The Turkey Commissioned by God

I wish I knew where the turkey grew up....Had God put His finger on her on the sun-baked grasslands of the Midwest? In a long and low silver barn with countless cousins? In the chicken house of a local Amish family?

Perhaps it's best to not know.  At any rate, we first crossed paths in the kitchen cooler of a nursing home, when I plucked her, dressed in a cardboard box, off the stack of other turkeys in cardboard boxes.

Although there couldn't be anyone on earth less likely to cook a whole turkey than me, I was ridiculously pleased to find out that I was getting a turkey from the company at Thanksgiving.  I never really considered keeping it, although my aunt offered to smoke it for me.  

"I'll give it to Mary," I decided.  The turkey that God had called was next transported to the small refrigerator freezer outside my apartment door.

My friend Mary, who reminds me of Scarlett's Mammy from Gone with the Wind, is a great friend of mine.  Our bonds grew closer in the summer of 2011 when we made weekly trips to the Elkhart County Jail to visit her granddaughter, also a friend of mine.  The granddaughter complained about the food in jail, and wished for Mary's home cooking.   There was that day when they released her and we went to pick her up, greatly pregnant, but a free woman. We took her home, where Mary had a feast spread over the kitchen.  

Having lavish amounts of appropriate food is very critical to Mary's self-image. 

On my next trip to Elkhart, the turkey went with me in my blue Ford Focus, and then in my arms, up Mary's front steps.  

I knocked.  No one answered. 

After several dispiriting minutes, I went back to my car, and dropped the turkey, still boxed, back on the seat.  I was sure I would find an owner for it, but it didn't seem as fun anymore. 

I had started my car, when Michael, another grandson, stuck his head out of the front door.  

I shut my car off and mounted the steps again, box in hand.  

Mary met me with great cheer and invited me in as if she didn't have a care in the world. 

"I brought you a turkey, Mary," I said.  "Would you like one?" 

For perhaps the only time in her life, Mary was speechless. 

"Do you....like turkey?" I asked hesitantly.  

When she regained her voice, Mary began to tell me how she had been worried all week about not having a turkey for Thanksgiving. 

How she had asked her grandchildren if any of them get turkeys at their workplaces, and they had said "no". 

How she had called her daughter in Oklahoma to see if they could pay for a turkey in Oklahoma and she could pick it up in Elkhart. But there were no Kroger or Meijer stores in Oklahoma.

How her grandson had told her that the Salvation Army was handing out Thanksgiving baskets and had suggested she get one. "That's for people who don't have food," she told him.  "We have food. We just don't have a turkey."  

How she had decided that they just wouldn't have a turkey this Thanksgiving...yet how she felt that God would provide one in the end. 

How, as a last resort, she called her brother for money.  How, at the moment that I was pounding cheerlessly on her door, she was on the phone with him, asking him to help her buy a turkey. 

That's why she didn't come to the door.  

We hugged and cried and screamed, and our joy was neither black nor white, neither young nor old, but something entirely unearthly, because the turkey reminded us both: "God is with you."

It was still in the box, so I opened the top flap.  To show her there actually was a turkey in there. 

"That's a turkey!" she said. The old Mary was back. "This turkey is from God! I don't care who tells me anything different, I know this turkey is from God!"  

I couldn't agree more.  The turkey had clearly been hand-picked by God and sent via a network of freezers and delivery trucks, to sit on Mary's Thanksgiving table.

I was as excited to be one of the delivery people as she was to be the recipient.  

Maybe God will need you to deliver something to someone for Christmas?  It's an awesome job. 

 

October 15, 2012: 

She would only be 55 today.

I remember the day the stupid Goshen News put her obituary in the newspaper. (I like the Goshen News under normal circumstances.)  And I thought about all the people who had gone to Northwood High School with her reading it. Or her old teachers reading it. Mostly, all the people who were a whole lot older than her reading it. 

Happy Birthday to the most creative, funny, caring, and conscientious person!  Happy Birthday to a person who did more in her lifetime than some who live twice as long!  Happy  Birthday to a lady who died with class and peace!

