships, so I wasn’t sure he’d like it. But he joined me, and when it was over he said,Well, that was nice. I felt blessed.

I’ve been thinking about the movie off and on ever since. The symbolism was interesting—the disappointed-Madonna image, blood from the pricked finger, the walking stick that sprouted when planted. I want to see the movie again so I can get a better handle on the nuances.

The simple story portrays four women who suffer intolerable lives in London. To get away, they agree to join the others and rent a castle in Italy during the month of April. Each experiences a transformation during their stay.

Mrs. Fisher, an older widow, wanted to be left alone with memories of an illustrious past. In the end she abandoned her past to enjoy new friends.

Caroline felt overwhelmed by the need to project physical beauty. She connected to a man with limited physical eyesight who saw into people’s hearts.

Rose endured a husband who had abandoned her emotionally. She barely hoped when following Lottie's suggestion, and an ironic circumstance brought her husband to her.

And Lottie? In London she couldn’t break into her husband’s obsessive need for status and position—an obsession so deep he didn’t notice her as a person. In her desperation she talked out of turn—said things one shouldn’t say to another—intruded into other people’s lives—epitomized the silly woman.

But through all of that desperation, Lottie believed. She believed enough to push for something that went against common practice, even against proper behavior. She believed enough to think her friends and her husband could be changed. Her silly, intrusive words generated life, even in her husband. He came to meet her and wondered why he hadn't seen her beauty before.

And Ken and I bought into it—because it seemed believable. Perhaps because we believe people can be transformed.

I’m inclined to interpret the story as a metaphor for God at work in people's lives through one individual who chooses to believe. I just don't want to limit the wonder of transformation to a month in a beautiful setting.

Lottie chose faith. Her foolish words entered the others through the power of faith. In the end, they produced golden fruit.

Yeah, I know I’m pushing the metaphor. But the movie spoke to me. I do plan to see it again.

Rejoicing over Yellow and Other Things

2009-02-09T10:56:00.000-08:00

Rain drops against the window panes woke me up this morning. I pulled up our blind to a gray sky and gray snow. The pristine white of winter lost. Only dirt remains in hardened drifts as the moisture content melts and washes away.

I love rainy days during three seasons of the year—but not during winter when the ground is frozen and rain turns to ice. Ken looked out the window in horror to see a widow across the street literally slide down her gently-sloping driveway as she took trash to the street for collection. Being the hearty soul she is, she maintained her balance and made her way back to the garage by tramping through a blotchy snow bank.

On such a day as this, creativity is in order. And I’m at something of an impasse. I don’t know what to do about a possible website—can’t look to it as a source of solace for sure. So I opened this blog. Just to look.

I love the yellow. Just yesterday a decorator on TV referred to cheesy yellow. But I can’t help myself—next to red, yellow is my favorite. It’s also my neutral color, my perfect backdrop for reds, blues, greens, and even purples.

I wanted a softer shade, but attempts to manipulate the code either added a greenish cast or resulted in a bright, overpowering hue. Today, however, I want cheerful, and this shade of yellow is cheerful. Furthermore, I’m enjoying the physical appearance of the blog because I brought the elements together—the picture, the background, the red headings, the text colors.

I’ve received comments on the new design. One mentioned the picture, and being she did, I’m going to tell you about it. Primarily because it illustrates something about creativity.

It happened in Ethiopia when Ken and I met our son and his family there. Ethiopian flowers were abundant—on the streets, in courtyards, everywhere. They bloom all year in the ideal climate, and are a major export. Only Holland sells more in the European market.

A friend of our daughter-in-law Marta drove us to many sites while we were there, including beautiful hotels with breathtaking gardens. And I took pictures. The masthead photo for this blog was supposed to be a picture of a huge bank of white roses stretching across a parking lot. The presence of a path was incidental.

So I didn’t catch what I wanted—the flowers look less than spectacular. However, through the art of cropping I focused on a sunny path that's beautifully emphasized by flowers along its edges.

Isn’t that the way with our creative efforts? So often we have an idea, it doesn’t work, and something else emerges.

There’s a great deal of hope in that idea. Think about it next time you’re stuck at home on a gray day and decide to prepare a special treat or dinner—but you’re missing a key ingredient. You make do, experiment, and create a new and unforeseen taste-treat to grace your family’s palate.

Or when you want to wear something different—but your closet contains only the same old same old. I’ve created a few interesting ensembles that way—and even worn them in public. But I’ve also created exciting combinations that I’ve worn again and again—like the purple jacket over a yellow turtleneck, accented by red wood beads. Such fun.

There was a time when I downplayed my joy in creating. It somehow seemed self-centered. Now I think creativity taps into God—and that He experiences great pleasure when we draw from Him.

Years ago I learned a song that didn’t make sense to me at the time. It portrayed God rejoicing over His people. I thought it was Scripture so I searched Stong’s Concordance, to no avail. But I found two other interesting verses. In one, a psalmist extols the wonders of nature, God’s provision for His creation, the whole works. Then he says, May the glory of the Lord endure forever; may the Lord rejoice in His works . . . . (Ps. 104:32 ESV)

The context of the other verse is the return of God’s people to Israel—and by extension, the return of God’s people to a life focused on Him. It reads, I [God] will find joy doing good for them and will faithfully and wholeheartedly replant them in the land. (Jer. 32:41 NLT)

Imagine. That’s God speaking through the prophets. He rejoices over His creation, including flowers in Ethiopia, rain and melting snow in North Dakota, and oh-so-much more. And He rejoices in doing good for His people.

When I started writing this morning, I simply knew I enjoyed yellow—one of the colors God created. With that as a starting point, as one thought led to another, God brought me into enjoying not only one color but His entire creation.

And then? Well, He reminded me that He finds joy in doing good for me. I don't know what that means or how it will work out, but it's an overwhelming thought. One that causes me to join Him in songs of joy. We have an awesome, personal God. Oh, He’s good. Very, very good.

A Website?

2009-02-07T20:48:00.000-08:00

We’ve all heard about the worst of times and the best of times. This has been one of those weeks. Only, I haven’t found the best of times yet. Ideally, I’d like to write about a victory—show God at work. But that isn't always true of the day-to-day nitty-gritty. This time, the victory still waits in the wings. I hope.

I’ve mentioned several times that I have a major project. I've been planning and creating a web site. I’ve enjoyed the blogs and plan to keep two—a personal blog and a devotional blog. But I began blogging primarily to write about spiritual armor—felt God was impressing me to do that. The material amounts to information—and I've realized blogs don’t lend themselves well to providing information. They do best with current ideas and reactions. (If interested, you can check out some of my writing on spiritual armor by perusing Red, Red Berries . Click and then scroll down.)

Let me digress a bit. Spiritual armor is a tough subject. There’s not a lot of material available—most references simply state we should put it on. I’ve been nervous approaching something so weighty, and my writing feels stilted at times. Although it’s the very subject I felt God wanted me to write about, it requires courage to begin every time I post.

A friend said, “Maybe this is just for you.” Maybe it is. But I’m not motivated to learn for myself. If I can’t share, why bother? That must be a personal defect, but it’s my reality.

(I eventually found an excellent book by William Gurnall of the seventeeth century—published by Moody—but that’s a digression within a digression, so I’ll resist writing about it.)

Back to the website. I ran into a major glitch after spending major money on material that would supposedly help me create a site on my own. I took this approach because, with my own creation I could make changes without paying the designer. After all, I want a site that could grow and incorporate changes.

Of course, now I’m wondering what I was thinking of. I came to the end of myself sometime Thursday eve, and since then I’ve realized God still understands and loves me. Not only that, Ken still understands and loves me. I can’t justify a colossal mistake because I needed to know I am loved, but it’s been nice.

Today I began thinking this could become a foundation for something else in the future. I’ve learned a great deal, even though a website might not emerge from the ashes. Then I remembered I’m nearly 70.

The dilemma is what to do now. Continue with the blogs? I know I have to finish what I started on spiritual armor. That will take three months at least. Then, if I’m serious about putting together a more viable presentation, I should rewrite. Where will it find a home?

I Thessalonians 5:16-19 reads, Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Notice it doesn't say give thanks for but give thanks in. I don't think God is telling me thank him for glitches, but in the middle of the circumstance I'm to rejoice, pray, and give thanks anyway. I've been able to give thanks, and I've even been thankful that I'm able to be thankful. Interesting, isn't it. Haven't quite come to the rejoicing stage yet.

I’ve thought about approaching a young gal who designs and services websites, but don’t want to ask her for information. I might not follow through—and then be charged for a consultation. I’ve thought about trying once again to create my own site. But even Ken is stumped and, truthfully, I suspect a scam. I won’t go into why—too depressing.

Couldn’t face it yesterday or today. I've decided I won't think about it tomorrow. Monday? Maybe. Maybe a victory still waits in the wings.

On another note altogether, Ken was able to get into the layout of this blog and enlarge the title (just under the picture) tonight while I was writing the above. Perhaps that was the best of days this week. I'm pleased with the new design, even though it's also been time-consuming.

Mentoring

2009-02-02T03:00:00.000-08:00

Shortly after realizing I wasn’t responsible for everyone at all times—and that I didn’t have to carry everyone’s burdens (see Saturday’s post)—I attended a conference. Among other features, there was a workshop on mentoring that I didn’t attend—I was afraid I’d come out feeling responsible again. But a friend did attend and she encouraged me to purchase an audio tape of the session. From the tape I learned helpful concepts.

According to the gal leading the workshop, mentoring relationships grow out of natural relationships. She didn’t think of mentors as individuals carrying burdens. Nor was a mentor someone in a position of authority over the person receiving help. In fact, mentors aren’t necessarily long-term—although they might be.

If you know someone who can teach or lead in an area of need, you can think of them as a mentor and glean what you can. For example, if the person has a flare for cooking, you might pick up cooking skills. Or perhaps someone can advise you on decorating. Or, on looking up Biblical references. Or on the value of prayer. Or on how to discipline children.

I can live with that concept of mentoring. It’s interesting that this entire scenario should come to mind at this time—an example of God’s provision, I think.

There’s a young gal in my life who recently referred to me as her mentor. I panicked because I'd forgotten the teaching from the workshop—I was afraid of being overwhelmed by burdens, and I was afraid mentoring would put me in a position of authority, would destroy a friendship. Furthermore, she has major health issues that I’d like to fix-but can’t.

Remembering this teaching puts things in perspective. I can’t be responsible for my friend. I can only encourage her, primarily in a specific area. Beyond that, I can pray and offer emotional support—if I don’t allow myself to become overwhelmed by her burdens. And I can forget about being an authority over her. What a relief.

(There’s another element called intercessory prayer that does include carrying burdens, but never over the long term and never as an authority figure. It’s a huge subject, something to cover another time.)

I believe both being a mentor and receiving input from mentors are essential for going forward. It’s something I need to learn anew as I’m re-entering into relationships again. Have I mentioned recently that God never stops dealing with His children, not even as they grow older? I’m excited. I think it's another new step.

A Divine Connection

2009-01-31T10:50:00.000-08:00

When Ken and I retired in the spring of 1997, we didn’t know what we wanted to do or where we wanted to go. To give ourselves time, we sold our house and rented an apartment in Fargo. During our time of transition, we decided to visit a different church each week.

Worshipping with other Christian groups was a good experience. Nearly twelve years later, I can still identify two services that touched me deeply—and the two congregations are at opposite ends of the Christian spectrum.

