It was the middle of the night when I was shaken out of my slumber by a ferocious wind. I'd never heard anything quite like it. One moment all was still and the next violent gusts were pounding my window. At first it sounded like a train, then a twister. I had to remind myself that I was in Northern Pennsylvania, not tornado alley.
The flurry of sudden atmospheric activity didn't last long. As suddenly as the wind was whipped up, it settled and returned to its quiet and calm. The leaves on the trees ceased to flutter and the branches abandoned their roof-top beating. As unexpected as the wind storm came, it left. No tornado. No massive destruction.
In that moment of restored stillness a peace that transcends understanding passed over me. As quickly as the winds came and changed the world outside my window, God can come in and change the course of my life.
Although it has seemed that my life has been at a stand-still forever without much of a future and little promise of an upcoming change in speed or direction, last night's sudden wind storm reminded me that I don't know what God has in store, but when it is time for Him to move in He can do it in an instant. Change with God isn't always gradual. Sometimes it comes at lighting fast speed. Sometiems it comes without warning. God doesn't specialize in "heads up." His area of expertise is more of the "hang on" variety.
I find myself begging God to send a fierce wind into my life and shake things up a bit. Stir me from the slumber of a worn out body. Change the direction of my repeated journeys down dead-end roads that haven't led to health and vitality. I want God to do something aggressive, noteworthy and life-changing. I want a tornado but He hasn't even been sending a stirring of the leaves.
At least, not yet.
Just because God hasn't moved yet doesn't meant it isn't part of His plan. It wasn't until the middle of the night that God pounded on my window with unexpected gale force winds. As long as God infuses my lungs with air and my pumps blood through my veins He isn't done with me quite yet. The night is still young. He has more plans, more wind, just waiting to be revealed at their perfect timing.
I don't know when and I don't know how but I know this much: God can turn on the wind machine of my life in the blink of an eye. And when He does I better be holding on because it is going to be fierce and utterly amazing - and it's coming without a storm warning.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Good morning, beautiful!
"Good morning, beautiful. How was your night?"
Outside my window the world was dreary. A light rain was pinging against the gutters and making music on the roof. The air was damp and chilly. It was the kind of morning that transforms a bed into a slice of heaven and causes the idea of rising up from beneath the covers to send shivers up the spine.
From the cozy cocoon of my pillow-top mattress I heard God's soft and sweet voice stir me awake. "Good morning, beautiful." It was as if He were right there, standing at my bedside, stroking my bed-head hair to gently stir me from my slumber. It was early - earlier than my internal alarm clock's set time. The sound outside my window would have normally encouraged me to stay in bed where it was dry and warm but something inside of me wouldn't stay lying down. God had woken me up early for a reason.
I stood up out of bed and was immediately drawn to my window. Just beyond the trees, peaking up from below the neighbor's roof and through the leaves was a sunrise watercolor painted just for me. A glorious golden orange illuminated the dark night sky. The edges of the horizon were awash in purples, pinks and reds. In the distance the day was dawning in a brilliant display of God's fiery power set against the stage of the blackness of night.
As I marveled at the site outside my window God's voice returned. "How was your night? While you rested I was busy preparing this sky for you."
All at once I was struck with awe at the site outside my window and the presence of God filling my room. While I had been sleeping, worrying not about the day to come, God had been preparing for me a masterpiece. While I was lying in bed God was at His easel with His best brushes and most precious paints making perfect strokes on the canvas of His creation. And then, at just the perfect time, He woke me up to reveal His piece de resistance. Knowing that it would be at its greatest glory at one precise moment He made absolute sure I was awake and alert, ready to take in the beauty created by His hand.
Painted on the canvas of the morning sky was a reminder that no matter how dark, dreary and cold the season of life I am in God is at work with His brushes creating a masterpiece behind the scenes. At just the right moment, when the fullness of its glory is complete, God will reveal it to me. He won't let me miss what He has specially crafted with me in mind.
