Good Morning Forty

Good morning, Forty.  I knew you would be here to greet me this morning. 

I've been thinking about our meeting for quite some time.  I always used to wish that somehow you would show up late for our appointment.  I wasn't really sure I ever wanted to meet you at all, but now that this day is here, I can quite see that you are actually right on time.  

Forty, I see that you have brought with you Second Chances and New Opportunities. Grace and Mercy have been my ever constant companions.  You should all get along nicely.  As we walk hand in hand ~together~ into today, tomorrow, the next day, and the next, I will remember the blessings and delights of my first forty years.  I will also remember the heartaches, brokenness, and disappointments.  All of the sorrow has shaped and formed me, and has grown me up to be content to be here ~on this day~ with you. 

Thank you for coming.  It is a mercy and delight to be here.  So many never get to see you, and for me you are perfectly on time. Forty, I embrace you. Let's journey forward and never look back.  Somehow, I have this distinct feeling that the best years are actually yet to be. 

Good morning, my friend.  

Good morning, Forty.  

Good morning.  

  

"Every day of my life was recorded in your book.  Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed."  Psalm 139:16

A Beautiful Grace

Certain words have a way of painting pictures in our hearts.

At the mere mention of one of these unique words specific emotions, images, and opinions are sparked. Our experience, in part, frames the conclusions and definitions we draw from these words. The word "father" is one of these such words.

When you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel warm and tender? Do you feel safe and protected? Does "father" to you represent wisdom and love?

Or when you hear...

FATHER. Do you feel distant and fearful? Do you feel nervous and defensive? Does "father" to you represent abandonment or pain?

When you hear...

FATHER. Maybe you feel something completely different than these two scenarios. Maybe you even feel a combination of both. Perhaps the word doesn't evoke any particular feeling at all, but I want to share with you why the word FATHER for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

For the first twelve years of my life my earthly father sunk his sorrows in a bottle from bar to bar almost every single night of the week. He's been in more brawls than I would care to know about, most were probably over women. He wasn't able to hold down a job for apparent reasons, and he wrecked more vehicles than I could ever remember. I am quite certain that he cheated death. SEVERAL TIMES. I don't remember him ever being tender with me when I was little, and he certainly didn't make me feel safe or protected. My childhood memories include trekking off to bars and jails to retrieve my father. My childhood memories include watching my father physically hurt my mother, and include my father hurting me. I remember that when he was home, even in the middle of the most beautiful sunshiny day, our house was dark, and the thick heavy drapes were drawn on all the windows. I was instructed- sternly- not to make the tiniest rustle of noise. His skin wreaked of liquor combined with the stench of vomit. Yet the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

I think I've always known that a good father would be nothing at all like my biological father. When he broke away from the bottle once and for all, the only thing that changed was the presence of alcohol. Sadly, all of the other violent behaviors remained. Always hoping for the best in every situation, I still believed that one day I might awaken, and my father would suddenly be changed. He would realize the gift he had in my faithful, beautiful mother. He would realize the gift he had in me. He would be kind and tender, playful and caring. He might even show me how to hit a baseball, or take me on a bike ride. His eyes would sparkle and dance when I walked into the room, and he would be proud of me, his little girl. I never awoke to such a dream being fulfilled. Even still, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

As a girl I cowered around men close to my father's age. Even as a teenager I feared my friends' fathers. When I was in elementary school, I was ridiculed by other children, because my father was the town drunk in a very, very small town. My father used to tell me that no man would ever love me. As a result of him mistreating me, I have always been plagued with deep insecurities. To cope, I looked for love in all the wrong places so I would feel approval, acceptance, and security. I was simply longing for a place to belong. Heaps of brokenness and shame buried me. My father was charming to everyone around us, but in the prison of privacy he threatened to take my life if I ever shared what went on inside our home. I believed him. I was silent. My own father should have shattered any positive image that I have of any and every father. But, the word "father" for me is a grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE... 

As I look back on every single one of my formative years, I realize that I have a REAL FATHER who held and kept me. Maintained and protected me. Even though He allowed appalling things to happen to me, He did not allow those things to destroy me. Even when I strayed, He did not allow me to stray beyond His grasp. As a grown woman, layers of my own brokenness continue to be peeled away. Each undone layer brings to light pain along with new graces. My REAL FATHER directed me here, to this particular time and place, through the traffic and devastation of the circumstances of my life. Every hurt, regret, sorrow, mistake, and shame from my earliest memory until this very day, He has used to form and shape me, mold and seal me. He has whispered deep into my soul that *I* am *HIS* LITTLE GIRL. It is His eyes that sparkle and dance when I enter the room, because... He. Loves. Me. My FATHER loves me. He is my grace.

A BEAUTIFUL GRACE...

INDEED... 



All is grace...always grace,

 

She Drew the Roots

Yesterday, my seven year old daughter, Sunshine Girl, gave me a picture of a flower she drew.  I praised her for her picture, and then thought about the eclectic mix of  artistic flowers I've seen over the years of working with kids.  There have been hundreds, perhaps even thousands of floral renditions, but Sunshine Girl's picture was slightly different than the myriad of others.

