"A King Comes Riding By" and Shepherd's Pie

Family stories—those legends that get passed down through the generations—some true, some highly exaggerated, others probably myths, but too good to abandon so we keep telling them. I was reminded of that when I spent a delightful shopping weekend with some of my favorite women. Each year, the men go off to the woods to do the manly thing by providing venison for their families; translation—they go to hunting camp and have a blast and maybe one of them might shoot something.

Hunting camp itself is based on legend. The “Clyde’s Cup Club,” is named after their ancestor Clyde who has been gone for so many years that many of them never really knew him. But oh the stories—they can all repeat the stories. Topping the list, is a tale of a young Clyde’s escapade with a certain young lady in a horse-drawn wagon and his inability to take “no” for an answer.

Clyde’s sons are all gone as well, but their sons and grandsons occupy bedrooms at the club that are named after each one of them. There’s “Stan’s Studio,” “Jack’s Joint,” “Bob’s Bungalow,” and “Ken’s Castle.” At night they sit by the fire and reminisce. They talk about Clyde, they talk about Clyde’s sons, and they talk about themselves. And they laugh. In fourteen years or so little Jack will join them—by that time there will be new stories and the old ones will have changed in the telling.

So, as I went on my fourth annual shopping trip, I was keenly aware of the stories and legends that exist amongst the women as well. We compete for “best deal” of the weekend; we discuss whether or not it was worth it to have Kari in a wheel chair last year with her handicap parking privilege; and we laugh about the times we’ve packed too many of us into one fitting room. We come home and we laugh and talk some more and none of us would miss “show and tell” where we each take our turn showing our purchases.

My grand-daughter Piper joined us this past weekend, making me aware of the generational stories that will be passed on to her. (She belonged with us because she is a girl after all and it’s never too early to start her training in proper shopping techniques.) She was fussing a little in the evening, so my daughter decided to tell her some of our classic family stories. “Auntie Ro-Ro” decided to entertain her with stories of her grandmother. So . . . the legend of the shepherd’s pie started its journey through the generations.

It’s not that funny really, but my children witnessed it and they think it’s funny. It involved a recipe with layers of hamburger, corn, some canned soup and mashed potatoes on top. Rather than preparing the instant mashed potatoes, I merely sprinkled the flakes on top, assuming that some magic would take place in the oven and turn the flakes into mashed potatoes. The shepherd’s pie was a thin layer of goo which my children have never forgotten. And now Piper knows the story, but she’s okay with it because she also believes in magic.

When it was my turn to tell Piper a story, the tables were turned on Auntie Ro-Ro. It involved a Palm Sunday, a children’s choir up front and a four-year-old Ro-Ro who had not yet developed her musical ear. Above the children’s gentle singing of the song “A King Comes Riding By,” we heard her loud chant—same words but no melody. So here’s where some bad parenting came in—her father and I laughed, and when she observed us she became silent. Honestly, we tried not to, we just did and to this day she reminds us about it. Call me a bad mom, but it still makes me laugh. (She did figure it out eventually and has lots of musical skills.)

Piper heard these stories and more and will continue to hear them as she grows up. I expect they’ll change with the telling and with time, but that’s okay. We’ll tell her about the glamorous outfit we bought for her on her first shopping trip; a gold dress, little gold shoes and a fur shrug—all in the tiniest sizes ever. (We opted out of the purse.) We’ll tell her how we all were watching the Michigan/Michigan State game on television while waiting for her to be born, and I’m sure her dad and mom will tell her that Uncle Tony and Uncle Tito were able to use their season tickets and actually see the game live because of her arrival.

And so the stories continue . . . and grow . . . and change. My children and grandchildren will pass them on. And they will laugh.

“Life will go on as long as there is someone to sing, to dance, to tell stories and to listen.”
Oren Lyons

At First He Mumbled

So I decided to go on a little spiritual retreat today. I’ve wanted to do this for some time now, but I’ve been procrastinating. In my job as worship director, it’s very easy for me to get caught up in the details of what I do, and it’s so easy to forget the big picture. Our Advent theme has already been announced, we’ve already had a brainstorming session about how best to portray our theme throughout the season, and it feels like we’re good to go.

But . . . something’s been bugging me and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Our pastor is going to be preaching on the first few chapters of Hebrews. That excited me because if you ever asked me what my favorite book of the Bible is—that’s it. So here I was with sermon titles, all sorts of music and plenty of ideas for artistic illustration, but the scripture had not yet spoken to me.

So I decided to leave for a day, find a quiet place and see if I could hear God speaking to me through the book of Hebrews. I chose today as the right day—a bleak and rainy Tuesday. After procrastinating until close to 10:00, I drove to Petoskey, listening to “You are Holy,” the song we had sort of decided as a good theme song for Advent. I listened to the background music to see if I could figure out the right piano part, I listened to the volume, I planned how to introduce the song, etc. It took me at least 20 minutes to let all of that go, and really sing along, “I’ll sing your praises forever, deeper in love with You. Here in Your courts where I’m close to Your throne, I’ve found where I belong.”