One was Catholic. I’m sure the memory of that church is vivid in part because the priest bringing the message had been a student of Ken’s—something we didn’t anticipate. The sermon was about blind Bartimaeus.

The other was Baptist, and to make sense of what follows, I’ll provide background. As a child I’d learned I should help others—and there were times when I resented it. I know my parents didn’t understand the pressure I felt. Just the same, I was repeatedly overwhelmed by the weight of other people’s problems.

On July 20, 1997, the pastor of Community Baptist preached on burdens. While the message I received isn’t exactly the message he preached, he taught Scripture so it spoke to me. I’ve never forgotten his teaching.

After a few months we left the apartment to move into the house we built on a lake in Minnesota. Eventually, however, we moved back to the Fargo area, this time to stay, and I began attending a writer’s group.

One of the group’s members was Karen Lindholm, a gal out of the Swedish Baptist tradition. During the course of our conversation, I learned she was a widow and that her husband had been a pastor. Because I’m always interested in spiritual history I asked a few questions and quickly realized her late husband had pastored the Community Baptist Church. Then I asked for dates and determined he was the man of the significant sermon.

In the secular group, I didn’t want to get too excited. I mentioned it quietly and thought she understood. Since then I’ve learned to appreciate Karen greatly—we’ve met together about once a month for several years now—but she didn’t bring the subject up again.

This week, when reorganizing my new office area, I decided to sort through a stack of papers—and found a printed outline of the sermon from July 20, 1997.

I had to share the discovery with Karen, so I sent an email. It turns out she’d forgotten I’d even mentioned our Sunday morning visit to their church—or perhaps she hadn’t heard my reference because multiple people were talking at the same time the night of our writer’s group meeting. Her response indicated she was blessed to hear about a time when God had used her husband. I was blessed by being able to tell her. It somehow seems like a divine connection.

Can I share more about the message?

Pastor Ray—as Karen’s husband was called—used Greek to explain that in the culture of Jesus’ time there were burdens carried by pack animals (he mentioned donkeys), burdens carried by people (he mentioned backpackers as a contemporary example of people carrying loads), and super-large burdens carried in the holds of ships.

Paul wrote, Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. (Gal. 6:2 NIV) The word translated “burden” means something carried by a pack animal, a burden too big to carry alone. That’s why Christians should help each other.

A few verses later Paul wrote, For each one should carry his own load. (Gal. 6:5 NIV) In the King James Version, this word is also translated burden. In the New International Version it’s translated load. This identifies a smaller burden, something a person can carry by themselves. In God’s economy, it means drawing from God’s grace on their own.

I don’t remember what he said about burdens carried in ships. (According to the outline, the reference was Psalm 38:4) But understanding the difference between two types of burdens made it clear I wasn’t responsible to carry the burdens of everyone I met. Moreover, in the months that followed I understood I wasn’t even responsible for everyone I knew that needed help—God could arrange circumstances if He wanted me involved.

Receiving understanding didn’t transform me overnight. Some revelations have to be worked in gradually. But the sermon that morning provided a foundation for another new beginning, and I’m grateful.

All Because I Wanted More Storage

2009-01-26T09:58:00.000-08:00

We’ve had a busy week, Ken and I.

It began because I thought I needed drawers as part of my work space. Perhaps I should explain. We bought one or more pieces of furniture for all but one room in our condo when we purchased it—to finish the the decor. By the time we got to finishing the guest bedroom where my desk would be located—I like seclusion at times—funds were low and we made-do.

My old desk was huge, too big and not especially conducive to computers. Being the enterprising person I am, I designed a desk with glider for my keyboard but no drawers. Ken, being the enterprising person he is, made it for me. Placed next to my small file cabinet, it worked well—until I began writing again. Now I’m ready for something different, perhaps even a new desk.

On Wednesday we made a tour of eight second-hand stores as a starter, to see what we could find. They weren’t close to each other, either. That night I decided that a small nightstand we’d seen in the sixth store would provide the needed storage for now.

But on Thursday we shopped two additional second-hand stores to make sure we hadn’t missed anything. No desks, but in the second store I saw a pink chair. Now, I’ve been trying to get away from pink, but the chair fit, was comfortable, and would be perfect as a reading chair, a chair other than my desk chair and one located far from the TV. I had to think about it, so we returned to the sixth store and purchased the night stand. When we got home we not only moved the nightstand into the condo, we rearranged the bedroom to see if the chair would fit.

On Friday we made a trip to purchase the pink chair. Keep in mind that streets and sidewalks were icy, temps were low, and the wind was blowing in gusts. Furthermore, my hands are weak so I’m no help when carrying something heavy. On Thursday the store employees helped load the nightstand. On Friday we were on our own.

My part was holding the door open. We thought the back of our older Escort wagon would be large enough, so we drove it, but the arms of the chair were wider than we thought. After struggling to get it outside, Ken worked another 15 minutes using this method or that method, trying to fit it into the back of the car. His face looked absolutely raw, but I left him out there alone. When he finally came in, announcing his success, it was hard to be jubilant. So we drove home, removed it from the car—much easier now that he had a method—and began rearranging furniture in earnest.

Ken was up first Saturday morning. I could barely roll over. After his breakfast he came back into the bedroom, looked out the window, and said, We had quite a day yesterday, didn’t we? Pause. I’m kinda stiff today. Pause. Then, with a hint of a grin he turned toward me, But we did it.

Prior to that moment, I’d wondered if it was worth it. The effort had been over the top and I felt guilty because it was all for me.

But we did it, changed everything.

Of course, we weren’t done until—well, not until one wall became the backdrop for a solid line of furniture—to make room for the chair. Can you see the nightstand? It fits in so nicely you might think it's always been there.

And here’s the pink chair. Yesterday, on Sunday morning when both of us were more or less recovered, I read in my chair before church. Ken looked in, smiled and said, You know, this is pleasant. Today he staged a picture so you could all see it in all it’s comfortablness.

Keeping with the theme of this blog, I must admit I don’t know where God fits into the equation. Were we out of His will because it was so stressful? That seems like a harsh assessment. And foolish. I don't think everything needs to be so serious.

On the positive side, however, He kept us safe. And when it was done, we could say, We did it!

Maybe God was in it more than we realized.

Poetry that Penetrates

2009-01-20T13:10:00.000-08:00

Serious work eluded me this morning. Television coverage of the inauguration and related events were too compelling. I couldn’t escape the drama.

Rev. Joseph Lowery’s benediction was the high point. The man’s been around a long time—he worked with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Today he provided poetry that captured the present.

I wasn’t an Obama supporter, although I admired much about him after reading his first book, “Dreams of My Father.” I felt he was open to—of all things—change. Before it became a code word. Someone suggested it could be calculated deceit, but I didn’t think so, and still don’t. Even early in the campaign I felt checked whenever I started to say something negative about him. I have huge policy differences on abortion, for instance, but I’m inclined to think God was checking me, keeping me from saying negative things about a man with a destiny.

Obama’s speech was okay—revealed once again his pragmatic approach, his focus on results. But it was Lowery who touched my heart.

My acquaintance with Black churches is brief, but includes defining moments. When Ken and I were much younger, we lived in Phoenix, AZ, for eight years. Ken returned to school and subsequently began his teaching career in Phoenix. But equally important, I experienced a spiritual epiphany that initiated my walk with God. Ken, who had known God as his Savior since childhood, experienced epiphanies of his own.

While in Phoenix, we fellowshipped with a diverse group of people. With friends from this group, I attended a couple of Black churches. For the congregations, the settings were their norm—bare, concrete floors and uncomfortable bench-type pews. But unlike my home church, a church with all the amenities, they used not one, but two, instruments—organ and piano— together. And, oh, the chords the young instrumentalists played. I’d never heard such invasive sounds. Like the glorious music produced by Bach, Vivaldi, Handle, and others, it was anointed in the Old Testament sense. But the congregation, in accordance with Old Testament practice, sang, danced, prayed, and shouted.

And then we heard sermons expressed as poetry, rough around the edges—but poetry because it brought revelation of Truth from God’s Word. I don’t know what the others in my group—a handful of whites—were doing, because I closed my eyes and absorbed new courage for my Christian walk.

Since those experiences, I’ve believed the strength of the African-Americans in our country comes from their churches. Their worship experience couldn’t be passive. Although their music expressed the bitter-sweet sorrow of “soul,” it also expressed God’s ability to strengthen them, to give them power to persevere.

Think of it. Power to persevere when treated as less than human.

Praise God for Black churches. Without them, the problems of America might be unsolvable. Without God’s presence, people become vindictive—it’s happened to Christians in the past. Without God, people become lawless.

Do we truly understand that we owe Jehovah God our freedom? That only He gives His children the strength to forgive and to love?

I felt Rev. Lowery's powerful images and allusions exemplified poetic prayer. The techniques (such as rhyme and alliteration) helped, too. His words had power to penetrate, to invade our minds. We need to hear from God. We need to receive from Him—to let His power strengthen us.

Oh, God, may it be so. And may it begin with me.

Life, More than Bare Feet or Irritating Socks

2009-01-15T10:01:00.000-08:00

Socks! The first thing I did this morning was take them off. Off? Yes. You see, it’s been very cold where we live—minus 27degrees below zero this morning. If my feet are cold, I can’t go to sleep. So I wear socks to bed.

After a couple of weeks with socks on, not only during all waking moments but during all moments, I long for the freedom of air on my feet. In fact, this morning I put on sandals (I still need a corrective shoe for my left foot, as I'm unwilling to submit to surgery on it as I did the right foot) and reveled in the freedom of contact with air.

Before the sandals, however, as I was about to grumble to myself, I thought of a lady I met yesterday at the rheumatologist’s office. She’s close to my age, but her rheumatoid arthritis took over before the present-day biologic drugs were available. To walk at all she wore huge boot-affairs, a cross between the cast I wore during my surgery and an oxford. She didn’t stand on the soles of her feet, but the shoe/boot provided a platform enabling her to shuffle forward with the help of crutches.

My limited experience with crutches, abandoned for a Roll-a-Bout, scared me. I wondered how anyone could ever deal with them because they put so much pressure on the shoulders and hands—other problematic joints. Praise God for the people who work with problems. Her crutches had forearm extensions that bore her weight. With the crutches to hold her up, and with the shoe/boots as her platform, she moved—slowly.

But before I saw her move, as she sat with the rest of us in a row of recliners set up to hold patients receiving infusions of Remicade—she revealed her pleasant nature. A affable nurse with health problems of her own administers the procedure, and we visit. About our peculiar health issues at the moment, the weather (it was 21 degrees below zero yesterday morning), our kids and grandkids, whatever. The special lady was confused about a few things, but oh, she was lovely.

We’ve all heard about wanting new shoes—until seeing someone without feet. I needed a fresh view to quicken my appreciation for my feet and other blessings as well. I’m mobile.

Mobile! I can walk where I want. Oh, I get tired more quickly than I’d like—but I am, after all, getting older. And my hands are weak—the effect of damage before I started the new drug—but there are ways to adjust. I live a normal life, am in better shape that some without a chronic disease.

The image of my new friend is so vivid that I hesitate to say I’m blessed—because it might imply that others with major problems aren’t blessed. The gal I met yesterday probably feels blessed as well. Her demeanor said as much.

I am grateful. I’m grateful to my Lord who builds me up when I turn to Him, who reminds me that life is more than air on bare feet or irritating socks. Grateful for a husband who didn’t want me to drive by myself (the temperature yesterday morning was 21 degrees below zero!), even though the drive, the doctor’s visit, and the procedure took over four hours. Grateful for medical procedures and doctors who know when the procedures will help people like myself—and people like the woman who is already marked by a disease but is, nevertheless, helped with a new medication.