At precisely the right moment, when the colors sweep into each other like the rays of the sun and the hues pour into each other like a stunning watercolor, God will wake me with a "Good morning, beautiful" and reveal to me the glory of His stunning design: His perfect will, His special plan and His eternal purpose for my life.
Outside my window the world was dreary. A light rain was pinging against the gutters and making music on the roof. The air was damp and chilly. It was the kind of morning that transforms a bed into a slice of heaven and causes the idea of rising up from beneath the covers to send shivers up the spine.
From the cozy cocoon of my pillow-top mattress I heard God's soft and sweet voice stir me awake. "Good morning, beautiful." It was as if He were right there, standing at my bedside, stroking my bed-head hair to gently stir me from my slumber. It was early - earlier than my internal alarm clock's set time. The sound outside my window would have normally encouraged me to stay in bed where it was dry and warm but something inside of me wouldn't stay lying down. God had woken me up early for a reason.
I stood up out of bed and was immediately drawn to my window. Just beyond the trees, peaking up from below the neighbor's roof and through the leaves was a sunrise watercolor painted just for me. A glorious golden orange illuminated the dark night sky. The edges of the horizon were awash in purples, pinks and reds. In the distance the day was dawning in a brilliant display of God's fiery power set against the stage of the blackness of night.
As I marveled at the site outside my window God's voice returned. "How was your night? While you rested I was busy preparing this sky for you."
All at once I was struck with awe at the site outside my window and the presence of God filling my room. While I had been sleeping, worrying not about the day to come, God had been preparing for me a masterpiece. While I was lying in bed God was at His easel with His best brushes and most precious paints making perfect strokes on the canvas of His creation. And then, at just the perfect time, He woke me up to reveal His piece de resistance. Knowing that it would be at its greatest glory at one precise moment He made absolute sure I was awake and alert, ready to take in the beauty created by His hand.
Painted on the canvas of the morning sky was a reminder that no matter how dark, dreary and cold the season of life I am in God is at work with His brushes creating a masterpiece behind the scenes. At just the right moment, when the fullness of its glory is complete, God will reveal it to me. He won't let me miss what He has specially crafted with me in mind.
At precisely the right moment, when the colors sweep into each other like the rays of the sun and the hues pour into each other like a stunning watercolor, God will wake me with a "Good morning, beautiful" and reveal to me the glory of His stunning design: His perfect will, His special plan and His eternal purpose for my life.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Bring it on bull
I've never ridden a bull - live or mechanical - but I think I'm up for the challenge. I think I could be a stand-out in the bull-riding arena. Little as I am, I believe I could conquer the wild stag.
You may be wondering what spawned this sudden, and admittedly strange, desire to mount a bull. I pondered the same question when the thought dawned on me that I'd love to enter the rodeo arena. Where did the seed come from that planted the idea in my mind that I would be a perfect fit for the back of a twelve-hundred pound, bucking bull? I haven't been reading about David facing Goliath yet somehow a Herculean style drama made its way into my imagination.
I could see it all in my mind's eye: The tiny, fragile pipsqueak of a girl weighed down with heavy cowboy boots and chaps makes her way to the bucking chute, preparing to conquer the seething beast waiting in the arena's stall. She can hear the angry animal kicking, huffing and puffing but she isn't deterred. The crowd is silent, utterly perplexed at her presence but she doesn't even hear their taunts and doesn't notice their gawking. She is determined.
As she climbs up into position she double checks her vest, pulls her gloves extra-snug and grips her bull rope firmly in hand. She mounts the bull, looks to the gate man and gives him the cue. She's ready.
The gate opens and the longest eight seconds of her life begin. Her opponent is fierce, rarely defeated in the ring. He can buck off the most skilled, seasoned riders. Immediately the bull breaks into twisting jumps. His hind-legs catapult straight up into the air. The flimsy weakling on his back fights for her life to maintain her balance. All of her focus is on maintaining the freedom of her left hand while staying upright.