How I wish we could go out for lunch!  How I wish I could bring her another Arby's roast beef with cheese or her favorite cream filled roll from Festival Foods!  (I learned from her that Walmart's cream-filled rolls have inferior cream.)  How I wish I could show her my new book...and tell her the ways that God has been so good to me and the amazing people He's put in my life, and the lavish answers to prayer.  How I wish I could tell her about the good conversation I had with my brother last night, and then she would talk to me about the grandchildren: Brad and Lys and David and the twins...

I think she would tell me to live each day with joy and love every person I meet and laugh more often.

In the letter I opened after she died, she says: "Perhaps from heaven I can see what you will all accomplish--but even greater than accomplishments is faithfulness."  

Perhaps she can. 

Today is a gift--

That is why it is called The Present.

When God Took My Coffee (And Other Celestial Vanishing Acts)

 My 2002 Ford Focus (bright blue except for the patches of rust), my first Dell computer in its bag with pockets, and my supply of coffee all had something in common: they were supernaturally maintained by the goodness of God.

My computer and my car were most similar, both old models that simply refused to quit. An occasional anti-virus update, an occasional oil change, and they were fine.

My coffee supply was more than maintained. I don't brew a lot myself (patronizing McDonald's, Main Street, and my aunt far too often instead), but I use enough that--were it not for God's mysterious intervention-- I would have had to buy coffee every few months.

I never did. Starting about the time of my mom's death in 2010 (and even before) I always had a steady supply of coffee gifted to me.  I'm not sure that I've bought one pound of coffee in the last three years, except maybe for a special event to brew for other people. Instead of buying, I just received. When my supply ran low, God would replenish my barrel--that is, someone else would give me another pound. It almost irritated my friends and my aunt--who, to say it bluntly, did not get coffee from God.

Weird, yes. 

My computer was my most prized possession, not because it was valuable, but because it was my silent companion so long.  Especially on my writing trips, my computer was my life vest, always keeping me afloat in new seas.  In the bright pockets of the bag, I stored everything: phone, credit cards, paper directories, and keys, so I could exit my car with only my computer, and be self-sufficient. Had someone stolen it, I would have been helpless. Had my motel started on fire (or even my house) it would have been the first thing I would have grabbed.

Shortly after my return from one of these writing trips, my computer, in its bag, vanished without a trace.

I suspect it was stolen from my car in the Hobby Lobby parking lot, but I don't even know that because I left for a two-day camping trip before missing it. All of my documents were backed up, but none of the countless pictures I had taken, often in lieu of taking notes. All my photos and videos of friends, family, and research were gone. I can't even find a picture of my computer to include in this blog.

There was something odd about it. Only God knew the extent to which my computer was my most prized possession.  Only he knew how to slip it out of my grasp so soundlessly that I would not miss it for two days, by which time it was irretrievable. Only he could have timed the theft when I was at home and could easily replace it. 

It had been so pointed, so final, so mysterious and confusing. At the same time, I felt the intense closeness of his presence. I could almost hear him say, "See how well I know you? See how much I care?"

You don't have me figured out, God told me. I am the one in charge here. I know what I'm doing. 

I couldn't help but agree. 

 That was Sunday evening, February 5th.

Throughout the next months as I plucked away on my new and impersonal computer, I brewed my coffee from God.  I took a night job and began to brew pots at 9pm instead of 9am.  I watched the two shiny bags of coffee dwindle, shrinking in my basket of drinks. 

Sunday morning, August 12th, I was awake at about 3am.  It was my day off, and I headed for the coffee pot.

"Well God, it looks like the barrel has run dry," I remarked (cheerfully, I think) as the last lonely coffee beans tumbled into my grinder and I pitched both bags in the trash.  I had been saving a little of each, because they taste best together. I ground the batch into an aromatic and artistic heap.  Just enough for one more big pot.

The "coffee from God" era had been fun, so it was sad to see it end.  Perhaps God thought I could afford to buy coffee since I had gotten a job (God, have you forgotten about my student loans?). Or maybe--help!- He was hinting at the benefits of not relying on caffeine, suggesting I give up coffee.  (Don't give me more than I can handle, please God!)

I rinsed the pot, and put the fresh coffee into the filter, and filled my pot with water. I hit the start button, and rushed off to catch the bagel I had been toasting before it got too cold.

I spread my bagel and was in the process of eating it, when I realized that my coffee was not brewing. The light was on, and it was plugged in, but nothing was happening.

Now, this was a cheap pot that I believe I bought at a garage sale 7 or 8 years ago.  To the best of my memory, it has worked flawlessly every time I turned it on since then, a bit like my car. And my computer.

