Virtuous Cycle

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One evening awhile ago, PB and I went out to dinner with another couple.  They are good friends and we enjoy their company.  There is just one problem with them: they always insist on picking up the tab.  This brings out the competitive nature in PB, who does not like to be out-done.  In the midst of the evening’s conversation, a coming theater performance was mentioned.  We all agreed that it sounded like an interesting event and that it might be fun to go.  PB nudged me;  I patted PB’s knee.  We were thinking the same thing: here was our chance to finally do something for this generous couple.

The next morning, I stopped in at the theater and bought four tickets to the show.  We made the call and invited our friends to join us.  Hooray!  We were thrilled to be givers at last!

As we were waiting for the curtain to rise on the night of the show, I complimented my friend on her pretty blouse.  I sincerely appreciated how nice she looked and instead of just thinking it, I told her.  It was just a passing comment.

Later that week, a package was delivered to my door.  I didn’t remember ordering anything, so I was curious about the elegantly wrapped box.  I pulled back the tissue and inside was a nicely folded blouse, just like the one my friend had worn; just my size.  I was stunned!  What a surprise!  How very thoughtful!  A note was tucked in the box thanking us for the night out together. 

I immediately called and left a message on her phone, attempting to express my gratefulness and joy over the unexpected gift!  The next day, my friend emailed me, thanking me for being so excited about the blouse.  A week later, I sent her a hand written thank you note, letting her know that every time I open my closet and see that blouse, I am blessed all over again. 

I can’t stop this thing!  I can’t seem to out-give my friend!  But I’m sure going to keep trying!  The more she gives, the more I want to give.  It’s a virtuous cycle. 

“For God so loved the world, He gave…” (John 3:16)  God is the one who started this whole giving thing and although I will never be able to out-give Him, His generosity stirs something up in me.  God has picked up the entire tab for my ticket to eternal life.  How do I respond to that?

For the month leading up to Thanksgiving, let’s just see how grateful we can be.  Please chime in with your thankful thoughts.  Jump into the virtuous cycle and create a whirlwind of gratitude with me.

Ten Reasons Why

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Ten Reasons Why Baseball Is the Best Sport Ever

1.  A .300 batting average is considered to be really good.  Which means you can fail 70% of the time and still be amazing.

2.  If it starts raining, baseball players go inside and wait until the rain stops before going back out. 

3.  Baseball players get to chew great big wads of gum and they get to spit sunflower seeds all over the dugout.

4.  From April to September, thirty teams each play 162 games which means there are 2430 baseball games to entertain us all summer long, unlike football players who only give their fans 521 regular season games.  I’m just saying….

5.  There is singing at baseball games. Where else can you join in with a choir of thousands belting out “God Bless America” and “Roll Out the Barrel”?

6.  Baseball is not a slow game.  A 90 mph fast ball takes approximately .4 seconds to reach the batter. The batter gets about .2 seconds to decide if he’s going to swing or not. 

7.  Baseball players don’t have to huddle up after every play and talk about what they are going to do next.  They know what they are going to do: hit the ball, run fast. 

8.  There’s no hitting or tackling or blindsiding people in baseball.  But you can stand toe to toe with the ump and yell your heart out, as long as you don’t spit or say bad words.

9.  Baseball players are polite.  If the fans are cheering like crazy after a big home run, the slugger will step out of the dugout and tip his hat to the crowd.  Football players never tip their helmets.  Just saying….

10. God loves baseball.  Genesis 1:1 – “In the big-inning, God created…”

 

 

D.R.A.*

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A few days have slipped by here on Small Drop, mostly because I’ve had a D.R.A. 

*D.R.A. = Dirty Rotten Attitude

Most of the time, I serve the Lord with gladness, but there are moments when I struggle.  Mostly it happens when I have to do something that I don’t feel called to do, but am obligated to do anyway.  Like maybe, for instance, when I get volunteered to lead praise music for a retreat on the most beautiful weekend of the fall and the Milwaukee Brewers just happen to be playing the biggest game of the year and Nyjer Morgan hits a walk off in the bottom of the tenth inning to send the team into the League Championship Series.  Just times like that. 

