One Thing
He knew things.
Well, he knew one thing.
This one thing he knew: that he would live long enough to see Hope.
It opened his eyes in the morning. It eased him into sleep at night.
He knew one thing.
He lived for one thing.
And when the time came, he wrapped aged arms around fresh life and breathed in the fullness of that One.
Simeon was about one thing.
Only One.
And that singular focus garnered him a moment with God in his arms.
God in his arms!
Can you imagine?
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A Christmas Story from the Heartland
My friend Jennifer writes today for the Des Moines Register. Few can tell a story the way this one does, and today is no exception.
Go let your heart be warmed, in a cold Iowa field of all places. Stop by her place on your way.
Again, a merry Christmas to you and your loved ones. Thank you for being a part of my life this past year.
It’s Christmas
A few nights ago as dusk dropped its velvet draperies over my neighborhood, I gazed out the window at my neighbors’ homes, nestled in the snow. For the first time all year, I saw the Christmas lights twinkle and knew I was home.
It’s Christmas.
We erected our Charlie Brown tree — a four-foot discount store wonder — last night and limited decorations to lights and tinsel. Even that was enough to send the cat into a nervous tailspin. This morning she climbed up inside and removed two branches so she could lay down inside more comfortably.
It’s Christmas.
The boys went online to do their Christmas shopping, purchasing gifts for us at WorldVision. They made their selections, printed cards and wrapped them to put under the tree. I closed my eyes and handed over the credit card.
At some point, you have to trust your kids to do the right thing. Even with your Discover card.
It’s Christmas.
The blizzard is cancelling Christmas Eve services all over town, we’re hunkered down to wait out the storm, the makings of an amazing pork loin roast are in the kitchen, and whether I know how to do it well or not, it’s Christmas.
It’s Christmas.
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8 Days a Nobody
I’ve been a million miles away from my house long enough that I’ve started to refer to that place where I live as “back home.”
And back home in my church this Advent season, folks are focusing their worship through an exploration of names — those unique words God wrapped around Himself.
I haven’t heard them calling out His name; it’s been weeks since I last worshiped with my own people in the sanctuary, surely by now appointed with greenery and ribbons for the season. No, God’s been meeting me these last Sunday mornings in a hotel lobby, speaking through through pixels, headphones and my leatherbound.
But I do know the names by which they have been calling to Him, despite my absence. For before I left, God met me at the rear of that same sanctuary, darkened at midweek, while I built the computer graphics that would spread a backdrop for their worship. I dragged and dropped elements and tweaked colors and typefaces while Agnew’s bass reverberated in the shadows.
And God roared and crooned and whispered His name, all of them at once.
Reality Check
Day 4 – 12 Days of Community
My dad does not officially blog. Every now and again we like to cut him loose from the comment box and give him a guest spot. Though he has no blog of his own (I like to think of him as sort of a Blogger Emeritus), I’m featuring him for Day 4 of the 12 Days of Community we’re celebrating at High Calling Blogs. Dad previously posted for us on keeping performance in perspective and stepping out from behind the mask. He writes for us again today.
:: :: :: :: ::
by Paul Willingham
As I drove home from church on a recent Sunday, I noted that one of the billboards along Highway 7 had been updated with a new message. In true billboard fashion it only contained eight words so that we could read, process and absorb the message before we blew past it at highway speed. The sponsor is a huge nationally known shopping center here in the Twin Cities. The eight words “FALL IN LOVE WITH YOURSELF ALL OVER AGAIN”.
Mary’s Journal
Odds are good Mary did not keep a journal.
Not on parchment, anyway.
In fact, as a girl in her middle teens living in Nazareth in days before we began to mark time in increments of “the year of our Lord,” it’s likely she didn’t even read or write.
But she did soak herself in some of those same practices that many of us who journal do: She pondered. She treasured. She observed and absorbed and processed.
Mary’d traveled quite the winding road since her engagement to Joseph.
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It Had to Be the Hunger
“I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.”
As though angel-meetings and world-flippings were commonplace, these words slipped from Mary’s mouth after Gabriel revealed God’s plan to pass Immanuel through her womb on His way to walk among us.
May it be to me as you have said.
