UNSHAKEABLE

Hebrews12:26-27 . . . . “but now He has promised, saying, ‘Yet once more I shake not only the earth, but also heaven.’  Now this, ‘Yet once more,’ indicates the removal of those things that  are being shaken, as of things that are made, that the things which cannot be shaken may remain.” (NKJ)

 

This verse certainly came to my mind nearly a year ago when the world stood still for the grand entrance of Covid.  Life as we knew it was turned upside down, inside out. With scarcely any time to gain our balance, other waves of disaster followed with George Floyd ‘s brutal killing, Oregon wildfires which burned half of the state’s land, and an election which slashed our country with cruel stripes of division.

 

The seeming suddenness of these progressive waves of disaster was then magnified by the absolute disconnect of communication by a media culture which revels in its own particular brand of "fake" news.  

 

As a journalist educated 50 years ago, I can scarcely take in what has happened to my profession.  I have experienced much angst about the massive communication implosion during these last few years, and for the most part, along with the rest of my community, hardly knew what to say or do about what seemed like a complete unravelling of my world, my life as I knew it.

 

As a Christian, I knew exactly what to do.  I have walked with Jesus Christ for 39 years now.  I have walked through many a valley.  Accepting Jesus Christ into my life was like accepting a gym membership.  You don’t get spiritual muscles by not going to the gym of trials, of pressing close to the One Who Saved you, and by knowing God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

 

It takes work, as do all relationships.  I have learned when I see a trial coming over the horizon,

I know it is time to snuggle in closer and deeper with the One Who Knows What Is Going On!  My initial response was turning to my church family.  Alas, along with everyone else, it, too, turned to isolation, and soon, to a new experience in our lives – Zoom.

 

After praying for a time that my church would open its doors, and much to my dismay as it

turned to Zoom instead of church "in person", I accepted that the Lord had something else to teach me.  

Me and me alone.

 

I turned to my guide for life, my Bible.  I also turned to my home library – I had plenty of time in isolation after all!  I began to revel in those greats I studied when I first became a Christian.  A.W. Tozer, “A Crucified Life”, Arthur Pierson’s “George Muller of Bristol”, “Waiting on God” written by Andrew Murray, E.M. Bounds on “Prayer”, Arthur Wallis’ precious booklet, “God’s Chosen Fast”.

 

I began a scriptural journal in which I listened to the Lord daily, noting where He directed me in the Word of God.  What was He telling me in His Word? I began to feel God work, work, work.

 

I learned something else.

 

I was starved for Him, thirsty for His Word, grateful for the time where I could grapple with the chaos around me to move into contemplation with Him.  And Covid sequestering gave me time.  With Him, with my husband as we joined together in Bible studies, prayer, and conversation about the truth of our Christian lives.

 

As members of a predominantly black church, we pondered, conversed with black friends, and prayed, “Lord, why are we here?” “What do you want us to learn about this racism crisis?”  We learned we had our own wounds that needed to be tended to, as well as listening to our black brothers and sisters.

 

And I learned that I have been healed, delivered, and poured into by Jesus for such a time as this.  As I survey the landscape of my life, my church life, my relationships, I accept that, as a warrior, I  can see the dimensions of the enemy’s attack.  One of my greatest griefs lately has been that the church does not seem to see it as I do.

 

At the beginning of this year, I perused C.S. Lewis’ “Screwtape Letters.”  A classic published in 1942, Lewis gives us correspondence between Screwtape, a highly placed assistant to the

devil and his nephew, Wormwood, a novice demon in charge of securing the damnation of an ordinary young man.

 

Lewis says in the preface to the book, “There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils.  One is to disbelieve in their existence.  The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them.  They themselves (the devils) are equally pleased by both errors. . . .”

 

One could wonder how a modern-day correspondence between the devil and Wormwood might flow should C.S. Lewis pen it today.  Wormwood I believe might be very pleased with his progress as he reports to the devil. “Yes sir,” he might report to the devil, “battleground has 

been cleared.  Christians have been neutralized -- masked up so no worship, and churches closed down.  Believers still cowering in fear of Covid, so no assembling together for prayer,  and laying on of hands for healing. Edicts for double masking just out, so no worship dear devil!  We have won a major victory!”

  

I see the attack against Christians, the church, and the Word of God as deadly serious.  The believers’ unity, worship, prayer, and the Word of God pack a powerful punch to the wiles of the enemy as we gather together, unafraid, unified, and standing on the Word of God, worshipping and praying. 

 

Not everyone, as you might imagine, agrees with me as we look around at vacated places of worship.  Not everyone believes that there is a war raging.  But I hear Hebrews 10:23-25 loud and clear for times such as these. “Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful.  And let us consider one another in order to stir up love and 

good works, not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as is the manner of some, but exhorting one another, and so much the more as you see the Day approaching.” (NKJ)

 

God is the Director here.  He is having His way whether we see the visibility of that evidence or not. I believe He is building a New Kingdom Church, working with His remnant to bring in the harvest waiting in the wings. And I believe the enemy is out to thwart our every effort.

 

As believers who have had time now during Covid to press in and push through strong forces of both good and evil, I think we must ask ourselves – 

 

Are we ready to come together?  Willing?  Do we have the courage?  Jesus will make it clear to each of us what our part in this is.  