It wasn't working now.

I poked at the water reservoir. How does a coffee maker work anyway? But I knew in my heart that if it didn't start right away, it wasn't going to start. It didn't. Functionally, it had vanished as thoroughly as the computer.

My coffee from God and my coffee maker disappeared from my life the same night. 

Am I about to explain this?

I am not. I'm completely confused.  I don't have God figured out, and (eureka!) I like it this way.  I wouldn't respect a God I could explain, or a God who gave me only blessings, or a God who was my size, or a God who asked my permission. 

Rather, I'm in awe at the way God gave and sustained these gifts and then took them back.  I'm mystified at how they whirled without explanation down a drain I didn't even know existed. What creativity and irony! I'm shocked that, in the loss of the coffee and pot, I once again felt his presence intensely. I didn't even know he cared that much about computers and coffee.  What a plot twist!

I'm a little worried about my rusty blue Focus that I was hoping would putter on for another year. I'm also sobered by the gentle hint God gave me a few nights later as I drove to work in the dark. As I hurtled down County Road 11 in my trusty car, it was as if God dropped me a gentle hint: this isn't about coffee and computers.

It's not? I questioned, like a child who thinks a tool is a toy.

Can you believe that every gift in life and every loss in life is minutely planned by me? What about losses that hurt so bad you can't breathe? Can you believe the magic of the computer and the coffee? Can you remember that it was their loss that showed my greatness, more than having them?  How you liked the gifts when you had them, but loved the Giver when he took them back? 

I'm amazed and humbled by a God I can't understand, measure, or predict. He's out of this world, brilliant, and strategic.  His love is so creative, because his knowledge of each person is so complete.

God's not uneasy around introverts, 

or threatened by extroverts. 

He's not puzzled or frustrated by handicaps, complexity, or scars.  

He knows what will 

get each person's attention, 

humble them, and 

encourage them to serve him. 

He forces nothing on us, but he continually seeks us, giving us every chance to choose him.

Those who choose him will do so, not because they need to.  

They will serve him because it's an honor to serve the only Person in our tired and two-faced world who knows us minutely, 

loves us completely, 

and asks our permission for nothing. 

Our Olympic God

I love the Olympics.  The hottest competitions, the most impressive ceremonies, the golden moments, the inspiring stories, the knife-sharp tension, the brilliant smiles, the Michael Phelps power, the Gabby Douglas grace...in short the best the globe has to offer of everything.

In the midst of my dreamy reverie about the medals, the muscles, the majesty of it all, I happened upon Isaiah 40 the day after closing ceremony.

"To whom then will you liken God?" the writer asks.

"An idol!" he answers his own question in astonishment and, I think, a bit of ridicule.

"A craftsman casts it and a goldsmith overlays it with gold and casts for it silver chains." The writer chooses the most Olympic thing he can think of, and then laughs at us, for thinking that gold is the same as God. For thinking that God will be okay with us giving our committed admiration to anything smaller than him.

"The nations are like a drop from a bucket!" The writer exclaims. I have no doubt that even in his time, this writer knew of great Olympic dignitaries, of the nations getting together to compete, or great fireworks-like displays of wealth and power. He knew about the private jets and power breakfasts of his time, and he's just saying, "I don't care"--beside God's power and wealth, these are not even significant. 

Pitting the worst student swimmer at the local high school against Michael Phelps would make more sense than thinking that the global Olympic display of power and wealth approaches God. Asking one of our old ladies at the nursing home to compete with Gabby Douglas would make more sense than assuming that gaining an Olympic medal would be more important than gaining God's approval. 


May our love for the stories of power and grace always be overshadowed by a greater admiration!

The Tunnel

Death, the dark tunnel to the unknown is the one thing feared by all. We fear it, along with the dying process, including cancer, gray hair, and turning 30. 

Saturday, June 2, 2012, four friends and I run the Sunburst 10K. We pour across the finish line in historic Notre Dame stadium with about 8,000 other people, a majority of whom run the shorter 5K. Some run the half marathon, and the bravest of the brave run the full marathon.

The weather is perfect when we start, and we are nervous and excited and carefree, much like the beginning of the Christian life. We climb hills, we drink Gatorade. A shoe comes untied, a water bottle drops.  People on the sidewalks cheer us on, and we smile and wave and wish them a good morning.   At moments, our sides ache, and we have to walk.