Seems she could as easily have said May my reputation be destroyed as you have said.
May my fiancé abandon me and my family reject me as you have said.
May I be a single mother in a male-only world as you have said.
May I be responsible to safeguard the Savior of the world until He’s old enough to take care of Himself as you have said.
May I be ruined as you have said.
But she didn’t say all that. What she really said was this: While whispers behind me rustle through my shame, I’ll hear the shouts of joy in the streets. All generations will call me blessed. Blessed!
She looked through swirling dust down the bumpy road of her future, imagined likely outcomes and still replied, May it be to me as you have said.
I have no other explanation. I conclude that it had to be the hunger.
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I’m not very good at Christmas
I Christmas-ified my header.
A paltry effort, I know. But it’s something.
I’m not very good at Christmas.
Not sure the reason, but it doesn’t come so easy. Seems for most, Christmas dances in amber glow. For me, the lighting seems more a bluish fluorescent. It can be a little twitchy and sometimes it makes that buzzing sound.
Perhaps my middle name is Ebenezer.
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DIY Worship
Micah — not that Micah — proved himself a resourceful fellow.
To put together a little homegrown, do-it-yourself worship he would need to stock the household shrine and procure himself a priest.
But he didn’t live in the Levite part of town. And the nearest house of God was, well, inconvenient. So he cobbled together his own house of little-g gods complete with carved images and cast idols, and installed his own son as a priest.
He had a stand-in for God, a stand-in for His house, a stand-in for a priest, and a stand-in for His people.
The writer of Judges punctuates the telling, reminding us that “In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as he saw fit.” (Judges 17:6)
Everyone did as he saw fit.
Micah thought he had it right.
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Grandma’s Alphabet
My grandma would have had no idea what a blog is or what it means to guest post.
But earlier this evening, my mom dropped a gift in the comment box for my earlier post on my grandma. What she left there, really a gift from Grandma, begged for a little more attention than it might get tucked away in the comments.
So it seems Grandma has written a post for us without knowing it.
During her last few years here, Grandma had a harder time holding onto the day. She might struggle to remember who she was talking to. She would confuse dates, or times, or places. At times, what she said simply made no sense at all.
As Grandma began to drift away more and more during her visits, my aunt encouraged her back to the daylight by rehearsing her alphabet.
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Orange Juice, Taters and Summers at the Lake: In Memory of Grandma Margaret
She waved me into a chair, then dropped into the rocker across from me. Grandma’s Bible landed hard on my lap. The old book was thick and heavy. My little girl legs, not so much.
“Open it right down the middle. You’ll always land in the Psalms,” she said as we sat knee to knee. “Let’s go, Kidlet. Read to me.”
How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked,
Nor stand in the path of sinners,
Nor sit in the seat of scoffers!But his delight is in the law of the LORD,
And in His law he meditates day and night.
I looked up from the tattered pages. Grandma’s head lolled to the side and she began to snore.
Looks like my work here is done. I closed the Psalms back against Job and watched her from the corner of my eye as I started out of my chair. Sure enough, she snapped her head up and ordered my behind back into the seat.
“Find it again — the first Psalm. And don’t stop reading,” she barked. “I’m awake.” For a split second, the corner of her mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.
And then it was gone.
Not that Micah
There was a prophet, Micah, who spoke of days coming when men would rest securely, each in the tranquility of his own home.
From Micah God’s people would learn of their coming destruction for rejecting and replacing Him with little-g gods. And they would also discover what God truly desired was that they would love mercy, do justly and walk humbly with God.
This same Micah foretold of one coming Messiah who would stand as Shepherd and who would be for His flock a living, breathing, tangible peace.
But there was another Micah. The one of whom the writer of Judges told.
This Micah was not that Micah.
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Unboxing God
God will not be boxed.
I look at God. I mean, those times when I really see Him. (By really see Him, of course, I mean sort-of-catch-a-tiny-glimpse-of-an-itsy-bitsy-part-of-Him-that-is-not-shrouded-by-the-limitations-of-my-fallen-mind.)
And then I look at the cramped storage space I’ve set aside for Him, and my skin tingles a little.
In an anxious sort of way.