I surely don’t understand it all. Don’t have answers. But, nevertheless, my testimony is that all things work together for good to those who love God . . . . (Rom. 8:28a NKJV) Amazing. Yes. I'm grateful. So grateful.

Answers in God's Word

2009-01-13T09:42:00.000-08:00

My weekend was interesting. If you read the last posting, you’ll have an idea. An exchange with the fellow continued into yesterday when I decided we weren’t going anyplace. I didn’t respond to his final emails.

Supposedly, it was about doctrinal correctness—but I felt it was also about expression. Some Christians react in a way that’s offensive to reserved people like Ken and myself—but they are valid and important to the Body of Christ. I can’t imagine how I’d have reacted to Ezekiel.

During my regular Bible reading I have a plan that seems hit and miss but isn’t. At any one time I’m reading from the Old and New Testaments as well as something from one of the poetry books—but not on the same day. Right now I’m in Genesis, Matthew and Psalms. On a busy day I’ll read a psalm, if I have time to think I’ll read from the New Testament, and often I’ll go to the Old Testament.

Well, when reading about Joseph, I saw something I’d not seen before. Joseph was probably a pain in the neck, strutting around in his colored coat, flaunting his favored position. Nevertheless, he was God’s anointed—the one who received God’s message. Because the brothers didn’t like the messenger, they got rid of him—and were left without God’s Word. Joseph went to Egypt with his word and his wisdom—and Egypt was blessed by his presence. The brothers were left without provision during a famine.

Of course, that begged the question. Was I rejecting God’s Word by rejecting this new voice in my life? Or would I be rejecting God’s Word if I agreed with him and rejected some of the ministries I currently appreciate—even if the package is sometimes disturbing?

I felt God gave me the answer this morning when I remembered some verses in John. “And when he [the Holy Spirit] comes, he will convict the world concerning sin and righteousness and judgment: concerning sin, because they do not believe in me; concerning righteousness, because I go to the Father, and you will see me no longer; concerning judgment, because the ruler of this world is judged.” (Jn. 16:8-11 ESV)

The meaning of convict is closer to convince than condemn. When the Holy Spirit comes, He convinces us that we’re sinners—if we don’t accept Jesus' sacrifice which is the only sin than separates us from Him. We can deny our sin without so much as a glance unless we respond to the conviction of the Holy Spirit. If a ministry bases its position on being “right” about everything, the danger is feeling smug over being right. A form of self-righteousness enters into one’s mindset. I know, I’ve been there.

When the Holy Spirit comes, He convinces us of God’s righteousness—Jesus is eternal with the Father, and His sacrifice is more than enough to atone or cover our sin. When He offers salvation, we turn to Him and not to our knowledge.

When the Holy Spirit comes, He convinces us of the judgment against Satan, the one who became a ruler when men fell into sin. Jesus won the victory. His and ours. We can’t do anything to help ourselves. We look to Him.

With that I feel I can close the issue, and I thought I’d share the Word that gave me peace.

Watch Out for Watchmen!

2009-01-11T16:54:00.000-08:00

I left a comment on someone else’ blog once. Several months later I experimented by entering a search on my name and found a few things—including the comment. Surprised me, but that event isn’t of interest in itself—it’s background for what I want to share today.

More background: about the time I began writing on spiritual armor for the Red, Red Berries blog, I thought it wise to regularly search spiritual armor and spiritual warfare—to get a feel for the territory.

After Sarah Palin’s nomination, many bloggers went ballistic about the dangers of spiritual warfare. That settled down after the election. Currently, some blogs are positive on the subject and some are negative. They’re fairly straightforward and entitled to their opinion. As for spiritual armor, entries are usually brief, often a list with an admonition to put it on.

But I’m disturbed by a group that refer to themselves as watchmen. They watch for doctrinal error so they can alert the Body of Christ to dangers.

Reasonable, except it appears they watch in order to create division. I stumbled on one such site yesterday morning and couldn’t believe their take on various ministries—ministries I like and ministries I more or less ignore. In one case, they highlighted possible problems between a father and son. I’m sure there’s something wrong with both men because there’s something wrong with all of us. But my point is that the watchman accused them vehemently, predicting future trouble—in a family no less. No compassion; no suggestion of hope for reconciliation.

They also criticized the ministry of Heidi and Rolland Baker, a unique couple who operate on the edge of—what should I say—the edge of spiritual expression. Rolland Baker is a descendant—I think the grandson—of the gentleman who wrote the classic Visions Beyond the Veil. The book is a story of children in a Chinese orphanage before Communism who received multiple supernatural visions of heaven and hell. Their lives were transformed; Rolland Baker has a heritage of supernatural visitation.

Over the years the Bakers have planted thousands of churches in or near Mozambique. I wondered how that was possible until I learned how it’s done. A team goes into an unchurched area. After several weeks of evangelistic meetings they meet with people who’ve made professions of faith and ask for volunteers to attend Bible College for a number of months where they will receive training. Two volunteers are selected and when done the volunteers come back to the village and start a church. Sounds like something straight out of Acts. Supernatural occurrences are common—but not predictable. Some are martyred.

The Bakers also run orphanages for orphaned and abandoned children. The stories are too much to cover in this blog.

Heidi usually acts as spokesperson for the ministry and she is prone to soak in God’s presence. It’s the soaking that became the target of the watchmen. The term refers to basking in God’s presence, letting Him minister rest, peace, healing, whatever a Christian needs. The watchmen said it was unbiblical and cited other ministries involved in unbiblical activity. Then they accused the Bakers of soaking people by charging money for conferences, etc.—money used to fund the Bible colleges and orphanages.

I confess outrage. The Bakers have laid their lives on the line. Should they receive compensation for their contributions at conferences? Money that’s channeled into the ministry?

Do I advocating soaking as the Baker’s soak? I think it can be abused, but I understand the practice. It’s based on the concept that Jesus is the Living Water. From Him flows a stream of life that renews all who come to Him. Very Biblical. I have basked in His Presence several times, primarily when ill and confined to bed. It was incredibly healing—and totally within the Biblical context of Jesus as Living Water.

Well, I offered a comment, and the rest of this story is funny but disturbing. I wrote in a box below the article on the Bakers—but when it came up on their screen it was located under their most recent writing; it made no sense. Soon after they provided a comment of their own saying I needed reading glasses!

Funny. I replied to let them in on my mistake and to say I stood by my comment.

In response I received a putdown.

Not funny.

I commented again. This time I included my theological understanding of Jesus as Living Water, mentioned that the practice of Christian Churches today includes non-Biblical practices, and reminded them that the Pharisees began as a positive group with an emphasis on core values—but that they became obsessed with legalism and didn’t recognize Jesus as the Messiah. Oh, I also said a watchman doesn’t search for doctrinal errors—everyone has them—but looks for heart issues—and the purpose of watching is not division but restoration. (I might revise this a bit today.)

I closed the site and went about my business with no intention of pursuing anything further—didn’t know how to find the site again. But I remembered the exchange before I shut down the computer for the night and I wanted to see if they answered. Then I remembered the search that revealed the comment so long ago, so I did another search—and there they were. The first one from 191 days ago (number of days cited on the entry!) and the second being the recent one.

The watchman had responded by removing my comment while leaving his putdown in place. He had the right; I understand he didn’t want anyone to undermined his position. Did he have a right to remove mine while leaving his? Legally, but not ethically. I suspect he was looking for another target.

I couldn’t resist commenting again before shutting down—don’t even remember what I said. Today that comment is gone as well—and again, his skewed comments remain. I can’t ignore the humor in all of this. I also decided that if a watchman is willing to exalt himself by attacking ministries, he’d surely be willing to attack another obscure blogger.

Lessons learned: Be careful when making comments, and watch out for watchmen!

Additions to My Blogroll

2009-01-05T11:53:00.000-08:00

I took a few hours one afternoon last week to surf the web. That can be a tedious occupation, but at other times it's immensely rewarding.

This time I felt rewarded when I discoverd several great blogs. I added three to my blogroll (see sidebar), and I'd like to say something about each.

Conversion Diary is written by a former atheist who tells her story in a sidebar article. The blog is a journal of her walk with God since her conversion. Her story is incredible partly because it's an intellectual journey; but, what would one expect from an atheist? Her life with God, however, takes her into the world of relationship. Of special interest to me, she's currently seeking God about her diet and weight. Her spiritual home is with the Catholic Church, perhaps Orthodox.

The Greatest Missionary Trip is written by a gal has lived many years with the blessings and joys of a blended family. The spiritual history of her and husband's spiritual history are also fascinating. In some ways I couldn't relate, because the experience is not ours; on the other hand, human nature is universal regardless of the circumstances. I suspect they're evangelicls.

Tiffany Ann Lewis is written by a young women with a ministry within the Pentecostal/Charismatic community. Again, so interesting as she shares her observations, struggles, insights. In addition to the blog, she publishes a monthly message.

The doctrinal spectrum of these gals is wide, but they're all responding to the same Jesus. I was blessed beyond words when reading their stories and the journals of their life with God.

On the other hand, I find it hard to not feel pangs of despair or jealousy when I come across quality sites. Most blogs are written by young people with agile minds and they're comfortable in the world of computers.

Then, I reminded myself of something I read by Phil Callaway recently. It said, in part:

You are not old . . .
. . .
. . .
until you begrudge the spotlight
turned on a younger generation . . . .

Writing has opened doors for me twice. Once when we had children and I wanted a little extra money without working outside the home. It did that and more, it introduced me to another world. This time around, I will have to admit I couldn't have even tried had God not dealt with me about a few things. That's a subject for another day.

Happy surfing. I think you'll enjoy these people if you take the time. Just remember to come back here.

A New Twist

2009-01-01T15:39:00.000-08:00

Oh, jolly, jolly! I woke up to my usual New Year's Day activity. Putting Christmas decorations away. Are you catching a hint of sarcasm here?

There was a new twist this year, however. While I don't generally make New Year's resolutions because they don't work for me, I do like to take stock of what God has done. And I think He's done something awesome.

For the first time in our married life, I willingly downscaled every aspect of our Christmas activities. The hardest thing was that, like the rest of the nation, we spent less money on presents. Then, I planned the dinner so preparations could be done ahead. Most surprising, however, I put less effort into the tree.

I have mixed feelings about the presents and food. I wish we’d not decided to spend less money. Giving is fun. As for the food, all the early prep tired me out as much as doing it that day. When dinner was over we opened presents, and then I took a two hour nap! (Ken said they were able to play seven-up, seven-down because I didn’t want to play. Somehow, that didn’t make me feel a bit better!) I missed the fun.

But concerning decorations, downscaling was great. I didn’t know Christmas decorations have been stressful for me. But when I think about it, given an excuse, I’ve always enjoyed avoiding them. When our children were pre-schoolers, mold allergies from a live tree were a factor one year. I simply took everything off, Ken placed the offending tree in a snow bank in front of our front window, and he brought it in for about two hours on Christmas Eve so we could put presents under it before he took it outside again. We had an adventure.

But there are more recent events,too. One year I avoided all decorating because we traveled to one of our daughter’s the week before Christmas.

The tree itself has always been an issue. When allergies became a factor, we purchased one of the early artificial varieties; we called it the bottle-brush tree—but our youngest son, now 44, claims that when he thinks of Christmas, that’s the first image he has. I assume he remembers it with the homemade ornaments: colored-paper stars dipped in parafin, strange affairs made from egg cartons that I sprayed gold, and three-dimensional snowflakes made from white paper.

