I stood outside in the driveway, waiting for the arrival of my company. I was busy clicking through my phone, lost in the all-consuming world of technology and email, when a buzzing sound caught my attention. In my distracted daze I had completely missed the wall of greenery lining the side of the driveway. Dotted all over the green leaves were purple, white and yellow flowers in varying stages of bloom. Some were wrapped up in a tight cocoon of pedals. Most were withered, scorched in the hot summer sun and heat.
My gaze wandered along the expanse of the greenery to the source of the buzz. That's when I saw a clump of vibrant, colorful, healthy flowers in full bloom. In the midst of the rich purples and bright oranges I saw the buzz maker, a bee who was busy feasting on one of the last blooming flora.
As I watched the bee going about its natural work as God intended, I became captivated by the irony of the bee's life and purpose. The bee that sucks the nectar from the center of the bloom is the same bee who pollinates crops and maintains the life of the wildflower. God's tiny winged, buzzing creation avoided for fear of its stinger is the same creation that produces the sweetest honey. As I watched the bee at work I saw an irony that had never occurred to me before. God's character, the sting and the sweet, the taking and the giving, are on perfect display in the life of the bee.
By watching the bee God provided me a picture of how he works in the lives of His cherished flowers - you and I. At times His work can feel like a draining experience. God sucks the nectar right out of us. The sapping experiences of trials and struggles threaten to deplete the soul of its spiritual stamina.
And then comes the sting. The sting of loss. The sting of disappointment. The sting of failure. The sting of abandonment. The sting pierces with such intensity it makes the heart recoil. The unsuspecting soul winces in pain. How can a person recover from such agony?
God has a way of buzzing into life in such a way that the heart wants to run and hide. Like a child running from a bee, no right minded person wants to be stung. No one asks to be sucked dry.
And yet that is how God often works. Just like the bee, God uses His stinger to save. God uses the painful circumstances and the most trying seasons of life to bring renewal and abundant life to our spirits.
In the end it is the God who stings who ultimately saves us with His sweet mercy and grace. God, the producer of beauty and maker of the bee, has a plan for life's most intense pains. They help us bloom. They keep us rooted in the Lord. They keep us vibrant, beautiful, healthy and alive.
At all costs I've tried to avoid God's sting but He hasn't let me escape His winged plans. God has allowed me to feel His stinger in order that He could produce in me the sweetest of honey. There may be pain today but I know the sting isn't the end of the story. God is working just like that bee. He is producing in me a garden full of flowers and a storehouse rich in honey. It is by His sting that I am saved, changed and made beautiful.
So bring on the bees.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Friday, September 2, 2016
In my MS saddle
"Now go ahead and relax your hands." That might have been a simple request had I not been atop Dazzle, a milk chocolate brown quarter horse traveling along at a steady trot. Every step Dazzle took sent me bobbing straight up, uncontrollably might I add. I just recently took up equestrian lessons and my balance and control is still lacking. I fatigue easily in the saddle and find that keeping myself stable is a challenge.
My uncontrolled buoyancy certainly isn't Dazzle's fault. She's a stellar horse - as is evidenced in her name - but my riding skills are less than dazzling, at least at this point in my equestrian training. With my light weight, shaky balance and newbie status behind the reigns, I'm like a popcorn kernel in an air popper. Every galloping trot sends me shooting straight for the ceiling of the cavernous arena.
As a result of my instability my hands tend to clench the reigns. In an attempt to remain in control of Dazzle and aid in my own balance I grip the leather bands with too much force. The result hasn't achieved either aim. The reigns are still too taut to keep adequate control over the steering and directing of Dazzle and my balance has remained unchanged.
As I trotted along in the arena with my hands in a death grip around the reigns and my little legs fighting to keep steady around my saddle I heard the words of my trainer instructing me to relax my hands. In that moment the directive seemed impossible. How could I relax my hands with all of this bouncing taking place? If I relaxed my hands I feared I would fall off the horse at worst or at best end up straight atop her neck reaching for the long locks of her golden mane. But I wanted to heed the command of my instructor so I thought about my hands. With deliberate effort I breathed relief into my knuckles and purposeful relaxation into my palms. I let my grip loosen and when I did something remarkable happened. My body began to sink into the trot. Muscles I didn't know were clenched released. My focus suddenly switched from balance to rhythm.
With my hands relaxed I was still going up and down but I had a new level of confidence in the saddle. I stopped focusing on balance and stability. Instead of fighting against the bouncing I started learning how to match it. I stopped trying to control the movement and started unifying with it instead.
And then it dawned on me. That is why equestrian training is so good for MS. That is why people with MS take to horses like a fish to water. We have already had to learn how to work in harmony with ups and downs. We have had to learn through relapses and remissions the agony of bouncing out of control and instead of falling off and getting trampled, we've learned to stay upright. Those of us with MS who refuse to get out of the saddle have had to learn through trial and error, success and failure the art of moving in unity with our chronic illness. Through the sorrow of remitting symptoms we've learned that we can't make the progression cease but we can learn to travel with it without letting it defeat us.
Staying upright in the MS saddle takes more than relaxed hands and the right shoes, it takes a relaxed heart and the right spirit. If there is one thing I've learned from my six years of chronic illness and two years of diagnosed MS it is that I can't control the course of my health. I can only choose to match its rhythm and learn to ride comfortably on the journey. A firmer, harder grip on the reigns won't help my heart or change the course of my condition. Fretting about the next relapse, the next fall into the mysterious world of unexplained symptoms, won't protect me from an attack of lesions on the brain and spine. The only control I have over my disease is how I respond to it and how I relax into it.
