St. Valentine was a Roman priest and martyr. How on earth we came to celebrate him by giving out candy hearts and Hershey's kisses is beyond me, but that's beside the point. Growing up, we always made our pilgrimage to the drugstore to buy a cardboard box of wallet-sized valentines, with the pre-printed "to" and "from" on the back of a picture of kittens or teddy bears, declaring on each note that "I heart u" or some smooshy sentiment like it. We'd go home and fill in the blanks, and the next day at school, we'd pass one out to each of the kids in our class and that was it. Maybe some cupcakes and kool-aid (this was before anyone cared about food allergies or red dye #40).
Now up to this year, we've homeschooled, so holiday parties were with our homeschool co-op and were relatively low-key. (Read: cheap).
Times have changed. This year the 3rd graders didn't have a party. They've done a lot of party-ing as of late, and the room mothers (bless them) decided they didn't need another shindig. The kindergartners, however, are another story. So Griffin and I went to Walgreen's to buy a box of cards. We went up and down the holiday aisle. There were boxes of candy, big red teddy bears holding roses, and cute little toys with a few pieces of candy attached, but no cardboard box of cards for 99 cents. We tracked down the store employee (Jonquel) and asked her where the kids Valentine's cards were. Jonquel had to go get a ladder to show me. On the very top shelf, out of reach, were six boxes of cards. $2.99/box. Of course, as Jonquel was up on her ladder, Griffin managed to find a package of cool 3-D Star Wars sticker-Valentine's that were $6. For a pkg. of 15. We needed 20. He also "encouraged" (read: whined) me to buy some candy to attach to each card. Say what? But, being that I'm not a party pooper, I agreed. (read: I gave in).
I have to admit, when he came home yesterday with a hand decorated bag full of pencils, candy, and cards signed by each of the kids, I almost teared up. (I would have if he and the 3 year old weren't in a rumble for a piece of candy at that moment.) I read each card and looked at the precious 6 year old signatures, most in all caps, and was touched. OK, so there was nothing deep or peronally meaningful in the assorted G-Force, Star Wars, and Hannah Montana cards, it was just sweet. I remembered back to my school days and how special I felt getting a card from everyone. Whether they liked me or not. Even from red headed Kyle Bozencurtz, who was the first person to call me "four-eyes" in the 3rd grade when I had to get glasses.
Last night Griffin and Sissy lay in bed with me watching the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics. Griffin told me about his party, and how Sam's mom made a heart shaped King Cake, and how he was going to give all the pink pencils to Anne Claire....and the more he talked, the more I looked at him and realized that he felt special, too.
And right before she fell asleep, Sissy looked at me, pecked me on the cheek, and said, "Happy Balentime's Day, Mama."
Because not every thought of mine is of Jesus and big life decisions...
My husband suggested last night that I not post on facebook for a while. I think my mention of my dream the other night, which involved choking up Snickers bars in front of Alex Rodriguez, followed by my reminder to my "NOLA peeps" to watch TLC's new reality show based on a handsome trash man named Sidney, made my husband, well....embarrassed. (Not really, he just thinks I am a goofball).
In my defense, which is rather pathetic, I am just honest about my life. Perhaps someone else in facebook land has had a dream in which she coughs up chunks of candy in front of a multi-millionaire Dominican baseball player. It could happen.
And as for Sidney --- well, anyone that gets New Orleans TV stations has surely seen the SDT commercials (not to be confused with STD commercials), in which a very handsome entrepreneur with olive skin and black wavy hair talks about his company. Yes, it's a trash company. Whatever. He can take my trash out any day.
Maybe it's because I referred to my friends and neighbors as my "peeps"? I consider myself slightly ghetto-fabulous, since I work at "The Touro", where hungry babies are considered "greedy", any sort of crying/fussing is "cuttin' up", and babies are either "woke" or "sleep" (as in "he woke?" or "she sleep?") -- not to mention, we "make groceries", watch parades from "the neutral ground", and drive east to go to the west bank. You don't have to be somewhere at 7:00, you have to be there for 7:00. "Where y'at?" actually means "How are you?" -- it doesn't have to make sense. It's New Orleans. And you must admit, it's a little bit funny.