 

If we ask Him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Power of Touch -- Logan; In Memory of my son Chris

Amidst the isolation of the pandemic, a silver lining has been time for us to think, and time to listen.  To ourselves, and to the Lord.

As I purposed to do just that,  the verse in 1 Peter 1:13 kept coming to mind. "Therefore, gird your minds for action, keep sober in spirit, fix your hope completely on the grace to be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ."

I thanked God that I had a mind to gird up after all the confusion!  A mind to ponder and muse and grapple with the difficult things facing us during this time.  Questions -- many of them -- flooded what gray matter I had left.

I began to wonder -- didn't Jesus enter dangerous territory all the time?  To do radical things such as heal lepers?  Touch and heal? I began to feel restless as I read my Bible.  Would Jesus hunker down?

Make note of the fact that I am not Jesus -- just a follower of His.  But suddenly (and it was a suddenly) -- I was done with hunkering down!  Restlessness invaded my peace, and I could not shake it.  Was I being disobedient?  Was this my flesh?  Or, was the Lord about to show me a new perspective?  In hindsight, it was the latter, and he used six-year old Logan to show me something very important.

Logan came into my life as a baby six years ago.  Logan's paternal grandfather is a close neighbor of ours who ended up taking daily care of his grandson because Logan's mother faced both mental and physical challenges.  In addition to having a mother who could not care for him most of the time, he had a father overwhelmed by his wife's medical needs and his own job.  So as Logan came to his grandfather's every day, my close proximity as a neighbor took care of the rest.  Logan is gregarious and easy to love!

Naturally inquisitive even at a young age, Logan learned how to navigate his life with irrepressible joy, even in the face of hardship.  He learned how to weave his way into my heart, and he learned how to ask the hard questions.  Ask them, he did. "What is wrong with my mom?" "Is she going to die?" "If blowing bubbles is fun, why can't she blow them?"  He loved our dog, locks, garage door openers, walks, being silly, cell phones (he had his first at a young age), and math, his favorite subject.  He overcame his fear of our big dog by learning how to train him, and walk with us, commanding (well most of the time) control of our lovable Aussie. Math came easy to him, and at four years old, he quizzed me intently -- laughed with glee when I gave him the wrong answer.

But there were answers his young heart did not have.

His mother did not make it to Christmas in 2019. She had been in the hospital for months prior to her death.  On his last visit to her, she told him good-bye and that she was going to heaven to be with God.  Two days later, he arrived at his grandpa's house for the duration of December.  His grandfather and I agreed that Logan needed all of us --my husband and I welcomed Logan whenever he came over, which was often.

Logan was in and out, marking my calendar with a five-year old's scrawl on his birthday May 31st to  make sure he was not forgotten, crawling up in my lap and being rocked, looking forward to the Christmas present we had gotten him -- a cuddly elephant, which I figured he could squeeze for comfort.

He dubbed the elephant, "Mr. Elephant Man".  We agreed "Mr. Elephant Man" would stay at our house, so that when he visited, he would squeeze and hug and touch a cuddly.  "Mr. Elephant Man"  became a major force in those daunting Christmas days after his mother's death.  He held the toy in his lap when he asked me the hard questions, "So is my mom living up in the sky?"  "Why does God live up there?" Why doesn't He live down here, so I can visit my mom?" And, after musing over our nativity scene for awhile, he turned to me, and exclaimed, "So, my mom is living in heaven being taken care of by this baby Jesus?!" There were times during these intense theological sessions when I would need to hug "Mr. Elephant Man"!

Life after Christmas took Logan to school where his kindergarten teacher, who adored him, took up a lot of his time, and "Mr. Elephant Man" sat all alone in the corner of my office.

And then Covid struck.  Everyone hunkered down, including Logan and his grandpa, my husband and I. Days and weeks passed, but as Logan's birthday approached,  I knew this was not a day I could or wanted to ignore.  Logan's scrawled name on May 31st tugged at my heart.  The plan was that I would deliver his present, give him a quick hug, and go back home.  In spite of my restlessness, I still wanted to be user friendly to Covid.  A quick hug.

Logan's birthday arrived, but events did not go as planned.  Logan's grandfather called me the morning of May 31st to say that Logan's maternal grandmother "suddenly" injected herself into the day by announcing she was coming to take Logan out for a birthday treat.  This turn of events was difficult for both Logan and his grandfather, because Logan's mother and her own mother did not get along; thus Logan barely knew his maternal grandmother who was soon to arrive to whisk him away.

For me, the timing caught me off guard as well, as I had planned to see him in the afternoon. Quickly I finished wrapping a few books I had purchased for him, signed his card, and dissatisfied that I didn't have time to get him a Baskin-Robbins gift card, I quickly grabbed Mr. Elephant Man, plopped a ribbon on the animal's head, and ran across the street.

Logan saw me coming through the front window, ran to the door, opened it up wide, and flung himself into my arms, crying out with joy, "Oh Mr. Elephant Man!" We disentangled ourselves from hugs, and sat down on the sofa, catching up.  Grandpa had a few things to say too, but this time was clearly Logan and me!  Both of us had things to say and we said them -- quickly because we knew his grandma, a woman he barely knew, was coming.

So we laughed, giggled, and Mr. Elephant Man was clearly the hit!  The cuddly animal sat prominently beside Logan with the ribbon still on his head.  Logan latched onto me as if he would never see me again, and I took it in.  So much for a quick hug.