"We're halfway there!" we shout to each other as we pass the 3-mile mark.  We pass Mile 4 and climb the dreadful hill.  We survive. We pass Mile 5.

"Only one more mile to go!" I shout.

"One point four miles," our tireless cheerleader corrects me. 

True.

As we near the Notre Dame campus, someone on the sidewalk holds up a sign: "Only 0.87 miles to go!" 

We're so close.

We turn north up Eddy Street. We must be almost there. We have to be almost there. Our breath comes fast, burning our lungs.

It's on that home stretch that we have our moment of crisis. Somehow, that last 0.87 miles goes on and on and on. 

"It's just up there," I gasp.  "See where those people are turning."

"I'm feeling sick," says the girl who is faster than the rest of us but didn't get to train as much.

We're all in various stages of disrepair, fiery aches, nausea, brick-like feet.  Oxygen supplies are running out. There's vomit beside the road. 

"We can do it guys, it's right around the corner," says our undaunted cheerleader.  But even her face is drawn and pale. 

Right around the corner is too far.

"We can do it, we can do it, we're almost there!"

We turn the corner. 

Then we turn off the street, and the tunnel swallows us. We rush down the cement slope. Everything is cool. And dark. And downhill. We shout and cheer. It's only a moment, and we burst through to the other side, and everything is bright and green.  Under the banner that says finish line stands our male friend, who got there first.  He's giving us high fives, and all around us in the bright sunlight are all the other people who finished before us, and behind us on longer and harder courses, there are others still coming. 

Seeing life's course in this light, the tunnel of death frightens me less. I would be frightened if I wasn't sure if I was registered, if I didn't have a number. I would be frightened if I ran out of water. I would be frightened if I hadn't trained.   I would be frightened if I missed the start of the race, if I got there too late.

I would be frightened if I were alone. In some sense, running--like life-- is an individual exercise, and no one can run for you. But at the same time, in that moment of crisis on that last dreadful stretch, it made all the difference that we were together. 

With these thoughts in mind, I'll be turning 30 in a few weeks.  That puts me closer to the tunnel than I was at 18, yes, and farther from the carefree skipping at the starting line. And I know there will be some moments of crisis that I will have to go through in this process called aging. Perhaps there will be some last dreadful moments before I reach the tunnel.

But I think that my hunch about the tunnel itself is right, and I think that when we come out onto the green in the sunlight, there will be people waiting for us under the finish line. In that new bright environment, that dream come true, we will at last know that the tunnel was not the enemy.

 Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is your sting? 

O grave, where is your victory? 

--I Corinthians 15: 54, 55

Allegory in the armchair...

In a concrete parking lot under a street light....my mind is working too hard again, churning over the old gloomy questions, like... Are there problems that are too big to solve, too many decades old and deep to break? Is there grief beyond the power of miracles? 

I put my car in gear and leave the parking lot for the nursing home, where we don't normally have a lot of medical drama.  We have drama, just not medical drama.  But tonight at about 2 am...

The lady's blood pressure rises to 220.  Her heart has worked too hard for decades, and now it's outdoing itself in a flurry of dangerous pressure.  Soon the chest pain starts.

We try to make her comfy in one of the armchairs around the TV out in the dusky lounge. I bring the little brown bottle of nitroglycerin, the drug that we learned about in school. The little white pills are smaller than a grain of rice! I sit on the arm of the chair beside her chair. I pour a few of the pills into the bottle cap.  I pick one up between two fingers, like a baby grasping a cheerio.  It almost escapes.  I slip it into the woman's mouth and tell her to let it melt under her tongue.

It seems so ridiculous...trying to stop a blood pressure freight train with a feather-weight pill.  Will this little melting dot reach through her mouth, down to heart? What are the odds that it will have the power to shut off the chest pain, to restore a heart overworked for decades? This should be hopeless.

We wait five minutes, and give another one. At the end of ten minutes, she falls asleep. I take the blood pressure a bit later and it's dropped from 220 to 160.

And God asks me why I don't believe in redemption when medicine can restore old, over-worked hearts in minutes. When a white pill that could get lost in the carpet performs a miracle before my eyes.  A pill so much less powerful than the word of God.