I think I began buying ornaments about the time we purchased our present tree. Lots of ornaments. Putting everything together was work. And taking everything down was more work. When we moved into town from the lake, our granddaughter began helping me with the decorating part,and we created works of art.

Well, this year she was less than enthused—and, to my surprise, I was relieved. When I finally had everything I needed to make the tree I thought I wanted, it became a burden. If our granddaughter was not enthused, perhaps she’d picked up on my lack of enthusiasm.

Ken and I pondered until he finally assembled the tree and added lights. I put up the red ribbon garland. And we were done. And I've enjoyed it enormously because I enjoyed the lights.

The best part, however, was putting decorations away today. It was a short event. Here's Ken taking the tree apart.
Because it went so well, I suspect that next year I'll put out less of the additional stuff, too!

As for the dinner, I know that next year I won't prepare a turkey with all the trimmings. I don’t know what we’ll do, but it will be simple.

Where is God in all this? Well, He’s shown me my heart wasn’t focused on Him.

Surprise, surprise. In my insecurity, I went after things I didn’t want—because I didn’t know myself well enough to see I was stuck in a stronghold of Satan.

Other people could probably have the same realization and not see God's hand in everything. But since God told me I was perfect—that He made me the way He wanted me—I keep discovering new areas where I’ve gone after standards set by others. I’ve misinterpreted Scriptures about dying to self, believing I had to fulfill society's expectations. Have I told you before that God doesn’t stop dealing with His children as they grow older? (If you’re a new reader, that’s a joke.) I'm so glad He continues to set me free.

The revelation of my personal value was probably about seven years ago—maybe eight. All I can say is, “God, forgive me for the years I pursued things You didn’t put in my heart.” And to my husband and children, “Forgive me for diminishing the joy of the season by spreading my personal stress.”

As I said, I don’t generally spend a lot of time on resolutions, but I do like to take stock of what God has done. Awesome, don’t you think?

Thoughts on the Bethlehem Innkeeper

2008-12-23T03:29:00.000-08:00

If the innkeeper of Bethlehem had had any inkling of Joseph’s and Mary’s identity that first Christmas, he would have cleared his entire establishment to make room for them.

He didn’t. And in spite of all the sermons about how the poor fellow missed out on the occasion of his visitation, he was probably meant to do what he did. Perhaps—like Pharaoh—he was chosen for his hardened heart. God’s plan was served by the man’s lack of understanding.

The innkeeper couldn’t understand without a revelation. And he wasn’t looking for the Christ-child at the moment. He was just too busy.

I’m not especially busy with Christmas preparations this year. Everything seems remarkably simple because we’re having no overnight visitors and no younger children—our North Dakota grandchildren are all teenagers. But, although some of the excitement is lower-key, the joy remains. I’m so looking forward to Christmas Day with two of our children and their families.

Just the same, I’m busy. With writing projects. Writing projects that I hope are centered on God. In the middle of this, I need revelation to truly celebrate the birth of God's Son. Reality is, even if we’ve walked with God for years, we need more and more revelation. Unless our hearts are open to receive Him, we’ll miss our visitation.

When it comes to revelation, one size doesn’t fit all. Each one of us is unique, and we all need a personal touch. I found Scripture that offered great blessing for me. You might want to try it on to see how it fits you.

Christ is the visible image of the invisible God. He existed before anything was created and is supreme over all creation . . . God in all his fullness was pleased to live in Christ, and through him God reconciled everything to himself. (Col. 1:15,19,20a NLB)

Working at Organization on Two Fronts

2008-12-18T17:19:00.000-08:00

I've been working on compiling the "Thoughts for Inspiration" blog material. Not a Christmas-type activity and a huge job, almost overwhelming because there is so much material is it's so diverse. But there's been a wonderful perk. I'm reading Scripture after Scripture, and I'm filled with joy over God's goodness and provision. So it is preparing me for Christmas.

On the side, I've also read from Psalm 119 recently, spreading it out over days because I've been reading a lot of Scripture while working on my project and because the psalm is long.

The psalm is also repetitious, like life, but I've discovered it re-creates the longing to follow God's Word. Not until the final verse is there admission of sin: "I have wandered away like a sheep; come and find me, for I have not forgotten your commands." (Ps. 119:176 NLB)

In an entirely different vein, when I posted recipes from our condo potluck last fall, I didn't include my crock pot stuffing recipe. There were seemingly enough recipes at that time, so I saved it for Christmas. Now I've almost forgotten it and most of you probably have your Christmas plans in place. I'll include it anyway, perhaps for next year? Sorry I'm not more organized.

We'll have just our North Dakota offspring and their families with us on Christmas Day this year. Compared to the last two years, that won't seem like a lot of people and there won't be little children, but we'll have a good time.

I've found in recent years that I like to prepare ahead. My daughter and daughter-in-law help with the cleanup and somehow it all works even if my physical energy is limited.

The featured centerpiece: turkey on the grill which is Ken's department. I don't even get involved in the slicing.

In the oven I'll bake a cheesy potato casserole, green bean casserole, and sweet potatoes (one of the recipes posted from the potluck). No last minute hassle here.

Because the top shelf of the oven is filled, I make stuffing in a crock pot. It's incredibly rich, but oh-so-good. Recipe below.

From the refrigerator, seven layer salad and a fruit salad (both made the day before).

Then there'll lefsa (we are of Norwegian descent, you know), flat bread if my daughter brings it, a vegetable relish tray with dip, and I'll try to remember pickles and olives.

I'm not sure about deserts at this point. If I feel like it I'll make pies that morning. If not, the girls will surely bring some baked goodies and I'll add the frosted pretzels I bought ready-made plus ice cream. (I do have my limits.)

For evening, left-overs plus sweet soup, tea rings, herring, and cheese slices. I suppose I'll be too full to enjoy that, but in many ways, that's my favorite type of meal.

Crock Pop Dressing - I found this recipe on another site a couple of years ago and have used it ever since. Nothing was said about copyrights, so here you are:

1 cup butter or margarine, melted
2 cups chopped onion
2 cups chopped celery
1/4 cup fresh parsley (can substitute dried)
2 cups canned mushrooms, drained (can use fresh)
2 eggs beaten
13 cups cubes of dry bread
2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. sage
1 tsp. thyme
1 tsp. pepper
1/2 tsp. marjoram
2 and 1/2 to 3 and 1/2 cups chicken broth or enough to moisten well

Melt butter or margarine in large fry pan and saute onion and celery until soft. Mix with remaining ingredients, tossing well. Pack in large crock pot. Cover. Cook on high for 45 minutes, then turn to low and continue cooking for 6 - 8 hours.

Hints:
I try to remember to dry my bread, but not too much. It makes the cubing easier if the bread is neither hard nor soft. I cube my bread the day before, makes the early-morning assembly a snap.

We like dense breads. I made corn bread and used it for over half the recipe. I also add quite a bit of a fairly-heavy brown bread, and I ended up with a slice or two of white bread (which was rather dense as well).

I stuck with 3 and 1/2 cups broth but added a small amount of water. It should be soupy. The moisture will absorb into the bread.

I think the crock pot I use for this is 3 and 1/2 quarts, but I'm not sure and the box is long gone.

I keep thinking I'll try adding raisins or cranberries, but I only make this for special occasions and then am afraid to experiment for fear of ruining it.

View from our Deck on a Sunny Winter Day

2008-12-15T08:26:00.000-08:00

I love snow days. Days when the world around you shuts down, when you're comfy in a warm home with day-to-day pressures removed. We have so much to be grateful for. Puts things in perspective when thinking about families losing their homes.

I posted a picture from our deck window yesterday. The wind blew stronger later on, but posting another picture of blowing snow seemed a bit silly. Here's the way our world looks today.

With wind patterns the way they are, snow falling in front of our garage ends up elsewhere. Nice, except that we have to drive through hard drifts to get out of our condo area anyway. The north side or front of the building is snowed in, as is our street. The picture below is of the street behind us which is cleared privately by the residents. Funny, because although it's clear, no ordinary car could traverse the avenue it leads to and that must be traveled to get out of the neighborhood.

Why is it such a big deal, anyway? Perhaps because on snow days I excuse myself from responsibility. Why do I do that? It was a perfectly good day, an opportunity to catch up. May major accomplishment was watching the 1949 version of Little Women with June Alyson, Janet Leigh, Elizabeth Taylor, Margaret O'Brien, and Peter Lawford. We taped the TCM rendition on Friday night, after watching the 1933 version with Katharine Hepburn. (Also a wonderful movie, but without as much emotional attachment on my part.)

I don't know how old I was when my parents initially took me to see the movie. They weren't into movies. The only movie I remember prior to it was Bambi, and my major memory from that event was the large dark room with people coughing.

But seeing Little Women that first time was glorious. I'd read the book and when we left the theatre, like everyone else, I emphatically declared the book was soooo much better. And yet, the images of the four young girls and their friend Laurie were the images I carried of the characters during later re-eadings of the classic. I even adjusted Elizabeth Taylor's age to fit Amy's true age.

After engagings in something so affirming, I hate to admit I then spent several hours playing computer games. Something I rarely do anymore. They're a waste of time! And yet, satisfying. Today I'm invigorated, ready to go.

Of course, if I really want to go someplace (to the post office to mail presents!) I'll have to wait until our avenue is plowed out.

View from our Deck Window during a North Dakota Blizzard

2008-12-14T09:02:00.000-08:00

View from our deck window. Ken just took this picture. He wanted to record what we can't see. We'll have to take a picture on a bright sunny day to record the difference.

Saving My Baby's Dolls

2008-12-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

As promised by the weather-woman last night, a blizzard rages outside this morning. I doubt if we’ll make it to church. But I'm snug in our condo and decided it would be a good time to blog.

This is the season when parents of little girls look for the perfect doll to set under the Christmas tree. Perhaps this poem will touch a chord.

Saving My Baby’s Dolls

We cleaned closets before she left. Oh, she cried,
do you remember when I gave her freckles?”
And there they were—blue dots created
with the help of a ball-point pen, scattered
across the cheeks—fifteen on the right,
eleven on the left. She smiled a loving smile.
I still think she’s cuter with freckles.

Here’s Mrs. Mouse. See the knot I tied
in her tail. I could never get it out.
Pause.
Then, You don’t have to save the dolls.
And later, I think Debbie gave me Mrs. Mouse.

Someday your little girls would love to see
their mother’s dolls.

No they wouldn’t. But I want to keep
my rabbit bank—the one Dad bought
in Philadelphia. Look where the fur
is rubbed off the cheek. It looks painful.

One by one, all but the bank found a place
in the discard pile.

And I remembered dolls with cracked skin
in my mother’s attic. I was twenty when
I threw them away. I decided they had no value—
and my little girl never asked to see the dolls
her mother played with when she was little.

My mother had saved my dolls,
and I wanted to save hers.

I rediscovered this poem a couple of months ago when looking for something to send to a poetry contest—I needed a piece to keep my goal of submitting at least one item to either a contest or a publication every month. It was just a rough idea, so I cleaned it up a bit, and then decided I didn't want to work with it further.

The images aren’t strong enough—but the only thing I could add without going beyond the reality of my memory would be Mrs. Mouse’s red jacket, and I didn't want to go beyond the memory.