I’m over it now.  Pretty much. 

Unfortunately, there’s a residual effect after having a D.R.A.  It takes awhile to get inspiration and creativity flowing again.  After sufficient repentance and restoration of my soul, I expect to find my words again.  Until then, Go Brewers!

The term “D.R.A.” was created by my good friend Donna, who rarely has one! 

 

Worrywart

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“And who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”  Matthew 6:27

The year I turned 40, a wart grew on my face.  No kidding.  Since my birthday was close to Halloween, I figured all I needed was a black pointy hat and I was in business.  Now, that’s some way to be welcomed to middle-age-hood.  I tried all the old wives’ tale remedies, to no avail.  I bought every product known to Wal-Mart, but no luck.  I finally went to a doctor to have it frozen and removed.  That’s where I found out a wart is actually a viral infection, often tied to stress.  How’s that for motivation to unload some of that anxiety?

The term “worrywart” intrigues me.  It’s defined as, “an habitual worrier”.  I’ve heard people say, “Oh, I guess I’m just a worrywart!”  like it’s a title of which to be proud.  But who would honestly want to be labeled as a wart of any kind?

According to the dictionary, the word originated in 1930.  America was in the Great Depression, Al Capone was on the loose, and most citizens wanted the Prohibition laws repealed.  I guess there was plenty to worry about.  The term has Old English roots from the word “worryguts” which means “a person who tends to worry about insignificant matters.”  Our guts do seem to take a hit when we’re in the habit of worrying.

I think Jesus was making a point: worry doesn’t add a centimeter to our height or an hour to our day.  In fact, all of our anxieties tend to weigh us down and steal away our time.  And turn us into warts.

Not To Worry

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“Therefore, I tell you, do not worry…”  Matthew 6:25

This week our Bible study is taking a good look at worry.  I’m kinda worried about it, actually.  How am I supposed to teach a lesson on not worrying?  Can a person really learn to keep from being worried in this life?  After all, we live in a worrisome world.  Right?

Worry: to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret.  The original Greek meaning of the word means to choke, to strangle, to drown.  Not a pretty picture.  So why do we do it?

In preparation for the study, I asked the Lord to show me what it is I worry about.  I gave Him full permission to set off sirens and flash blinding lights every time I worried.  Here’s what I found out: most of it was stupid stuff.  I wasn’t tormenting myself with thoughts about the weak economy, or the state of education in America or the plight of the homeless.  My fretfulness didn’t have anything to do with the war in the Middle East or the victims of natural disasters.  My worries were either outlandish scenarios that ballooned into tragedies in high-def 3-D living color (what if I swerve to miss a deer and the van goes down into a swampy ravine and nobody finds me for three days and by then the fish have eaten off my face and I am unrecognizable……); or my worries were along the lines of, “Did I put the milk away after having my Honey Nut Cheerios this morning?”

Sometimes I have worthwhile worries, usually involving the kids: are they happy?  are they making good choices?  are they brushing and flossing?  Or there are marital worries: will we grow old together?  will he always find me attractive?  will he remember to take out the garbage?

But Jesus didn’t put worries and cares into categories.  There was no designation for imaginative worries or stupid worries or noble worries.  He lumped them all together and said, “Do not worry.”  Period.  Let’s think about it this week.  What do you worry about?  Is it possible to NOT worry?

M and M

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A Month with Mary and Martha – Day 15

It’s time to wrap up our month with Mary and Martha. I have a feeling I could go on and on, but I don’t want to beat the story to death. God’s Word has many layers and just when you think you’ve dug out all the treasures, up pops something new. I love that. So “shalom” to our girlfriends from Bethany. For now, anyway.