My family laughs. A lot. My kids are ridiculously goofball-ish (yes, it's a word).
6 year old Griffin can get a big laugh for doing the robot, walking stupidly, and his 6 year old potty humor can make me and Paul collapse into a fit of the giggles. (If it involves the word "butt", "poop" or God forbid, "fart", Griff will do whatever possible to use it. What can I say? We're raising a genius over here.)
So, whether or not Mr. South thought I was slightly, well, stupid, he laughs with (or maybe at?) me every single day. He cracks me up more than anyone I've ever known, and that's saying a lot, because I know some pretty funny people.
As for the TLC show about Sidney? Well, it wasn't that good. Now, if you'd add in a little person and maybe some conjoined twins....
In my defense, which is rather pathetic, I am just honest about my life. Perhaps someone else in facebook land has had a dream in which she coughs up chunks of candy in front of a multi-millionaire Dominican baseball player. It could happen.
And as for Sidney --- well, anyone that gets New Orleans TV stations has surely seen the SDT commercials (not to be confused with STD commercials), in which a very handsome entrepreneur with olive skin and black wavy hair talks about his company. Yes, it's a trash company. Whatever. He can take my trash out any day.
Maybe it's because I referred to my friends and neighbors as my "peeps"? I consider myself slightly ghetto-fabulous, since I work at "The Touro", where hungry babies are considered "greedy", any sort of crying/fussing is "cuttin' up", and babies are either "woke" or "sleep" (as in "he woke?" or "she sleep?") -- not to mention, we "make groceries", watch parades from "the neutral ground", and drive east to go to the west bank. You don't have to be somewhere at 7:00, you have to be there for 7:00. "Where y'at?" actually means "How are you?" -- it doesn't have to make sense. It's New Orleans. And you must admit, it's a little bit funny.
My family laughs. A lot. My kids are ridiculously goofball-ish (yes, it's a word).
6 year old Griffin can get a big laugh for doing the robot, walking stupidly, and his 6 year old potty humor can make me and Paul collapse into a fit of the giggles. (If it involves the word "butt", "poop" or God forbid, "fart", Griff will do whatever possible to use it. What can I say? We're raising a genius over here.)
So, whether or not Mr. South thought I was slightly, well, stupid, he laughs with (or maybe at?) me every single day. He cracks me up more than anyone I've ever known, and that's saying a lot, because I know some pretty funny people.
As for the TLC show about Sidney? Well, it wasn't that good. Now, if you'd add in a little person and maybe some conjoined twins....
My desire vs God's desire for me
That's a loaded title, isn't it?
Psalm 37:4 says, ""Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart."
Paul and I have been praying fervently that God would change our desires to match whatever it is He wants us to do. Because frankly, what we want isn't really based on rationalization, it's based on emotion. And we cannot see The Big Picture, whatever that may be.
This obedience thing is a drag sometimes. I'm sure my children think that, too. The way Griffin responds when I tell him to take a shower is a lot like I feel when God tells me to do something that I don't actually *want* to do. (I do not, however, call God a "little jewk" when I am being disobedient. Just to make that clear.)
As I type this, Anne Claire is in the corner of the room, presumably hiding from me as she does something totally ridiculous. She has a pen and is crushing up her chips from lunch. I saw her doing it and told her to stop. She looked truly forlorn, said, "OK, Mama" and then proceeded to crouch down in the corner, where I can still see her, and I can even HEAR the crunch of the chips. What a silly child to think she is getting away with something.
But wait....what a silly child *I* am for thinking that I can get away with my disobedience. My worry (just a nice name for unbelief), my anxiety (cute way of saying "I don't trust you, God"), my ever-trying-to-come-up-with-a-plan (aka "I don't think God HAS a plan")....those are all sins that I am guilty of every.stinking.day. And I am in plain view of the omniscient God, who created me, who knows my heart, and despite telling me over and over to give it to Him, here I am, crouched down in a corner, doing the same repetitive sin over and over....