I'm sure when my trainer called out to relax my hands she had no idea what she was really asking me to do. She was asking me, reminding me, commanding me, to relax my heart of its grip on my health. Let MS take me on its ride and let my body match its pace - steady or not. Bounce up and down with all of the grace of a seasoned equestrian. My trainer was reminding me that God is going to allow movement in my life that I can't and shouldn't control. To try and clench the reigns won't help. Only relaxing, releasing and resting my heart in His hands will I remain stable and upright in the saddle of life. By trusting in the perfect rhythm of God's dazzling design I can and will enjoy this crazy, unpredictable and glorious MS ride.
My uncontrolled buoyancy certainly isn't Dazzle's fault. She's a stellar horse - as is evidenced in her name - but my riding skills are less than dazzling, at least at this point in my equestrian training. With my light weight, shaky balance and newbie status behind the reigns, I'm like a popcorn kernel in an air popper. Every galloping trot sends me shooting straight for the ceiling of the cavernous arena.
As a result of my instability my hands tend to clench the reigns. In an attempt to remain in control of Dazzle and aid in my own balance I grip the leather bands with too much force. The result hasn't achieved either aim. The reigns are still too taut to keep adequate control over the steering and directing of Dazzle and my balance has remained unchanged.
As I trotted along in the arena with my hands in a death grip around the reigns and my little legs fighting to keep steady around my saddle I heard the words of my trainer instructing me to relax my hands. In that moment the directive seemed impossible. How could I relax my hands with all of this bouncing taking place? If I relaxed my hands I feared I would fall off the horse at worst or at best end up straight atop her neck reaching for the long locks of her golden mane. But I wanted to heed the command of my instructor so I thought about my hands. With deliberate effort I breathed relief into my knuckles and purposeful relaxation into my palms. I let my grip loosen and when I did something remarkable happened. My body began to sink into the trot. Muscles I didn't know were clenched released. My focus suddenly switched from balance to rhythm.
With my hands relaxed I was still going up and down but I had a new level of confidence in the saddle. I stopped focusing on balance and stability. Instead of fighting against the bouncing I started learning how to match it. I stopped trying to control the movement and started unifying with it instead.
And then it dawned on me. That is why equestrian training is so good for MS. That is why people with MS take to horses like a fish to water. We have already had to learn how to work in harmony with ups and downs. We have had to learn through relapses and remissions the agony of bouncing out of control and instead of falling off and getting trampled, we've learned to stay upright. Those of us with MS who refuse to get out of the saddle have had to learn through trial and error, success and failure the art of moving in unity with our chronic illness. Through the sorrow of remitting symptoms we've learned that we can't make the progression cease but we can learn to travel with it without letting it defeat us.
Staying upright in the MS saddle takes more than relaxed hands and the right shoes, it takes a relaxed heart and the right spirit. If there is one thing I've learned from my six years of chronic illness and two years of diagnosed MS it is that I can't control the course of my health. I can only choose to match its rhythm and learn to ride comfortably on the journey. A firmer, harder grip on the reigns won't help my heart or change the course of my condition. Fretting about the next relapse, the next fall into the mysterious world of unexplained symptoms, won't protect me from an attack of lesions on the brain and spine. The only control I have over my disease is how I respond to it and how I relax into it.
I'm sure when my trainer called out to relax my hands she had no idea what she was really asking me to do. She was asking me, reminding me, commanding me, to relax my heart of its grip on my health. Let MS take me on its ride and let my body match its pace - steady or not. Bounce up and down with all of the grace of a seasoned equestrian. My trainer was reminding me that God is going to allow movement in my life that I can't and shouldn't control. To try and clench the reigns won't help. Only relaxing, releasing and resting my heart in His hands will I remain stable and upright in the saddle of life. By trusting in the perfect rhythm of God's dazzling design I can and will enjoy this crazy, unpredictable and glorious MS ride.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Eternal store credit
God is the God of restoration. Even store credit restoration.
I had nearly forgotten about the misplaced store credit receipt issued to me by my favorite local boutique shop. Months ago I returned a piece of jewelry without a receipt. As is the store's policy, store credit was offered. The return transaction was recorded on a thin paper receipt which the recipient (me) was instructed to keep in a safe place until presented for use on a future purchase. I gladly accepted my store credit. I love store credit. To me store credit is a promise of a pre-paid shopping trip.
The only trouble with store credit is when you lose the one single recorded documentation of said credit. That is precisely what happened to my flimsy piece of proof of store credit. Upon receiving the receipt for $26.95 of credit I folded it and placed it in my wallet. For at least a month the paper stayed securely between my library card and my license. On a number of occasions I considered moving the receipt to a more secure location, such as my desk drawer, but I never followed through. I kept the receipt laying in my wallet, a dangerous place for little, thin crinkled papers.
I'll never know what became of that three inch by eight inch piece of invoice roll paper because by the time I decided to transfer its location, it was gone. Somewhere along the way my receipt must have slipped out of my wallet. In the shuffle of removing cards and cash the paper must have fallen to the ground without my noticing. As a result of my carelessness, I lost all proof and all right to my $26.95 prepaid shopping spree.
After much frustration and fruitless searching I put the whole store credit saga out of my mind. It was a loss but, thankfully, not a gigantic one. I determined to learn a lesson for future store credits and put all important receipts in a designated desk drawer.
It wasn't until I stood at the cash register of that same store six months later that I remembered the long lost piece of paper. As I placed my splurge of a wristlet on the counter my eyes met that of the same cashier who had issued me the store credit and the warning about the importance of the receipt indicating its value. In an instant the number $26.95 flashed through my mind.