The sound of a car in the driveway signaled that his grandmother arrived.  Logan looked with uncertainty toward the door.  I chastised myself for not leaving sooner.  I knew this moment would probably have some tension -- it was palpable in the room, and I planned a quick getaway, had I not?

Too late, like it or not I was a part of the event, seated next to Logan and "Mr. Elephant Man" with a big ribbon on top of  its head.   Logan's grandmother entered chattering in a high-pitched voice denoting her own anxiety it seemed.  Before I could introduce myself, her eyes widened, her voice lowered and she said almost in awe as she approached Mr. Elephant Man, "Oh, what a darling toy!" She crossed the room to touch the stuffed animal, looked at me, and asked, "Did you give this to Logan?"

Taken off guard as I watched her reaction to this stuffed animal, I blurted out, "It's Logan's Christmas present from me.  I bought it to comfort him the day your daughter died."

 Shocked at my outburst,  I rose from the sofa and said quietly, "I've lost a son.  I know how it feels.  How are you doing?" Without further words, I opened my arms to hug her, and as she fell into them, crying then sobbing, she spilled out her own pain,  collapsing completely into my arms.

 Logan hugged "Mr. Elephant Man" tightly as he watched his grandmother cry about how much she missed her daughter.  She withdrew apologetically,  dried her tears, and took Logan's hand, preparing to leave.  She thanked me profusely for listening, for understanding, and for holding her.  "I needed that touch!  Thank you!"

All the while,  Logan's grandfather watched, patted Logan on the head as he put on his jacket. But he remained seated in his old worn-out comfortable chair.  Without a word, he stretched out his hand to Logan's grandmother and said quietly, his eyes glistening with tears.  "I lost a child too.  A crib death daughter, when she was only two months old.  I remember all those times when I would struggle not to cry at my job.  Sometimes I could not help myself."  He squeezed her hand.

Silently but palpably the tension drained out of the room as we stood, soothed by the comfort of understanding and the power of touch. Logan watched wide-eyed, still clutching his beloved toy.

 I prayed for Logan a lot that day after he left with his grandmother, and I came home.  I cried for this six-year old who should have had a more celebratory birthday, but in my heart I felt that a deep healing had happened in that room -- and I hoped it would only benefit Logan's future.

 My husband asked with a knowing smile when I came home, "A quick hug was it?"

No, some things cannot be transmitted over zoom.

Only by the power of human touch.

Thank you Jesus.

To Israel and Back/My thoughts

At long last I went to Israel!

Seriously.  For most of October, 2018, I traveled, as a follower of Jesus Christ, to the land of my beloved Savior. It has taken me nine months to put my pen to paper about how this trip changed my life. Given that it has been a dream of mine for my whole Christian life (37 years), I am not surprised.  There was a lot to unpack!

Little did I know, however, (and it was true for the whole tour),that it didn't matter what condition I was in -- gimpy knee? Physically stretched? Emotionally overwhelmed? Mentally taxed with historical, cultural and spiritual layers of knowledge packed into ten-hour days for three solid weeks?
Many times I cried out, "Enough!  Just give me a reprieve!"

But hey!  God knew I was a gimp.  That is why He sent me on a tour comprised totally of intercessors!  A giant gift to have a roommate, friends, new and old, who prayed, prayed, prayed as we climbed, processed, toured with thousands of other travelers pouring into Israel, and endured, heat, long days, worn out bodies, and mental overload.  And we danced with joy (most of the time) over what we experienced!

Little did I know when I said my good-byes to Israel and my friends,who flew to their destinations across the United States, that the Lord had one more experience for me!

As if I hadn't had enough!

It happened on my flight to Portland, from Los Angeles, CA.  God knows, flying 15 hours from Tel Aviv afforded me enough time for an adventure, but it was surprisingly uneventful, other than being LONG.  I wanted to get home!

Alas! Another lay-over in LAX before flying to Portland!  I entered the plane to Portland, dead with fatigue, my bad knee howling,  plopped down in my assigned seat, buckled up, laid  my head back and shut my eyes.  Ready to sleep.

A heavy hand shook my shoulder, "Miss, Miss, could you please change seats with me?  I want to sit next to my wife please, I am sure you won't mind."   I glanced across the aisle at his middle seat, briefly counted the extra bucks it took to garner my aisle seat because of my gimp knee, and crisply said, "Sorry, I've been 15 hours on an overnight flight from Israel, and my knee is hurting, so no, I won't trade."

He audibly gasped, but his wife, the one sitting next to me, said with a tinge of excitement in her voice, "Howard, sit down!  This woman doesn't want to move, leave her alone!"  Sadly, she did not take her own advice, looked into her carry-on bag, took out a stainless steel cup, poured hot, black coffee into it, and offered it to me with a gleam in her eye. "You have been to Israel?!!! Here, have a cup of coffee!  Tell me about it!"

Let's be perfectly frank here.  The last thing I wanted to do was recount my trip, great as it was. But she persevered, peppered me with questions, and poured a continual flow of caffeine into my cup.

"You have been to the Land!  What did you see?  Where did you go? What was your favorite? Did you go to Jordan? See Mea She'arim?"  You may note that she knew more than the average Israeli tourist.

I acquiesced by giving her my brief version, gulping down caffeine.  As I immediately suspected, she was more a veteran traveler than I,  having been to Israel three times. And being a white knuckled flier, she clutched her Torah prayer book, which led me to suspect she was an orthodox Jew.