Thank you God for the allegory in the armchair, my favorite kind of story, minutes after I asked the question. Your nitroglycerin, unexpected, powerful, full of peace.

God Is With Us?

The yellow light slants in the western windows, falling onto the backs of the heads of the tenors, throwing long shadows onto the brown benches. The basses, altos and sopranos circle up the stairs, their shirts and dresses blocks of color behind sheet music. The director stands in the middle, his elbows bobbing out the rhythm as his fingers play the choir like a virtual keyboard.

We are not alone...God is with us....ever and ever, we are never alone!

We who tomorrow will be clerks, business owners, cooks, students, farmers, welders, nurses, and grandmas, are for this moment, just one: the body of Christ standing in a loose circle, trying to pry our eyes out of our music folders to watch the director...trying to pry our eyes out of our daily lives to believe that God is with us.  Is it true? our hearts ask sometimes. God is with us, we are never alone? 


Like most questions, it's been asked before. Another day laborer, a farmer, asked it thousands of years ago, his face sweaty and dusty from threshing wheat.

The angel (who had just suddenly dropped in) said, 

"The Lord is with you."

And Gideon said to him, 

"Please, sir, if the Lord is with us, why then has all this happened to us?"

(Judges 6:12, 13 ESV)

What a question of the ages! If God is real, why so many problems? If God is with us, why do things hurt? That question that we still ask as we watch the director over our music folders, and the light of day disappears outside, and we know that tomorrow we need to get up and make breakfast, or tonight we need to go work third shift, and there will be moments that God will not seem to be with us.

How did God answer Gideon's question? He didn't. Instead, the angel told Gideon to go in this might of yours and save the nation. Did not I send you?

No long list of reasons why all this happened to us, or excuses why God seemed absent. Apparently, the angel wasn't interested in arguing about an obvious truth and was instead interested in action. 

A few days later...the Spirit of the Lord clothed Gideon. 
A few more days later...And Gideon came to the Jordan and crossed over, he and the 300 men who were with him, exhausted yet pursuing....

Gideon never got an answer to his question about why life was hard.  He just realized, after meeting God, that he didn't need an answers, he only needed God.


So we go back to pouring milk into our cereal, or answering the telephone the tenth time, or changing the oil, or planning a lesson. And we go, clothed in God's Spirit, exhausted, yet pursuing, because with God, no explanation is needed: we are never alone!   

French Press Questions on a Beautiful Judean Morning...

It's Thursday morning. The coffee shop conversation of last night is still steeping in my mind like the coffee grounds swirling in the French press this morning.  We talked about disciplines--that great American topic--exercise and eating right and getting out of bed early.  How does God perceive our stumbling efforts to DO good and make ourselves feel better about ourselves? As the moon climbed high over Nappanee, we discussed that our disciplines are often an effort to find life. 

That's when I look again at my coffee mug, full of chocolate brown and a frosting of lighter foam. Under the word FAITH, it says, "Jesus looked at them and said, 'With man this is impossible but with God all things are possible.' " Matthew 19:26

In what context did Jesus say that? I turn my Bible open to Matthew. Yes, he was responding to the young man who came to Jesus with a question.  How odd! It was just the question that, 2000 years later, we were discussing last night in the coffee shop.

"What good deed must I do to have eternal life?" 

Jesus questions him a little and we find that this is an immaculate young man.  I have no doubt that he got up before the sun rose over Judea and worked out every morning and never ate chocolate chip cookies sandwiched with frosting.

Jesus let him feel good about this for about half a second, then asked him to give up his French press and his iPad and his new job and start walking on dusty roads where crowds of sick people reach out for Jesus and there's no Internet service.

For perhaps the first time in his life, this young guy is less than immaculate. He's very troubled by the turn in a conversation that he thought he had under control.  He really did want to follow Jesus' recommendations... but this? His social status was his identity!

The scary thing? That was Jesus' point. Jesus is just that good at reading hearts, that he can find where we have placed our identity and customize his instructions to dismantle it.  He can find the one thing that we are getting life from, and ask us to abandon it. For this man, it is possessions. For someone else, it might be education. For another person, it could even be working out and eating right, could it not?!