The cashier must have remembered too because after some clicking around on her computer screen and a delayed ringing of my order she leaned forward across the counter and whispered a number. "$16.50" was all she said. The price of my purchase less $26.95.
I didn't have the right receipt to give proof of my store credit and I didn't ask to be reinstated that which I didn't deserve. The loss had been of my own making. The store didn't owe me $26.95 but that sweet woman remembered me, my loss and took action to provide me gracious restoration.
By my own will I wasn't able to look up the record of my returned purchase. Only the cashier could do that job. I couldn't compel the cashier to act on my behalf out of compassion or pity. It wasn't a convincing speech, a sob story or threatened legal action that changed the course of my store credit fate. It was forgiveness, kindness and grace of the woman behind the counter.
Isn't that just precisely the way it is with God? I didn't compel God to save me. When I was lost in my sin, separated from Him by the loss of my innocence and rebellious ways, I couldn't cry hard enough or yell loud enough to make God hear me and rescue me. It was by grace that He saved me.
I didn't and still don't, deserve God's mercy. I don't deserve the restoration of my soul. I don't deserve to be reinstated into God's family fold. And yet He looks on me with compassion and kindness. God knows just how lost I have been - more lost than my store credit receipt - and He has come to find me. Before I even knew I needed rescued and restored, before I knew I needed a search team or a Savior, God had His mission to find me and reinstate me planned and plotted out.
It is by grace I have been saved. By grace and unmerited mercy that God sent His Son, Jesus, to redeem me. He came to bring me back to a right relationship with my Heavenly Father. Forgiveness made possible by the shedding of Christ's blood on the cross removed the stain of my sin and restored my heart to be a dwelling place of the Holy Spirit.
By the actions I sowed in sin and rebellion I lost something more valuable than any amount that can ever be printed on a store credit. I lost my union with God, a deficit I could never overcome by my own will and work. I needed Jesus.
Everyday, every hour, every minute I need Jesus because it is only through His gracious work of restoration on the cross that I am made whole, complete and credited as eternally holy.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Have I soaked my seeds?
If you've read Pippy Love for any length of time you probably already know that I do not have a green thumb. I have been known to write laments about my lack of gardening prowess and have marveled at the very few plants I have managed to keep alive for more than a week. As my garden stands today it consists of a dead tomato plant, a baby fern purchased three days ago (give it three more and check back on its status) and the hardiest basil plant known to man which has survived an astounding two months in a small porcelain container on the kitchen windowsill. I water it from both the top and the bottom by filling the container with a shallow puddle of water every few days (read: when I think of it). Amazingly the basil plant has survived. Unfortunately every other plant has met its fate with the trash.
Despite repeated planting failures I still hold out hope for my gardening future. I tell myself that someday, when I'm older and wiser, I will miraculously become infinitely more garden savvy. My thumb will change colors.
In the spirit of enduring hope that springs eternal every now and again I do some online reading on gardening tips. Due to this sporatic studying, somewhere in my mind there is categorized a random assortment of good advice for horticulture success. To date I have yet to put any of this information to good use. Maybe, somday it will take root someday...maybe.
My latest reading on the art of gardening led me to a new tid-bit of gardening information I had never before stumbled upon. The gardener's secret to success is in soaking the seeds prior to planting. According to the gardening authorities, this practice will help the seeds absorb more moisture once planted. Experts call it a jump start for seedlings. In other words, pre-soaked seeds are more likely to be overachievers once planted.
The best gardeners make this one simple act part of their planting routine. Large seeds are soaked longer than small. Hot water is used, not cold. The whole process is amazingly simple. All it takes is a shallow container, a thin puddle of water and a packet of seeds. That's it. The seeds soak overnight and the next day the gardener removes them from the water and plants them in soil.
By pre-soaking little seedlings the future of the plant is by no means guaranteed. The work of the gardener doesn't end at at the pre-soak. She still needs a green thumb, dedication and Miracle Grow. But the pre-soaking sets the her, and her seeds, up for long term success. One night in a puddle of water translates to hardier, healthier plants with a far greater probability of being vibrant and lush flowers in the future.
I love the idea of the pre-soaked seeds so much I want to put it into practice. Thankfully I don't need a packet of seeds to start putting the gardener's secret to work. I have a spiritual garden in need of some tending, pruning and precious time of pre-soaking.
The soaking stage for the spiritual garden isn't top secret but it is an often overlooked tip of the successful spiritual gardener. The heart most dedicated to Christ, most attune to the voice of God is the heart that has been soaked in the spirit. Before the Christ-follower produces a single sprout, before the child of God is even planted in the ground, they must be soaked in the Spirit of God and filled up with the righteousness of Christ. It is the pre-soaking that sets the Christian up for success of the soul. The heart is given the ultimate head start by being drenched in holiness and plumped up by the overwhelming fountains of God's goodness.
Gardening in the physical dirt is a beautiful picture of the work God is doing in the human heart. Pre-soaking is part of that picture. It is a vital step in the long-term development and health of the Christian life that, if neglected, will prove to stunt growth. We must first soak in the Word and Spirit of God before trying to sprout with holiness. The soul has to be plumped up by the spirit. Planting can come tomorrow, or the next day if God so directs, but soaking must come first. It is a critical and vital step that, once skipped, cannot be repeated.
Have I soaked my spiritual seeds or am I trying to get in the dirt before doing my time in the spiritual waters of God? If I try to by-pass the container and go straight to the soil I will never grow as lush as God intended. He wants me to be pre-soaked. He has the container ready. The next steps of planting, watering and sprouting will come. Someday a lush crop and abundant fruit will come forth but only after I soak but only after I spend time drenched in the Holy Spirit, God will bring forth a Holy harvest.
