Shrouded in fleece and denim, I sit near the snow-crusted window while the heat vent seems to blow nearly continuously at my feet. The furnace has worked overtime within while the wind and ice have danced madly without. Now the last bits of clouded daylight fade into shades of ever-darkening slate.
On such a new year’s day, I contemplate time’s passage and hope for what may yet await me in faith, life, relationships, work…and how I might use the insatiable thirst to write more poignantly to bless my readers in new or renewed ways. To that end, I now share my plan for writing in the first months of 2022.
Blogs in the coming weeks will connect to a theme of Give More, Bless More. I will be exploring aspects of alternative ways to give and to bless as well as alternative ways to view how God has blessed us and how we can bless others. I hope you’ll come back week after week and join me for this thoughtful journey.
Until next week, and for today, I close with a brief, spontaneous poem-prayer:
“Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free…If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” ~Jesus (in John 8)
I saw life and freedom and gratitude differently this past Thanksgiving holiday week. And a profound truth sank deep into my heart.
**We cannot know the wonder of true freedom unless we recognize and find release from our imprisonment. And we cannot know the humility and quieting of true gratitude unless we have known the blackest of moments.**
A little over a year ago, I married a dear man who had previously spent over six years in prison. And that criminal sentence was based on a single bad choice, one day’s actions gone south. He was not normally the harmful type. I chose to love him and give him a chance, in part, because I understood that we have all made poor choices, acted cruelly to some degree towards others, and (ultimately) sinned against God so that we deserve time in prison and even death.
Even though I have never been sentenced to prison, that doesn’t mean I have never deserved to be.
The same can rightfully be said of you, dear reader. No matter who you are. That is the truth.
Yet, while my husband has been a prisoner in a brick and morter, big-operation institution, I have been a prisoner of a different kind: one enslaved mentally by fear, pain, hatred, and shame. That is also a truth I cannot deny. And I have found my freedom in no longer wishing to deny it.
This is the Truth to which those previous truths have led us, my dear husband and me. Jesus came to Earth to live and die and rise again so that all criminals and all enslaved ones (read: every human) can be atoned for, made pure before God, when we trust Him and His gift with a promise: that the weighty truth of our absolute need for His covering, sacrifice, mercy, and favor lifts us up to experience and cherish true freedom as is otherwise impossible.
This freedom is not to be a set of temporary political rights flaunted during our earthly life so much as it is a calling to train through the growth-spurts of this earthly life so that we will be fully perfected in the life to come.
Which leads to the second half of that profound truth. True gratitude is borne out of our hearts after they have hit the lowest places, after we having known loneliness, neediness, sorrowfulness…brokenness.
Due to special circumstances and parole-related complications, my husband and I were only able to live together for about one-third of our first year of marriage. Even now, we hopefully long for our situation to change soon, and we can’t wait for this separation to end.
It has, frankly, been a frustrating thing to have our life, in part, dictated by parole officials in other states who have never met me (or, sometimes, have never met my husband either). It has also been a humbling thing.
And…now I see that it has also been a gratitude-forming thing.
For the shaft in the mine is so deep and pitch-dark. But the lump of inky rock we are carrying back into daylight together will be broken open to reveal the hardest, most precious stone. I know it.
Because we may temporarily have to live under these restrictions. But we have held fast and kept faith. And this has made us grateful for a hundred things many other couples would take for granted.
This is also and equally true: embracing the Truth found only in my Jesus is the first step in a longer journey. And through every trial and struggle, He can refine gratitude and goodness in the hearts of those who trust Him.
Oh, what good news to know and remember.
Let us, then, acknowledge our debt, our need, our freedom, and our gratitude today. Not to fate or only to our family members.
But to the source of every good thing and everything worked for our good: the Son.
The term humble developed first via Middle English in the 13th and 14th centuries, coming from combined roots that mean low, earth, and on the ground. Also during the same period, a dish called “umble pie” became popular. That pastry, filled most often with venison innards and bits, didn’t necessarily have anything to do with a person’s being humble or lowly. But because the two words sounded so similar, humble pie would later stay on in idiomatic English as a way to express those times when we find we should admit we are wrong — and it can be embarrassing or even humiliating to do so.