The conflict isn’t strong enough, either. Adding to that would become complicated if I wanted to remain true to circumstances. I had discarded my dolls when I helped my parents move—I was 18. Less than a year later my mom died in an accident. Several years later I helped my dad’s new wife go through the attic of her new home and we found my dolls. Mom had somehow salvaged them. I threw them away a second time.

So many years later, when our daughter discarded her dolls, she was leaving to teach ESL in Indonesia. Her dad and I knew we’d probably sell our house before she came home. When she decided to throw them, I remembered my mom’s seemingly foolish nostalgia—so I didn't secretly stash them someplace to save them—and regretted it later. I hadn’t understood that Mom kept the dolls for herself—for her memories—not for me.

It just seems that adding or subtracting to make this a more effective poem would subvert it’s personal value. I already lost the dolls, and I don’t want to lose the memory.

I’m quite sure my little girl—now grown up with a little girl ofher own—doesn't mourn the loss of her dolls. She does, however, keep the rabbit bank on her desk. When we visited her lately, our granddaughter showed it to me and pointed to the cheek without fur. It looks painful, she stated soberly. My reaction might have disappointed her. I smiled. Memories are a precious commodity.

Could I Explain Revelation?

2008-12-11T07:01:00.000-08:00

Someone asked me to further explain the revelation concept I refer to so often in my blogs.

First, it isn’t knowledge acquired through our mind or emotions.

Mental knowledge is received through the senses and by all the things we’re taught at home, in school, via books or television, etc. When we reason, we use our mental knowledge to come to conclusions—and that also fits into mental knowledge.

We know things emotionally, too—what makes us laugh, and whatever fills our emotional needs. The person without emotional responses and knowledge is a sad person, indeed. Sometimes emotional needs influence our thought process. We call that type of thinking rationalization rather than reasoning, and it isn’t quite reliable.

While revelation knowledge might seem outside the norm, it’s more common than people think. There are things we intuitively know without being taught. Our constitution says some truths are self-evident. That’s a type of revelation. For example, people are born with a sense of justice. Even small children have a sense of being fair. One can reason about the benefits of being fair, but in the end fair is revelatory knowledge. One person said we know in the knower. I laughed when I heard that, but the phrase—the ability to know in the knower has stuck with me nevertheless.

Sometimes revelations are truths we initially learned with our minds—and then God revealed them to our knower and they become part of our makeup. I think I wrote in a blog once about how God revealed that He made me the way He wanted me—and that I was perfect in His eyes. Now, prior to that day I would have agreed with the God doesn’t create junk axiom and been willing to theoretically apply it to myself. But when I received it as revelation I knew it in my knower and it’s brought great peace. Since then I’ve doubted it mentally a few times, but when I reflect I know that I know God loves me as I am. It’s part of my makeup.

When we received these types of revelation, they’re usually basic doctrine. No one can argue with them because they are consistent with Scripture. However, people might be offended or put off by a bold statement.

Sometimes revelations give deeper understanding of God’s Word. Reading in the Psalms the other day I came across, Pray for peace in Jerusalem. (Ps. 122:6a) Praying for peace in Jerusalem is often interpreted as praying for the nation of Israel and I have no problem with that. But when I read these verses I suddenly remembered that God’s people of the Old Testament are representative of God’s people—His Church—today. We’re instructed to pray for peace in Jerusalem literally—the physical Jerusalem—and we’re also instructed to pray for the spiritual Jerusalem—the Body of Christ. In other words, we are to pray for peace between Christians. And for peace between Christians and the rest of society. I was pondering divisive circumstances that morning, and felt God gave me insight through the verse.

And then there are revelations that seem to come out of nowhere. They’re the hard ones. Like the time I felt God told me I should stay in Indonesia after our daughter’s wedding. She and her new husband went on their honeymoon, Ken returned to the US for his job, and I was alone in a strange country. No one was happy but everything worked out as I followed God's leading.

And there was the time I felt God told me to publish Avenues. I was so shocked that I told Him I’d give it two years. When I began I had no idea what I was doing, but every time I came to an impasse, He somehow showed me how to deal with it. From the time I started working on it until the day I closed the books, the time span was two years, give or take a couple of weeks. I’ve wondered a few times what would have happened if I hadn’t limited myself in the beginning.

On those two occasions I was absolutely sure God spoke. Not that I heard a voice or that it was confirmed by any other source. I just knew in my knower. Without question.

Most of the time, however, revelation comes as a prompt, an impression. Sometimes I run them past others—usually Ken. Sometimes I reject them, decide it was my ego or some other inner voice. Sometimes I step out, follow them as gentle leadings to see where they take me.

I feel Paul referred to this sort of knowing when he wrote, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure. (Phil:2:12b,13 ESV) Paul wasn’t with the Philippians at the time, so they couldn’t ask him for direction. They had to hear from God for themselves, and if their revelation was fuzzy they would have to test it and determine His voice. In fear and trembling.

Perhaps these blogs are my best current example of a response to this type of inner knowing or revelation. I think my spirit, i.e., my knower, received direction and I’m testing what I believe is His leading. I’ve learned over the years that He doesn’t always speak loudly; He usually comes as a quiet inner voice. I’m trying to listen and respond.

Could I be wrong? Yes. That’s where fear and trembling comes in.

Our New Car

2008-12-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

We purchased a car yesterday. A gently-used (less than 14,000 miles) 2008 Taurus, originally purchased as a rental vehicle in April.

At his core, Ken is frugal. The cars of our past were mostly economy models, at the low end of the spectrum. (We’ve had three Escorts. The third, currently our second car, boasts 236,000 miles and runs like a charm! The car we replaced was a Windstar—nothing fancy.)

I’ve had no problem with economy cars until recent years when comfort became an issue for medical reasons. Seats that don’t fit and support my lower back cause pain.

So this time we took a different approach. Let me tell you, the process was exhausting because we didn’t know exactly what we wanted and North Dakota weather didn't cooperate. It was cold out there. The car we finally bought wasn’t available when we began looking, however. Had we pushed—bought before we went on our two most recent trips—we’d have paid more for something we might not have liked as much.

Of course, buying a car in today’s economy is scary—and we’re even considering an extended warranty. This has to be an act of faith in light of the precarious nature of the automobile industry.

But we need a dependable car, and I’m glad we’ve finally made the decision so we can deal with other aspects of living.

Here’s a neat end-result I didn’t think of ahead of time. By considering my needs, Ken is blessed with things he’s wanted—a little more power, dual climate control, heated seats, readout of the exterior temperature, top-of-the line stereo system, etc. In fact, it will take time before we figure out all the features. When we finally parked it in the garage, Ken looked at me and said, You picked out a nice car. That was scary, too. I feel the burden, the responsibility. But I’m handling it, and I can tell he’s tickled.

A Scary Scenario

2008-12-08T07:20:00.000-08:00

Blogging is about the blogger, because bloggers write what they know and, what they know—or at least think they know—is themselves. I am the ever-present subject material. In fact, by definition a blog is an online journal.

I’d read the definition before I started blogging, but it didn’t compute. My approach was weekly personal essays.

As many of you know, I started not one but two blogs, each with a different emphasis. Writing two essays a week was do-able—as long as they remained my focus. When I began adding other activities, however, the load became heavy. I've a new writing objective and am having trouble getting to it. We’ve had a few wonderful trips—even an incredible visit when we met family in Ethiopia. To complicate matters further, we've had car problems. And Christmas is fast approaching.

While visiting our youngest daughter last week I thought about blogging. I thought about my readers, the number has dropped slightly. And I thought about the fact that I've been struggling with full-scale weekly essays. I shoved the concerns away because family is more compelling, but I did think about it coming home Friday evening.

Ouch. On Saturday morning I woke up thinking I should close Sunny Pathway. Hard, because unlike Red, Red Berries which has very few readers, Pathway has developed a limited following. Nevertheless, I knew I couldn't abandon Berries. Even though I’m struggling as I push my way through, I feel strongly impressed to finish writing on spiritual armor.

I told Ken, washed clothes, ran errands (including picking up new glasses), shopped for groceries, made decisions on Christmas decorations for our deck—all the stuff of daily life—and went to bed early.

At 2:30 I woke up with Sunny Pathway on my mind. Confused, I made my way to my computer and began looking at the blogs I usually read but hadn’t, because we’d been gone much of the last two weeks. Then I looked at some I visit less often. Then I read the Bible, prayed, and went back to bed.

Yesterday, Sunday morning, I woke up with the impression that I should continue, not with essays but with something closer to a journal.

This is a scary scenario. When I journal for myself, I'm prone to sloppy writing. Things like unclear pronoun references. Maybe I'll learn to correct myself as I go. Wouldn't that be nice.

But I prepared myself by changing the visual format. I want something lighter, easier to read. The other template made for an attractive blog, but the print was dense and the brown along the sides seemed heavy. In the process I deleted the picture and am unsure about including it again.

Writing in a journal format means I won’t try to maintain a schedule—even though blogging experts say fulfilling expectations with regular postings is essential for building readership. Perhaps there will be periods when I’ll write daily—followed by periods when I’ll write weekly or less frequently. As I said, this is all scary.

Consider yourself warned. Because I feel I'm led to continue, I'm trusting I'll have something to say of value. I hope I'll have something to say of value. Postings will probably be short. In addition to my ideas, I plan to include gleanings from my daily devotions. That should broaden my subject matter beyond myself a bit. But self is always present. We’ll see how it goes.

Enjoy the Season

2008-12-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

I use a stat counter to monitor the number of people who read my blogs. During the past two weeks my readership has dwindled. Have my posts been too long? Too introspective? Do I need to make changes?

Well, yesterday I realized I’ve stopped reading the blogs I normally check, too. ‘Tis the season to be busy.

And we’ve been busy. Last week Ken and I took a four-hour road trip to visit our oldest daughter and family. A very good Thanksgiving holiday, indeed. Fun to be with them and we even accomplished some dreaded Christmas shopping. We came home Friday.

Today Ken and I are flying to visit our youngest daughter and family who live in Las Vegas. We haven’t seen them for just over a year and they won’t be home for Christmas. Ken found an inexpensive flight designed to entice gamblers and we’re taking advantage of it—although I doubt we’ll see the inside of a casino. Again, we’ll be home Friday. ‘Tis the season to be busy.

I could blog about this wonderful family of ours. When they were growing up in our home, at different times I was certain I'd ruined each one. Now I’m thrilled to realize they’ve all turned out beautifully. Actually, it sounds like bragging, but they’ve lived to flourish. If you knew me—us—you would know this is God’s grace.

The truth is, only God, people—and sometimes country—are actually important. And when it comes to people, family are at the top of the list. I've always known this but didn't always know it consciously, and I didn't live it consistently. I'm so glad God is larger than my failures.

That’s my statement this week. It needs no explication. Enjoy people, especially your family. And enjoy the season.

Thanking God for the Small Things

2008-11-24T19:36:00.000-08:00

We had a wonderful pre-Thanksgiving sermon on Sunday. I came away with thanksgiving in my heart.

After that, my thoughts on Thanksgiving seem a bit strange and I feel foolish sharing them. But, I’m thankful for my fuchsia composition book. I'm especially thankful because it has lime-green polka dots. There are other colors, too—as you can see from the picture—but I like the lime-green against the fuchsia. Such an interesting and unexpected color combination.

Don’t misunderstand. I’m thankful for the basics: God, family, country. In fact, there are times when I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for them, and I understand these blessings make me rich beyond most people’s comprehension.