Despite repeated planting failures I still hold out hope for my gardening future. I tell myself that someday, when I'm older and wiser, I will miraculously become infinitely more garden savvy. My thumb will change colors.
In the spirit of enduring hope that springs eternal every now and again I do some online reading on gardening tips. Due to this sporatic studying, somewhere in my mind there is categorized a random assortment of good advice for horticulture success. To date I have yet to put any of this information to good use. Maybe, somday it will take root someday...maybe.
My latest reading on the art of gardening led me to a new tid-bit of gardening information I had never before stumbled upon. The gardener's secret to success is in soaking the seeds prior to planting. According to the gardening authorities, this practice will help the seeds absorb more moisture once planted. Experts call it a jump start for seedlings. In other words, pre-soaked seeds are more likely to be overachievers once planted.
The best gardeners make this one simple act part of their planting routine. Large seeds are soaked longer than small. Hot water is used, not cold. The whole process is amazingly simple. All it takes is a shallow container, a thin puddle of water and a packet of seeds. That's it. The seeds soak overnight and the next day the gardener removes them from the water and plants them in soil.
By pre-soaking little seedlings the future of the plant is by no means guaranteed. The work of the gardener doesn't end at at the pre-soak. She still needs a green thumb, dedication and Miracle Grow. But the pre-soaking sets the her, and her seeds, up for long term success. One night in a puddle of water translates to hardier, healthier plants with a far greater probability of being vibrant and lush flowers in the future.
I love the idea of the pre-soaked seeds so much I want to put it into practice. Thankfully I don't need a packet of seeds to start putting the gardener's secret to work. I have a spiritual garden in need of some tending, pruning and precious time of pre-soaking.
The soaking stage for the spiritual garden isn't top secret but it is an often overlooked tip of the successful spiritual gardener. The heart most dedicated to Christ, most attune to the voice of God is the heart that has been soaked in the spirit. Before the Christ-follower produces a single sprout, before the child of God is even planted in the ground, they must be soaked in the Spirit of God and filled up with the righteousness of Christ. It is the pre-soaking that sets the Christian up for success of the soul. The heart is given the ultimate head start by being drenched in holiness and plumped up by the overwhelming fountains of God's goodness.
Gardening in the physical dirt is a beautiful picture of the work God is doing in the human heart. Pre-soaking is part of that picture. It is a vital step in the long-term development and health of the Christian life that, if neglected, will prove to stunt growth. We must first soak in the Word and Spirit of God before trying to sprout with holiness. The soul has to be plumped up by the spirit. Planting can come tomorrow, or the next day if God so directs, but soaking must come first. It is a critical and vital step that, once skipped, cannot be repeated.
Have I soaked my spiritual seeds or am I trying to get in the dirt before doing my time in the spiritual waters of God? If I try to by-pass the container and go straight to the soil I will never grow as lush as God intended. He wants me to be pre-soaked. He has the container ready. The next steps of planting, watering and sprouting will come. Someday a lush crop and abundant fruit will come forth but only after I soak but only after I spend time drenched in the Holy Spirit, God will bring forth a Holy harvest.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Life at the waffle buffet
Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron.
How's that for a life motto? I think I might claim it as my own. Consider this public notice, my own personal copyright, if you will: "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron" is officially my life motto.
Over the past six years I've been singularly focused on one particular waffle iron filled with a waffle batter made of dreams for health and healing. I have peeked into the cast iron claws of my iron, hoping for a golden brown waffle in the form of good digestion, healthy weight gain and abundant energy. Nearly every peek into the progress of my health journey has proven disappointing. My health waffle hasn't been crisping quite right. Every glimpse upon my uncooked waffle dampens my dreams. After six years of unsuccessfully cooked health waffles my confidence in a better future looks as flat and lifeless as a bowl of uncooked batter.
But now I want a new motto. I want new batter in the waffle iron and I want more irons. I want more challenges and new obstacles. In breakfast buffet terminology, I want to embrace the heat the chef feels while cooking up an abundance of gourmet waffles simultaneously, all at varying stages of crisping. The chef behind the counter stands at the ready with flipper in hand and a stack of porcelain white plates nearby. He takes order and dutifully fulfills requests such as added pecans, a dusting of sprinkles and "extra crispy" edges. The master chef can have a dozen waffles in progress without being overwhelmed. He flips the waffle irons at just the precisely right moment to produce the perfect golden breakfast treat.
The chef inspiring my motto takes orders with a smile and, when the waffle is complete and presented, takes a special moment with each eager guest to offer a thanks and knod of gratitude. As a child I used to watch the chef pictured in my mind at my family's yearly vacation to Ogelbay Park. In the elegant Ihlenfeld dining room framed with a wall of windows overlooking the pond and rolling hills of the park below, my parents and I would enjoy the resort's famous gourmet breakfast buffet.
A sugar loving child who never passed up an opportunity to eat cake for breakfast, my first stop along the buffet route was always the waffle station. Behind a long table draped in white linen stood the friendly chef who would take my order and dish up a the perfect classic Belgium waffle. The long line of waffle orderers - many being my impatient and hungry youthful peers - never phased the chef. He never seemed stressed by the heat of the iron's element or the drooling faces of children watching him do his work. This chef embodied my new motto: "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron."
After watching year after year the skilled chef dutifully, and happily, go about his work, it is now my turn to take up his motto and run with it. But first I have to get the right batter. Just ask the chef at Ogelbay Park and he'll tell you that the batter makes the waffle. Sure, the timing at the iron is critical but inferior batter will never crisp properly. The results of lousy batter will always be a lousy waffle no matter how precise the cooking time.