Okay, that put me in the right mood. My first stop was a coffee shop—after all, I needed sustenance for the day. I found myself a cozy little corner and started to read some notes and think. Okay, so I did a little bit of people-watching also. I watched a mother chastise her son who had Downs Syndrome because he was holding the outside door open too long. I melted when his dad put a comforting arm around his shoulder briefly. Oh, and I gave directions to someone who asked how to get to Petoskey High School—I hope they were right.

My next stop was the Petoskey Library where I found a quiet table by the window. I became very diligent—I filled at least 10 sheets of paper with notes. I organized things and I made progress that felt really good. I dug into my Bible finding wonderful Old Testament scriptures that applied to the Hebrews passages. I thought about the Advent candles, the children, the stage arrangements, and those wonderful creative props. I got really excited working on the communion service that we have just before Christmas.

I got a little hungry again, so I walked over to a Pub for lunch. They gave me some peanuts, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw the shells on the floor like everyone else did. I kept them in a little pile on my table and even after the waitress came and swept them from my table to the floor, I still couldn’t do it.

So, back to the library to finish my day with some more note-taking. I was feeling rather smug about my accomplishments, and it was getting late in the afternoon, so I thought I’d try my hand at a little poetry. Here’s where God stopped mumbling. (Yea, I know He never was mumbling; I just wasn’t listening.) I tried to put Hebrews 1:1-4 into a poem. It took a little bit of work, and it may need a little bit of tweaking, but something happened in that writing. I started out writing about Jesus, and all of the things those verses say about Him, and suddenly the poem became about who I am because of Him.

So, here it is:

Reflection of the perfect one
Was mirrored in God’s only Son.
The imprint of the Father’s face—
A human visage of His grace.
Creator, when the world began,
Now offered as redemption’s plan.
Unlike the angels, Jesus came
To share our life, our death, our shame;
And humbled down to hell’s abyss,
Was raised above to heaven’s bliss.
Inheriting all things divine
My Savior/Brother makes them mine.
His faithful word I now embrace,
I too reflect my Father’s face.


And that’s what I did today.

Piety in the Parking Lot

I was really important for about two minutes the other day and then, once again I was smacked in the face with the truth about myself. Our township supervisor was opening up a package that had three shiny new green parking signs, and one of them was mine. I finally had my own reserved parking spot! Enough of those folks who were using the bike path parking in all of the good spots! No more election-day dilemmas of early voters making us walk a distance! We were entitled to the three best parking spots in the lot.

And then it hit me. I don’t feel that same sense of entitlement at my afternoon/Sunday morning job at the church. The only reserved spots at the church (other than handicapped) are for “first time visitors.” In fact staff people are encouraged to park far away from the door, especially on Sunday morning and I’ve never questioned it. In the true spirit of “piety” and “servanthood,” I’ve always parked across the street in the grass.

So I had a dilemma. Why was I willing to be a servant at church, but nowhere else? Now what should I do? I decided that I probably was an okay little servant because, after all I had identified the problem quickly and besides, I wasn’t the only one with a reserved spot—there were three of us. We had made the decision as a group. I was able to live with that . . . until . . . someone . . . stole . . . my . . . spot.

I had to go to the eye doctor one morning so I left the office and came back. The parking lot had 3 cars in it; the supervisor’s, the clerk’s, and wait a minute . . . someone was in my spot! And they were just there sitting in their truck . . . ignoring my looks of indignation! The gentleman (and it pains me to call him that) had dropped his wife off to pay their taxes, and she was in the office! And I had to process her check . . . and try to be nice! After they left, I found out that they had done it intentionally complaining that we had taken the best spots, leaving them to walk further. And you know what? They’re right! Servant behavior goes beyond how I behave at church, or how I behave in spiritual matters. It’s a life-style and I haven’t caught on yet.

So, now what do I do? I’m not sure. I could take that sign and move it to a parking spot far far away, but that’s kind of silly. I could add another sign to the “Reserved for Township Treasurer” that says “or anyone else who needs it.” I think for now I’ll leave it as it is, and I’ll let it serve as a daily reminder of my short-comings, lest I get too arrogant.

But for now . . . I guess I’ll put the idea of that reserved bathroom stall on hold. Sometimes those tennis players think they own the place . . . oh yeah I have a long way to go.

Oops . . . there He is (Jesus and the Jelly Doughnut)

Some days it’s easy, some days it’s messy, and other days it seems like it barely happens at all. From the time I awaken in the morning, to the time I go to bed at night, my expectations of what the day is going to be like seldom match how those days turn out, especially on those days when I’m following Jesus. I used the phrase, “oops, there He is” to describe how some of my days have turned out lately, and was challenged to blog about it. It was one of those half-way sincere challenges, but it made me stop and think about why I said it.

I had a really good week a few weeks ago. I woke up at 4:00a.m. one morning, worrying about the challenges that day was going to bring, just knowing that at some point someone was going to be upset with me; it wasn’t a question of “if,” it was a question of “when” and “how many?” So I did the only thing I knew how to do, I prayed about it. I asked God to take control of the day, subconsciously believing that, if it went as badly as I thought it might, I could blame Him, rather than myself. By 10:30 a.m., I was surprised to realize that the inevitable had not yet happened, by afternoon I was downright hopeful, and by 9:30 that evening thoroughly amazed at how well the day had gone.

