Rock This House!

Another one of those Encounters with God! I rose very early one recent Saturday, threw on clothes, gulped breakfast, brushed teeth, and with Bible and notebook in hand headed toward Ash Flat, AR. About midway I picked up two delightful teen girls, Lindsay and Jaycie.

What could be going on in Ash Flat, AR, that would cause teen girls to roll out of bed early on a Saturday?! Or for that matter a woman of age? We were about to find out.

Ash Flat is a small town - we're talking small. It's just on the other side of Evening Shade (remember that one?), settled in among the hills. The Church of Christ there - also small in number - has stepped out of the proverbial box, gone beyond expectations, and allowed the Lord to extend their horizons regarding "Ladies' Day."

On Friday evening the God-filled weekend began with local speakers, storytelling, drama, music and snacks! Although I wasn't there on Friday, I believe a potter highlighted the session by throwing a pot, applying a spiritual lesson while doing so. About 600 filled the fellowship hall!

The keynote speaker for the weekend, Jennifer Rothschild, has been featured on Dr. Phil, ABC’s Good Morning America, and the Billy Graham Television Special, and on other national TV and radio programs including Hour of Power, Life Today, Family Life Radio, TBN, and others. Her life story and message has been the cover story of numerous national publications including Today’s Christian Woman, Virtue magazine, Becoming Family magazine, HomeLife magazine, and others. She has authored six books, including Self Talk, Soul Talk, and Lessons I Learned in the Dark; you see, Jennifer has been blind since the age of 15.

Another young woman, her traveling companion, assisted Jennifer to the stage, then returned to her seat. We would never have guessed this lovely lady could not see if we hadn't already known. She was poised, graceful, looking out on us as if she had faultless vision. I did not detect a smidgen of self-pity; only intense thankfulness to God for his blessings on her life. She is a fan of Jesus Christ!

We were so blessed also by the worship sessions led by the praise team of the Ash Flat church. Composed of 8 or 10 men and women, they helped us lift the roof with songs of adoration for our Lord.

Lindsay, Jaycie and I left with our hearts full! (Our tummies too, a delicious feast was spread for us.)

Here's few excerpts from Jennifer's lesson:

Speculation and assumption never lead to faith in the Lord.

Sometimes God calms the storm; sometimes he calms my heart in the midst of the storm.

We are sometimes delivered through trials - not out of them.

REST versus RESIST: the only letter not found in REST is "I."

Jesus' response to unanswered prayer was commitment. When God didn't deliver him from the cross, he set his face to obey the Father. So should be our response to unanswered prayer.

The Ash Flat church hopes to have Max Lucado for next summer's Rock This House. Check their website for updates, and make your plans to attend!!!

A Mixed Bag of Thoughts

God calls me to be completely satisfied by Him – not by any outward circumstances. If I have to live in a certain location, possess specific objects, or participate in this or that activity before I am content, then would God alone really be sufficient if everything else vanished?

Shouldn’t I be able to “be at home” anywhere – in any kind of situation because the God I love is with me?

I want to constantly examine myself and adjust my mind lest I grow so attached to my routine, home, possessions, way of life, health, even my loved ones, that I would be unable to function if any one or all of these were taken away. I’m not talking of normal sorrow or disappointment, but to be so crushed and bereft that I would conclude my life was over.

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Lord, open my eyes to my subconscious idols. Don’t have to search very much before one pops to mind: wanting to call the shots when I “sacrifice.” I’m prone to cautiously outline (silently) just how this “sacrifice” will be implemented: how long, how far, how many and how much. All wrapped up in a neat little selfish package.

Synonyms for sacrifice are to give up, forgo, forfeit, let go … surrender!? Surrender means to “lay down your arms.” Could that have any meaning here? Boy, does it ever! When I assemble my arsenal of conditions to insure that I won’t be trapped into more than I want to do, I just took up arms. One who has surrendered to the lordship of Jesus Christ has no need for protective weapons. He isn’t the enemy!

O Lord, empower me to fully rest in you, trust in you, and abandon my will to yours.