Recently, as I watched the state of world affairs go from bad to worse, I became increasingly upset over how my national leaders were handling international circumstances. Our president made one call and the results of that call tripped a trigger for trouble. But then, instead of admitting that maybe the first choice was not a good one, he refused to see anything faulty and even bragged about how his actions were great…before stepping into another, bigger pile of manure with his next move. And on and on, day after day, the hole of the consequences has grown bigger and bigger. And he has never once admitted he was even slightly in the wrong, never once eaten humble pie. I must confess, it has been a painful, shameful thing for me to watch.
And it has reminded me that while it can be awkward to watch someone eat humble pie, especially in a very public light, it is usually much better for the sake of everyone involved if the person(s) who need(s) to eat humble pie will do it early on and right the ship of the situation or the relationship before long.
Before things get too far off course.
A few days ago, while I was working from home, I went to the kitchen to heat leftovers for lunch. A usual few minutes in the (over-the-stove, wall-mounted) microwave would do nicely. But it was not to be. I tripped a breaker in the fuse box and went downstairs to reset it before trying again. Six times of repeating this quick-repair dance in the coming moments found me annoyed, concerned, and slightly out of breath (as I was just finishing my recovery from COVID).
I texted my husband, Paul, and let him know about the situation. He too was concerned about the possible cause of the problem. Was it just an appliance issue, or was it more of a safty issue, with an electrical short somewhere in the wiring, outlet, or breaker box? Since he wouldn’t be back home for a couple days to look at it in person, he encouraged me to make an appointment with an electrician for the following week. In the meantime, I simply wouldn’t try to use the microwave.
When Paul came home today, he asked about heating something quick for lunch. That’s when I showed him the microwave. We wanted to see if the problem remained, so I plugged it back in. Then, not wanting to just turn it on with nothing inside, I grabbed a mug of water, set it inside on the glass turntable, shut the door, set 25 seconds of time, and pressed start. Just as before, half a second in, the breaker tripped. I went back down to reset once more, and Paul went to get an extension cord so that we could check the microwave via an outlet tied to a different breaker. It tripped that breaker too.
“I think it’s the microwave itself, babe,” he sighed. “I think it is going south and we just need to get a new one.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t like that. I hate spending money unnecessarily, especially in large or sudden amounts.
But my dear husband was a man on a mission, and he was going to get that microwave taken down and replace it if it was the last thing he did today. I could see it was important to him, to do this for me and our home, and I wanted to see him do it safely, so I went and found the owner’s manuals for all our appliances and some other items that I hoped would help him do the job without injury. I was afraid it might be heavy for him to lift down from such an awkward angle. So, his focus was on getting that thing down quickly, and my focus was on helping him do so without cracking his head or breaking an arm.
Paul oriented himself before unscrewing the top bolts that anchored the microwave to the upper cabinet. Then, as the machine tipped forward so he could try to lift it off the bottom wall mounting plate, we were both shocked to see fluid come pouring from the back and bottom of the microwave onto the stove and floor!
“What in the world??” Paul cried, and he hurried to set it down on the glass range top as quickly but as gently as possible.
“I don’t know,” I cried in equal alarm, before rushing to get paper towels for the liquid and then stare in wonder at the holey wall behind where the microwave had just hung.
Thus, we started a short but lively discussion about the jagged holes in the wall, the gap between them and the outer wall, the newly-discovered wet insulation in between those two walls, and the apparently waterlogged appliance now making a mess on the stove top in front of us.
“No wonder it wasn’t working right,” Paul said. “We’ve got to get it out of here! Will you get the door?”
I ran ahead of him to clear the way so he could get it out to the nearby dumpster across the street. It tumbled in with a crash. I sighed with relief that Paul had not injured himself carrying it down and lifting it over the high dumpster edge.