SHE DREW THE ROOTS.


When I was a classroom teacher, we studied the anatomy of a flower in fourth grade science. I instructed my students to include the root system in their diagrams, but Sunshine Girl wasn't drawing a diagram for science.  She was creating art.  She drew the flower exactly how she thinks about, feels, and sees it. Sunshine Girl included what is forgotten and hidden to most of us.  She included the MOST IMPORTANT part.  The Roots.


UGLY.

DIRTY.

MUSTY.

DARK.

ROOTS.



THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF A FLOWER IS *NOT* IT'S BEAUTY.

The ROOTS are the lifeline.  The ROOTS are the anchor. Without a healthy anchor fingering down into the soil, the plant that yields such beauty cannot be nourished and cannot survive.



HIDDEN. FORGOTTEN. ROOTS.  

TENDED.  MAINTAINED. PROTECTED. 

PRODUCE. SPLENDID. BLOOMS.

Sunshine Girl's picture got me to thinking about my own roots.  Are my roots gripping and spreading deep into the soil around me to give me the best spiritual anchor as possible?  Am I even planted in the right soil for the best nourishment as possible?  I believe that what you are planted in, spiritually speaking, is what you will produce.

"May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous LOVE. And may you have the power to understand how wide, how long, how high, and deep HIS LOVE really is."  Ephesians 3:17-18

Notice what the blossom on Sunshine Girl's flower is.  A heart.  A heart represents LOVE.  Not only did her picture reveal roots, it displayed LOVE.  May your roots travel, spread, finger, dig, anchor, and weave deep into the rich soil of God's...

I LOVE YOU~ REALLY AND TRULY~ NO MATTER WHAT

...LOVE, and may you well up with a beauty that will burst forth and blossom from the uncontainable life and nourishment you receive from that truth.  BE HIS LOVE TO OTHERS. 

I am thankful for the picture gift of my seven year old to remind me of these truths, and for that reason, I am so glad SHE DREW THE ROOTS. 

Worse Than Dead

I am looking at the farmer's field 

          outside my bedroom window.  It's springtime, and there is a substantial amount of green popping up daily in the field.The field is also covered in a blanket of brown stalks that wave when the wind whisks them.These straw shafts are the evidence left from a once fruitful wheat harvest. The green is beginning to seize the brown. The green is healthy. The green is lush.The green is life. The green is weeds. 

THE GREEN IS WEEDS.

Weeds.

Weeds.

  

Weeds. 

They, themselves, are strong healthy plants.  Left unattended, they will overcome the entire field.
   

STRONG-GREEN. 

FALSE-LIFE. 
 

As the field stands, there will be no more TRULY healthy life.  Sure, a few kernels of wheat could have fallen to the ground during the harvest last July or August, and a few new plants might sprout up bearing fruit from those seeds, but with the vast amount of green taking over, the new life will eventually be choked out. The fruit, if any, will not reach the full potential of the original seed.  The abandoned field is rendered useless for bearing new growth.   

IT'S WORSE THAN DEAD.  

It's a breeding ground for false life. The weeds will mature and go to seed. As the wind whips through swollen pods and puffs, it will carry the weed seeds into other fields and begin to fester growth there as well.   

As the field stands...  

As the field stands...  

As the field stands...

This ground needs to be BROKEN. This green needs to be turned up by it's roots and set free from the soil to which it clings.  This brown needs to be turned under to create room for new growth. 

Broken.  

Broken.  

THIS GROUND MUST BE BROKEN. 

BROKEN.  

READIED.  

PREPARED.  

SOFTENED.   

Soil must be tendered for the seed to bed, and for new life and growth to begin. 

HEALTHY-DEEP. 

BOUNTIFUL-GROWTH.  

  But first, the ground must be broken.... broken..... broken..... 

In my own life, times of brokenness have facilitated my deepest growth. There are times when I have been overtaken by weeds-  STRONG-GREEN.  FALSE-LIFE.  -just like the field outside my window.  Something had to be broken to bring freedom from the alien roots in my life.  SOMETHING had to be broken.  

ME. 

The truth of the matter, though, is that It hurts to be broken.  It hurts to have roots rip and tear away from the soil in which they have grown deep and comfortable, but... 

PAIN ALWAYS HAS A PURPOSE IN GOD'S SOVEREIGN HANDS.  

ALWAYS.     

Do not fear being broken, my friends.  Instead, fear NOT being broken.  Surrendered sorrow has the capacity to cement you to JESUS if you walk transparently through your pain. Whatever your journey, humbly trust Him.  

Trust Him.

Trust Him.

Trust Him.

... and bring on that plow.  

"The sacrifice You desire is a broken spirit.  You will not reject a broken and repentant heart."  Psalm 51:17

"Because your heart was tender and you humbled yourself before Me when you heard what I spoke... and wept before Me, I truly have heard you."  2 Kings 22:19

Take it to Africa

I hate my kitchen floor.