And when I told her, I didn't pray using a Torah prayer book, she surmised that I was a believer in Jesus Christ. She confirmed what I suspected from our conversation -- that she excitedly looks forward to Jesus' future coming for the first time, and is an orthodox Jew. And I excitedly shared that I look forward to Jesus coming for the second time, and happily enjoy the fruits of His already coming the first time.

For a few cups of coffee, all was well.  Until she said to me, "We are just on the same path, you and I, we both believe in Jesus."

I have reflected upon that conversation many times as I look back on my trip.  And I am glad that I responded the way I did.

I felt God's nudge.  Again I knew it didn't matter how tired, or how anything I was -- it had been that way for the whole trip.  Somehow, He gave me what I needed to complete the day.

So He did again.

I gently touched her arm, looked her in the eye, and said, "No, we really aren't on the same path.  I have a relationship with Jesus today, right now, because I believe He has already come.  You don't believe that. We aren't on the same path."

I heard the Lord whisper in my ear  -  "Let me take it from here."

So I did.  The banter cooled visibly, turned from friendly to polite.

I have reflected upon that conversation many times as I write about my journey.  I marvel about the complexity of the culture -  Jews,  orthodox and Messianic, and Muslims,  both layered in the diversity within their own cultures, both claiming their spiritual rights to the real estate of Israel. I certainly am not the first one to ponder this, and ponder it I still do. 

I think of my traveling companion in that plane, particularly as I think of  Jerusalem where I saw the Temple Mount, the Garden of Gethsemane, the wailing wall, and Mea She'arim, the heart of where many orthodox Jews live. My heart fell in love with the orthodox Jews who lived in Mea She'arim, precious families who live to see the King, who they believe will come one day in the future.

What are their thoughts as they go to the Temple Mount?  Or the Garden of Gethsemane?  How do they reflect upon Jesus who prayed three times, sweating blood from his forehead, that the cup in front of Him would be taken away?  The grueling torture of the events prior to the cross?  The absolution of Jesus carrying our sins on the cross? The miracle of the resurrection at the Garden Tomb?

I pondered, and wondered, and prayed for those who don't know that Jesus has already come, that He is here, now.  I fought the crowds at the Garden of Gethsemane, who came from all over the world to touch and see.  Solitude, it was not.  I watched from my perch on a stair step of the Church of St. Anne's, disappointed that I could not have time alone to think on these things. I wondered, "Do these tourists know Jesus?  Or do they want history?"

As I left Jerusalem, and the enormity of the sights and sounds there, I yearned for some solitude to process.  The question looming in my mind --  How do I reconcile all of what I see here with the relationship I have today with Jesus Christ? What do I take back home?  What do I learn?

These were questions on my heart as we traveled northward to Capernaum, where in fact, Jesus performed most of his ministry

The Lord heard the yearning of my heart -- for answers, for solitude, for a special place for me just to be with Him!

He surprised me -- at a resort not far from the Golan Heights. At dusk, I needed to stretch my legs after an exhausting day of climbing Mt. Arbel.  Though we were not in the intense heat of summer, that day was hot even for October, and the setting sun breathed some relief from the heat.  I climbed over a small hill separating the resort from the beach,  expecting to see more crowds, but my heart melted as my eyes saw first-hand--

the Sea of Galilee.

The breeze, the gentle ripple of the water, the expanse lay before me -- best of all, I was all alone.  All alone on the Sea of Galilee!

I was overwhelmed, totally and completely overwhelmed.

And God knew it.

"Sit down!" He whispered.

A single fallen log lay in front of me.

I sat down and basked in silence for awhile, just my God and me.  He spoke quietly to my heart, "I am giving you a new name."  I rejoiced at this precious revelation, and sat in reflection looking out at the Sea, drinking in the solitude.

The awe of basking in a land God loves, in the midst of people He loves, some still waiting for Jesus -- Israel.

I questioned not His ways for they are not my own.  I questioned not of His presence, nor of the enormity of His giving me a new name --

Nor of standing on a beach where possibly the disciples stood -- where Jesus might have stood!  I questioned not -- experienced, Him!

I think of my orthodox Jewish friend on the plane home.  I pray for her and for those precious Jews who still believe Jesus has not come.  I am grateful for a deeper understanding of the complexity of this time, praising God for the insight He gave me as I responded to my friend on the plane, "I thank God for the Jewish culture who gave me my precious Messiah, Jesus Christ."  And, on that beach, on that day, My Jesus seared the love for the Jewish people into my heart.  In Israel.

Staying out of the Weeds

It is so easy for me to step into the weeds these days, and find myself out of sorts.

I can fall over an emotional cliff easily -- am I sane? Or, insane?  Hard to tell some days.

Personally my stuff is probably not yours, but we all can face a similar question.  How do we stay out of the weeds?  How do we stay afloat?

Many of you may have seen "African Queen" --a Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn classic that takes place during WWI in a German colony in Eastern Africa. A missionary  (Hepburn) is forced to take a battered, seen-its better days river boat (the African Queen) out of a village under fire by Germans who are ousting British influences. The captain of said African Queen (Bogart) is as battered as his boat, but he is well seasoned with alcohol and experience.  Hepburn, a prissy, British missionary has a higher goal than just getting out of the burning village.  She pesters the whiskered, alcohol-fueled  Bogart to steam up the Ulana River with endlessly branching streams which go nowhere but impenetrable swamps. Hepburn has God on her side, Bogart not so sure, but the goal is to reach  Lake Louisa in order  to take out a huge German warship with a torpedo constructed by the sobered-up Bogart. The climax finds them exhausted and facing death as the African Queen has run amok in one of those swamps, stuck in thick mud and weeds, unable to move anywhere.