He came back up to help me clean up a little, and we headed off to lunch at a restaurant, talking all along the way about theories for how the liquid in the microwave had built up and how we would probably need to call in the HOA for repairs. Paul also texted some church friends who had an extra microwave we could use in the meantime. We finished lunch and drove to their house to pick up the loaner. After all, we didn’t want to buy and install a new machine that was just going to get flooded out if we didn’t know the source of the leak. We thanked our generous friends and then made another stop before we headed back home.
When we pulled up to the condo, Paul looked at the dumpster with consternation. Before I understood exactly what he was thinking, I saw him step over and lunge across the edge of the dumpster, grabbing and yanking up our old microwave.
“Love, what are you doing?” I cried.
“Seeing if maybe I can salvage the glass plate and rotation ring. You know they might be useful to keep for later –” He stopped short when he had opened the door and looked inside. And as we watched, both the glass plate…and our red mug…tumbled out.
There was a very pregnant pause.
And then it hit us.
I am not sure which one of us busted out laughing first. I think it was Paul.
Well, that’s where the water came from. We had both been so concerned about other things, we totally forgot about the mug. The mug full of water that was never heated. The mug that I had bought for Paul as a gift last Christmas, for about $2 at a discount store.
It had been carried roughly to the dumpster, thrown inside via the hosting appliance, and now thrown to the bottom of the dumpster when it fell from said microwave. And, though the glass plate was broken, the mug was fine.
I ran back into the house to get a broom. And we used the handle to fish out the mug and carry it back into our little kitchen, laughing richly the whole time.
We talked about where each of us went wrong in our actions and assumptions. We smiled over our foggy thinking due, no doubt, to the stupor of recent illness. We shared hugs and kisses. And we thanked God for the sweetness of eating humble pie together, which isn’t so hard to do in the absence of blaming, name-calling, and anger.
Then, we placed an order for a new microwave –which Paul can’t wait to install after delivery.
I pray that we will continue to handle humble pie situations in our future relationship with openness, grace, and immediate understanding. And I pray that others around me and above me will find the better results that can come when we choose to admit our misunderstandings, mistakes, and bull-headedness — before too much or total damage has been done.
As words go, the honorable “cherish” has roots sinking deep, clear back to the midst of Old English and the 1300s. It draws from the French cher and the Latin carus, which both mean “dear.” Its most closely-tied synonyms have and hold echo back traditional wedding vows in my mind, but similarly-themed verbs of bear and nurse bring up equally-fast images of mothers with children.
To cherish is to hold close, to think of constantly, to be deeply connected to from fiber to fiber and heart to heart. It is also to be thankful for, to treasure, and to dream of — while we can.
That is the limit of cherishing. We do it only while we draw breath.
And yet, while we draw breath, we will cherish with all our might. Such cherishing is not dependent upon the physical presence of the one we cherish.
Indeed, while a man holds his beloved bride close, he cherishes her softness. And after she has left his side for Heaven, he cherishes her sweet, graceful memory.
Likewise, the parents cherishing their newborn or toddler do so no more than the parents who, aching-hearted, have to mourn the child physically lost to them in infancy, via stillbirth, or in utero.
For just as this word is deeply rooted, so too are our love for and need for and dreams for others deeply rooted. Often far more deeply rooted than we could see until they are uprooted and torn away.
Thus, it is a painful thing to cherish for all who will really dare to do it, should they be the ones left standing when the storms pass by.
And yet, what would life be without love, and what would love be without risk?
They would not be.
Therefore, I will choose to cherish Jesus most of all and ask Him to help me live and love — to cherish — while I may. And trust that He will help me bear the pain when the uprooting in or around me shreds my heart.
My husband and I love to share songs with each other. Some are ones we both know well or heard growing up. Others are numbers that only one of us has encountered, so we each have the joy of introducing each other to those and in broadening our repertoire.
One of the songs in the former group is a Margaret Becker classic called “Say the Name” (linked below). One day, Paul asked if I knew it as the intro bars started playing through his portable speaker. I smiled and showed my response by starting to sing along immediately.