I’m also excited and thankful because my rheumatologist reduced my steroid prescription from 10 mgs per day to 5 mgs per day—and that I’ve experienced only minimal discomfort so far. (He said the Remicade would take care of it, and apparently it has. I’ve even been able to skip the bedtime snack some nights.) But I'm holding these feelings in check. Perhaps I’m afraid to get excited about health issues. I could make bold statements of faith, but has God directed me to go that route? I'm reluctant. I feel His message on the subject has been to look to Him and leave the outcome to Him.

However, on another level altogether, I so enjoy looking around and thanking Him for those little things—the small pleasures that bring smiles and encourage me. Things like my fuchsia composition book. I use it for journaling.

Since I’ve been blogging, I don’t journal as much as I did. But I still use it to record extraneous thoughts—and to record bits of info I think I might want or need. It's always in plain view, my fuchsia composition book with lime-green polka dots. And since God saw fit to create colors, I think He's pleased when I enjoy them.

So, with a joyful heart, may I recommend that you Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise. Give thanks to him and praise his name. (Ps. 100:4 NLB) Enjoy His blessings. Enjoy His colors. Recognize Him as your source and thank Him for the little things.

(We leave tomorrow to join our oldest daughter and her family for the Holiday. Blessings, and have a great Thanksgiving.)

Trusting God for Weight-Control

2008-11-18T16:52:00.000-08:00

I have a weight problem. In fact, I’ve had a weight problem so long that I barely remember life without it. But for several years, in response to God’s direction, I’ve been losing. Then, last summer, because an attempt to change my medication wasn’t working, my rheumatologist prescribed steroids as a temporary measure. After brief periods on larger amounts, the dosage was reduced to 10 mgs on August 29.

This is my second experience with steroids and I learned the first time around that I must eat. If not, my stomach goes wild; stomach ulcers are a threat. And so, I’ve gained ten pounds. On a normal day, I try to not think about it, but on Sunday I happened to catch part of a feature on a woman weighing almost 700 pounds. One line from her story caught my attention—she began gaining weight during her recovery from hepatitis.

This may sound like an excuse, but it’s my reality and I think others would benefit by hearing my story. My weight gain began when recovering from hepatitis while I was in my late 20s. The objective was eating protein to rebuild the liver. Even in the hospital, while hooked up to IVs, I ate two eggs, bacon or sausage, cooked cereal, two slices of toast, and a large glass of milk for breakfast. Instead of lunch and dinner, I ate two dinners. In the afternoon and before bed, fabulous snacks. With activity curtailed, I looked to food for stimulation.

When sent home, the recommended diet followed the same pattern. Because I wanted to get well, I followed it. Six months later my doctor declared a full recovery. I’d gained 30 pounds.

In a reasonable world I’d have returned to eating the way I ate before and lose the pounds gradually. Instead, I went on a reduced-calorie diet. I think I lost about 25 pounds.

During the following year I gained about 35 pounds—something like that. I do remember for sure that I went up and down for years—the numbers were always a bit higher on the scale when I went up than they had been before I went down. The yo-yo effect.

The last time I was satisfied with my weight occured over 20 years ago when I lost an amount I can’t remember for our youngest son’s wedding. Many told me I looked great.

You’d think I’d have been motivated to keep up the good work, wouldn’t you? Truth is, by that time I’d forgotten how to eat normally. I either dieted and lost or I ate and gained (and felt guilty). Eventually, I gave up. I remember telling Ken that I couldn’t live that way anymore.

I don’t know how high my weight finally climbed. I was too depressed and too defeated to address the issue—even for reasons of health—so I stopped getting on the scale. I remember thinking the Bible used food as a metaphor for God’s blessings. If food was a blessing, why was it a problem? But I don’t remember praying about food.

(I’m sorry—but relieved—that I can’t post a picture from that era. We didn’t have a digital camera then.)

Then a friend—a large friend—approached me about joining her and others in a program called “Weigh Down.” There I faced a horrifying reality—food had become a sort of God in my life. I looked to food for comfort, for excitement, for fellowship. And this is what I want to highlight. If you have a weight problem, however it started, it indicates a deeper problem.

In the program we had freedom to eat anything at any time—if we were truly hungry. We went through a process of identifying true hunger and then volume-control became key. I can’t say how many pounds I lost because I didn’t know my top weight; I went down several dress sizes.

Well, the program came to an end, I was sidetracked by an event, lost my focus, and gained about 15 pounds. I was afraid to try anything that might begin the yo-yo effect again, so I visually monitored my food intake and stopped gaining. No fun, but it worked.

Then steroids entered the picture and I learned about a churning stomach. But this time I knew God could intervene. When the steroids were removed from my list of meds, I prayed desperately and I felt God gave me a directive: Don’t eat anything in the evening after dinner.

That was it?

Sometimes a little difference makes a big difference. Although I didn’t lose by making that change, I stopped gaining. It was a start, and I knew God was interested in my weight, that He would help me.

Three months later I prayed specifically about food again. This time I felt He suggested I stop eating salad dressings. I was primed for this—was tired of bottled dressings and a friend had been promoting alternatives. I lost a few pounds after that adjustment. Today I totally enjoy salads by dressing them with oil, balsamic vinegar and seasoned salt.

The next thing He impressed upon my heart was giving up soda. That was hard, but today I only drink soda for a special occasion. On a normal day, I don’t miss it. Although I don’t understand the chemistry, after that change my appetite seemed to decrease and my weight continued moving down slowly but consistently—until my recent experience with steroids when it began going up again.

There have been a few other changes—some temporary. I believe God was in some of them. My tastes have changed somewhat.

Tomorrow I see my rheumatologist and, because I’ve stabilized, I’m hoping he’ll begin weaning me off the steroids again. Perhaps because of that silly TV program—I was never even one-third of her weight—I’ve been thinking about it. Whatever happens, whenever I go off steroids, I know I’ll think of dieting—be tempted to kick-start the process of losing pounds quickly. But I can’t. Dieting puts the focus on food. Yes, I need to control food. I can only do that by putting my focus on God.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all your do, and he will show you which path to take. (Prov. 3:5,6 NLB)

Heart to Heart, Spirit to Spirit

2008-11-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

The most important aspect of life is connecting with another personality—heart to heart or spirit to spirit.

Ken and I attended several special sessions at a local church this week. On the one hand, we learned nothing new. We might be able to say the conference wasn’t for us.

But it was, because our hearts were touched—by the way the speaker connected to his audience and by the way he somehow made me realize anew the importance of connecting to others. At one point he shared a story about taking one of his sons on trip when the boy was 4 years old, a son that tragically died at the age of 22. The child needed correcting all day for wandering or for generally putting himself in danger. But when the day was over he buckled himself into the center section of the truck's bench seat so he could lean against his dad, and then he proclaimed it had been the best day of his life.

The father/speaker’s point was that he loved being with his son and didn’t dislike the son when he needed correcting—and that our Father in heaven feels the same about us. God loves to be with us and doesn’t dislike us when we need correcting.

I agree with and appreciat his point, but came up with my own point: connecting with another personality makes life worth living. Be that person God or another human. You could see it in the father’s face and hear it in his voice. The memory was life to him, even after the son was dead.

I skipped church on Sunday morning. After a Friday evening meeting and three meetings on Saturday, I moved slowly. But God and I had a special meeting while Ken was gone. I asked Him five questions that have been plaguing me. He didn’t specifically answer any of them, but He gave me one big answer that encompassed two of the questions and touched on the others. I was more than satisfied—mainly because I felt we had connected.

I read a book recently titled Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell. Bell makes several points, but in the end, the book is his story—his testimony, so to speak. The portion that spoke to me was the section on asking God questions. The types of questions he referred are no longer issues for me—questions about God’s nature, evil, etc. I don’t profess to have all the answers, but I’m content with the revelation I have. Except as it relates to my current daily life!

While reading the book, however, I realized I had been slow to come to the Lord as a young woman because I didn’t dare ask those unthinkable questions. When I finally got mad enough to question Him loudly and angrily, He met me. The same is true now. I can suppress frustrations, pretend everything is fine, but reality is that I need to be honest with God about the things that bother me.

On Sunday morning I was honest. And we connected.

I’m not going to tell what I thought He said. I have to walk it out first. But I do want to say that sometimes one moment of connection can sustain a person for a long time.

When Ken and I were dating, we had a special evening. Ken visited me regularly the summer after my mother died in a car accident. One weekend we went to a drive-in movie theater—does anyone remember those?—to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It was cooler than usual that evening so I made hot chocolate as well as popcorn. Somehow, magic was in the air that night. Nothing monumental happened, we simply connected to each other, heart to heart and spirit to spirit.

There have been many times when I've drawn upon that memory—when it sustained me. (Even though, when finally we saw Seven Brides for Seven Brothers again, we both wondered what had been so special. Certainly not the movie. It was the magic of being together.)

I believe this is true in our relationship with God as well. It was true for Abraham who waited and waited for God to give him the promised son. People have come up with various answers as to why God took so long to answer Abraham's prayer, but the Bible doesn’t provide that information. There are things we can’t figure out on our own—or demand to know.

Yet asking clears the air.

I would never recommend staying home from church. I’m not even willing to say it was right to stay home Sunday. I’m only sharing one story out of a lifetime of stories. Left alone, however, I drew from some of the sustaining moments God has given me over the years. Then I asked some of those troubling questions. The heavens could have been silent. I knew God didn’t have to meet me or answer my questions.

But He did.

Since then? Well, last night I had two incidents with the car—while on my way to a meeting I had had questions about. Did I misunderstand God’s message? Or am I being tested?

Nothing is ever easy. So I have to draw from the sustaining encounter. Almighty God let me feel special, connected. Awesome.

A New Project

2008-11-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

Today is election day and I don’t want to write about it. But after realizing it might be harder to avoid the subject tomorrow, I decided I’d better not postpone Sunny Pathway until morning.

My big focus the past week has been overcoming jet lag and coming down from the adrenalin high of visiting our family in a foreign country. To be honest, after arriving home a week ago on Sunday eve, I barely pulled myself together to write last week’s blogs.

This last Sunday, however, I came out of a fog and began working on something I’ve been thinking about for several months.

For twelve years—from July of 1981 through June of 1993—I wrote a short, short weekly column.

It began when I was writing a monthly personal column with a gentle Christian slant for The Back Forty. The publisher of the Daily News of Wahpeton, ND, - Breckenridge, MN, asked me if I’d be interested providing a weekly column for the church page of that newspaper. I thought through aspects of the project, wrote samples, and submitted them to him. He came up with a title—Thoughts for Inspiration—and a format. And we were in business.

From the beginning I tried to write ahead—fewer deadlines that way. Usually I could do one in the morning and one in the afternoon—two days a month seemed sustainable. Occasionally I spent several days on one short column. No problem. Research and soul-searching was part of the joy.

But eventually the columns became familiar territory. And all sorts of events occurred with one common denominator—they kept me busy. In time, I could churn out four or five columns after our evening meal and drop them off in the morning. The excitement was gone.

Even worse, I realized one day that I no longer consistently prayed for Thoughts. This was Christian material. What had happened? Something had to change. And when I humbled myself that day to pray, I felt God told me I needed to give up the column.

Hard. Really hard to give up something that had meant so much—more than my other writing because the focus was God and His Word. The final blow came when I realized the columns had become part of my self-image.

I cleared my decision with Ken. Then I wrote several months ahead to give the publisher time to find something else, made an appointment with him, and told him my decision.

I wasn’t done writing just yet, however. Among other things after that, before Ken and I retired I published five issues of a Christian tabloid-size paper I called Avenues.