As the man walks away, Jesus points out to his disciples that the handsome young man is a frightening prototype:  People who have achieved a lot on their own don't enter the kingdom often. They've created their own world, and it works well.  They don't need to join another kingdom. They've taken all the right classes and associated with all the right people. They're too busy working out and acing college exams and updating their electronics and making French press in front of the fireplace.

This bothered the disciples, just as it bothers me thousands of years later.  He was a great young man with so much potential!  Surely he could be a Christian?

That's where the verse encircling my French press comes next in the passage: with God, this is possible.  Not with man--no one is able to choose life on their own, and the more things we have to give up in life, the less we are able to choose it.  But with God....In fact, we have no proof that the young man did not follow Jesus in the end.  For all we know, it was the Apostle Paul.  Okay, probably not.  But we don't know.

Like our stories, the young man's story in Scripture is unfinished. But Jesus' words cut through the fog to us as well as to him:  We can't follow Jesus if our source of life is wrapped in any possession, talent, or even discipline.  There is no good deed I must do.  Like our friend across the centuries, we ask the wrong questions over our steaming French press.

But it is possible to have them answered right anyway....with God.

Kidneys and Quilts

The lady calls from the kidney donor center and wonders if I'm still interested in donating a kidney. Even though I just took a job that I won't be able to escape easily....yes, I'll look at the information.  I think I want to do this, sometime. I ask her if it's possible to be too old to donate a kidney and she laughs and says, "Sixty-five. Eighteen to sixty-five."

It's time for lighter blankets because it's summer outside so I put the quilt on the bed, made of all the little pieces that used to be my mom's wardrobe. I think about how that is the best kind of life to live....the life that breaks into many pieces and blesses people beyond it's own lifetime. 

I wonder if being used by God to bless others isn't the greatest rush possible in this world, and maybe it goes on after this world. To allow our wardrobes, our possessions, our lives, to be cut in pieces and rearranged for the good of someone else.

I sense this, but I have not lived it.  I have instead demanded from others and snapped when threatened and whined when hurt.  I want to live it...or, on the days that I don't even want to live it, Lord help me to want to want to. Help me to cross the barriers between knowing in my heart that this is the highest joy and living it with my hands and words...and kidney, if God permits. :)

One Released Prisoner to Another

Twice in the last six months, I got to watch someone get released from prison.

There were differences:

• One was a prison of steel and concrete, the other a prison of guilt and sin.  
• One was released by the decision of Elkhart County Judge Shoemaker, the other by the work of Jesus Christ on the cross. 
• One was released to house arrest, the other was given a full pardon. 

There were similarities:

• They both had been desiring this release for some time. 
• They both had a happy mother/grandmother to rejoice over their release.  
• They both were excited about doing better, about living differently. 
• They both left many friends behind in prison. 

An odd thing happens when you watch someone's release from prison. First, you don't care a bit about their past sins, you just want them to be free. Second, you want so badly for them to stay out of that prison forever. Third, you envision how life would be for them if they made all the right choices.

They don't, of course, always make all the right choices.

You remind yourself that God is the great Prison-breaker, and he will continue to seek.

But you realize that, for the privilege of getting to watch their release, you will now:
....grieve when they struggle
...think of ways to help them but remind yourself that God is their only true help
...wish you could just make everything right.
...try to find the balance between being there for them and putting pressure on them. 

Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stay true to the Lord. I love you and long to see you... (Philippians)

And then the big thought: if we as humans (released prisoners ourselves) can care so much for other released prisoners, how much more must Jesus care about each one of us who he has released? How much must he hate it when we choose things that will take us back to prison! How much must he want to release our whole life, and not just pieces of our lives!

May the Bastilles crumble...

Fasting, Marathon Training for the Soul

Lent, I thought, was something you only did if you were Catholic.  Then, I learned that Lent is just fasting from something for 40 days. And ending the fast on the day we celebrate Christ's resurrection is so symbolic.  It's like taking the last steps of a marathon downhill onto a cool lawn.

Fast food and dessert I decided, were two indulgences I could cut for 40-odd days. I even started before the official Lent start date (no favorite cream cheese paczkis on Fat Tuesday).  I was flushed with moderate success for...10 days?

Then I agreed to go on an even stricter one-week cleanse with my aunt (one of those I've seen since grade school and had to try someday), and so I ate some dessert and fast food because I needed to prepare for the strict week! Oh the logic of the loophole! 