So I will continue to pray that what *I* want will not get in the way of what God wants for us. I will pray that God will change my desires to reflect His. And I promise that I will be ever aware of my human heart, which tends to stray at the slightest of distraction.
Psalm 37:4 says, ""Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart."
Paul and I have been praying fervently that God would change our desires to match whatever it is He wants us to do. Because frankly, what we want isn't really based on rationalization, it's based on emotion. And we cannot see The Big Picture, whatever that may be.
This obedience thing is a drag sometimes. I'm sure my children think that, too. The way Griffin responds when I tell him to take a shower is a lot like I feel when God tells me to do something that I don't actually *want* to do. (I do not, however, call God a "little jewk" when I am being disobedient. Just to make that clear.)
As I type this, Anne Claire is in the corner of the room, presumably hiding from me as she does something totally ridiculous. She has a pen and is crushing up her chips from lunch. I saw her doing it and told her to stop. She looked truly forlorn, said, "OK, Mama" and then proceeded to crouch down in the corner, where I can still see her, and I can even HEAR the crunch of the chips. What a silly child to think she is getting away with something.
But wait....what a silly child *I* am for thinking that I can get away with my disobedience. My worry (just a nice name for unbelief), my anxiety (cute way of saying "I don't trust you, God"), my ever-trying-to-come-up-with-a-plan (aka "I don't think God HAS a plan")....those are all sins that I am guilty of every.stinking.day. And I am in plain view of the omniscient God, who created me, who knows my heart, and despite telling me over and over to give it to Him, here I am, crouched down in a corner, doing the same repetitive sin over and over....
So I will continue to pray that what *I* want will not get in the way of what God wants for us. I will pray that God will change my desires to reflect His. And I promise that I will be ever aware of my human heart, which tends to stray at the slightest of distraction.
Humility
Just the sound of that word makes me cringe, because I tend to lean toward the opposite -- to, dare I say it, vanity. (Excessive cringe here.) I have always thought myself to be strong and capable and can handle whatever comes my way. Really.
When I was 30 weeks pregnant with my first child, I began to have anxiety attacks. I'm not talking about a little racy heartbeat, or feeling nervous about something. I'm talking about an out of control feeling that I had to run somewhere. Anywhere. I had to get.away.now. To where, I do not know. To what, I couldn't tell you. I felt like I was coming out of my skin. It always happened at night, and always after I'd first fallen asleep. My theory at the time was that I would get panicky because the baby would push up on my diaphragm, making it difficult to catch a good breath, and I'd startle myself awake, panicking. My OB was magnificent. His wife had dealt with the same issues and a nice little Rx for some Zoloft and Xanax was enough to make me feel better. Whew!
No one told me about how I would feel about 24 hours postpartum, when my hormone levels plummeted. I hit rock-freaking-bottom. I was in the hospital, post c-section, when I lost it. I became hysterical. I know the nurses thought I needed to go up to the 8th floor for some serious psych help. But they were sweet and kind and my ultra-precious doctor had warned them that I may snap. And snap I did. My poor husband thought for a few minutes that I might walk out of the hospital and never look back, leaving him and a breastfeeding baby boy all alone.
This was all one week, to the day, after 9/11. Nothing good or uplifting was on the news. It's all anyone was talking about. I remember saying "I feel guilty being happy about the baby." My mother, not the most supportive or loving woman even in the best of circumstances, kept asking me how badly labor hurt and why I had to have a c-section and how she never needed one and her babies were big and I must've not been able to handle the pain and ......well, you get the picture.