While closing down Avenues I had a strange impression. I felt that someday I’d publish the Thoughts columns. I paid attention to the idea because it came out of nowhere, but the only kind of publishing I understood at the time would require a book or a magazine format—hard copy publication. Impossible. I didn’t have the money or knowledge to take on such a project; I put it on hold.

When I developed serious health issues, we moved from the lake into a condo in town to make life easier. During quiet times I began exploring the internet—and Ken grew so tired of me encroaching on his space that he decided we needed a second computer. Wow.

I somehow discovered blogs—and started a couple of my own even when not quite sure what a blog was. And I realized blogging was a form of publishing! I could publish my Thoughts columns on the internet!

That’s what I plan to do. I’ll publish them daily, Monday through Saturday beginning on January 1, 2009. I’m using the original name—Thoughts for Inspiration. Because they don’t quite fit the devotional format, I added a subtitle—Daily Words of Wisdom. Hope that isn’t too grandiose.

I’m more excited about this than I was when I began my current blogs. Just the same, at some point on Monday morning, while rereading the columns—all 624—I thought I might give up the idea. I’d started Sunday evening and realized I’d be at it not only all Monday but most of Tuesday (today) as well. I needed a confirmation that this was right if I was to continue. I asked God if He was really in this—and I told Him I could give it up—even if I’d be embarrassed because I’d contacted the Daily News and received permission for reprinting them,

Several hours later I wondered whether I should publish five each week, one for each work day—or six, one for each day but Sunday—or seven. And somehow, I knew in my knower that six was the number. It took at least another half-hour before I realized I had my confirmation: God provided direction for the details because He was in the big picture.

After that, everything went better. Now I’m thinking the biggest challenge will be organizing and deciding what will be published—I won’t need all 624. But even though that will be frustrating, it will be satisfying.

I'll need to collect more photos as artwork (I have some). I'll need to find a server who will send them out as emails so I won’t be tied to that daily chore. There’s the gruesome job of typing (or keying-in if you are part of the younger generation) them into the computer. And the dreaded proof reading. Not so great.

Just the same, I’m eager to launch this project that seems so special. Lots of work and lots of prayer. Hopefully, there will also be lots of fun.

Ethiopia: A Recap of Our Experience

2008-10-30T16:00:00.000-07:00

Repost from another blog - by Solveig.

Any account of a country based on a nine-day visit is inadequate. We spent all of our time in Addis Ababa, making our exposure even more limited. But I’m unable to transition away from our trip just yet—so, one more blog post on Ethiopia. I've included quite a few pictures because they add so much.

In a sense, mountains define Addis. They rise above the Sahara and the jungle to create a high, rugged plateau. Elevations in the city vary from 7,000 to 8,000 feet. That gives an idea of the terrain. Temperatures are consistent throughout the year, reading in the low 70s during the day and mid-50s at night. It cools quickly; I wanted a sweater or jacket every night. Could a climate be more ideal?

But my dominant impressions involve people. I came away with a different understanding of servants. Marta has two close friends from childhood. One married a man of means, the other did not. We were blessed by both as they moved in and out of the guest house where we stayed while there—helping, serving. The privileged and the not-so-privileged worked together. During breaks, seated on traditional stools in the kitchen, they laughed while eating traditional food together with Genet, Ted and Marta's nanny/maid. The gals were beautiful and I'd love to provide a picture but feel I need to respect their privacy. Although social distinctions are real, they aren’t as divisive as I thought they would be. Servanthood and hospitality seem to be key cultural responses that cross social boundaries.

Then there's the pervasive poverty. Remember that Ethiopia was ravaged by famines; its infrastructure was destroyed by Mengistu’s communist government. I asked Ted about the necessary room for the many make-shift dwellings built by squatters. He said the unthinkable: Outside. Active beggars approached cars in the streets and the homeless draped ragged blankets or tattered plastic sheets against more stable structures for shelter at night.

Many come from rural areas, looking for a better life. There are very few jobs for these people, they must create their own employment. Many not only survive but thrive because entrepreneurs are a resilient bunch. Whether new to the city or whether long-time residents, they set the pace and are key to the future. Large modern buildings connect to each other not by wide walkways but by tiny shops built of rusted corrugated metal and other discarded materials. Many consist of a shelves lining a backdrop, but many others extend inward with larger display areas. A small percentage include make-shift dwellings attached to the back.

Whatever their current status, the shops wouldn’t be there without a measure of success. Because they’re small, they specialize. Perhaps in clothing or light fixtures or bathroom fixtures, or whatever. Some have more permanent quarters with metal grates similar to those we see in shopping malls that expand at night to protect the shopkeeper's investment. Marta said the best prices for the freshest fruit were found in these shops.

Marta wanted Ken and I to wear traditional clothing for the baptism. Ken and Ted were outfitted in a small shop that was completely enclosed—indicating someone was doing well indeed. We shopped for me in an area that I thought looked less prosperous, but the stores carried exquisite, high-end goods.

I thought the area looked less prosperous because sheep occupied a large fenced-in area across the road. However, that was also a place of business: buyers left with purchase in tow on a leash of some sort. The gals smiled when I asked who killed the sheep. I learned some go to a butcher, others are slaughtered in the homes. Ted explained later that all animals are slaughtered according to Old Testament law. He also said, They eat fresh meat.

A smaller sheep market regularly set up business about a block from the guest house where we stayed. Here Ted and Simon look them over. Again, an entrepreneur found a place and a way to make a living.

Because land is expensive, houses are multi-level to make use of space; townhomes are common. Built of concrete, these structures will be around long after American homes are gone. And look at the floors in our rented guest-house—made with exquisite craftsmanship from local materials.

But again, in a developing country, problems are the norm. Ken tried to find the source of a leak in our bathroom and determined it couldn’t be repaired without breaking into the wall. The rooftop tank, built to improve water-pressure, regularly ran dry. The small water heater in our bathroom was inadequate. There’s nothing quite like running out of hot water during a shower—and even worse, just after lathering your hair. Ask Ken. Nevertheless, they’re building houses, sturdy houses. People are moving up in the world.

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The building on the right was our guest house. Although violent crime is rare, apparently property crimes are not. All private property is surrounded by eight foot fences topped by barbed wire or broken glass. Flowering shrubs that climb up and over the edge soften the visual impact.

Yards consist of courtyards that provide places for washing clothes and places for little boys to play.

Here's a picture I took that I'm especially proud of, a Sheraton walkway with a vista of the city peaking through.

Altogether, it was a time of sensory overload.

Ethiopia: Precious Moments

2008-10-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

A baby’s smile. Wow. During our first meeting, our granddaughter Salome (pronounced Sal-oh-may) looked at me intently while I gazed in admiration. Then she sighed and turned her face; no amount of chatter from me could capture her attention again during that encounter.

That afternoon, however, she seemed to recognize me. Surprised to see this face again, she made sounds, her whole body involved in the effort. I was awed by her perfection before; now I reveled in her unexpected response and expressed delight. And then she smiled.

Do I need to tell you I was smitten? Later there were days when I approached her, smiled—and she smiled back without any enticement on my part. How could she identify me and my facial expressions so accurately? Ken had a similar experience. She was open to relationships. Does she miss us now that we’re gone? I've promised my children to publish only non-identifiable pictures of the grandchildren and I think this qualifies. Sorry that I can't give you her smile.

Meanwhile, her older brother—just 2 years and 2 months old—generated a wonder all his own. When we saw Simon last Christmas he communicated without expressing himself verbally. He understood us when we spoke in English and somehow we understood his responses, often illustrated by body language. Now he’s learning to speak three languages as part of his daily life—English, French, and Amharic (language of the Amhara people, the largest ethnic group of Ethiopia). I had a hard time recognizing the specific language being spoken—even when it was English—let alone understanding what he meant.

Also, although Simon remembered us, we needed to forge a new relationship in new surroundings, and it took time. Now the joy wasn’t a smile—that came readily when playing hide-and-seek or some other game. Now the joy was sharing a picture book when reading to him or feeling the pull of his hand when walking down an Ethiopian street. It took time, but we had precious moments. Here he's playing in the courtyard. (Note the basin on the left filled with pungent chopped ginger left to dry in the sun.)

Marta wanted Ken and I to wear traditional garments for the baptism. Although a photographer took many pictures, we won’t have access to them until later. So for this picture we dressed ourselves here at home with no one to help drape the shawls. Then we asked a neighbor to take the picture. We won't dress this way when we attend church in North Dakota this Sunday, but I thought we looked rather impressive when ready for the baptism.

Boys are baptized when 40 days old, girls when 80 days old. Salome was one of four, two boys and two girls. I suspect baptisms occur almost every day.

There’s no way that I can describe the details; I’d surely get something wrong. First of all, there's the building itself. A beautiful structure with a separate attached building just for baptisms. Here's a pictue of the outside:

Four priests were involved, each with specific roles. Anointing with oil was included. There was much chanting in ancient Geez. Everything was liturgical and outside our experience—but it was so normal and comfortable for those who grew up in that tradition. I’m glad we have a God who meets us wherever we are, in all cultures and within a variety of doctrinal expressions.

After the baptism it was back to the guest house for food. Lots of it—of the traditional variety.

When we visited Ted and Marta in the United Arab Emirates about a year-and-a-half ago, we went to an Ethiopian restaurant one night for Ethiopian food. A unique experience. We thought they probably engaged in such activity on special occasions—similar to our eating lutefish and lefsa at Christmas.

Not so. Ethiopians eat Ethiopian food every day. Imagine that.

The mainstay of the diet is injera—a large, pancake-shaped, sourdough bread spread across the plate. Made from a locally-grown grain, it’s not generally available in places other than Ethiopia. Soft, spongy, and malleable, it functions as the primary eating utensil as well as a food.

In a typical meal, large pieces are cut and rolled. Individuals help themselves and roll the injera open across their plate. Then prepared dishes and sauces—some very spicy-hot—are spooned onto it. Smaller pieces are torn from the edge or from an additional piece with the right hand. These are used to pick up morsels of the prepared dishes and sauces which are then placed in the mouth.

Could you follow that? Although sauces stick to the right hand, the left hand remains clean, ready for picking up beverage glasses or for spooning more sauces onto more injera. Ritualistic washing before and after the meals are often part of the process.

Simon loves injera, would eat it plain when his mom gave it to him. Ted must have enjoyed it as well for he ate freely with finesse. And I enjoyed it, even though I frequently used my left hand to help out. The sour flavor of the bread is strong, but it blended with the hot sauces. Ken doesn’t care for spicy food at any time and struggled with both the taste and the mechanics of eating without utensils.

Because the kitchen of the guest house was not set up for traditional cooking, Marta’s older sister and servant prepared much of the food. The aromas that arrived with the food that morning prepared me for the feast to follow. It turned into a great time—even through I didn’t understand most of what was said. People who couldn’t make the 12:00 baptism kept dropping by all afternoon. I especially wanted to visit with a pleasant older lady—to no avail. On the other hand, several younger men opened doors for conversation.

Ken’s reaction to the food continued to be problematic. In addition to Ethiopian food at home, we ate out in several Addis restaurants (where we also enjoyed traditional music and the traditional dances of several tribes). But at home Marta took to cooking pasta for him and he was selective with sauces. On one of the final evenings we were invited to friends who prepared an European-style dinner and also provided utensils—a special blessing.

So, it was good to be there and now it’s good to be home. Ken’s recovering. And although I didn’t react as he did, I’m recovering, too. A trip of such magnitude took something out of us. But obviously, it was worth every bit of energy expended.