So I'm only a few days into Lent and I've failed. But I still like Lent because fasting strengthens soul-muscle, giving more room for the power of God to work.  Depriving ourselves of small things like food and drink (not so small sometimes) build the muscles for running longer marathons of the soul, for allowing God to power us up the last hills when our leg muscles feel like hamburger.

Muscles like:

• Focus. Fasting puts body, mind, and spirit are on the same page.
• Proper perspective. Fasting brings to mind there will always be hunger and pain. Fasting captures that hunger and invites us to give it to God.
• Spiritual eyesight.  Fasting chips away at barriers to relationship with God. 
• Persistence in temptation. Fasting trains for other battles.

Jesus, the master finisher (who holds all the world records in this sort of thing) is the one who powers our spiritual exercise. His power gets a chance to work when we take the time to train.

At a marathon, the finishers don't necessarily have perfect training histories. But they have training histories.

And from the field of writing, the same truth: I try to write a certain amount each day, five days a week.  A rule sometimes broken is better than no rule. -Herman Wouk

Yes, better to be following a rule and sometimes breaking it than not trying at all. So, leaving those "desserts which are behind and reaching forward"...

Rejoicing, Thieves, and Happiness

It was either the day my computer was stolen or the day before that I got out my new pastels and wrote on my wall.  (The privilege of people who live in temporary walls.)

Why that verse? It was kind of random, except that rejoicing has historically been in short supply in my life.

Why that day? Maybe a little humor on God's part...(maybe she needs a head start rejoicing before the computer gets stolen).

Then, just this morning, it appeared again, Philippians 3:1: Rejoice in the Lord.  Here is what Adam Clarke says in his old commentary on this verse: "Be always happy, but let that happiness be such as you derive from the Lord."

Oh! So God knows that we will find happiness in something in life.  He's not telling us to be happy. He's telling us what to be happy about.

So thefts have no impact on the rejoicing that we "derive from the Lord."  Because we weren't rejoicing in our things...

But I still hope the verse this morning isn't preparation for another theft!

Most Influential Books in the Last 50 Years

http://www.superscholar.org/features/50-most-influential-books-last-50-years/
Most of them haven't influenced me, and many of them I've never heard of. 

Setting Sail...Philippians 1:23

"My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better."

Adam Clarke believes that Paul is hinting at a ship metaphor here. He's referring to a ship captain in a foreign port who wants to go home to his family and hometown.  Yet he knows his mission will be best fulfilled by staying on.

Sometimes we long just to have that longing, that identification with the life beyond.  Imagine how little fear of dying we would have if we could all view death as going to our hometown after a long trip! 

The Upside of Being a Little Nuts

Reader's Digest clip again....funny, because I haven't read the Reader's Digest seriously in years.  But this is not only good but comforting.  (!)

You may be surprised to learn that certain disorders are often linked to qualities we value as a society:

• Anxiety: You're more likely to be COMPASSIONATE.  Highly anxious people are known for their sensitivity and attentiveness to others. They also tend to be hypervigilant, so they make good surgeons, doctors, dentists, and bankers.
• Mild Bipolar Disorder: You're more likely to be CREATIVE.  Many people prone to mood swings are writers, artists, musicians, and performers. 
• Depression: You're more likely to be INSIGHTFUL. Depressives tend to be more in touch with the deeper truths about themselves, life, and the human experience, experts say. 
• Obsessive-compulsive Disorder: You're more likely to be HARDWORKING and DILIGENT. People with OCD tend to excel at jobs with strict rules or guidelines that require a high level of conscientiousness.  

Reader's Digest, March 2012, p. 133

Interview of the main players in Moneyball

I just started listening to Moneyball on audiobook. It's a story about talent, one of my favorite topics.  Here's an interesting interview: the hero of the book, Billy Beane, discusses the story with Brad Pitt, who plays Billy in the movie.

 

Billy was once a young baseball player who people thought would be a star.  After enduring all that pressure and never really succeeding, he became general manager of a team and changed the way they chose players.  

She took out her iPhone...

Reader's Digest's face lift on the opening lines of several classic novels:

Alice in Wonderland:  "Alice was beginning to tire of sitting by her sister on the bank. She took out her iPhone and played Angry Birds for the next three hours."

Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an Internet start-up to call his own."

And....I just read a great novel on my Kindle.  It was a real button-presser.  (p.190, March 2012)