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Jesus was eager to celebrate the Passover with his disciples even though Judas would certainly be present, and even though the Lord knew Peter would betray him and all the others would run away in a very short time. He not only spent the evening “rubbing elbows” with them, he washed their feet.

What about us? Do we ever avoid fellowshipping certain people because we think they’ve behaved badly toward us or those we love? How arrogant!! Do we think we’re too good to be offended? Or that God has appointed us to activate the shunning of one who has treated a friend badly? If so then we must consider ourselves better than Jesus. Also, who knows how God will choose to work out his purposes through our association with that person – in both our lives.

Is my heart and spirit so in tune with my Lord, so intertwined with his heart, that I am eager to be with others, all others, especially my brothers and sisters in the Savior?

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“Prayer is the first act of war when under attack.” – Beth Moore

A Weekend to Remember

A WEEKEND TO REMEMBER

Jim and I recently enjoyed a retreat. We traveled to Nashville, TN, to the Hermitage area thinking we’d be staying with a dear long-time friend, Ruby. However, we were unable to do so because of a death in her late husband’s family, and instead were invited to Ruby’s brother and sister-in-law’s home.

Even though Paul and JoAnn Odum live only minutes from a sizable shopping center, we felt as if we’d ventured deep into the countryside when we arrived. The foliage grew lushly and trees dipped over the narrow highway from both sides of the road, shading our drive.

Their red-brick house sat at the crest of a hill reached by a gently curving driveway. After parking in front of their home, we climbed steps that led still further upward. Borders of pink roses and nandina bushes flanked both sides of the walkway, the roses perfuming the air as we walked between them. The outdoor staircase ended at a welcoming porch adorned with granny rockers; they seemed almost to beckon us to plump down and “set a spell.” We resisted somehow and tapped on the door.

In moments Paul greeted us with a smile and with blue eyes twinkling, ushered us into the living room. JoAnn soon joined us from her work in the yard, and we began our most pleasurable weekend with the Odums.

Paul and JoAnn bought their place in 1993. The original dwelling was a log house, and after consideration, they decided to preserve it. Now that wonderful piece of history is imbedded within the additions they made, resulting in a supremely comfortable, beautiful home which they delight in, and generously use to delight others.

We feasted on meaty burgers for supper, grilled for us by Paul and JoAnn’s son, John, and eaten in a little gazebo-shaped dining area of the porch. Stuffed, we sipped homemade grape juice and talked till after dark. The tree frogs tried to outdo each other, gurping loudly from nearby trees while we became better acquainted, fellowshipping in the Lord.

We were privileged – and I was excited - to sleep upstairs in the loft. We ascended by way of a narrow staircase (installed by the previous owner) and rejoiced that we didn’t have to access our night's lodging as the first proprietors had - by clambering up a ladder by the fireplace. The loft. Right out of yesteryear! How many feet have tread upon that pine floor laid so long ago - how many conversations have the walls been privy to over the years? And the roof: how many weary folks have been lulled to sleep as rain tap, tapped on it?!). The Odums have stashed a spacious, modern bathroom at the back of the loft room, which made our stay absolutely perfect. I loved this loft from by-gone days, but love modern conveniences also; I do not grieve the demise of the outhouse associated with that era.

Everywhere I looked something bloomed or produced – fruit trees, grapevines, flowers, garden veggies, strawberries (the berries struggle a bit, but that’s between JoAnn and me). Honestly I can’t begin to remember everything we saw flourishing on both sides, behind, and in front of their home. After the shower the following day I almost could believe we had somehow been transported to a rain forest - the view from the window was lushly and luxuriantly green and moist.

Their creek at the bottom of the hill brings up visions of busy little boys, perhaps pint-sized Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers. Little boys would never, ever want to leave once they built their first dam or fort, or took a dive in the little pool. Or once they explored the woods surrounding this Tennessee Shangri-La for small people. Perhaps the two paddle wheels would capture their imaginations for hours of fun. Paul has worked hard on this enterprise, and has even more plans to implement in the future.