For more on our visit to Ethiopia, check out my Red Red Berries blog.

The Ethiopian Orthodox Church

2008-10-16T11:36:00.000-07:00

Repost from another blog - by Solveig

Ken and I are going to Ethiopia for the baptism of our granddaughter. But, as I am wont to do, I've been researching, learning as much as I can about the country and about historical information related to our special event.

I'm probably sharing less than one-fourth of the information acquired. Picking and choosing was difficult. Because I'm motivated to look at different Christian expressions, and because a Christian event is the centerpiece of our visit, this post will focus on the Ethiopian Orthodox Christian Church.

There are aspects of the church that Western Christians considers unusual: Most Ethiopian Christians believe the Ark of the Covenant resides in the Church of Mary of Zion in the ancient northern city of Axum, Ethiopia. This treasure of antiquity was initially built according to plans given by God to Moses who placed it in the Tabernacle. King David brought it to Jerusalem and Solomon placed it in the Temple. Perhaps better known among the general public today for its notoriety in Raiders of the Lost Ark, it is nevertheless one of the most sacred religious artifacts of history.

Common wisdom of Western Cultures has said for centuries that the Ark was carried to Babylon after the Babylonian siege where it was subsequently lost, so the possibility of its being lost in a remote mountain village doesn’t register with many minds. But no one knows for sure and I found one source which said Ethiopian stories are not impossible.

Stories. There are several accounts and they don’t agree. I thought the most plausible version builds on the Biblical account of priests and officials who escaped by night while fleeing during the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. This account says they took the ark with them and landed in Egypt. Later, a smaller group took the Ark up the Nile and then to the city of Axum in the highlands of Ethiopia. Not unreasonable. If the priests tried to save anything, they would have saved the most important article of the temple—the Ark. They were probably aware of a Jewish presence in Ethiopia that would welcome them, and priests were the only group authorized by the Torah to carry the Ark.

Another story, one with historical implications, is that Solomon fathered a son with Makala, Queen of Sheba, during her visit in Jerusalem. After she left, he had a vision in which a greater display of glory followed Makala’s son Mendelik than the son who would reign in Judah. Solomon ordered a replica of the Ark sent to Ethiopia, but a priest exchanged the replica with the real Ark before transporting it to Axum. Sacred literature reports their physical encounter as well as his

vision.Both of these stories occur long before the advent of Christianity and neither explains how possession of the ark was eventually transferred to Christians. (For centuries, a priest has been chosen while still a child for a lifetime position to protect the ark. The current priest trains the child. Only appointed priests ever actually see the Ark. This practice is consistent with Old Testament Law. It also rules out the possibility of verification.)

Although there is evidence of an earlier Christian influence, Christianity became the dominant religion in Ethiopia during the 4th century after two brothers, sole survivors of a ship stranded on the coast of the Red Sea, lived their faith among their captors. Because they could read and write, they became slaves in the court. As they quietly practiced their faith, the queen was converted and she encouraged them to influence her son, Prince Ezana.

When Ezana became king, he released the brothers and sent them to Egypt. One returned to Syria but Frumentius was trained, ordained, and appointed as a bishop by the Egyptian bishop. He then returned to Ethiopia where he baptized King Ezana and many officials. Soon after, Ethiopia became a Christian nation, the second Christian nation in the world after Armenia.

Of course, Islam made an appearance. Because the Ethiopians gave refuge to Mohammad and his followers when they sought refuge in 616 AD, Mohammad instructed followers to respect the Ethiopians, but Islamic inroads eventually came through Sudan. Today the Ethiopian city of Harar is considered the fourth holiest Muslim city and there are other important Muslim cities in Ethiopia as well.

Because ties with European Christians were lost after Islam dominated North Africa, the Ethiopian church has a unique history. It developed theological doctrines of its own, accepted books as Scripture that aren’t in the Western cannon, and honored/honors saints not known to western Christians.

But central doctrines remain intact. They believe salvation comes by grace through faith in the person of Jesus. They look to His sacrifice on the cross and to His resurrection from the grave. Ethiopian Christians share defining doctrines with Christians everywhere.When we visited our son and daughter-in-law in Abu Dhabi, I attended an Ethiopian Orthodox service and found it exciting even when I didn’t understand the language. Although a high church with elaborate rituals, they trilled during a hymn. On the way home I asked my daughter-in-law Marta about the sermon and felt blessed because the message spoke to my heart.

Today Ethiopia is an island surrounded by Muslim nations. About 45% of the people are Christian, about 45% are Muslim, and the rest are Jewish or they adhere to historic tribal religions. The government is secular.

Ethiopia: Displaying God's Beauty

2008-10-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

Repost from another blog - by Solveig

The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known. (Ps. 19:1,2 New Living Translation)

When I attended college in the late 1950s, two students from Ethiopia graced our campus. Although different from each other—I suspect they had different ethnic backgrounds—something set them apart from almost all other students, Black or White.

Much has happened in Ethiopia since then, but when becoming acquainted with our Ethiopian daughter-in-law, her sisters, and the nanny/maid, I recognized in them what I had noticed then. Although my sampling is ridiculously small for making a sweeping generalization, let me point out that Ethiopians weren’t sold into slavery by slave masters. Although they had slavery within their country, it wasn’t based on race. It was more like being a serf than chattel. Their history doesn’t even include poor immigrants (my personal background) struggling to find their way. These people don’t need to prove their value because their self-worth is an intrinsic part of their self-image. And they have a proud history.

I can't visit a country without engaging in research. This material was written before we left. By the time it is posted, we'll have been in Ethiopia about a week. We'll head for home on Saturday, October 25th.

Political Background—Ethiopia is the only African nation never colonized by Europeans—although Italy tried and failed when Ethiopia defeated them in the battle of Adwa in 1896, the first major battle in which a Western army was defeated by a non-Western army since the Medieval Ages. Mussolini’s Italy invaded in 1935 and was defeated by the British and Ethiopian Patriots in 1941.

But the history of modern-day Ethiopia began around 1,000 BC. Makeda, Queen of Sheba, was queen of the ancient kingdom that became present-day Ethiopia. Her son Menelik, believed by Ethiopians to be the son of Solomon (see post from October 10), established himself in the city of Axum and founded a kingdom located strategically between North Africa, sub-Sahara Africa and the Middle East. Aktum dominated African-Asian trade for over 1,000 years, and an ancient Persian writer identified the four great powers of his time as Persia, China, Egypt and Aktum. At one time the borders of the Aksumati dynasty expanded to include what is now Yemen and parts of Saudi Arabia.

Ethiopia (the Greek-Roman name) or Abyssinia (based on the Arabic name Habasha) remained in power—with two interruptions—until rebels overthrew and killed Haile Selassie in 1974. That’s almost 3,000 years. Details are confusing and more than this blog can handle.Although Selassie did much to modernize his country, a famine weakened his reign and the Dergs with a socialist ideology and military tactics seized power during a period referred to as the “red terror.” During that time Mengistu rose within the party to become the leader and the government officially adopted communism. When the Soviet Bloc fell apart, the Derg government fell apart.

Goals of the current government (elected, but not without controversy) include diversifying the economic base while improving agricultural methods and production.

Multiple Languages—Amharic was the official language of Ethiopia for centuries, but the policy was changed recently to acknowledge the value of tribal languages. Most government documents are printed in Amharic and English. There are an estimated 77 to 84 languages from a variety of linguistic families, some with no written form. (When I began writing again I read an essay by a journalist who covered famine relief in an African refugee camp. At night she heard what sounded like singing. She learned the music came from a remote Ethiopian tribe with an unwritten language that chanted their history at night to teach their history and legacy to the children.)

Geographical Features—Because it’s located near the equator, Ethiopia includes some of the hottest areas on earth. Yet some of the mountains are topped by snow or ice caps. Much of the country consists of the central highlands with plateaus divided by mountain ranges and the Great Rift. Addis Ababa is ca. 7500 feet above sea level (see picture above). Plateau temperatures are moderate year-round.

About 80% of the people live on small farms located on steep mountain slopes. Coffee originated in these mountains and remains the largest export.The Blue Nile—which eventually joins the White Nile to form the Nile—originates in Ethiopia’s highland. But the Awash River runs into the Danaki Depression (-125 m) where it disappears in a series of lakes and salt deposits.

I’ve seen so many pictures of the Danaki Depression, one of earth’s principle geological features, in the National Geographic and other magazines. Three legs of the earth’s crust— two edges of the Great Rift and the Red Sea Plate form a triangle with sides separating from each other between 0.3 to 0.8 inches every year. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are common in the area.But other lowlands located along borders feature additional diversity—desert in the north, jungle and grasslands in the south, and grasslands leading into the Depression on the east. Nine parks located at all elevations protect the unique environments and the unique species that inhabit them (including an almost-extinct subspecies of elephants, black-maned lions, wild ass, camels, rare wolves, rare antelope, baboons, and rare goats).

Archeological Discoveries—I can’t stop without mentioning Lucy—skeletal remains believed to be three million years old. You’ve probably seen pictures of her, too. Anthropologists tell us human life originated in Ethiopia and migrated from an area near Addis Ababa to spread around the world. In 1973 a group of paleontologists working along the Awash River discovered over 40% of the skeleton of a woman who walked uprightly, and they nicknamed her Lucy after a Beatles song they were listening to at the time. The National Museum of Ethiopia in Addis Ababa displays the skeleton.

Reverence for the Lord is pure, lasting forever. The laws of the Lord are true; each one is fair. They are more desirable than gold, even the finest gold. They are sweeter than honey, even honey dripping from the comb. (Ps. 19:9,10 New Living Translation)

Tomorrow We Leave for Ethiopia!

2008-10-14T11:25:00.000-07:00

When we were younger—I hate it when I say things like that!—life more or less flowed along. I didn’t worry about details until I had to and we somehow managed quite well.

These days we need to plan ahead or we’re in trouble.

Tomorrow we leave for Ethiopia. Throughout the planning process we’ve had our good days and our bad days. Yesterday was almost good—I accomplished more than I could, actually—but not enough. At this writing it’s 11:00 a.m. and I still need to pick up two Christmas presents, wrap them, and pack. I need one more miraculous day.

Ken brought the suitcasesout and put them on the bed, waiting for my input so we can figure it all out!

There are so many things to think about. We’ll be moving into another culture, one that’s historic and full of nuances. For the most part, clothing and music will be western. We’ll see poverty (it takes time to recover from the famines we all heard about on the evening news), we’ll see ancient art expressions, and we’ll experience strange foods (although Ted promised that we won’t be expected to eat raw meat). I'm especially looking forward to being with family for our granddaughter Salome's baptism within the culture of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.

The trip itself has caused me to think soberly a few times. We'll be on the plane a long time with long layovers in Amsterdam. We’ll also be making a brief stop—won’t have to get off the plane—in Khartoum, Sudan. I woke up one morning thinking the plane would be hijacked for sure. Then I remembered we can’t be so intent on survival that we fail to enjoy life. This is daily living at its most exciting. God is in our hearts and He'll be with us in the good and the not-so-good.

I’ve written ahead for both blogs. Next week, this blog will feature another aspect of living in our condo—the annual potluck (well, we’ve had it a few years). I’m including some great recipes. When we’re home again, I’ll no doubt write a bit about our trip.

For those who follow Red, Red Berrries, I've changed the focus to provide interesting material on Ethiopia. It’s on my mind these days.

The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand. Once I was young, and now I am old. Yet I have never seen the godly abandoned . . . . (Ps. 37:23,24 New Living Translation)