Dear Martha,

I just want to say I’m sorry for the other day. I knew you needed help in the kitchen, but I couldn’t pull myself away from Jesus. Forgive me for leaving you with all the work. Sometimes it probably seems to you that I’m not pulling my weight around here. I’ll try to do better. I’ve always admired you for being so good at organizing everything and knowing so much about cooking and entertaining. Even though I’ll never measure up to you, I want you to know that I think you are amazing. I’m so glad you are my sister. I love you so much.

Your loving sister, Mary

Dear Mary,

Thanks for your note. I’m afraid I came on a little strong the other day and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of everyone. Please forgive me for getting upset with you. I was really just stressed out with all those people to feed. I’ll try hard to be more patient. Secretly, I have always wished that I had your sweet, sensitive spirit and your ability to stay calm. Hopefully some of that will rub off on me someday. I couldn’t have asked for a better sister and I’m so thankful to have you in my life.

Love you, my dear sister, Martha

Main Course

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A Month with Mary and Martha – Day 14

“Mary has chosen the good portion…”  Luke 10:42, Amplified Version

When I was eight years old, I signed up for 4-H.  One of my projects was “Foods”, an opportunity for young girls and boys to learn the basics of planning, cooking and presenting healthy meals.  One requirement was attending the “Food Revue” – a school gymnasium filled with young people who set up their best presentation of an appealing, nutritious meal.  A judge would go around and look over each entry, ask every entrant a few questions, and pass out ribbons at the end of the day.  Some kids brought in linen tablecloths, candlesticks and centerpieces to display their elaborate banquet.  I brought a peanut-butter-and-apple sandwich.

I used to be (emphasis on used to be) a picky eater.  Every single day from 1st grade to 3rd grade, I took a peanut-butter-and-apple sandwich to school in my lunch box.  So when I had to whip up my best meal for Food Revue, there was no question about what I would make.  It was the very best I had to offer.  I don’t remember winning any blue ribbons that day.  I do remember that the judge was very kind to me…and that she couldn’t stop smiling.

I’ve learned to cook a wide variety of meals in the 43 years since my first Food Revue.  I love cooking for my family, but when company comes, something in me wants to kick it up a notch.  I offer my guests the chicken breast that hasn’t stuck to the bottom of the pan, the spoonful of mashed potatoes that has the melting butter pat, and the top part of the sweet potato casserole with all the brown sugar and pecans.  I make sure our visitors get the inside piece of cake, not the edge piece. 

Perhaps Martha was working on a culinary masterpiece for the Master; only the best portions for her guest of honor.  When she approached Jesus with her complaint, He was kind enough to use kitchen jargon so she could understand.   “Martha, I’m the main course.  Come on in here and let Me feed you for a change.”  Because Martha was so intent on giving Jesus what she wanted to give Him, she actually deprived Him of being able to give to her.

I know I deprive myself when my busyness keeps me away from quiet time with Jesus.  But I am stunned by the thought that I might be denying Him the joy of feeding me when I don’t come.  *shiver* 

“You are my portion, O Lord.”  Psalm 119:57

“The Lord’s portion is his people.”  Deuteronomy 32:9

Everlasting

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A Month with Mary and Martha – Day 13

Lately I’ve noticed that things just don’t seem to last. 

A few days ago, smoke was rolling out from under the hood of our van.  I’m no mechanic, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad.  So this morning we needed to take our high-mileage van to the shop so they could tell us that it’s bad.  I was to follow in our other high mileage vehicle and give PB a ride home from the repair shop.  But the little car wouldn’t start.   I turned the key and…nothing.  Cars just don’t last.

Four kids and a dog have taken a toll on the carpet in our family room.  There’s the burn spot where somebody thought they could iron their shirt on the floor.  There’s the spot where someone stepped in oil (probably dripping from our van) and walked through the room.  Here and there, bits of unravelled carpet threads are sticking up.  And there is a well-worn path from the kitchen to the bedroom hallway.  Carpet just doesn’t last.