Eight...seven...six... With each second that passes in the most dangerous eight seconds of sports she thinks of nothing but surviving. The whiplash will take its toll later. The pain will set in once she dismounts and exits the arena.
Five...four...three... The crowd gasps as the the bull changes direction from side-to-side then front-to-back. The little body on the bull's back wavers but does not fall.
Two...one... As the time comes to an abrupt close the bull goes for a "spinner." The little rider throws her body away from the bull, dismounts and is propelled across the dirt floor of the massive arena. She knocks against the ground. The dirt flies into a cloud of grit and soot.
The stadium falls eerily silent, waiting to see if the tiny body reappears upright.
And then she stands. She stands right up! And the crowd goes wild as she runs like the wind towards the nearest exit.
She conquered the beast. She survived eight seconds of deadly peril and lived to tell the tale.
So, why do I want to ride a bull?
Because I've been preparing for such an event for the past six years. I've been kicked, bucked and spun around in dizzying circles for six long years. And I'm still upright. I've held onto the stag and I've kept my one hand reaching to God and He has kept me upright. The miracle is that this little, fragile, pipsqueak of a girl hasn't been thrown off yet. God is proving that when He is behind the reigns there is no bull on earth powerful enough to dismount His rider before the time is up. And my time isn't up quite yet.
The eight seconds of the bull rider are a blink of an eye compared to the six years of my health saga. The competition is still underway. I still need to keep my hand up to God without letting it drop or fall. I need to keep my balance - spiritually and emotionally. And if I want really great markings I need to do it all with joy and peace. How's that for the ride of a lifetime?
I'm confident that I can conquer the bull in the middle of any arena because God has already proven that He will empower me with strength, perseverance and steadiness that defies human logic. With God holding me steady and secure I am ready to take on any bull that enters the chute. So bring it on wild stag. You're no match for my God.
You may be wondering what spawned this sudden, and admittedly strange, desire to mount a bull. I pondered the same question when the thought dawned on me that I'd love to enter the rodeo arena. Where did the seed come from that planted the idea in my mind that I would be a perfect fit for the back of a twelve-hundred pound, bucking bull? I haven't been reading about David facing Goliath yet somehow a Herculean style drama made its way into my imagination.
I could see it all in my mind's eye: The tiny, fragile pipsqueak of a girl weighed down with heavy cowboy boots and chaps makes her way to the bucking chute, preparing to conquer the seething beast waiting in the arena's stall. She can hear the angry animal kicking, huffing and puffing but she isn't deterred. The crowd is silent, utterly perplexed at her presence but she doesn't even hear their taunts and doesn't notice their gawking. She is determined.
As she climbs up into position she double checks her vest, pulls her gloves extra-snug and grips her bull rope firmly in hand. She mounts the bull, looks to the gate man and gives him the cue. She's ready.
The gate opens and the longest eight seconds of her life begin. Her opponent is fierce, rarely defeated in the ring. He can buck off the most skilled, seasoned riders. Immediately the bull breaks into twisting jumps. His hind-legs catapult straight up into the air. The flimsy weakling on his back fights for her life to maintain her balance. All of her focus is on maintaining the freedom of her left hand while staying upright.
Eight...seven...six... With each second that passes in the most dangerous eight seconds of sports she thinks of nothing but surviving. The whiplash will take its toll later. The pain will set in once she dismounts and exits the arena.
Five...four...three... The crowd gasps as the the bull changes direction from side-to-side then front-to-back. The little body on the bull's back wavers but does not fall.
Two...one... As the time comes to an abrupt close the bull goes for a "spinner." The little rider throws her body away from the bull, dismounts and is propelled across the dirt floor of the massive arena. She knocks against the ground. The dirt flies into a cloud of grit and soot.
The stadium falls eerily silent, waiting to see if the tiny body reappears upright.
And then she stands. She stands right up! And the crowd goes wild as she runs like the wind towards the nearest exit.