The visual hits home for me as I navigate through my days, determined to stay out of the weeds.
My solution may not be yours.  But the climate of our vexation is the same.  It was oddly reassuring to read Thomas L. Friedman's book, "Thank you for Being Late --  An Optimist's guide to Thriving in the Age of Accelerations."  Co-incidentally (or not), I bought the book at the airport after missing a flight.  Not the airline's fault -- my own when upon exiting my house, my husband asked me if I had my boarding pass. "Yep," I answered smugly, "all ready to go."

Not so much.  Misread the pass, missed my flight.  So, I had a day of wandering the airport waiting for either standby, or a later flight.  Much later.  One silver lining was purchasing Friedman's book.  Captivated by the title("Thank you for Being Late") which I certainly just experienced,  I was pleasantly surprised to find a really good read. For me, it's always reassuring to know I have company in my self-wondering, "Am I peddling faster, and getting no-where slower?"

Friedman in very readable terms explains his thesis.  That Moore's law (technology), the Market (globalization), and Mother Nature (climate change) are accelerating all at once, and transforming the workplace, politics, geopolitics, ethics, and community (all at once).

Okay, so there is an explanation besides my senior status.  I pondered my everyday glitches which Friedman's thesis helped me to clarify.

Technology -- the bane of my existence!  Hours spent wading through technological weeds?  Please!
 It is time well spent for me when I step back, and understand it is not always my fault, and that I am learning not one new language, sometimes 3 or 4.  And by the time I learn those languages, new technological advances pop up, and I grab my IPhone for technical assistance -- wait!-- more weeds as I plow through thick accents to listen to instructions I don't understand anyhow.

Climate change?  Sweater and jeans one day, cotton t-shirt and shorts the next due to a 30 degree upswing in 24 hours.  Forget seasonal wardrobe closet changes.  Stuff wool and cotton together, call it good.

Politics?!  On any given day, I walk in the company of people who are loving, good, wonderful, ethical, spiritual people. And a political conversation with any of them, both sides of the political aisle, can take me into the WEEDS within seconds.

Ethics? Any discussion relative to abortion, assisted suicide, transgender issues, homosexuality, cloning humans, seem "out there" until you are smack dab in the middle of those issues with family, neighbors, and ordinary people who on the outside look far removed from any of the above issues.  Until you find yourself at the other end of a conversation with them,  wondering, "Do I really know what to say to them that is honoring, kind, true and comforting?" Weeds I see you up ahead. 

 When my stepson committed suicide four years ago, my personal angst and ethics were challenged -- "Did I do enough when his health was eroded by drugs he used to steady mental challenges he faced his whole life?"  Should I have fought more aggressively in a mental health industry where answers are sparse? 

I am not alone. Many parents face complex issues which require decisions they don't feel equipped to make.   Pastors, doctors, teachers, counselors can daily  head into dilemmas where solutions evaporate in the tension of competing needs. Staying sober-minded ethically in the midst of the complexity of daily life is required to remain true to our values and ourselves.

So, refreshing as Friedman's book was in defining the reason life seems so complex these days, I didn't go to his book to find the solution to decisions I had to make which hung heavy in the air for me currently.  I sat in my favorite chair, and picked up my favorite book --

the Bible.

In these times, when the weeds are the thickest, God has clearer and clearer revelation to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.  He, after all understands better than Friedman, the complexity, volatility, and acceleration of our lives -- and the reasons!

I took my daily perplexities about my current issues to Him.  It always astounds me that God, the creator of heaven and earth, always takes time to have tea with me, his daughter.  He takes all the time I have and need, for me to understand His explanation to my problems and then, the solutions and the disciplines He wants me to instill into my life to help me joyfully arrive at those solutions.  This week He directed me to  the books of Timothy, Ephesians, Romans, and Revelation. Staying out of the Weeds!  Taking me into the living flowing water.

Which brings us back to Hepburn and Bogart.  As Hepburn prayed for them to accept death gracefully, the rains came, and

released the African Queen from the weeds into the deep blue waters of Lake Louisa.  It didn't end there.  Another obstacle around the corner, but another answer.  Kinda like our lives.  One prayer answered -- a deeper perspective -- then, another challenge around the corner. 

But wait!  Another answer!

Out of the weeds!

My conversation with Madeleine L'Engle, author of "A Wrinkle in Time"

My life was shaped greatly by Madeleine L'Engle both as a writer and as a follower of Jesus Christ.  Lately I've spent time pondering my own personal testimony -- about the many ways I see God's hand shaping the course of my life -- through individuals, and circumstances.

The testimony of how L'Engle entered my life and her ensuing influence is one that ranks right up there.  And it comes more into focus now because her greatest novel, "A Wrinkle in Time" opens as a major motion picture this Saturday, March 9.

Hopefully, Hollywood stays true to her book, because by her own admission, "A Wrinkle in Time" was from God, "a good work." Published in 1962 after being rejected by publishers for ten years, "Wrinkle" is a story about three children who fight an evil force threatening their planet.