After six years of failing to create even one good health waffle it dawned on me, I've been working with the wrong batter. Forget how many times I've checked my iron and tested its heat levels. The batter hasn't changed form. I've tried upgrading my waffle iron and I've tweaked timing but my problem has persisted because I haven't switched batters. Could it be that I am capable of creating tantalizing waffles, and many more of them all at the same time, if I would simply switched to a whole new batter?
So I went to my health bowl filled with a batter of half baked hopes and dreams. I dumped the bowl an dstarted fresh. I went back to God's word and reached for the basic ingredients of His goodness. I reached for the fruits of His spirit, the armor of His Word and the truth of His resurrection. That's when my batter started coming together. I could see the difference immediately. The color of the batter looked different than my self-made un-crispable health batter. This new batter, inspired and directed by God, looked like the stuff of cooking blogs and Martha Stewart Living recipes. It looked perfect because it was (and is) perfect.
The batter, the life, consisting of God's truth crisps up perfectly every time. What's the secret? It's what the batter is made of - Christ's love and God's glory. Every waffle made with this batter turns out a little differently. Some are crispier than others - per the instruction and will of God. Some have pecans while others have chocolate chips. But the batter is always the same. The love and glory of God is the base. All of the other ingredients and elements come together because God's character indwells within it and holds the scrumptious waffle of life together.
When I use God's batter and make waffles that are all for the glory and honor of Jesus Christ, I can have many waffles cooking up all at the same time. God enables me to stop having to sneak a peek at each and every waffle because He gives me the peace to let it cook in due time. I don't have to wonder if the batter is browning just right. I know it is because I'm using God's recipe. I have the knowledge and assurance that God will make the waffle brown while I go about my work, pouring my next serving into the next empty iron ready to feed the next hungry soul.
Now that I have the batter right I'm standing behind a row with more irons than I can count and each is cooking up just right, just for the glory of God. Each waffle is being prepared to deliver God's love and saving grace. Now that I am working with God's batter I can embrace my new motto and let it be a rallying cry as I cook up a life crispy and golden brown.
In Christ's kitchen, wearing God's apron, indwelled with the Spirit's recipe I can confidently say, "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron."
How's that for a life motto? I think I might claim it as my own. Consider this public notice, my own personal copyright, if you will: "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron" is officially my life motto.
Over the past six years I've been singularly focused on one particular waffle iron filled with a waffle batter made of dreams for health and healing. I have peeked into the cast iron claws of my iron, hoping for a golden brown waffle in the form of good digestion, healthy weight gain and abundant energy. Nearly every peek into the progress of my health journey has proven disappointing. My health waffle hasn't been crisping quite right. Every glimpse upon my uncooked waffle dampens my dreams. After six years of unsuccessfully cooked health waffles my confidence in a better future looks as flat and lifeless as a bowl of uncooked batter.
But now I want a new motto. I want new batter in the waffle iron and I want more irons. I want more challenges and new obstacles. In breakfast buffet terminology, I want to embrace the heat the chef feels while cooking up an abundance of gourmet waffles simultaneously, all at varying stages of crisping. The chef behind the counter stands at the ready with flipper in hand and a stack of porcelain white plates nearby. He takes order and dutifully fulfills requests such as added pecans, a dusting of sprinkles and "extra crispy" edges. The master chef can have a dozen waffles in progress without being overwhelmed. He flips the waffle irons at just the precisely right moment to produce the perfect golden breakfast treat.
The chef inspiring my motto takes orders with a smile and, when the waffle is complete and presented, takes a special moment with each eager guest to offer a thanks and knod of gratitude. As a child I used to watch the chef pictured in my mind at my family's yearly vacation to Ogelbay Park. In the elegant Ihlenfeld dining room framed with a wall of windows overlooking the pond and rolling hills of the park below, my parents and I would enjoy the resort's famous gourmet breakfast buffet.
A sugar loving child who never passed up an opportunity to eat cake for breakfast, my first stop along the buffet route was always the waffle station. Behind a long table draped in white linen stood the friendly chef who would take my order and dish up a the perfect classic Belgium waffle. The long line of waffle orderers - many being my impatient and hungry youthful peers - never phased the chef. He never seemed stressed by the heat of the iron's element or the drooling faces of children watching him do his work. This chef embodied my new motto: "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron."
After watching year after year the skilled chef dutifully, and happily, go about his work, it is now my turn to take up his motto and run with it. But first I have to get the right batter. Just ask the chef at Ogelbay Park and he'll tell you that the batter makes the waffle. Sure, the timing at the iron is critical but inferior batter will never crisp properly. The results of lousy batter will always be a lousy waffle no matter how precise the cooking time.
After six years of failing to create even one good health waffle it dawned on me, I've been working with the wrong batter. Forget how many times I've checked my iron and tested its heat levels. The batter hasn't changed form. I've tried upgrading my waffle iron and I've tweaked timing but my problem has persisted because I haven't switched batters. Could it be that I am capable of creating tantalizing waffles, and many more of them all at the same time, if I would simply switched to a whole new batter?
So I went to my health bowl filled with a batter of half baked hopes and dreams. I dumped the bowl an dstarted fresh. I went back to God's word and reached for the basic ingredients of His goodness. I reached for the fruits of His spirit, the armor of His Word and the truth of His resurrection. That's when my batter started coming together. I could see the difference immediately. The color of the batter looked different than my self-made un-crispable health batter. This new batter, inspired and directed by God, looked like the stuff of cooking blogs and Martha Stewart Living recipes. It looked perfect because it was (and is) perfect.