Because that box I’ve built for Him to sit down in, I know it’s not spacious. Not in the same way that He is spacious anyway.
That anxious feeling creeps in when with wide eyes I realize I’ve packed black powder into a crate and set it next to an open flame.
It’s only a matter of time before He blows the sides off.
He will not be boxed.
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No Other Argument
The mornings are a little lighter now, but it seems I still rise while it’s dark.
Habit, I suppose. Or perhaps my joints are just growing older and less tolerant.
I don’t have to get up early any more, but sleep still leaves me at the usual time.
This morning I pulled back the warmth of downy covers and slipped out of bed into a darkness that filled the room but seemed also to envelop my soul. Even as the lights went out last night I sensed the darkness encroaching. Not the darkness of space that invites sleep, but that of spirit which steals rest clean away.
I swatted at it with a weak threat to doze off and thought to pretend it away. But by morning, it had its grip.
It held me with a firm hand.
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God Still Calls at Home
I am, at least for a time, reordering my days.
This morning I slept in until 6:30. By the time noon rolled around, I’d checked in on the online world, been to the gym, sat still with the Father, read from A Praying Life, done dishes and laundry, vacuumed a day’s portion of mud from my living room carpet, attended a business meeting and talked to the outplacement folks.
I even saw my kids standing upright before they left for school instead of the hunched shapes that would grunt back from under blankets when I stepped into their darkened rooms to whisper, “Love you, Bud. Have a good day at school.”
From rising late to leisurely reading in the daytime, this takes some serious reordering. I didn’t even drink my coffee until nearly 9:30. This is not how I am accustomed to spending my days.
Not that I’m complaining.
With the exception of the housekeeping, I relished the morning.
But at 9:00 this morning, I jumped.
(Just a little.)
And then I remembered: God still calls at home.
This part of my day, while all else changes, this part remains the same.
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Don’t Duck
I admit it.
I’m a poor brainstormer.
It’s not that I don’t ever have ideas.
I do. But I tend to overthink them.
The packing tape of my mind is just a little too sticky sometimes and I can’t get them out of the box.
And I’m even worse with somebody else’s ideas. They hardly have them out of their mouth and onto the table — or the whiteboard if you’re one of those — before I’ve figured out why they won’t work.
I’m a lot like Philip, not so much like Andrew.
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The Story of His Faithfulness
It’s a peculiar feeling, today.
I’ve deleted all my email, loaded my car, shipped my files and changed my voice mail to notify customers “I am no longer an active employee.”
I have nothing to do.
It’s 1:51 in the afternoon, only 13 percent power remains on my laptop battery, I have no unread items in my Google Reader and the meeting with HR is not until 2:30.
Again, I have nothing to do.
The thing about knowing for the better part of a year that today was coming is that the emotion has already been spent. The contemplation has already been done. I just need my paperwork and a place to turn in my key.
For, I have nothing to do.
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Bringing Down the House
Samson.
The world was not worthy of him.
So says the writer of Hebrews, bringing me back around to consider just how it was that Samson found himself amongst the honorable mentions in that great Hall of Faith.
For all the desire to which his eyes wandered, for all the rage that rushed through his veins, for all the destruction his vengeful hands wrought, and for all the self he was content to worship, Samson at last found his moment.
And then we see.
We see how this prodigal, shaved and shamed, unearthed faith before he buried the Philistines.
There came a day, Samson’s last, when in faith he brought the house down. (more…)
It Was Never About the Hair
Shocking, I know. But I’ve never been a girly-girl.
Photos like this one, with hair fresh out of curlers and frills on dress sleeves, belie the child who wanted blue instead of pink and chose hand-me-downs from a big brother over those of an older sis.
I played with dolls because we had them, but much preferred building forts and climbing trees in the woods behind our house. When I did play dolls with my sister and her friends, my make-believe role most often permitted me to take my assigned doll with me into the woods, making an occasional appearance just to stay in the game.
My sister had a much better grip on the doll thing. One year she received the coveted Crissy doll, a beautiful girl with stunning red hair. But Crissy also had a mysterious hole in her head and an unsightly button at the small of her back, there by design rather than defect.
The wonder of this doll was her growing hair.