She conquered the beast. She survived eight seconds of deadly peril and lived to tell the tale.
So, why do I want to ride a bull?
Because I've been preparing for such an event for the past six years. I've been kicked, bucked and spun around in dizzying circles for six long years. And I'm still upright. I've held onto the stag and I've kept my one hand reaching to God and He has kept me upright. The miracle is that this little, fragile, pipsqueak of a girl hasn't been thrown off yet. God is proving that when He is behind the reigns there is no bull on earth powerful enough to dismount His rider before the time is up. And my time isn't up quite yet.
The eight seconds of the bull rider are a blink of an eye compared to the six years of my health saga. The competition is still underway. I still need to keep my hand up to God without letting it drop or fall. I need to keep my balance - spiritually and emotionally. And if I want really great markings I need to do it all with joy and peace. How's that for the ride of a lifetime?
I'm confident that I can conquer the bull in the middle of any arena because God has already proven that He will empower me with strength, perseverance and steadiness that defies human logic. With God holding me steady and secure I am ready to take on any bull that enters the chute. So bring it on wild stag. You're no match for my God.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
A prescription for hope
Desperation led me, once again, to my doctor's doorstep. At my wits end with my ongoing digestive dilemma I begged him for help. This certainly wasn't my first trip to the doctor in search of answers for the malabsorption that has caused my unintentional weight loss and inability to put on a single pound. The weight is only half of the saga. Life altering, debilitating digestive distress is a far less visible yet profound trouble I've carried with me every day for over six years.
The trip to the doctor went like so many before it. He listened intently, furrowed his brow and reviewed pages of blood work. Liver, kidneys, thyroid. Normal, normal, normal. He reviewed my eating and lifestyle habits only to conclude that none of this makes any sense. My little body shouldn't be so little. There is something standing in the way of thriving. But what is that something? Six years have passed and still the mystery is as perplexing as ever.
Determined to help me find relief, the doctor wrote out another prescription for another pill. With equal parts gratitude and skepticism I thanked my doctor for his attentiveness and commitment to helping me solve my mystery. I left his office with a prescription on paper and plenty of internal doubts.
Pills have failed me before. A pill isn't a cure. It is a band-aid aptly applied to the most obvious problem area. But even heavy-duty band-aids fall off someday. For healing something more needs to be beneath the band-aid.
Each time I hit a wall of frustration I run to the doctor and he hands me another pill. And each pill has failed me, body and soul. It hasn't fixed my physical ailments. The pills have only provided me with an emotional band-aid. With my new pill I can cope, if only for a while. I can have hope, even if it is only halfhearted and skeptical.
But I've learned that hope in a band-aid isn't hope at all. It will always fall off and leave me disappointed, despondent and emotionally exhausted.
True, lasting, enduring hope is found in knowing that God has a plan even when I don't understand it. Hope is trusting that God is always good, even when I feel badly. Hope is looking forward to Heaven. Hope is knowing that this life is imperfect but Jesus is flawless. Hope is believing that the lasting, final cure is found on the cross and not in a doctor's office.
When I put my hope in a pill, a cure or a diagnosis I will always be disappointed. Nothing in this life - not even perfectly functioning bodies - can provide eternal, enduring hope. But Christ has my hope secured and in Him, not a pill, I will not be shaken.
The trip to the doctor went like so many before it. He listened intently, furrowed his brow and reviewed pages of blood work. Liver, kidneys, thyroid. Normal, normal, normal. He reviewed my eating and lifestyle habits only to conclude that none of this makes any sense. My little body shouldn't be so little. There is something standing in the way of thriving. But what is that something? Six years have passed and still the mystery is as perplexing as ever.
Determined to help me find relief, the doctor wrote out another prescription for another pill. With equal parts gratitude and skepticism I thanked my doctor for his attentiveness and commitment to helping me solve my mystery. I left his office with a prescription on paper and plenty of internal doubts.