The batter, the life, consisting of God's truth crisps up perfectly every time. What's the secret? It's what the batter is made of - Christ's love and God's glory. Every waffle made with this batter turns out a little differently. Some are crispier than others - per the instruction and will of God. Some have pecans while others have chocolate chips. But the batter is always the same. The love and glory of God is the base. All of the other ingredients and elements come together because God's character indwells within it and holds the scrumptious waffle of life together.
When I use God's batter and make waffles that are all for the glory and honor of Jesus Christ, I can have many waffles cooking up all at the same time. God enables me to stop having to sneak a peek at each and every waffle because He gives me the peace to let it cook in due time. I don't have to wonder if the batter is browning just right. I know it is because I'm using God's recipe. I have the knowledge and assurance that God will make the waffle brown while I go about my work, pouring my next serving into the next empty iron ready to feed the next hungry soul.
Now that I have the batter right I'm standing behind a row with more irons than I can count and each is cooking up just right, just for the glory of God. Each waffle is being prepared to deliver God's love and saving grace. Now that I am working with God's batter I can embrace my new motto and let it be a rallying cry as I cook up a life crispy and golden brown.
In Christ's kitchen, wearing God's apron, indwelled with the Spirit's recipe I can confidently say, "Go ahead, throw another waffle on my iron."
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Tantrum in 9
Have you ever seen a child have a temper tantrum in the grocery store check out line? The saga usually unfolds this way:
A tired mother is pushing a loaded down mini-car cart through the isles of her local grocery store. This is the type of cart specifically designed to intrigue children. The seat of the cart is in the shape of a hot wheels car and comes included with a non-functioning steering wheel. The cart proves to be a satisfactory distraction for the child for at least part of the shopping excursion but by checkout time the allure of the cart has worn off. The child is antsy and the checkout line is boasting tempting chocolate bars and colorful sugary snacks. The mini-car cart is no match for Fun Dip and Reece's Cups.
While the Mom unloads the contents of the cart, the essentials for meal making and family feeding, her young son eyes up a caramel and chocolate covered King Size treat and his mouth begins to water. He must have the chocolate. Now. He cannot wait for the cashier to ring it up. He cannot wait to get in the car and unwrap the contents. He must have the chocolate, it must be king size and it must be obtained and devoured in that moment.
The Mom does her best to put off the child. If she told him once she had told him a thousand times that he could not pick out the king size chocolate bar. In fact, she had forbidden him from demanding any chocolate what-so-ever. If he demanded he would be automatically denied. "That's not how you ask for things," she had told him. And now here they were again. Son commanding he be indulged with the biggest candy bar on the rack and Mom refusing to budge.
Yelling, screaming, crying or fist pounding inevitably ensues. Usually all three. Sometimes simultaneously. The boy kicks the plastic floor of his car cart. He tries to reach out of the small window opening to grab the object of his desire but his Mom cuts his arm off at the window's pass. He increases the rhythm of his foot stomping and throws his head back as he lets out an exasperated cry. His outburst echos throughout the cavernous expanse of the grocery store, bouncing off the walls and drawing the attention of fellow shoppers.
In the end the child leaves either screaming and chocolate-bar-less or smiling and sugar-satisfied. There are only two ways to remove the child from the store: by force or by retreat. More often than not the child appears to leave the store by his own will. Toddler: one. Mom: zero.
The scene I've just described has been witnessed by nearly every adult who has ever stepped foot in a grocery store. Children want what they want when they want it. Sugar addicted children want chocolate, sweets and every tantalizing treat. They don't stop to think about the stomach ache or the discipline and obedience training of parents who have taught them "how to ask." The last thing the child is considering is the embarrassing scene they are creating in check-out line nine.
How is it that I can so clearly see the immaturity and foolishness of the child's tantrum yet completely miss the folly in my own?
I am demanding, too. I want to be healthy, successful, happy and whole and I want it now. Actually, I wanted it yesterday but now will do. God, like the Mother pushing a weighed down cart, is telling me, "that's not how you ask." He's taught me better. Demanding doesn't get me what I want. Crying doesn't cure my pain. Screaming doesn't solve anything. And yet I persist in my tantrums. I pass by the vitality and full lives of my fellow man, a temptation more enticing than a thousand king size candy bars, and I start to stomp and cry. I throw such a fit that even a two year old would be impressed.
Like the child in the check-out line I have to learn that demanding my way isn't going to solve my problems and it isn't going to produce a favorable outcome. God, unlike the mother behind the cart, never retreats. He always carries me out by force. He persists in His way and demands my obedience. There is no wearing down of God's nerves. He can't be overcome by tears or swayed by the fear of embarrassment. Even when I yell, God doesn't budge. When I scream, He doesn't flinch. He is unwavering in His parental duty to raise a child that behaves according to His teachings and commands.
There will be plenty of trips through the grocery store with God where I won't get what I want. God will check out without having me pick out the biggest candy bar on the shelf. But that doesn't make Him a mean, stingy Father. God sees that the king size candy bar isn't the best treat for health. Getting what I want, when I want it isn't necessarily the most beneficial nourishment for the soul.
God has the cart full of what I need. He did the shopping, is going to prepare the meal and will serve it at the proper time. No spoiling my dinner with a Twix. No ruining my appetite with Skittles. God has the perfect meal plan and He isn't going to let it be ruined by harmful sweets that won't do my body a moment of good. He cares too much for me to give in to my tantrums. He sees what is best and, through my screams, cries and yells, says, "No." He's taught me better than that. He has better than that in store for me and He won't let a little fit get in the way of my receiving His good and enriching plan for my life.