I have an old ipod that was handed down to me from one of the kids.  It doesn’t hold a charge very well anymore and I have to refresh and reset every so often.  I have my son’s old cell phone.  The screen is scratched and I can’t download any apps.  Gadgets just don’t last.

So what does last?  Time spent with Jesus.  Mary’s choice to come and listen to the Master’s teaching could not be taken away from her.  My highlights will fade, my jeans will wear out, and my toenail polish will chip.  Children grow up, friends move away, and kingdoms rise and fall.  But my relationship with Jesus will last for eternity.  Any time I choose Him, He promises that it will not be taken away. 

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,

Only what’s done for Christ will last.

 

 

Feeding the Twelve

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A Month with Mary and Martha – Day 12

When our son was in 7th grade, he began to invite his basketball teammates over to our house on game nights.  We only lived a block from the school and there was about two hours from the end of school to the start of warm-ups.  One day I looked out my kitchen window and saw twelve hungry 7th grade boys running through the back yard heading for my door.  It sent a moment of panic through me.  I opened the pantry and saw several boxes of mac and cheese.  Yes.  And the package of hotdogs in the freezer were the perfect complement to balance out the gourmet meal.  Hey, we’re talking about 7th grade boys here. 

Evidently, they were satisfied.  They kept coming back every game night for six years.  And I loved it.  I knew they were getting some nutrition (do you realize how much calcium is in mac and cheese?) and they were off the streets, safe and secure in my basement playing video games and spilling kool-aid on my carpet.  After that first night, I vowed I would be ready for those boys when they made a beeline to my door. 

I poured over the “cooking for a crowd” sections of my cookbooks.  I stocked my freezer with homemade cookies and cupcakes.  By the time those boys were seniors, I was making chicken breasts and special potatoes, lasagna and garlic bread, Swedish meatballs and Swiss steak.  Gone were the days of hot dogs on stale buns.  Nobody asked me to feed the team, but if they were going to be in my house, you better believe I was going to come through for my son and make his friends feel welcome.  Nobody asked me to provide four course meals, but I thoroughly enjoyed watching them scarf down heaping plates of protein and carbs.  They probably would have been just as content with peanut butter sandwiches and cheetos, but somewhere along the line, the tradition was established and who was I to stop it?  Besides, I discovered that, for me, feeding people = love.  I lived by the creed: “You come to my house, you eat whether you’re hungry or not!”

I admit, I burned out by the last basketball game of their senior year.  But I adored those boys and missed them terribly when they graduated. 

All this to say, Jesus was in Martha’s home.  If they had been in someone else’s house that day, I just bet Martha would’ve been right there with Mary. 

Balance

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A Month with Mary and Martha – Day 11

We all have a little bit of Martha and a little bit of Mary in us.  (Kinda like Donny and Marie – “I’m a little bit country, I’m a little bit rock-and-roll…”  You do remember Donny and Marie, don’t you?)  I don’t think there are Marthas out there who can’t worship, or Marys who can’t serve.  The idea is to find a healthy balance: to know when to sit at the feet of Jesus and when to kick it in gear in the kitchen. 

 Jesus didn’t tell Mary to leave the living room, but He also didn’t tell Martha to leave the kitchen.  Maybe He didn’t have a problem with what she was doing, but how she was doing it.  If my service for Jesus causes me to be all tied up with anxiety and I’m increasingly frustrated with the people around me, that’s a red flag that something’s amiss.  If I’m calling out my sisters and brothers because they aren’t measuring up to my standards, I might be using the wrong yardstick.  If I’m seeing God as being part of the problem because He’s not agreeing with me, well, I’ve got a problem. 

Jesus didn’t take sides between the two sisters.  If Mary had been sitting at His feet biting her nails and pulling her hair out He might have said, “Mary, Mary…”  If Martha had been happily slicing and dicing away in the kitchen with the door open so she could hear the Master teach, she might have been commended. 

It seems that balance has a lot to do with attitude.