My testimony of my writing career being shaped by her is one for another blog.  L'Engle has been dead for eleven years, but it is a great testimony to her, and her writing that "Wrinkle" is surfacing as a movie after all of these years.  I didn't read this book until I was an adult and felt the impact immediately as to the depth of her message, and the simplicity and grace of her storytelling, and I feel in many ways the timing of this movie is the Lord's.

 My meeting with her happened rather randomly.  Don't all divine appointments fall as a suddenly?  This one did!  It happened nearly ten years ago when she was in Portland conducting a writer's conference. At the time I didn't have the money to go to the conference, but I did go to her free Friday night "open to the public" session at the Old Church in downtown Portland.

But, I had NO IDEA THAT I WOULD HAVE LUNCH WITH HER! FOR 2 1/2 GLORIOUS HOURS! God had a plan for me!

Initially, I balked at attending the "open to the public"session. I thought of a thousand reasons why I should not go.  Too hot, old building, no air conditioning. Did I really want any lecture on writing fiction?  I was a journalist for heaven's sake! But my writing mentor's urging won out -- she believed I had a novel inside my journalistic self, and thought an evening with Madeleine could shake it out of me.

But it was not the writing that bonded me to Madeleine L'Engle.  It was her passion for Jesus Christ.

So, in spite of hot and muggy,  I entered the Old Church with not much expectation, sat down, and proceeded to peruse the audience.  It was filled to overflowing with people who were chattering with excitement. Seemed to be a writing kind of audience I surmised, but would she teach for free on this night with a whole week-end full of paid-up participants who were signed-up months in advance for a writer's conference?

Before much second thought on my part, and after an introduction filled with accolades, she strode out to the podium, a puff of purple.  Though she seemed to float to the podium, her presence spoke of confidence and strength.  She smiled, graciously acknowledging and scanning the packed crowd both on the ground floor and balcony, and stood a few more minutes in silence.  It brought an uncanny shift to the audience atmosphere, almost as if their excitement turned to a wonder of curiosity.

She spoke. "I know most of you have come tonight to hear my experiences as an author, and about my life as a writer."  She paused, again perusing her listeners, "But tonight I am going to tell you all about the real author of this author -- Jesus Christ."

And, she proceeded to give the gospel of Jesus Christ, how He found her and loved her, and how it changed her life and her writing, her love for creativity, and her love for teaching writers, yes, her love for writers!

To say that you could hear a pin drop -- was an understatement.  She had the audience in the palm of her hand, not because of who she was, but

because of Who Jesus is.

I fell in love -- with her grace, with the power of her message, and I was humbled that I had almost missed the evening!  But God was not done with me yet.

As she closed, lines started forming to talk to her.  I briefly considered going up to shake her hand, and mumble my admiration, but I left the church instead.

I didn't get far. Stopped dead in my tracks for no human reason. Standing under the boughs of an old oak tree situated in front of the Old Church, I heard a still small voice, "Go back in and tell her you would like to interview her."

 I grabbed the bark of the old oak tree to steady myself.  I knew what I had heard, but hoped I hadn't. With what I can only define as gut-wrenching obedience, I made my way back inside, waited in line, and stuttered a question, something about me being a free-lancer, and yes, I know you don't have time, and, but, well, can I interview you?

There was never a waver in her eyes, her voice, or her resolve.  "Yes, Oh Yes!  I'd love to meet with you!"

The women who put on the conference had other ideas about her time.  "No Madeleine," one chimed in promptly, "You have no time to meet with anyone outside the conference!"

Velvet and steel, yes? L'Engle turned to her, and very sweetly said, "Oh my dear, but I do!"
She turned to me, we set up the time, and voila, my time with Madeleine was set for lunch the next day.

I felt like I was having lunch with an old friend instead of interviewing her.  We ate grilled cheese sandwiches in the conference building's cafeteria, and talked about many things.  She explained about how she found her way into the Christian faith. It began with her reading Einstein's "Theory of Relativity" in beginning to research for "A Wrinkle in Time."  She described her initial deep musings into whether there was a God or not, and in her journey of research for "Wrinkle", she  began to find God.  Her journey, as most of ours, took some time, and as she explains it in her non-fiction book, "A Circle of Quiet,"  an Anglican bishop finally "loved me into the kingdom of Jesus Christ, and settled the issue for me once and for all.  All the theological books my friends had given me didn't matter.  The love of God through this man in a time of a deep personal need brought me to the understanding of who God is."

We talked about things big and small.   She never once questioned that I was not a part of the conference -- instead, she seemed relieved that she could just be, and not teach.  In talking about "Wrinkle", she explained that it never occurred to her to doubt whether children should not know that evil existed.  And always when pressed, she insisted that she didn't write children's books, she wrote for everyone.  We talked about prayer, and she said she gave her more conservative Christian friends credit for teaching her about prayer, really deep prayer, that took her into the heart of her God.

We talked about her love for her husband, Hugh, who was an actor -- and she laughed unabashedly about how clumsy she felt (she had one leg shorter than the other) around him, and how he loved her into feeling totally graceful, kept her humble, and when she almost gave up writing during the ten years of waiting for "A Wrinkle in Time" to be published, Hugh chastised her about all the books being published that weren't half as good as hers, and encouraged her to stay the course!