But as we got to the chorus, he paused in his singing with me and said, “I have always loved this song…but WHAT is that word? I can’t ever make it out clearly!”
I paused in my humming and murmured, “Immutable. You know, as in can’t be turned off or silenced.”
“Ah.” He nodded with understanding and relief.
The actual line from the song says, “Say the name Jesus. Say the name that soothes the soul, the name of gentle healing and peace immutable…”
When I prepared to write my next blog post, I thought back on that moment and I paused to ponder the weight of that word more deeply.
To say that the peace of Christ is immutable means that it cannot and will not be silenced. Even when the circumstances of life derail and threaten and reroute us, that is a peace that still speaks if we will be still enough to listen to it.
And God himself is immutable. He cannot be silenced. Even though we may think we can speak for Him or rewrite and reinterpret His words, we are only fooling ourselves. In the end, His spoken words have always been and will always be true. And in the end, He will always have the final word in truth, judgment, and mercy.
I ended my pondering by asking myself if people are truly immutable. Certainly, we are not God and we are limited, and death ultimately silences our voice here on earth. Yet, what we leave behind in what we write or pass on to others before we pass away — those are messages that remain and continue, the kind of legacy (for good or ill) that makes us somehow immutable even after we are no longer breathing.
Then, when I searched my brain to come up with a synonym for immutable that expressed the human scope of the word in a single word and not a phrase, all I could think of was this: free.
While we are free, my friends, let us speak and write without fear. And even when our freedom is stripped or our breathing ceases, may goodness we have begun to spread be unsinkable, immutable.
Because of the power in the name of Jesus, through whom we must seek to do everything good. With the strength and peace He gives. For His glory.
Over the past weeks, I heard people talking about love, especially the passionate kind. It led me to wonder how many millions of red roses were purchased and how many bottles of wine were consumed in the traditional effort to highlight and fuel physical attraction, centering around the day of February 14.
But then I thought of all the firy love songs now buzzing over the radio and the pick-up culture that is still alive and well despite encouraged pandemic parameters. And I thought of an essay a student of mine recently wrote about if the size of a man’s anatomical equipment is truly the determining factor in whether or not a romantic relationship should last or fall apart.
And I felt something is out of focus, off balance, not as it was meant to be.
So, I did a bit of studying about the word “passion” to uncover the reason behind my curious feeling.
It turns out that the term has five different meanings in Merriam-Webster. And it is only the fifth — the last — that has anything to do with romantic or sexual love. Long before this word was commonly used in that light, it was more commonly used to refer to the suffering and death of Christ.
The roots of passion and patience are nearly identical and are all tied to suffering. Do we sometimes suffer and give up things we care about for the sake of those we love? Yes. Do we hate to watch those we love suffer? Yes. Do we ache with heartbreak when the love and desire we long for from another goes unrequited? Yes.
But perhaps the most important point of all the observations above is that the pursuit of real love and the central focus of our lives were never meant to be wrapped around ourselves and our own desires, our own driving happiness, our own burning hunger. We were and are meant to be focused on Jesus and His glory, example, sacrifice, patience, self-control, death, victory, magnificence, love.
On His passion.
The start of Lent snuck up on me this year. Ash Wednesday came just three days after Valentine’s Day. This Valentine’s Day was the sweetest I have ever had, the first one spent with a man I will love forever. After our sweet celebration on that day, however, I remembered the words engraved inside each of our wedding rings and shifted my heart right back where it needed to be. Where it needs to stay.
And not just for the Lenten season. But for every day of my life. Jesus as number one, my husband as number two.
And my whole life — every day — to be a reflection upon and of Jesus’ passion for us all.
There’s a great word that isn’t used so much in our vernacular these days.
It can mean to stay for a time or to become a resident in a place. It can also mean to keep one’s attention directed on something or someone or to speak or write continuously about a subject.