My sweet husband would pray over me. He would quietly hold my hand and pray. Not always out loud, because that often would agitate me even more. He felt 100% helpless. He would pray scripture over me often. When sleep eluded me because I was terrified of waking up mid-panic-attack, he'd pray Psalm 4:8 and Proverbs 3:24. And that night in the hospital when I didn't know if I would survive (literally, I didn't see how I could go on like that), the nurse came in, told my husband to climb in bed with me, gave me a beautiful IV dose of an anti-anxiety med, found a peaceful station on the radio playing instrumental hymns, and took my sweet baby to the nursery. My husband held me all night and I slept for the first time in days peacefully, while he prayed and rubbed my head and whispered that everything was going to be alright.
I remember waking up in the wee hours and realizing that I could not do this alone. I couldn't fix it. I couldn't just suck it up. I needed help. I needed my husband. I needed my doctor. Mostly, I needed God. I needed his grace and his mercy. I needed his peace. I needed all those prayers. I needed to not be ashamed to ask for help. I was too miniature in the grand scheme of life to handle this beast on my own.
And so, slowly, over the next days and weeks, I began to reach out and ask for help. I had to confess to friends and neighbors and family that I was having a very difficult time and needed prayers and physical help and support. I can't stand asking for help in the best of times. I remember having to pray, sobbing and crying, before I could pick up the phone or tell my husband that I --gasp-- needed something.
God sent so many angels to me in those weeks and months. I ended up being diagnosed with postpartum depression which lasted for months -- close to a year, really. I needed medication and therapy and a lot of support. Women from our church brought food and cards...but more importantly, so many of them just came and sat with me. Prayed with me. And I'd cry, and they'd listen.
I learned that no matter how strong I thought I was, I was really so weak I could barely make it out of bed without God's magnificent grace. He sustained me. He drew me closer to Him through it all.
Humbling? Indeed. Oh, but girls, I've got a long way to go, because through it all, my tendency is to fall back on my "I can fix it" mindset. It takes me a lot -- a LOT -- of self control to let go and let God have it.
But I'm working on it.
Humbly (she writes with a smile),
When I was 30 weeks pregnant with my first child, I began to have anxiety attacks. I'm not talking about a little racy heartbeat, or feeling nervous about something. I'm talking about an out of control feeling that I had to run somewhere. Anywhere. I had to get.away.now. To where, I do not know. To what, I couldn't tell you. I felt like I was coming out of my skin. It always happened at night, and always after I'd first fallen asleep. My theory at the time was that I would get panicky because the baby would push up on my diaphragm, making it difficult to catch a good breath, and I'd startle myself awake, panicking. My OB was magnificent. His wife had dealt with the same issues and a nice little Rx for some Zoloft and Xanax was enough to make me feel better. Whew!
No one told me about how I would feel about 24 hours postpartum, when my hormone levels plummeted. I hit rock-freaking-bottom. I was in the hospital, post c-section, when I lost it. I became hysterical. I know the nurses thought I needed to go up to the 8th floor for some serious psych help. But they were sweet and kind and my ultra-precious doctor had warned them that I may snap. And snap I did. My poor husband thought for a few minutes that I might walk out of the hospital and never look back, leaving him and a breastfeeding baby boy all alone.
This was all one week, to the day, after 9/11. Nothing good or uplifting was on the news. It's all anyone was talking about. I remember saying "I feel guilty being happy about the baby." My mother, not the most supportive or loving woman even in the best of circumstances, kept asking me how badly labor hurt and why I had to have a c-section and how she never needed one and her babies were big and I must've not been able to handle the pain and ......well, you get the picture.
My sweet husband would pray over me. He would quietly hold my hand and pray. Not always out loud, because that often would agitate me even more. He felt 100% helpless. He would pray scripture over me often. When sleep eluded me because I was terrified of waking up mid-panic-attack, he'd pray Psalm 4:8 and Proverbs 3:24. And that night in the hospital when I didn't know if I would survive (literally, I didn't see how I could go on like that), the nurse came in, told my husband to climb in bed with me, gave me a beautiful IV dose of an anti-anxiety med, found a peaceful station on the radio playing instrumental hymns, and took my sweet baby to the nursery. My husband held me all night and I slept for the first time in days peacefully, while he prayed and rubbed my head and whispered that everything was going to be alright.