Our Sunday dinner (not a sissy luncheon) was a throwback to my childhood when the preacher came to eat with us: table loaded with everything under the sun, best dishes, lip-smackin’ desserts, and lots of good laughter and conversation. We were thrilled Ruby was able to come, and delighted not only in catching up with her, but also with other old friends we last saw 31 years ago. What a blessing!

What a weekend. What hospitality Paul and JoAnn freely gave to us. Especially so when they had such short notice that a couple they really did not know was going to invade the premises. Now that's graciousness at its finest. Thanks, friends.

Encountering (and colliding) with God

You just never know when God is going to bump into you – and you, him.

A lady learned recently what a beautiful thing it is to collide head-on with the Lord. Over the past several years, she had grown slack in her relationship with him and had not been in fellowship with a church family for a while. It grieved her, but she couldn’t seem to move herself to correct the situation. Shortly after relocating to a different state, she lost her husband. Neighbors who had already connected with her and her husband during his short illness were right there for her with food, comfort, and moral support. She hardly knew them, but they cherished her and her husband as if they all were old friends.

These neighbors invited her - now a new widow - to return with them to their church services (she and her husband had gone with them a time or two previously). She complied, thoroughly enjoying everything. She was drawn in to their weekly ladies Bible class, and also began helping with various other activities. She found a wonderful new friend, a wise older lady, also a member at the church. These activities and friends were life-savers as she confronted the many, many tasks widows sometimes must resolve by themselves, and which can take months, not weeks, to deal with.

Through one avenue at a time, the Lord began speaking to her in her spirit. In studying Jeremiah in ladies class, a burden settled on her: her need to repent of lukewarmness toward Jesus. She made up her mind she would share her burden and her repentance with these sweet women. However, in the service the next Sunday morning, everything seemed to unite to further prick her conscience: the song about heaven, and Amazing Grace – My Chains are Gone; then the sermon on forgiveness particularly moved her. The neighbor shared his handkerchief with her as they both wept.

She hadn’t intended to go forward at the invitation song, but after scribbling a note, she walked down the aisle and handed it to the minister. He read her confession aloud to the congregation. She told them she had not been faithful to the Lord before moving to their community, and felt she had set a bad example for her family, friends and relatives. The note concluded with “I now want to live each day for the Lord. I ask for prayers to set a good example for everyone around me. I now feel so free.”

The preacher asked God to use her repentance to touch many lives. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the father of four girls (who worked with the youth and taught the high school class) made his way to her and whispered that he was struggling with a lot of problems. In fact, he had decided to walk away and stop coming to church. But because of her open repentance and confession, he, in his words, "won’t do that now" and thanked her. Her response to God's call had enabled another to collide with the Almighty!

I’m sure she floated out of the building that morning!!

Her concluding thought in her email was this: “I am sorry I wasted years being a bad example and not being faithful like I should. I had many excuses too numerous to list why I just couldn't do... what I now am able to do with God's help.”

Praise the Lord for these collisions!! May we all have more of them.

Encountering God Through Grieving with Another

I visited with an old friend recently. We reminisced, caught up on our children’s doings and each other. Like most of us, her life has been checkered with sorrow, including the untimely death of her father of her two daughters.

We were silent for a long moment, thinking of our shared past. She said finally in a resigned voice, “You just don’t know what life’s going to throw at you; you just do what you have to do.”

I replied, “You’ve certainly had your share of suffering, and losing Pat was probably the worst.” Even though he died nearly 20 years ago, and she has been happily remarried for awhile, her blue eyes glistened as big tears welled up and overflowed. In a shaky voice she whispered, “And I still cry over that one.”

The death of one’s mate is not easily “gotten over.” I have not experienced that loss, but I’ve known many women who have. “My husband died” is a phrase stuffed so full of multiple emotions it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst wide open. Which is similar to how some widows feel in the days, months, even years after laying a husband to rest.