The kitchen floor seems to be a never ending saga in our home. The rolled, bargain basement, white linoleum in our kitchen has textured crevices that were a thing of beauty for all of about five minutes.  I quickly realized each tiny groove was going to be a trap for dirt.  I managed for the first few years to acceptably maintain linoleum central, but as the years increased, so did the number of kids.  Ironman and I have four kids, and when six people occupy a relatively small living space, you seem to manufacture dirt, and we do. Tons of dirt.  I constantly searched for cleaners that would break through the gunk.  I tried everything.  Nothing would penetrate to the original white.  Since I am mildly OCD, I have been complaining about this floor for nearly eleven years.  The complaints have been gradually increasing, and as of late I complain several times a day. No matter what I do to clean it, it still looks dirty.  I try to console myself. I know it's clean. I am Mrs. Clean.  Mrs. Clean has cleaned the floor and the floor- sigh- looks gross.

THIS
FLOOR
IS
DRIVING
ME
CRAZY!

Ironman must have finally had enough of my nagging, grumbling, and complaining (not some of my better qualities, I will admit).  He decided to step in with his superpowers, and borrow the church's floor buffer.  Wanting to do the job right, he trekked off to Home Depot to purchase a special pad for the scrubbing machine.  Lady Depot gave Ironman the perfect product for the jackhammer-like wonder cleaner.  "It's made especially for linoleum," she promised.  We hauled the table, six chairs, area rug, garbage can, crocks, and mats out of the kitchen to ready it for the big clean.  I was so excited I could hardly stand it.  I allowed myself to dream of clean crevices and sparkly white floors.  Muscles flexed.  Handlebars gripped.  Super Powers enabled.  Motor revved.

BUZZ
RUMBLE
ZOOM
ROAR
CLATTER
RIP
BANG
YIKES!
UGH...





Lady Depot, sadly, is not a truth teller. If I had it my way, she would be transferred to another department.  EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY!  The top layer of linoleum was ripped clean off.  Clean off.  Oh dear.  Whine.  I have perfected the art of doing the best I can with what have, so I fell to my hands and knees like Cinderella with a bucket and scrub brush dreaming of a groove free, non-white, tile floor that I am clearly not going to receive. My heart went to ugly places.  I am ashamed to admit the depth of the blackness I am capable of thinking and feeling.  I compared myself to others around me, and their financial ability to salve almost any materialistic desire they may have.  I began to feel bitter about the people in my life that haven't tasted what it feels like to muddle along from pay check to pay check- for years.  Scrub.  Scrub. I am so alone.  Scrub.  Scrub.  Back and forth.   Jealousy's seed stirred in my heart, and I felt powerless to overcome it. Scrub.  Scrub.  Sob.  Then I heard it.

A faint whisper…

Shanda…

Shanda…

My daughter…

You are comparing yourself to the wrong people…

I have had to remind myself on more than one occasion to "Take it to Africa."  That's what I say around these parts when the lies of our affluent culture begin to steal my perspective.  While I was rigorously scrubbing away at my kitchen floor, I awakened to the fact that I have a kitchen floor to scrub.  When I feel frustrated that our cars can no longer be classified in the current decade, I have to remind myself that we have two cars, and they both do run.  When I get overwhelmed that we scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, I remember that we receive more money on a weekly basis than the majority of people in the world receive in a year, and for some it is more than they receive in their entire lifetime.  We have a roof over our heads, albeit a bit leaky. We are warm in the cold months and cool in the warm months.  All six of us are clothed and fed, quite abundantly at that.  We are not living in a hut in Africa with a grass roof and dirt floor, and we don't struggle to find drinking water that is safe for ingestion.  Take it to Africa.  Take it to Africa. "Yes, God.  You have blessed us beyond belief.  Forgive me for my ungrateful heart. I am ashamed that I have not treated your provisions like the gifts that they are- given directly from Your hand."  Take it to Africa.  Take it to Africa.  My own words laid sluggish and burdensome in my heart.  In my humanness, I lost sight of what really mattered.  We have been provided for.  It is our affluent culture that screams at me that I need a new kitchen floor, but I don't really need a new kitchen floor.  In all honesty, I may still want a new kitchen floor.  I will probably even struggle greatly with this desire, but I will try to remember how over-the-top blessed I am, skip the longing for a gleaming floor, and pass on a portion of our provision directly to Africa. 

With my re-found perspective, I finished giving our floor the business.  It still doesn't look clean, but I know it is, and I am grateful.  I decided to appreciate the blessing of the rest of my kitchen as well, and I enthusiastically cleaned the fridge, microwave, stove, dishwasher, sink and counters.  I even polished the kitchen cabinets.  My kitchen sparkled for the most part.  I went to bed feeling satisfied that deep cleaning had taken place in more than just my kitchen, but most importantly, in my heart.

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