I remember waking up in the wee hours and realizing that I could not do this alone. I couldn't fix it. I couldn't just suck it up. I needed help. I needed my husband. I needed my doctor. Mostly, I needed God. I needed his grace and his mercy. I needed his peace. I needed all those prayers. I needed to not be ashamed to ask for help. I was too miniature in the grand scheme of life to handle this beast on my own.
And so, slowly, over the next days and weeks, I began to reach out and ask for help. I had to confess to friends and neighbors and family that I was having a very difficult time and needed prayers and physical help and support. I can't stand asking for help in the best of times. I remember having to pray, sobbing and crying, before I could pick up the phone or tell my husband that I --gasp-- needed something.
God sent so many angels to me in those weeks and months. I ended up being diagnosed with postpartum depression which lasted for months -- close to a year, really. I needed medication and therapy and a lot of support. Women from our church brought food and cards...but more importantly, so many of them just came and sat with me. Prayed with me. And I'd cry, and they'd listen.
I learned that no matter how strong I thought I was, I was really so weak I could barely make it out of bed without God's magnificent grace. He sustained me. He drew me closer to Him through it all.
Humbling? Indeed. Oh, but girls, I've got a long way to go, because through it all, my tendency is to fall back on my "I can fix it" mindset. It takes me a lot -- a LOT -- of self control to let go and let God have it.
But I'm working on it.
Humbly (she writes with a smile),
Genuine Faith
In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 1:6-7
Genuine Faith. Genuine. Gen-yoo-in. "not counterfeit; authentic; real; free from pretense, affectation, or hypocrisy; sincere."
Free from pretense? Ouch.
I am going to admit something to you that only a few people know. Well, I think only a few people. Unless you have said something to me that is, well, boring and un-funny...then you've probably seen it. I have (shhh....) a fake smile. I do. A co-worker pointed it out to me about 15 years ago, and though I was horrified to discover that it was, indeed, true, I realized most people couldn't really tell that it wasn't sincere. But the more people get to know me, they can tell when I'm just "being polite" (that's my southern way of explaining it) or whether it's a genuine grin.
As sad as that is, I wonder how many times I've come across with an insincere faith? I wonder how many times I've said "Oh, sweetie, I'll pray for you" -- but never did. I wonder how many times I uttered a precious, "Bless your heart" but didn't really mean it. I'm fairly certain that in my 35+ years of walking with God, more than a few people have looked at me and thought I was a fake. A phony. A (gasp!) hypocrite.
If only I'd have known then what I know now. (Wasn't that a song by Toby Keith?) It takes a good amount of trial walking to come to a point where all that hypocrisy and falseness is burned away. It takes getting to the bottom of a slimy pit and wondering if there is a way out to realize that there is only ONE way, and that is through Jesus Christ. You have to reach up OUT of that mud and mire and take His hand. It is a verb. An action. It doesn't just happen, miraculously, one day when you've been a Christian for x number of years. It takes lots sweat. And even more tears.
Through the years, I've endured little trial by little trial. Don't get me wrong -- at the time, those trials seemed monumental! I remember several things in my life that sent me falling to my knees and had me begging God to help me. Often I'd find myself at a complete loss for words. I'd just fall to my knees in silence. I always have relied on the verse Romans 8:26: "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words."
I think, looking back, that all those smaller trials were preparing me for what was to be, to date, my biggest trial yet. Nearly a year ago, I almost lost my sister. That single event literally rocked my world. It changed everything about me. I remember those days that I could barely speak. I remember crying -- practically screaming -- and praying and begging God to save her life. He did, by the way. :)
And it was there, somewhere in those weeks and months that followed, that I began to see glimpses of a more grown up faith. I began to know with a certainty that I didn't have before that God was indeed right here. And His promises were real. And I started to be more real. When my co-workers asked how my sister was doing, I'd tell them, and I'd tell them that I had no doubt that it was the prayers of literally hundreds of people crying out to God for her life that saved her. I began to pray for people. Not just saying "oh, I'll pray for you" but saying "can I pray for you right now?"