We who are on the outside looking in on this life struggle try to comfort and console: we deliver casseroles, pound cake and iced tea; we offer sympathies and clichés. Then after the “proper” amount of time has passed, we’re concerned if the bereaved woman is still grieving. We wonder about her if she wants only to talk of her loss when we visit. We try to involve her in activities and events (potlucks at church, a movie, a trip, a part-time job, etc.) to blot out the pain. If prematurely presented, these things are only a bandage covering the wound for a time. She still sorrows. At this point, after we’ve suffered long with her; after we’ve given all the comfort we can call up; after we’ve offered wise advice, even quoted Scripture, do we now, in a crevice of our minds, think: Okay, it’s time to get on with your life! Enough! I confess I did when I first confronted this type of pain. No more.

Mourning is a complicated process that cannot be shortened by a few well-meaning/chosen words and actions. It cannot be compressed into a Reader’s Digest version. In the days of the movie, "Gone with the Wind," a widow was given a full year to mourn a life turned upside down. Not such a bad idea – no expectations put on her, or early deadlines issued – the widow’s black clothing prescribed how others should treat her as she recovered.

Maybe we want so badly for the veil of sorrow to lift because we are terrifically uncomfortable and nervous when faced with the grief of another. True, it’s soggy, sad, and frankly, not much fun. Perhaps a popular statement is in order here: It’s not about me - it's not about us. It’s about the woman who's suffered the loss of her mate. It's the supreme act of love to grieve with that widow, offering no platitudes and not attempting to cut short the tears. To listen heartfully every time as she remembers, agonizes, and/or worries about the future. It’s part of the healing process. Include her in your life, invite her to accompany you to whatever, but if she declines, accept it graciously. And continue to include and invite (not badgering) until she’s ready to accept.

It’s not about me, or us; it’s about her.

The Chosen

I wasn’t chosen.

Now that could be a happy or sad occasion. If, as a kid, I wasn’t picked to be a part of a softball team I was sad indeed. However, if the teacher passed over me and chose some other unfortunate individual for an oral book report, I went limp with relief. And so it went. Chosen for this; not chosen for that. Happy – sad. In other words, life.

My latest chosen/not chosen episode took place in a far loftier atmosphere than an arid, weedy ball field – a judicial building in our small town.

We, the chosen jury pool, dutiful citizens all, huddled together one rainy, cold Monday morning in the Wilbur D. Mills Court House. Yawning, shivering, some of us slightly moist, we each answered “Here” as our names were called by a smiling circuit clerk. May I say all the court officials were super courteous? They were, from the cheerful bailiff who greeted us at the court room door, to the just-mentioned pleasant circuit clerk, to the gentlemanly lawyers, to the soft-spoken judge with an appropriate twitch of humor. Don’t know about the court reporter, she had her hands full and didn’t any pay attention to us. (It occurred to me that our bailiff would outperform Judge Judy’s somber officer any day of the week.)

At the beginning of this adventure, I asked the Lord to do with me as He wanted. Before you admire me too abundantly, I also added a post script that He knew I did not want to do this, but YWBD (your will be done, for those of you unfamiliar with church talk). Plus I felt a little guilty not wanting to participate in the process since I am an American citizen. Still didn’t want to do it, though.

As the dreary morning wore on, 18 potential jurors and alternates moved to front row seats as each was chosen. One of them, a long-time acquaintance, threw me a glance that really looked like a sigh as she rose from her seat. When the final alternate was seated, I exhaled a small whoosh of relief – I hadn’t been chosen! However, underneath the relief, a tiny sprig of disappointment wriggled (to my surprise). I stepped on it immediately and breathed: Thank you, Lord, for sparing me.

Oh, but it wasn’t over yet: one of the selected asked to speak to the judge. He recounted his tale of woe which concerned his mother-in-law. No, not the things he disliked about her, if any; he was supposed to transport her to the airport that afternoon smack in the middle of the trial. His Honor opined that he surely didn’t want to be party to anyone getting in trouble with his mother-in-law and dismissed him from duty.

We, the leftovers, tightened those muscles so recently relaxed and waited with bated breath to see who the next offering might be. Lord I meant what I said: YWBD. But please don’t let them chose me!!