Pills have failed me before. A pill isn't a cure. It is a band-aid aptly applied to the most obvious problem area. But even heavy-duty band-aids fall off someday. For healing something more needs to be beneath the band-aid.
Each time I hit a wall of frustration I run to the doctor and he hands me another pill. And each pill has failed me, body and soul. It hasn't fixed my physical ailments. The pills have only provided me with an emotional band-aid. With my new pill I can cope, if only for a while. I can have hope, even if it is only halfhearted and skeptical.
But I've learned that hope in a band-aid isn't hope at all. It will always fall off and leave me disappointed, despondent and emotionally exhausted.
True, lasting, enduring hope is found in knowing that God has a plan even when I don't understand it. Hope is trusting that God is always good, even when I feel badly. Hope is looking forward to Heaven. Hope is knowing that this life is imperfect but Jesus is flawless. Hope is believing that the lasting, final cure is found on the cross and not in a doctor's office.
When I put my hope in a pill, a cure or a diagnosis I will always be disappointed. Nothing in this life - not even perfectly functioning bodies - can provide eternal, enduring hope. But Christ has my hope secured and in Him, not a pill, I will not be shaken.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Beauty from ashes
On a quiet street tucked away in a neighborhood full of 1950's cape cods and ranches, tragedy struck. In one of the small homes on a corner lot a spark flew and grew. By the time 9-1-1 was called and the firetrucks arrived flames were shooting out of the roof and engulfing the entire upstairs. Despite the best efforts of the firemen, the home was devastated. All that remained was a charred frame and burned-out foundation.
Just the other day I drove by the ravaged home. A few men were making their way through the yard, clearing out wood too singed to be salvaged. The dumpster in the front yard was full of torched memories and blackened keepsakes. Everything was an entire loss.
My heart broke for the family that lost everything they held dear. The place that had been their home sweet home, scorched beyond recognition. All of their comforts, treasures and possessions gone in a cloud of black smoke and ash. How would they ever rebuild and restore all that they had lost? The task ahead for that little house and the family who called it home looked too daunting to be undertaken. Surely the burned-out structure was destined for demolition.
Imagine my surprise when, just a few days later, I happened to be driving past the burned-out lot. On the same square plot of land where a charred frame once stood was a site I didn't anticipate. A repaired foundation, reinforced wall studs and new insulation were all in place. The dumpster had been emptied. New windows and doors were stacked high, ready for installation. The home was far from habitable but it was certainly not about to be met with a bulldozer. The little house was being restored and made stronger, sturdier, and safer than ever before.
As I drove past that house for the second time a flood of reassurance washed over me. That little home with the tiny lot could have easily been scrapped away in a days time. The workers would have even made it home for dinner. But someone saw in that unassuming, humble home a treasure worth saving and restoring. Someone loved the memories made within its burned out walls. Someone had chosen it as their refuge and cared for its yard. And that someone looked at the fire-ravaged structure and saw their sanctuary. So they went to work on restoring it and rebuilding it because that's what love does.
God has that same love for you and me. We may be broken, sick, emotionally devastated and physically exhausted yet God looks at us, loves us and has determined to remake us stronger, more vibrant and better than ever before. The process doesn't happen overnight. Like a fire ravaged home, the smokey remnants of our former lives must be cleared away. Then God can go to work installing the supports of His truth, the characteristics of His love and the stability of His peace.
The handiwork of God will never be matched. He will revitalize our ravaged hearts and make them new again. When we call God in to do our spiritual cleanup and ask for His design and execution for restoration He will turn our broken hearts into gleaming, beaming lights for His glory. He'll truly make beauty from our ashes.
Just the other day I drove by the ravaged home. A few men were making their way through the yard, clearing out wood too singed to be salvaged. The dumpster in the front yard was full of torched memories and blackened keepsakes. Everything was an entire loss.