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are the epitome of genuine faith. In Daniel chapter 3, they refused to bow to anything or anyone other than the One True God. They knew that God *could* deliver them, but even if He didn't, they refused to bow to another god. Even if He didn't save them. And for that faith, they got tossed into a fiery furnace. What I love most about that passage of Scripture is the addition of "no smell of fire had come upon them." Isn't that great? They didn't burn up, their clothes were intact, and don't even get me started on the 4th man in the furnace!! But the boys didn't even smell of smoke! It's the small details like that that overwhelm me.
I have a long way to go before I have that kind of faith. I've pondered long and hard about what I would do in the same situation. I like to think I'd say the same thing as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. But would I? If someone held a gun to my child's head and wanted me to denounce Christ, would I? Would you?
I've a long way to go....
Genuine Faith. Genuine. Gen-yoo-in. "not counterfeit; authentic; real; free from pretense, affectation, or hypocrisy; sincere."
Free from pretense? Ouch.
I am going to admit something to you that only a few people know. Well, I think only a few people. Unless you have said something to me that is, well, boring and un-funny...then you've probably seen it. I have (shhh....) a fake smile. I do. A co-worker pointed it out to me about 15 years ago, and though I was horrified to discover that it was, indeed, true, I realized most people couldn't really tell that it wasn't sincere. But the more people get to know me, they can tell when I'm just "being polite" (that's my southern way of explaining it) or whether it's a genuine grin.
As sad as that is, I wonder how many times I've come across with an insincere faith? I wonder how many times I've said "Oh, sweetie, I'll pray for you" -- but never did. I wonder how many times I uttered a precious, "Bless your heart" but didn't really mean it. I'm fairly certain that in my 35+ years of walking with God, more than a few people have looked at me and thought I was a fake. A phony. A (gasp!) hypocrite.
If only I'd have known then what I know now. (Wasn't that a song by Toby Keith?) It takes a good amount of trial walking to come to a point where all that hypocrisy and falseness is burned away. It takes getting to the bottom of a slimy pit and wondering if there is a way out to realize that there is only ONE way, and that is through Jesus Christ. You have to reach up OUT of that mud and mire and take His hand. It is a verb. An action. It doesn't just happen, miraculously, one day when you've been a Christian for x number of years. It takes lots sweat. And even more tears.
Through the years, I've endured little trial by little trial. Don't get me wrong -- at the time, those trials seemed monumental! I remember several things in my life that sent me falling to my knees and had me begging God to help me. Often I'd find myself at a complete loss for words. I'd just fall to my knees in silence. I always have relied on the verse Romans 8:26: "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words."
I think, looking back, that all those smaller trials were preparing me for what was to be, to date, my biggest trial yet. Nearly a year ago, I almost lost my sister. That single event literally rocked my world. It changed everything about me. I remember those days that I could barely speak. I remember crying -- practically screaming -- and praying and begging God to save her life. He did, by the way. :)
And it was there, somewhere in those weeks and months that followed, that I began to see glimpses of a more grown up faith. I began to know with a certainty that I didn't have before that God was indeed right here. And His promises were real. And I started to be more real. When my co-workers asked how my sister was doing, I'd tell them, and I'd tell them that I had no doubt that it was the prayers of literally hundreds of people crying out to God for her life that saved her. I began to pray for people. Not just saying "oh, I'll pray for you" but saying "can I pray for you right now?"
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are the epitome of genuine faith. In Daniel chapter 3, they refused to bow to anything or anyone other than the One True God. They knew that God *could* deliver them, but even if He didn't, they refused to bow to another god. Even if He didn't save them. And for that faith, they got tossed into a fiery furnace. What I love most about that passage of Scripture is the addition of "no smell of fire had come upon them." Isn't that great? They didn't burn up, their clothes were intact, and don't even get me started on the 4th man in the furnace!! But the boys didn't even smell of smoke! It's the small details like that that overwhelm me.