Me! It was me - I mean, it was I! I was chosen as the replacement! Okay, Lord, I’m good with this. I scrubbed past the once-again-relieved fellow waiters to take my place with the selected few.

After 30 minutes or so of both defense and prosecuting attorneys questioning us about prejudices, opinions, etc., it was time to select the final 12 and an alternate. Lord, you know the routine: YWBD. But…!

Many minutes later, just before the clerk called out the name of the 12th juror, I wondered how God would finish this up. Didn’t have long to wait; yep, I would be one of the 12. I was number 12, as a matter of fact. As I sat down in the box, a friend sent me a slightly evil grin from his seat of “unchosenness,” relishing my fate.

In spite of this seemingly done deal, the Lord wasn’t quite done. Just as I settled in and began to feel important and elite and even kind of biblical (Jesus chose 12, didn’t He?), the clerk corrected, “My mistake - Mrs. Woodell is supposed to be the alternate for this jury, not one of the 12.” I changed seats with the lady next to me. I’m still good with this, Lord, even though I’m not biblical anymore. I’m demoted. YWBD.

But the Lord wasn’t done, even yet. After lots of paper shuffling, a little conferring with the attorneys and a word to the judge, Ms. Clerk said, “My bad – Mrs. Woodell isn’t supposed to be the alternate.” Then she spoke these words alight with sunbeams and garlands of roses and cotton candy: “Mrs. Woodell, you are excused from jury duty; you are free to go.”

This time I was the evil grinner as I exited the box.

And don’t try to tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Thirsty?

If any man thirst …

Drinking water isn’t an option. A nurse recently called my attention to the scarcity of H2O in my body. She looked at the results of a urinalysis and exclaimed with passion, “You must drink more water!!” I guess it’s true that just because you don’t detect or recognize the signs of thirst doesn’t mean your body isn’t dry.

So it is spiritually. Thousands of people don’t have a detectable yearning for spiritual water, but that doesn’t mean their souls aren’t as parched as my yard in August. If someone does become aware of a soulful emptiness, chances are he or she will try to assuage it with a placebo. You know what a placebo is – a sugar pill or some other totally ineffective “remedy” for what’s ailing you. It’s not the real thing. Sadly, a vast part of our world relies on magic potions instead of the only Cure.

Christians use placebos too. I’ve done it, and may again if I’m not alert to Satan’s deceptions. Those in the world, and we who claim the Lord both may seek exciting diversions/recreations, gather possessions, be completely absorbed in our families, become some of “holic,” or perhaps pursue the perfect romantic relationship - anything to quiet that ache within.

Many Christians may spurn the above tactics, but have a go at self-medication with perfect church attendance, communion, singing in a prescribed manner, or refraining from becoming overly chummy with those outside their “boundaries.” The less-conservative might depend on the weekly spirited praise and worship service as an antidote for their thirst, or close fellowship of like-minded brothers and sisters, or an outside-the-box benevolent or evangelistic mission.

Most of the activities mentioned are A-Okay. Who could argue against a dynamic worship assembly? The Lord’s Supper is a powerful part of Jesus Christ. Who doesn’t want (and need) wonderful fellowship? Nothing wrong with buying a couch. Falling in love will never perish from the earth. We certainly must relieve the misery of the poor. And didn’t Jesus say something fairly important about seeking the lost?

The catch, or hitch in our get-a-long occurs when we try to substitute any of these for the intimate relationship the Lord God longs to have with each of us. No stand-in for this will ever, ever work. I can’t have a meaningful relationship with a cracker and sip of grape juice; same thing goes for the newest and liveliest song. Intimate companionship with others will alleviate my thirst until they have to go home.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a spiritual sugar pill – I want the Lord!! I don’t want anything that surrounds my God in the way of spiritual trimmings; I want the Center of those accessories!!! The Rock of my salvation. I don’t want the salvation alone – I long for the Source of that salvation. No Gator-ade for me; only the Living Water.

Pray for steadfastness in pursuit of the Savior Himself; pray for a stronger thirst, and pray that none of us settles for a sugar pill.