Ironically, this word that now means where we live or stay was first used in 13th century middle English based on an old high German word for tarryingbut equally evolved from an old English word for goingastray.
Reading about this in my dictionary app made me think about how so many life stories include one or more chapters in which we who are living are lost before we are found, are wondering before we find our best path, are distracted before we hone in on goodness.
For those who seek God, even after we find His Goodness in this life, we must journey still, before we reach our true home with Him.
I also smiled as I sketched this word art and noticed that the word well resides in the word dwell.
When we are no longer astray but are dwelling where we are meant to be — when we are home — it is well with us.
And from that heart and soul where we abide with God and His Spirit abides in us, Life will bloom — both here and ever after.
My husband and I were recently watching a movie in which a bad guy used the phrase “I took care of…” to refer to killing another person who was in the way of his boss’s plans. That set me to thinking about the phrasal verb “take care of” and its different meanings.
Interestingly, when we search for this phrase in most common dictionaries, the slang meaning I mentioned above (though well understood by native English speakers) is not listed.
Among the listed meanings, we may find the ideas of doing what is required to help someone who has obvious needs, treating a person or object gently so they stay in good condition, dealing with or doing a task, or covering something for others (such as paying a whole group ticket at a restaurant).
Apart from that first, slang meaning, then, all of the other meanings are pretty neutral in their sense of usage. Yet, ironically, this phrase about caring can take on a very different flavor, depending on the heart of the speaker as it may sometimes bleed through in the tone of his/her voice.
Think, for example about how differently a wife may feel between these two scenarios. In the first, her husband sees the broken household step she accidentally caused with her clumsiness and dropping of a heavy object; he grabs his tool box and a plank of wood and turns away stiffly while growling “I’ll take care of it!” under his breath. But in the second, when the husband finds his wife scared and crying after she tripped and dropped a hugh sack and nearly fell through the resulting gap in the now-broken step, he makes sure she is not injured and reaches out to embrace her and calm her shaking. Then he quietly says, “I didn’t realize that that step was in such bad shape. I’ll take care of it after I help you clean up the spill.”
I would wager the second situation will end much better for them both. Because in his tone and from his heart, she will know that by taking care of the broken step and spilled contents willingly, he really wants to take care of her body and her heart.
First used in the 12th and 17th centuries, depending on the meaning, and derived from the Middle English and the Dutch, our word for scream has several meanings. The subtle but notable thing, however, is that all the meanings that have to do with the sharp high sound a person makes, as listed in the dictionary, are dependent only on the speaker. Not any listeners.
In other words, a person who screams screams. It doesn’t matter if another person hears them scream or not.
All around the world, there are many children who scream daily but no one near will listen. Sometimes the screams are audible and sometimes they are silent.
And among the millions screaming silently are those who will never cry aloud.
It is sadly that simple.
But they will never cry aloud because adults have said they have no right to try. To speak. To be.
It is simply that horrific.
In the honor and memory of those millions, shortly following a very important anniversary, I weep. May Jesus hear your cries, hold you near, and comfort you when we have not.
Among the multiple meanings of our word peace (which morphed out of the Latin pax and has been in use for at least nine centuries), one stands apart. Several have to do with a sense of civil rest from war or under government control. Another has to do with sound relationships between siblings or other loved ones. But the second meaning listed in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary states, “Freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions.”
There is a broader sense of peace that I have little to no control over. And there is a peace with others that I can only do so much on my own to maintain.
But there is a peace that has nothing to do with the absence of trouble or the choices of others. Instead, it has everything to do with where I find my freedom.
And for me, one who has trusted Jesus for freedom from the first weight of her sin, and one who still seeks to trust Him when daily trials and challenges come (whether in my thoughts or in my feelings), that kind of peace soothes the heart. It is like dwelling for a time in the eye of a hurricane. While all spins fast around, the immediate closest air is still and bright.
My friends, today I would pray for peace on earth and good relationships within our families. But more than that, I would hope for you that this most important peace would be yours and would guard your mind and your heart. Amen.
