Today,
I smell a yellow rose,
drink coffee from a smiley cup,
and watch PB read the paper across the table.
No deep thoughts,
no pressing demands,
no duties to perform.
I am taking a vacation
from myself.
“Come away with me to a quiet place and get some rest.” Mark 6:31
Last Sunday our church honored those brave, hardy souls that came week after week to teach squirrelly children about the love of Jesus in Sunday school. These are people who intentionally chose to not sleep in on Sunday mornings for a good nine months. They volunteered knowing that antsy little boys and chatty little girls would ask unbelievably hard questions about God and life and the universe. Some of our teachers who serve week after week also have been faithful year after year. If there was a Sunday School Teacher Hall of Fame, I would have several inductees.
Being a Sunday school teacher can be daunting and thankless. So, at the close of the school year, we sing the praises of these unsung heroes.
After applauding the sacrifice and dedication of these wonderful people, the congregation settled in for PB’s sermon. He was preaching on Hebrews 11 – the great “Faith Hall of Fame” chapter. The writer names several giants of the faith like Abraham and Moses, but ends the chapter with many unnamed saints who “faced jeers and flogging, while still others were chained and put in prison. They were stoned, they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword.”
That jarring statement suddenly made teaching Sunday school look pretty tame.
So far, not one of our teachers has been sawed in two.
What we call “sacrifice”, the saints of old might have called “privilege”, “opportunity to serve”, or even “joy”. Until I am chained and put in prison, maybe I better rethink the use of the word “sacrifice”.
There’s been a mysterious smell in our house. It didn’t matter how many candles I lit, how many plug in air fresheners I plugged in, or how much Oust I sprayed. The foul odor lingered. It was especially strong near the kitchen, by the back door, in the closet.
This is the broom/mop/dog food/light bulb/batteries/wasp spray/duct tape/spray cleaner/recycle bin/plastic and paper bags/vacuum cleaner/ toilet brush/miscellaneous box closet. Did I mention there is a refrigerator in there, too?
It’s a big closet.
I also keep potatoes and onions in the stackable baskets.
Hence the stink.
I kept dropping hints to PB like, “Gosh, where could that awful stench be coming from?” Or “Did you step in something, dear?” I even tried to appeal to his curiosity by whispering, “There’s something in the closet and I think it’s dead.” He didn’t bite.
This was going to be my battle to fight.
In the dark recesses of the catch-all closet, I was momentarily startled by what I thought was a one-legged spider, but it was just a sad, shriveled potato.
It stunk to high heaven.
Funny how such a little thing,
ignored for months in a dark closet,
can produce such a foul smell.
“Be tender with sinners, but not soft on sin.
Sin itself stinks to high heaven.” Jude 1:23
Last night PB and I went to a visitation at a funeral home for a dear lady that was a member of a church we used to serve. We wanted to offer our condolences to the family and support them during their time of loss. For PB, this is the equivalent of a Friday night date. I’m okay with that.
Upon entering the funeral home, I went to the guest book and started to sign our names. I glanced up at the 8×10 picture of our deceased friend and was stunned at how much she had changed in the last few years. That’s when PB whispered, “Umm…that’s not her.” Realization hit that we were at the wrong funeral home. I panicked.
Should I cross out the half-written name in the guest book? No.
Should I go ahead and finish signing our names? No.
So I took PB’s middle name and stuck it on as a last name and I hightailed it out of there.
PB was a few steps behind me because he had stopped to grab a few pieces of complimentary candy.
I sure hope no one saw us sprinting out the door and through the parking lot, exploding with laughter.
That might have looked bad.
We finally found the right funeral home and paid our respects to the right person. But every few miles on the ride home, PB and I would look at each other and start giggling.
I love going on dates with PB.
See these nice sturdy cement block walls?
They are built to last.
See these durable ceiling tiles?
They are firmly fixed in place.
And outlets? How many outlets does one building wing need?
Back in 1965, nobody was thinking about wireless internet connections.
The word “internet” didn’t even make the dictionary until twenty years later.
Today, a nice young man came to look things over and help us set up Wi-Fi.
He spent two and a half hours walking around, taking pictures and jotting down notes. Pages and pages of notes.
Bless him. He’s got his work cut out.
I’m sure glad the Spirit of God isn’t hindered by brick walls or immovable tiles. I’m so relieved I don’t need wires or ethernets or modems or routers.
I just need to say, “Abba, Father.”
Connected.
In honor of the first National Independent Bookstore Day on May 2nd, I’d like to show off my hometown’s very own, one-of-a-kind, Village Booksmith.
There are nooks and crannies and soft seats….and books!
Every bookstore needs a furry friend to make it feel homey.
This is my favorite corner. I think good thoughts when I sit here.
This is my go-to shelf. Wait. “The Wealthy Writer”? That must belong in the fiction area.
Sometimes people stop in and tickle the ivories.
Books are stacked, shelved, and piled. I could lose myself in this place for weeks.
Where else could you read books on agriculture while sitting in a chair like this?
I’m so lucky to live down the street from this special place.