My heart broke for the family that lost everything they held dear. The place that had been their home sweet home, scorched beyond recognition. All of their comforts, treasures and possessions gone in a cloud of black smoke and ash. How would they ever rebuild and restore all that they had lost? The task ahead for that little house and the family who called it home looked too daunting to be undertaken. Surely the burned-out structure was destined for demolition.
Imagine my surprise when, just a few days later, I happened to be driving past the burned-out lot. On the same square plot of land where a charred frame once stood was a site I didn't anticipate. A repaired foundation, reinforced wall studs and new insulation were all in place. The dumpster had been emptied. New windows and doors were stacked high, ready for installation. The home was far from habitable but it was certainly not about to be met with a bulldozer. The little house was being restored and made stronger, sturdier, and safer than ever before.
As I drove past that house for the second time a flood of reassurance washed over me. That little home with the tiny lot could have easily been scrapped away in a days time. The workers would have even made it home for dinner. But someone saw in that unassuming, humble home a treasure worth saving and restoring. Someone loved the memories made within its burned out walls. Someone had chosen it as their refuge and cared for its yard. And that someone looked at the fire-ravaged structure and saw their sanctuary. So they went to work on restoring it and rebuilding it because that's what love does.
God has that same love for you and me. We may be broken, sick, emotionally devastated and physically exhausted yet God looks at us, loves us and has determined to remake us stronger, more vibrant and better than ever before. The process doesn't happen overnight. Like a fire ravaged home, the smokey remnants of our former lives must be cleared away. Then God can go to work installing the supports of His truth, the characteristics of His love and the stability of His peace.
The handiwork of God will never be matched. He will revitalize our ravaged hearts and make them new again. When we call God in to do our spiritual cleanup and ask for His design and execution for restoration He will turn our broken hearts into gleaming, beaming lights for His glory. He'll truly make beauty from our ashes.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
SERENITY NOW
Serenity. Calm. Tranquil. Serene.
In short, everything Frank Costanza was not.
I hope I'm not throwing my parents under the responsible-parenting bus but I grew up seeing nearly every Seinfeld episode - more than once. My Mom loved the constant laughs the show provided. Elaine's dancing was a hit in our household. We looked forward to Cramer bursting through Jerry's apartment door with his perpetually askew hair and high-wasted slacks. A visit from Jerry's parents was a treat. And the Costanza's were a constant source of high-voltage humor.
Frank Constanza brought ridiculous anger to the screen. He had the ability to get fired up over a missing TV Guide. Christmas was a holiday for the airing of grievances. Serenity was in short supply although Frank would regularly shout, "SERENITY NOW!" in a comical attempt to bring peace to his constant state of agitation.
Back in my younger years of Seinfeld repeats I was known to borrow Frank's plea for calm composure by jokingly shouting out his characteristic phrase. Shouting "SERENITY NOW" proved to be an effective tool in breaking tensions even if it didn't change my circumstances or my internal peace. The call for serenity, and the mental image of Frank Cosntanza it engendered poked a hole in the tizzy balloon my anger and frustrations had created.
In recent years our TV hasn't been home to as many Seinfeld re-runs and the constant flux of Frank Constanza hasn't been playing out in my living room. But the plea for "SERENITY NOW" is as pertinent as ever. In the quiet of my heart I find myself making silent appeals for a renewed peace of mind and return to stillness. Without words or shouts I am forever calling out to God to provide me with SERENITY...RIGHT NOW!
Unlike George's father, Frank, my earnest request is acknowledged by the Giver of serenity and Prince of Peace. A response and remedy is provided. The stillness I seek can be mine. The tranquility that my heart is yearning for is available to me.
Christ came to fulfill my need for serenity now. When I call out to Him and the indwelling of His Spirit my words aren't returned void. They are delivered to the source of Peace, the only One who can relieve the tensions and tizzies of my heart and replace them with the calm assurance of Heavenly serenity.
Empty words won't bring peace and calm. Only the Holy Spirit living in my heart and relaxing the agitations of my soul will bring lasting, true, enduring serenity. Composure and comfort of the heart are only a call away when I send my plea straight to the throne of God and the Prince of Peace who graciously bestows serenity right here and right now.