She was adamant about being available as a mother, and would put her children to bed and stay up in the middle of the night to write, until her children, when they became older, gave her permission to write  during the day (please mother!) because she was grumpy otherwise. She believed in commitment and mused that when they bought an old farm house in a small rural village to raise their children, she rued,"I get so frightfully bored sometimes, and oh, the plumbing!"  Then a laugh, "My floors are a wreck, I can't bake a pie, but I can cook, thank God!  And write!"

It was Madeleine that impressed upon me for the first time -- you are a writer --God created you.  You have Him as your partner.   She was the first to admit that the process is not always a clean one -- it can get messy, but it is yours and God's.  It is good.  It is right.  And it is a fight.

And fight you must.

She believed in both the good and the evil.  And she believed in the fight.  And she believed that the fight can be won.  She believed in enjoying life, strong values, commitment, and honestly questioning and wrestling with God in questions, both big and small.

She squeezed my hand at the end of our interview, hugged me, and said, "Oh what a delight you are! Here is my phone number.  Call me any time!"

I am sure she had said that to thousands of writers, but how grateful I am to have been one of them.  "A Wrinkle in Time" reminds me of my time with her, and the kinship of our similar passions.  I am honored to have known her, and perhaps share a part of her with you dear readers.

For such a time as this?

I think so.  Read the book, and make your own decision about whether Hollywood got it or not.

Time to Breathe?

A new year. A clean slate.

2018 came in much as 2017 had progressed.  I reconnected with long-lost relatives, absorbed the blows of life as institutions imploded, and as dear friends faced their own trials.  Thinking I was withstanding  the roiling emotions which life brings these days, another event "popped in."

My knee popped out.  OUCH!   And, I was, in a word,

Immobile.

Leveled by the physical pain, I quickly discounted that there were lessons to be learned here, and plunged into the tyranny of the urgent.

Delegating became my second name.  The list of what has to be done, what isn't being done, and dear God in heaven what can be done? was answered immediately by a knee that said, I AM DONE!

Those dear ones around me quickly found their own mantra, "Uh, that does not HAVE TO BE DONE!

Gradually, as the voice of reason nudged into my panic, I began to understand how hell-bent I am to HAVE my own way, DO it my own way, and THINK in my own way.

Once again, my friend Jesus in that still small voice quieted me with a beckoning,"Come let me show you new discoveries!  About me, about yourself!"

Captured by His gentle luring, I began to take stock of those lessons.

In the midst of my busyness,  I had lost my ability to see the gift of receiving from those who love me. Gradually, I relaxed in the love of their help.  Had I hardened myself so much? Or had Jesus' words, "Giving is better than receiving" turned into a stumbling block for me? Did I forget that to give to others, I had to receive the gifts Jesus had for me?

I began to breathe.  Ridiculous as it sounds, I learned to sit and be. And breathe.  Again, a peace -- the peace that passes all understanding begin to bathe me in a sweetness that had been clouded with my pain. As I relaxed, peace prevailed and a new attention to detail of my surroundings and those I love began to overtake my pain. A miracle relearned.

I have written much in this blog about my struggles to dispel my prejudices as I work in my neighborhood which is changing rapidly, sometimes with challenges not to my liking. And ONCE AGAIN, I learned a deeper lesson as I obeyed my doctor's advice to swim more. Not knowing that this would be another lesson to dispel prejudices, I limped off to my neighborhood gym. Entering into the pool area, expecting to swim quickly and exit, I instead found a crowded pool and spa. Me, a Russian body-builder, a young Hispanic boxer,  a Middle-Eastern young adult, two Hispanic teen-agers, and a Chinese doctor were in the spa, in the pool, and in the sauna -- not always in that order.

Quickly, I discerned that I had no choice but to go with the so-called program and swim, in spite of the crowded spa and pool. Fill in the blanks dear reader -- in the midst of it all, I found out much about my companions that afternoon, there was laughter, sharing, and yes, I did swim, and yes it helped my prejudices, and my knee.   Hebrews  12: 12-13 hits me, literally. "Therefore, strengthen the hands that are weak and the knees that are feeble, and make straight paths for your feet, so that the limb which is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed."

As you can note dear reader, I am healing.  I walk short distances now, but I am nudged more into swimming, I drink lots of water (as I have been resistant to do for years -- too much running to -- well you know).  I listen to the Lord, and to my body.  Stop, sit, enjoy, rest, write, love those around you, and watch what I AM DOING!

Writing is flowing in greater measure.  I have time to sit more and peruse old journals.  I am aware that the path of my life has been laid meticulously out for me by my Lord, and that I know my path.  A miracle above all miracles, and I am blessed.   Helping others pen their stories, and finding my own.

Nuggets.

As you are dear readers.  Thanks for walking with me on my journey.  Stay tuned.  Next month I am posting an interview I did with Madeleine L'Engle 20 years ago.  Her book, "A Wrinkle in Time" is coming out as a Disney movie March 9th. 

Another nugget.  See you.

WOW! ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!

On my desk, perched to the left of my laptop is one of those clever cliches, rather glib I think.  It says, "YOUTH IS A GIFT. AGE IS AN ART."

Before I go off, waxing the incredible wisdom that I have gleaned from living so many years, just let me say,

I'm still working on the "AGE IS AN ART" part.