A girl could tug Crissy’s hair, and long locks would emerge from the cavity in her head. Press the button on her back, the hair sucked back into her plastic cranium and she sported a pageboy instead.
Everything else about Crissy was pretty run-of-the-mill doll business. When it came to the Crissy doll, it was all about the hair.
But when it comes to Samson, it was never about the hair.
There. I said it.
I’ve been wanting to say that for months.
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Peace with a Massive Wingspan
I’m experiencing a little déjà vu these days.
Just over five years ago I was in the hunt for a job. The claims operation I was a part of was closing, leaving many folks like myself without work. Knowing my tenure with that company was winding down, I had an ambitious three-part goal: secure another job, reach my vesting date, and work until the end. This would have allowed me to collect my sixteen weeks of severance pay, take along my portable retirement benefits and walk straight into a new job.
I decided that two out of three wasn’t bad.
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Would I Know? How? And When?
Not long ago my son informed me that I was still talking about Samson out here. He pointed out that I’d been doing that since, when? Summer?
Yeah, something like summer.
“I don’t even read it now, Mom,” he said. “You’re not funny anymore.”
I don’t worry too much. I still catch him reading when he thinks I’m not looking. And blog or not, he never seems to run out of reasons to laugh at me.
But he’s right. Samson is starting to seem like forever.
The problem is, I can’t shake him off. Every time I think I’m about there, it’s something else. I finally got to give him his haircut, and there’s still more before he brings the house down in his big finale.
It’s like this: Samson never did ask a lot of questions after his riddle backfired.
But he sure keeps making me ask them.
Samson has become for me a looking glass. And every time I see something foul in him, I see my own eyes staring back. I see the work God still wants to do in me. Work I need Him to do in me.
And now he’s done it again.
Here’s the question: If all the fullness of God drained out and left me vacant, would I know?
How would I know?
And when would I notice?
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A Certain Uncertainty
From a certain uncertainty to a certain Hope, this was written with thoughts of Loren and Betty, and Scott and Jennifer. Gentlemen, start your engines. It’s gotta be time soon.
It’s been the beginning of the end for a long time now.
Seems everything I’ve done lately has been the last.
The last file jacket I set up for a new claim.
The last statement I took from a witness.
The last settlement I negotiated with an attorney.
The last mediation statement I drafted.
I traveled last week, charged with the bittersweet task of training the last of the new employees to take over my work.
I returned today to find lights out in a few more cubicles. A dumpster stands outside my door, overflowing with outdated manuals and unwanted reference books. Eery silence and the occasional echo replace the voices and bustle that drove me to distraction just weeks ago.
Fool Me Once, Shame on You — Fool Me Twice, Call Me Delilah
Samson has a new girlfriend.
And now we can understand why those Sunday School lessons were so adamant about students learning to stay away from sneaky girls.
Only, really? I’m not so sure that Delilah was sneaky. She seemed pretty forthright about her intentions. Oh, sure, she didn’t tell Samson that the Philistines had offered her a bulging purse and were hiding in the room every time she tied him up. But she left no question that she sought the secret of his strength only to ensure his capture.
She told him so.
So Delilah said to Samson, “Tell me the secret of your great strength and how you can be tied up and subdued.” (Judges 16:6)
What about her motive remained hidden?
::
Is Anonymous Your First Name or Last Name?
I looked up from my notes during our weekly staff meeting to read my pastor’s expression before I answered. Eyebrow up. Head cocked a little. He leaned back in his chair behind the desk.
Swell.
Someone had called.
“We went to A&W,” I said. It wasn’t as though it were a secret. “A lot of families were out of town this week, so only three kids showed. We thought it would be a good night to take a walk to the drive-in and hang out. They got our full attention, and we got to know them a little better. We loved it.”
“I got a call saying some people are concerned about this kind of thing,” he explained. “Youth group happens in the youth room. “
Who called? How many people are concerned? Which ones?
“I appreciate the concern,” I told him. “If someone else calls, be sure to remind them of my phone number.”
The next day, someone else called, pretending to wonder what the young people did on Sunday night. “Some people are concerned . . .”
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2009/12/06 | Categories: Blogging | Tags: admonishment, anonymous comments, Blogging, encouragement | 26 Comments »