A tired mother is pushing a loaded down mini-car cart through the isles of her local grocery store. This is the type of cart specifically designed to intrigue children. The seat of the cart is in the shape of a hot wheels car and comes included with a non-functioning steering wheel. The cart proves to be a satisfactory distraction for the child for at least part of the shopping excursion but by checkout time the allure of the cart has worn off. The child is antsy and the checkout line is boasting tempting chocolate bars and colorful sugary snacks. The mini-car cart is no match for Fun Dip and Reece's Cups.
While the Mom unloads the contents of the cart, the essentials for meal making and family feeding, her young son eyes up a caramel and chocolate covered King Size treat and his mouth begins to water. He must have the chocolate. Now. He cannot wait for the cashier to ring it up. He cannot wait to get in the car and unwrap the contents. He must have the chocolate, it must be king size and it must be obtained and devoured in that moment.
The Mom does her best to put off the child. If she told him once she had told him a thousand times that he could not pick out the king size chocolate bar. In fact, she had forbidden him from demanding any chocolate what-so-ever. If he demanded he would be automatically denied. "That's not how you ask for things," she had told him. And now here they were again. Son commanding he be indulged with the biggest candy bar on the rack and Mom refusing to budge.
Yelling, screaming, crying or fist pounding inevitably ensues. Usually all three. Sometimes simultaneously. The boy kicks the plastic floor of his car cart. He tries to reach out of the small window opening to grab the object of his desire but his Mom cuts his arm off at the window's pass. He increases the rhythm of his foot stomping and throws his head back as he lets out an exasperated cry. His outburst echos throughout the cavernous expanse of the grocery store, bouncing off the walls and drawing the attention of fellow shoppers.
In the end the child leaves either screaming and chocolate-bar-less or smiling and sugar-satisfied. There are only two ways to remove the child from the store: by force or by retreat. More often than not the child appears to leave the store by his own will. Toddler: one. Mom: zero.
The scene I've just described has been witnessed by nearly every adult who has ever stepped foot in a grocery store. Children want what they want when they want it. Sugar addicted children want chocolate, sweets and every tantalizing treat. They don't stop to think about the stomach ache or the discipline and obedience training of parents who have taught them "how to ask." The last thing the child is considering is the embarrassing scene they are creating in check-out line nine.
How is it that I can so clearly see the immaturity and foolishness of the child's tantrum yet completely miss the folly in my own?
I am demanding, too. I want to be healthy, successful, happy and whole and I want it now. Actually, I wanted it yesterday but now will do. God, like the Mother pushing a weighed down cart, is telling me, "that's not how you ask." He's taught me better. Demanding doesn't get me what I want. Crying doesn't cure my pain. Screaming doesn't solve anything. And yet I persist in my tantrums. I pass by the vitality and full lives of my fellow man, a temptation more enticing than a thousand king size candy bars, and I start to stomp and cry. I throw such a fit that even a two year old would be impressed.
Like the child in the check-out line I have to learn that demanding my way isn't going to solve my problems and it isn't going to produce a favorable outcome. God, unlike the mother behind the cart, never retreats. He always carries me out by force. He persists in His way and demands my obedience. There is no wearing down of God's nerves. He can't be overcome by tears or swayed by the fear of embarrassment. Even when I yell, God doesn't budge. When I scream, He doesn't flinch. He is unwavering in His parental duty to raise a child that behaves according to His teachings and commands.
There will be plenty of trips through the grocery store with God where I won't get what I want. God will check out without having me pick out the biggest candy bar on the shelf. But that doesn't make Him a mean, stingy Father. God sees that the king size candy bar isn't the best treat for health. Getting what I want, when I want it isn't necessarily the most beneficial nourishment for the soul.
God has the cart full of what I need. He did the shopping, is going to prepare the meal and will serve it at the proper time. No spoiling my dinner with a Twix. No ruining my appetite with Skittles. God has the perfect meal plan and He isn't going to let it be ruined by harmful sweets that won't do my body a moment of good. He cares too much for me to give in to my tantrums. He sees what is best and, through my screams, cries and yells, says, "No." He's taught me better than that. He has better than that in store for me and He won't let a little fit get in the way of my receiving His good and enriching plan for my life.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Marathoner
"You don't need to be able to run a physical marathon. If you can run spiritual marathons, you are in good shape."
Those words rang out from Heaven as clearly as church bells on a Sunday morning. It was in a moment of need that God spoke into me confirmation of satisfaction. I didn't understand the need as I was expressing it but God knew the void I desperately needed filled and He came to my listening ear to provide the tender mercies my heart was aching to hear.
This need started years ago, back when I started running. I used to look at marathoners and envy their muscular legs, strong lungs and fierce bodies. In my healthier moments I fantasized about joining them in their quest for the finish line. Someday, I thought, I'll be running those twenty-six miles, too.
As the years passed and my weight dropped so did my running and with it my marathon dreams. Even if I had wanted to train and prepare for such a feat I wouldn't be able to force my body to cooperate. My weight and flaring muscles put an end to any ideas of training for a long distance run. To even an attempt a marathon at my weight would be foolish and downright dangerous. So I reluctantly let that dream go and re-shape my criteria for fitness. In order to cease judging my body by how many miles I could run and at what speed I had to stop envying the stride of marathoners. I had to change my definition of "in shape" and embrace the exercise of a brisk walk.
My vision of running a marathon has long been laid to rest and, until this morning, I hadn't thought on it for even a moment. No wonder I was surprised when God directly spoke to a deeply hidden longing that I believed was dead and buried.
As I sat on my bed with my Bible open to the book of Luke, God used the words in red, the words of Jesus, to remind me that the Holy Spirit was there with me, in the room. A sigh of relief filled up my lungs and brought an audible prayer to my lips. That's when I started talking to God, out loud. I normally - read never - pray out loud. I am more of a silent communicator. I pray to myself but I rarely speak to the air. As I meditated on Luke 17 I realized that talking out loud wasn't silly or a practice in futility. God was in the room. The Holy Spirit was as real as the bed I was sitting on.