In short, everything Frank Costanza was not.
I hope I'm not throwing my parents under the responsible-parenting bus but I grew up seeing nearly every Seinfeld episode - more than once. My Mom loved the constant laughs the show provided. Elaine's dancing was a hit in our household. We looked forward to Cramer bursting through Jerry's apartment door with his perpetually askew hair and high-wasted slacks. A visit from Jerry's parents was a treat. And the Costanza's were a constant source of high-voltage humor.
Frank Constanza brought ridiculous anger to the screen. He had the ability to get fired up over a missing TV Guide. Christmas was a holiday for the airing of grievances. Serenity was in short supply although Frank would regularly shout, "SERENITY NOW!" in a comical attempt to bring peace to his constant state of agitation.
Back in my younger years of Seinfeld repeats I was known to borrow Frank's plea for calm composure by jokingly shouting out his characteristic phrase. Shouting "SERENITY NOW" proved to be an effective tool in breaking tensions even if it didn't change my circumstances or my internal peace. The call for serenity, and the mental image of Frank Cosntanza it engendered poked a hole in the tizzy balloon my anger and frustrations had created.
In recent years our TV hasn't been home to as many Seinfeld re-runs and the constant flux of Frank Constanza hasn't been playing out in my living room. But the plea for "SERENITY NOW" is as pertinent as ever. In the quiet of my heart I find myself making silent appeals for a renewed peace of mind and return to stillness. Without words or shouts I am forever calling out to God to provide me with SERENITY...RIGHT NOW!
Unlike George's father, Frank, my earnest request is acknowledged by the Giver of serenity and Prince of Peace. A response and remedy is provided. The stillness I seek can be mine. The tranquility that my heart is yearning for is available to me.
Christ came to fulfill my need for serenity now. When I call out to Him and the indwelling of His Spirit my words aren't returned void. They are delivered to the source of Peace, the only One who can relieve the tensions and tizzies of my heart and replace them with the calm assurance of Heavenly serenity.
Empty words won't bring peace and calm. Only the Holy Spirit living in my heart and relaxing the agitations of my soul will bring lasting, true, enduring serenity. Composure and comfort of the heart are only a call away when I send my plea straight to the throne of God and the Prince of Peace who graciously bestows serenity right here and right now.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Precious pennies
In my bedroom closet is a old round tin with the face and name of every United States president arranged along a timeline chronicling each man service in the highest office. I don't know where the tin came from. All I know is that, for as long as I can remember, it has been my "change bucket." Some little girls get a piggy bank. I received a presidential history lesson made of tin to hold my silver and gold Lincolns, Jeffersons, Roosevelts and Washingtons.
Today I pulled the presidential container from its dusty shelf. It had been so long since I'd rolled its coin contents and made a trip to the bank to cash in on my change. I dumped the bucket of change on the floor, pulled out coin roll wrappers and began digging for quarters. I always start with quarters, the creme de la creme of the change bucket. Rolling pennies feels like an exercise in futility. Counting fifty little golden Lincolns only garners two George Washingtons. But collect forty Washingtons and the bank will hand over a crisp Hamilton. If time is money there is no competition when it comes to the coin-rolling return on investment.
I laid out my quarters in little stacks of four but when I was all done poking through the contents of my change bucket I only had eight little stacks. Eight quarters short of a single roll. I had just enough nickels to garner two dollars and, after swiping two dimes from my wallet, just enough Roosevelts to equal five dollars.
What I didn't have in quarters, nickels and dimes I had in, you guessed it, pennies. An abundance of pennies. Determined not to waste my time on what I deemed "junk currency" I threw the pennies back in the bucket and decided to wait for more quarters to appear before I made a trip to the bank with my loot.