Birthdays usually trigger me into contemplative moods. In my imagination, I visualize my life as  a room full of many doors -- doors that have opened in the past, and I have walked through them or doors that have been shut and I ignored the obvious, and blasted right through them anyway.  But --

There are doors that are still standing open, right now one in particular.  And I am tiptoeing around the threshold, hesitating to commit to the dance, one foot in, and then, whoa, one foot out.   Kind of like the two-step at my sixth-grade box social. Not fully committed to walking through.

 But I do know this much.

On this birthday, I am truly grateful.  Exuberantly, extraordinarily and exactingly GRATEFUL! Is it because I am old or because I am a writer, all three adjectives mean something special?  You dear reader can decide.

Exuberantly thankful! For my love of eating! Smelling the aromas of homemade bread and white cake wafting from the oven, and mouth-watering plumes of barbecue smoke from steaks and ribs on the grill.  The joy of crunching into corn on the cob dripping in butter, a vine-ripened Iowa tomato bursting with flavor only heat and humidity can produce (my Midwest roots) and finally, who can pass up a plate of steaming pasta piled on a plate with homemade marinara sauce,  grated garlic and Parmesan cheese melting on top?

For music!  All kinds.  Cranked up.  Lots of drums! Cellos yes!  Dancing in my living-room in my sweats, barefooted, no make-up, and my dog howling at the top of his lungs, thinking it is one big game!

For good books! Curled up. In my favorite chair, hot Irish breakfast tea, cat on my lap, journals and a book close by. I call it exuberant peace. Do I scoot out of my chair onto my knees with prayers of gratitude?  Often.  Very often.

Next --EXTRAORDINARILY!

Extraordinarily humbled by my marriage to Brian. God has brought us through!  The fruit?  So much, but for us, talking and listening and learning how to do both -- has been a constant. Used to be over a beer, but now? A cup of  his freshly-brewed coffee in the comfort of Saturday mornings, talking as only people the same age and married 36 years can share. Deep, superficial, laughing, crying, praying, sometimes all at once.  We ponder often these days -- what life at our age should look like? What is God doing in our lives?  What should we be doing in His?  (And, really, is it the same thing?) Is the next house project worth the energy?  Did the dog just run right through our new patio screen door!!??  Shall we go out for ice cream like NOW!?

Extraordinarily thankful that I could be a mother when I wasn't sure whether my body was up to it.  Even more grateful that I birthed a kid that I not only loved, but that I liked. Tony shares the family bonding agent -- humor. Laughter with him, always!   He has surpassed his mother in cooking skills. Cooking with him is a joy -- letting him cook and then eating the deluge of texture and goodness that he prepares is even more of a delight.  Grateful I can be a part of his journey and watch him navigate the complex challenges he faces as a young man.   I learn from his journey, oh boy, do I learn.

Extraordinarily sobered is truly the word  that comes to mind as I ponder the deep colors of my friendships. The fine workings, the sometimes rugged terrain, the peaceful oases, the fight, the companionship of love, pain, confusion, despair, and hope which I experience with people who truly share their hearts and lives with me takes my breath away at times. Some are kindred spirits, others walk their own journey though they don't share my beliefs, but they honor me anyway.  And I, honor them.

A special hug to my inner circle.  You know who you are. And my life is enriched because you are my family, because I need you, and you need me.  A circle of unending love -- it pours in from places in our hearts where we expect it to come -- but it also surprises us when wow! God takes us into unexpected treasure troves to bless us one to another.

To my mentors, those who guard me in prayer, and keep me on the path where I belong -- I must make special mention.  Dr. Virginia Phillips, Dr. Mark Strong, Pastor Marla Strong, Pastors Bernis and Betty Dorsey, and the dear one I just lost, Lottie Thurman. To you all, well, there are no words strong enough.  Thank you from my heart.

And finally, we come to Exactingly Grateful.  Interesting adjective, and perhaps one that is a little puzzling. This is the threshold of the door(s) I'm afraid to cross. A scary place. Hesitant, fear, and insecurity follow me here.  I've been here many times -- as an awkward sixth-grader at my first dance, a teenager shaking in the wings as I await my turn in a state competition, in pain as my first love told me he was in love with someone else, devastated as I pulled a D in my first college exam, after studying forever, scared as a new wife, and a new mother, and leveled at the loss suffered in both of those roles. So, have I earned the right to be hesitant?

As I practice Exacting Gratitude, I understand from the past, that I've passed those thresholds of "scary" before.  They are guideposts of where I've been, because by the grace of the good Lord, I have purposed, EXACTED myself on the path that Jesus has already laid for me. For every fear and battle scar,  there is restoration and reconciliation. Where there is mystery and fear and insecurity, there is opportunity to stand, to have more courage, and to walk from shaking to assurance.

I am not exempted from the journey because I am old.  I must exact myself in new disciplines (love to walk as much as I love to eat!), learn new levels of my gift (I DID after all give up my good old Royal typewriter), and position myself to surrender.  Reads easy, works hard.

Can I say I am no longer scared?

No, but I can say this --

I am no longer a sixth-grader doing the two-step at a box social.

I am an adult, replete with the richness of my own life lived sometimes with success, sometimes with failure, and sometimes with everything in- between.  I am alive, kicking, moving along, singing a song, eyes wide-open.

So, I ask myself, is this what "AGE IS AN ART "means?

We'll see!

I have my dancing shoes on, and I hear music just beyond that threshold.

Happy Birthday to me!