I have a long way to go before I have that kind of faith. I've pondered long and hard about what I would do in the same situation. I like to think I'd say the same thing as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. But would I? If someone held a gun to my child's head and wanted me to denounce Christ, would I? Would you?
I've a long way to go....
Daniel --- week 2
Relying on faith rather than my own understanding....
That's what I've chosen to write about this week, mainly because that is one of the most gargantuous problems in my life. I'm a nurse. I fix things. Need an IV started? I'm your gal. Having trouble latching a baby to a breast? I can help. High risk delivery? I'll be right there.
So when it comes to finding solutions, I so desperately want to be in charge. Right now, my family is at a standstill of sorts. My husband is at a point in his seminary career that we can now move on. We can move off campus, out of this dinky little apartment into the real world again. He can finish everything online, even.
My husband, by the way, is a genius. No really. He is smart and funny and has had a very successful career as a writer, columnist, and reporter. After Hurricane Katrina, we surrendered to ministry. We sold our house and moved to New Orleans. He gave up a job as the managing editor of a successful newspaper and went to work in the seminary's PR office, making about half the salary he was making at the paper. But we both felt it was what God wanted. We felt sure. We felt peace.
Fast forward 4 years and here we sit. At a standstill. Paul has sent resumes all over the country. Nothing. Nada. Ništa. Or, since we're discussing seminary, δεν.
Not knowing what is happening, or what will happen, is a problem for me. I want a plan. I want to know what God is up to. Frankly, He's been pretty silent about all this. In my believer's head I know that He is at work and He has a plan. I could go on and on with examples of how He has shut doors in our family's past that we later found out was for the absolute best. I know that. I pray for those doors to close. I pray that He will give Paul and I a desire for His plan and His purpose.
This would be where that thing called faith comes in. Thank goodness there are 2 of us in this marriage, or I'd have surely blown it by now. I emailed my husband some jobs that were so far out of the "ministry" realm it was laughable. He just gently reminded me "we don't want to take our eyes off the ball...". Faith.
I love in the second chapter of Daniel how he went and made an appointment with the king before he knew what the king's dream was. He had faith that God would reveal it to him. And then he enlisted his prayer partners and they beseeched God together. Wow. If that ain't a kick in the pants.
I have so much to learn. Like Robin said in her post, "at this point in my Christian life I should be showing more maturity than I do." For a 44 year old woman who has been a Christ-follower for 36 years, my faith should be a whole lot deeper than it is. Humbling, to say the least. Shameful might be more like it.
Daniel showed tremendous faith. So did his buddies Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They joined forces in prayer and God revealed to Daniel mighty and amazing things. Things that not only saved his life (and the lives of his friends), but provided security for him economically and physically. God promises all through His word that He will take care of us and bless us if we will lean on Him. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6.
Starting today, I'm going to be more deliberate about a few things. First, I'm going to confess to God (and to you, my friends) my sin of wrestling for control. My life belongs to God. It isn't mine to control, it's His.
And in bold, Daniel-esque faith, I am going to ask you to be my prayer partners. I'm going to ask you to pray that God would reveal His plans to me and my family and that we would be 100% obedient to His call.
Whatever that might be.
Yes, Lord, walking in the way of your laws, we wait for you; your name and renown are the desire of our hearts. Isaiah 28:8
That's what I've chosen to write about this week, mainly because that is one of the most gargantuous problems in my life. I'm a nurse. I fix things. Need an IV started? I'm your gal. Having trouble latching a baby to a breast? I can help. High risk delivery? I'll be right there.
So when it comes to finding solutions, I so desperately want to be in charge. Right now, my family is at a standstill of sorts. My husband is at a point in his seminary career that we can now move on. We can move off campus, out of this dinky little apartment into the real world again. He can finish everything online, even.
My husband, by the way, is a genius. No really. He is smart and funny and has had a very successful career as a writer, columnist, and reporter. After Hurricane Katrina, we surrendered to ministry. We sold our house and moved to New Orleans. He gave up a job as the managing editor of a successful newspaper and went to work in the seminary's PR office, making about half the salary he was making at the paper. But we both felt it was what God wanted. We felt sure. We felt peace.