Poor Lincoln, he got entirely gipped when it comes to coin desirability. Sure, his is the only coin thats the color gold but what is it really worth? Pennies can't even purchase a stick of gum. Unless they are stuck in the toe box of a loafer pennies don't have much appeal. A penny laying in a parking lot is easily passed by but a quarter? I'll stop for a quarter.
The truth is Lincoln isn't the only one who is getting ripped off. God manufactures pennies in the form of moments, winks and blessings yet I pass them by as if they were a heads-down penny in a parking lot. I want the quarters - the big, life-changing, exciting blessings of God. I want the job offer, the romantic relationship, the health, the book deal, the legs that run the race and come in first and the trips that fill a photo album with camera-worthy memories.
But I'm underwhelmed by pennies.
Pennies are what God has given me. He's given me these precious little moments that, on the surface, don't appear to make much of a life. I've been given quiet mornings with my Bible and a blank page in my journal. I've been given legs that move and walk the dogs faithfully each day. God has given me an abundance of pennies in nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters. The kitchen full of food, the comfy mattress on my bed and the tulips in my front yard are all better than pennies - they are God's gifts to me.
This morning when I awoke I wanted to be showered in quarter-sized blessings. But God rained down pennies instead. But this time, instead of throwing them back in the bucket, I counted them out and rolled each one. I choose to see the worth and value in the little moments because they are special and precious. They are invaluable treasures. The penny moments of life are the priceless pinholes in which I get to see the glorious goodness of God on full display each and every day.
Today I pulled the presidential container from its dusty shelf. It had been so long since I'd rolled its coin contents and made a trip to the bank to cash in on my change. I dumped the bucket of change on the floor, pulled out coin roll wrappers and began digging for quarters. I always start with quarters, the creme de la creme of the change bucket. Rolling pennies feels like an exercise in futility. Counting fifty little golden Lincolns only garners two George Washingtons. But collect forty Washingtons and the bank will hand over a crisp Hamilton. If time is money there is no competition when it comes to the coin-rolling return on investment.
I laid out my quarters in little stacks of four but when I was all done poking through the contents of my change bucket I only had eight little stacks. Eight quarters short of a single roll. I had just enough nickels to garner two dollars and, after swiping two dimes from my wallet, just enough Roosevelts to equal five dollars.
What I didn't have in quarters, nickels and dimes I had in, you guessed it, pennies. An abundance of pennies. Determined not to waste my time on what I deemed "junk currency" I threw the pennies back in the bucket and decided to wait for more quarters to appear before I made a trip to the bank with my loot.
Poor Lincoln, he got entirely gipped when it comes to coin desirability. Sure, his is the only coin thats the color gold but what is it really worth? Pennies can't even purchase a stick of gum. Unless they are stuck in the toe box of a loafer pennies don't have much appeal. A penny laying in a parking lot is easily passed by but a quarter? I'll stop for a quarter.
The truth is Lincoln isn't the only one who is getting ripped off. God manufactures pennies in the form of moments, winks and blessings yet I pass them by as if they were a heads-down penny in a parking lot. I want the quarters - the big, life-changing, exciting blessings of God. I want the job offer, the romantic relationship, the health, the book deal, the legs that run the race and come in first and the trips that fill a photo album with camera-worthy memories.
But I'm underwhelmed by pennies.
Pennies are what God has given me. He's given me these precious little moments that, on the surface, don't appear to make much of a life. I've been given quiet mornings with my Bible and a blank page in my journal. I've been given legs that move and walk the dogs faithfully each day. God has given me an abundance of pennies in nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters. The kitchen full of food, the comfy mattress on my bed and the tulips in my front yard are all better than pennies - they are God's gifts to me.
This morning when I awoke I wanted to be showered in quarter-sized blessings. But God rained down pennies instead. But this time, instead of throwing them back in the bucket, I counted them out and rolled each one. I choose to see the worth and value in the little moments because they are special and precious. They are invaluable treasures. The penny moments of life are the priceless pinholes in which I get to see the glorious goodness of God on full display each and every day.
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