So I started talking and what came forth was the need God had been waiting for me to acknowledge. Without an agenda, a dialogue or a plan I started speaking about my insufficiencies and insecurities. I spoke for what couldn't have been more than a minute or two but when I was done my heart felt lighter. Without yelling, screaming or crying I had vented the deepest parts of my soul and ended it with a smile and a new found peace.
That's when the voice came. That's when God responded. He reached into the shadows of my soul and revealed my hidden desire to run a marathon. Then He lifted my burden on of regret and loss. In return He gave me permission to accept my life and my body apart from my physical capabilities. In one sentence He redefined my understanding of fitness and strength and gave new meaning to "in shape."
The world's measurements for physical success don't define who I am. I am not evaluated by distance run or the pace of my fastest mile. God doesn't judge what the world can see and calculate. He doesn't use physical accomplishments to evaluate man.
God measures fitness against the perfect ruler of His Son. Jesus is my yard stick. The "it is finished" of Christ is my finish line. I'm running in a spiritual race that doesn't come with a stop watch or a checkered flag. It comes with trials, struggles, hidden blessings of the heart and eternal bliss in Heaven.
Until this morning I truly believed I was done judging myself by the world's physical standards but God shined a light into my heart and showed me otherwise. God uncovered a guilt burden I was hiding. I was still wishing and hoping for a body that could run a marathon. But that hope is no longer hidden and it is no longer doing internal damage to my inner peace. God threw off the covering and threw out the desire. He looked at my heart, heard my prayer and met my need for acceptance with His voice.
Now I know the truth of who I am in Christ and my spiritual fitness. I am in shape as long as I am running my race to the glory of god. As long as I am matching my steps to Christ's and keeping pace with His speed then I can be sure I am performing at a level worthy of the ultimate gold - the golden streets of Heaven perfectly paved for running the spirit's marathon to the glory and honor of the King of Kings.
Those words rang out from Heaven as clearly as church bells on a Sunday morning. It was in a moment of need that God spoke into me confirmation of satisfaction. I didn't understand the need as I was expressing it but God knew the void I desperately needed filled and He came to my listening ear to provide the tender mercies my heart was aching to hear.
This need started years ago, back when I started running. I used to look at marathoners and envy their muscular legs, strong lungs and fierce bodies. In my healthier moments I fantasized about joining them in their quest for the finish line. Someday, I thought, I'll be running those twenty-six miles, too.
As the years passed and my weight dropped so did my running and with it my marathon dreams. Even if I had wanted to train and prepare for such a feat I wouldn't be able to force my body to cooperate. My weight and flaring muscles put an end to any ideas of training for a long distance run. To even an attempt a marathon at my weight would be foolish and downright dangerous. So I reluctantly let that dream go and re-shape my criteria for fitness. In order to cease judging my body by how many miles I could run and at what speed I had to stop envying the stride of marathoners. I had to change my definition of "in shape" and embrace the exercise of a brisk walk.
My vision of running a marathon has long been laid to rest and, until this morning, I hadn't thought on it for even a moment. No wonder I was surprised when God directly spoke to a deeply hidden longing that I believed was dead and buried.
As I sat on my bed with my Bible open to the book of Luke, God used the words in red, the words of Jesus, to remind me that the Holy Spirit was there with me, in the room. A sigh of relief filled up my lungs and brought an audible prayer to my lips. That's when I started talking to God, out loud. I normally - read never - pray out loud. I am more of a silent communicator. I pray to myself but I rarely speak to the air. As I meditated on Luke 17 I realized that talking out loud wasn't silly or a practice in futility. God was in the room. The Holy Spirit was as real as the bed I was sitting on.
So I started talking and what came forth was the need God had been waiting for me to acknowledge. Without an agenda, a dialogue or a plan I started speaking about my insufficiencies and insecurities. I spoke for what couldn't have been more than a minute or two but when I was done my heart felt lighter. Without yelling, screaming or crying I had vented the deepest parts of my soul and ended it with a smile and a new found peace.
That's when the voice came. That's when God responded. He reached into the shadows of my soul and revealed my hidden desire to run a marathon. Then He lifted my burden on of regret and loss. In return He gave me permission to accept my life and my body apart from my physical capabilities. In one sentence He redefined my understanding of fitness and strength and gave new meaning to "in shape."
The world's measurements for physical success don't define who I am. I am not evaluated by distance run or the pace of my fastest mile. God doesn't judge what the world can see and calculate. He doesn't use physical accomplishments to evaluate man.
God measures fitness against the perfect ruler of His Son. Jesus is my yard stick. The "it is finished" of Christ is my finish line. I'm running in a spiritual race that doesn't come with a stop watch or a checkered flag. It comes with trials, struggles, hidden blessings of the heart and eternal bliss in Heaven.
Until this morning I truly believed I was done judging myself by the world's physical standards but God shined a light into my heart and showed me otherwise. God uncovered a guilt burden I was hiding. I was still wishing and hoping for a body that could run a marathon. But that hope is no longer hidden and it is no longer doing internal damage to my inner peace. God threw off the covering and threw out the desire. He looked at my heart, heard my prayer and met my need for acceptance with His voice.
Now I know the truth of who I am in Christ and my spiritual fitness. I am in shape as long as I am running my race to the glory of god. As long as I am matching my steps to Christ's and keeping pace with His speed then I can be sure I am performing at a level worthy of the ultimate gold - the golden streets of Heaven perfectly paved for running the spirit's marathon to the glory and honor of the King of Kings.
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