Fast forward 4 years and here we sit. At a standstill. Paul has sent resumes all over the country. Nothing. Nada. Ništa. Or, since we're discussing seminary, δεν.
Not knowing what is happening, or what will happen, is a problem for me. I want a plan. I want to know what God is up to. Frankly, He's been pretty silent about all this. In my believer's head I know that He is at work and He has a plan. I could go on and on with examples of how He has shut doors in our family's past that we later found out was for the absolute best. I know that. I pray for those doors to close. I pray that He will give Paul and I a desire for His plan and His purpose.
This would be where that thing called faith comes in. Thank goodness there are 2 of us in this marriage, or I'd have surely blown it by now. I emailed my husband some jobs that were so far out of the "ministry" realm it was laughable. He just gently reminded me "we don't want to take our eyes off the ball...". Faith.
I love in the second chapter of Daniel how he went and made an appointment with the king before he knew what the king's dream was. He had faith that God would reveal it to him. And then he enlisted his prayer partners and they beseeched God together. Wow. If that ain't a kick in the pants.
I have so much to learn. Like Robin said in her post, "at this point in my Christian life I should be showing more maturity than I do." For a 44 year old woman who has been a Christ-follower for 36 years, my faith should be a whole lot deeper than it is. Humbling, to say the least. Shameful might be more like it.
Daniel showed tremendous faith. So did his buddies Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They joined forces in prayer and God revealed to Daniel mighty and amazing things. Things that not only saved his life (and the lives of his friends), but provided security for him economically and physically. God promises all through His word that He will take care of us and bless us if we will lean on Him. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6.
Starting today, I'm going to be more deliberate about a few things. First, I'm going to confess to God (and to you, my friends) my sin of wrestling for control. My life belongs to God. It isn't mine to control, it's His.
And in bold, Daniel-esque faith, I am going to ask you to be my prayer partners. I'm going to ask you to pray that God would reveal His plans to me and my family and that we would be 100% obedient to His call.
Whatever that might be.
Yes, Lord, walking in the way of your laws, we wait for you; your name and renown are the desire of our hearts. Isaiah 28:8
Daniel Safari.....week 1
I'm safari-ing (is that a word?) through the book of Daniel with some online gals. Before I launch into some lofty theological discourse on the book of Daniel, let me first say that I never get beyond something like the first 5 chapters of Daniel before fear grips me as the prophecies and all those 7's start showing up and, well, scaring me. So this will be a first for me.
A couple of thoughts about the first chapter:
- Daniel resolved in his heart. In verse 8, he resolved not to defile himself. I love that. He made up his mind. "Resolve" is a word that you hear in conjunction with heroes, Olympic athletes, people overcoming great odds, and occasionally a carpet cleaner. But Daniel knew the right thing to do and did it.
- God blesses obedience. In verse 15, it says that at the end of the ten days of eating only vegetables and water, the 4 boys looked "healthier and better nourished than any of the young men who ate the royal food." Think of it: offered to you are a beautiful, multi-course meal from the finest restaurant in town. It probably smelled divine. But the boys said no, a salad from McDonald's will do me just fine. That, my friend, is resolve. And God blessed it! More than they could think or imagine.
However, God is teaching me. One of His most powerful tools are through my children. The 8 year old came home last week with this story:
Tucker got in the car and told me that he was talking to a few of his classmates (who are Jewish). They were talking about Christian vs Jewish holidays and finally Tucker said, "I know you don't believe in Jesus. But all you have to do is read the New Testament. Then you will see that Jesus is God's Son." The kids replied, "Yeah, but Tucker, the NT isn't part of *our* Bible. We don't believe it." And Tucker said, "Well, just read it. Then you'll see." Very simple. Very straighforward. But to an 8 year old who is as social and friendly as they come, he risked them making fun of him or ostracizing him to share the truth of Jesus.
When I grow up I want to be like Tucker.
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