Thanks Annie! Happy National Independent Bookstore Day!
More than once, I’ve been accused of throwing a “wet blanket” on a creative idea. And rightly so. I can’t help it. When a brilliant notion is presented to me, I seem to think it’s my job to point out all the problems that could arise. I’m just offering a dose of reality to balance out the brilliance. Unfortunately, my input can be received as discouragement. I really don’t like being a “Debbie Downer” but somebody has to speak truth into the mix. Right? (Somebody agree with me.)
Because I’m married to an “idea” man, I’m learning (over 36 years) to hold off on dousing wild and wonderful ideas with my wet blanket. Here’s why: I’m learning that…
1) …even if it’s not my idea, it can still be a good idea.
2) …when a scheme challenges my comfort zone, it might be good for me.
3) …I don’t know everything. (No surprise there.)
4) …sometimes faith means doing things that don’t make sense to me.
Paul wrote in 1 Thessalonians 5:19, “Do not quench the Spirit.” In other words, I shouldn’t throw a wet blanket on what the Spirit of God is prompting me to do. Whether it’s to send a note to someone who needs a lift, or whether it’s to bring up Jesus in a conversation with an unbeliever, it’s never my job to question the Holy Spirit. My job is to listen, trust, and step out in faith and obedience.
I’m trying to trade in my wet blanket for a fan.
“I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you…” 2 Tim. 1:6
Here’s a sure sign of spring.
Flip-flops and capri shorts and hanging out on the deck.
So that means it’s time for some spring cleaning.
Luckily, I had a little help this weekend.
We polished the mirrors.
We dusted the end tables.
We vacuumed the carpets.
Evie pointed out where I missed a spot.
She’s helpful like that.
Then we organized the cupboards.
With all the extra help, the chores were done in no time.
Maybe I worked her too hard.
9:30 a.m. is a little early for an afternoon nap.
When I was seven years old, our family went to New York City. One of my memories from that trip was having breakfast at a small diner in Manhattan. My wide-eyes had never seen anything like it. The waitress was yelling out orders, the cook was yelling right back, people were yelling for more coffee…it was New York City mayhem at it’s finest. There was more noise and chaos in that little place than I had seen in all my seven years on the farm. At one point, the waitress was moving so fast that she knocked over a tray of empty coffee cups. She picked up one cup that was broken clean in half down the middle, held it up in the air and shouted, “Who wants half a cup?!” The customers broke out in laughter and cheers, so we did too. When in New York……
I thought of that story the other day when I was reading Philippians 3. This is such a great chapter that I’m putting some of it to memory, starting with verse 10. “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection…” Coming off of Easter and a fresh sense of wonder and awe at Christ’s resurrection, this verse sends goose bumps up my spine. What would it be like to really know the kind of power that could take a dead, beaten, bloody body and breath life back into it? Wow. Count me in — I want to have that Very. Same. Power.
Verse 10 isn’t done, though.
“….and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings…”
Wait. What?
Hold on just a second.
Power? Yes, please!
Suffering? *crickets*
Who wants half a verse?
Like the shattered cup, half holds nothing.
True power rises up out of true suffering.
And actually, our hurts and disappointments are just a share of what Christ suffered….
and honestly, fellowship thrives when brothers and sisters carry each other’s burdens.
Jesus took the whole cup.
I should, too.
I borrowed a line from my son on Easter Sunday:
“The resurrection was the greatest fourth quarter comeback in history.”
If that’s the case, then the 50 days between the resurrection and the coming of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost was the longest post-game wrap-up ever.
Those poor disciples.
They spent most of their three year internship with Jesus a few steps behind.
“Jesus said to them, ‘Don’t you understand?'” (Mark 4:13)
“Do you still not understand?” (Mark 8:21)
“But they did not understand what He meant and were afraid to ask Him.” (Mark 9:32)
“They kept asking, ‘What does He mean? We don’t understand what He is saying.'” (John 16:18)
For three days they hid out, fearing for their lives after the crucifixion of their Teacher.
For forty days, the resurrected Jesus popped in and out of their gatherings, alive and well and….unexplainable.
For another ten days they waited for……something. Jesus said, “wait” so they hunkered down in Jerusalem not even knowing what they were waiting for.
Ten days.
That’s a long time for eleven men to sit around.
I hope one of them remembered Jesus’ words from their last meal with Him:
“You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” (John 13:7)
I often feel like I’m two (or twenty) steps behind Jesus. I wonder why He makes me wait so much. I wish there were more explanations for the crazy things that happen in my life and in the world.
The disciples obeyed and waited and, before long, they “got” it. That’s what it looks like to be a follower of the Risen Christ. When I get a little farther along, more understanding will come to me, too. I just need to keep moving along, to get a little farther than yesterday —
don’t stop, keep walking.
This week, this is my story, this is my song.
“Farther along we’ll know all about it. Farther along we’ll understand why. So cheer up, my brothers, live in the sunshine. We’ll understand this, all by and by.”
“Farther Along” by Josh Garrels
a small drop of ink 