So I invited God to take charge of the next few days as well. I couldn’t believe how the burden of stress was lifted as I became accustomed to not being in charge (like I ever was anyway). I stopped anticipating and started to live in the moment. One afternoon we were out in the boat and I started to worry about how we were going to get it back into the slip since it was a breezy day, we needed to be stern in (like backing in, in a car), and the harbor was crowded. I sensed immediately that worry was not going to help and, “oops, there He was,” reminding me that I wasn’t in charge and to enjoy the afternoon on the water. As we approached the harbor, Ron also voiced his worry so we talked about it. We came up with a concise plan as to who would do what when we got there. We pulled into that slip like pros.

But one of the biggest admissions that week was realizing my powerlessness over the weather. Since it was Venetian Festival time in Charlevoix, and we spent a lot of time outdoors, I started in on my “weather-fretting.” Watching the seven-day forecast (never correct in Northern Michigan), looking at the sky, followed by complaining and grumbling; that would be my normal routine, but “oops, there He was” again, telling me that, if my happiness depended on the weather, I would be unhappy about two thirds of my life.

I started to catch on to the idea that I wasn’t responsible for other people’s behavior, only my own. We were watching one of the many concerts in the park, and there were people behind us complaining (just loudly enough so we could hear them) about our chairs being too tall. After my son Tony politely yet firmly had some “words” with them, I was able to turn around, look them in the eye, and offer to negotiate our place on the lawn for theirs.

So . . . after one serendipitous week, you’d think I would have learned something. Well, you know how that goes. You start to think you’re pretty clever for letting God be in charge, and that puts you right back to square one. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite get it. It’s not that I don’t want Him in charge, but often He’s my second choice because I still think I’m the better choice.

Like the other day I was in a crowded doughnut shop, trying to figure out what kind of doughnut I wanted. I was already upset because all of the cream-filled ones were gone and I watched as everything I picked was sucked up by the people (mostly tourists making random selections) in front of me. I wanted to complain loudly to Ron, or at best let out a huge annoyed sigh, but “oops, there He was.” Jesus stopped me in my tracks and asked me if I really needed to stress out over a doughnut.

I think it’s scary sometimes to follow Jesus. The advantages of letting Him take charge of situations that I could potentially mess up, are huge. But there are times where He puts me in situations that I don’t wish to be in—messy, challenging and sometimes discouraging. I’ve got stories about that too, but I’ll save them.

For now, I’m going to keep extending that invitation to Him, and watch what He does. And when He gives me that lemon-filled doughnut instead of the cream-filled one, well I guess I’m going to have to eat it.

Dolly, Sally, Julia etal

Never have I been involved with such a riotous group of women as the “Steel Magnolias” in our heyday. This friendship formed, oddly enough, after church choir rehearsals on Wednesday nights. Off to Pizza Hut we’d go for Cokes and/or pizza, depending on our fickle dieting. We’d rehash our weeks, talk about kids and husbands, but most of all we’d laugh. We’d laugh because, even though life is tough, it’s pretty funny too. Over the years we have seen each other through loss of parents, struggles with children, divorce, an amputation, a pregnancy scare at age forty-seven, numerous health issues, and the list goes on.

We called ourselves the “Steel Magnolias” (SMAGS for short) because we watched the movie together once and thought the “tough, yet soft” implication applied to us as well. Periodically we’d argue over our characters—everyone wanted to be Julia Roberts and no one wanted to be mean ole’ Shirley MacLaine. Since I was the youngest of the group, I usually staked my claim on whatever character I wanted, but I probably resembled Daryl Hannah who changed from prudish to worldly-wise right before our eyes.

The friendship grew from Pizza Hut and movie nights (oh yeah, there was “The Color Purple” night where we all wore purple and served purple snacks) to some pretty awesome Christmas gatherings. We started to hunt for gifts that had magnolias on them and, over the years these items became easier to find; we believed that we single-handedly were responsible for the rise in magnolia popularity. We had magnolia candle holders, photo frames, magnolia-scented everything, and photographs of magnolia trees taken on vacation. Imagine the delight of finding magnolia brand toilet paper and buying it for six of your best friends!

But . . . the queen of magnolia gifts was Lori. She went a little crazy. Her entire home was decorated with magnolias—curtains, bed spread, you name it. She gave each of us sets of magnolia china (no, I’m not kidding), umbrellas, and hand-made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls with magnolia clothing. I’ll never forget the year of the shiny, quilted, and totally unflattering magnolia bath robes. We all looked so over-weight in those that I don’t believe we ever took a picture.

Steel Magnolias still exist, but we’ll never be what we once were. One of us has moved away, but a few Christmases ago she sent all of us magnolia travel bags, probably hoping we’d travel out to Las Vegas and visit. And Lori, well she’s no longer with us either, we lost her on the 4th of July several years ago after chronic health problems. We knew that her health wasn’t good, but we were still shocked, devastated, and even a little mad that she had the nerve to die. But oh, the stories we told at her funeral—the pastor had to cut us off.

It’s not a cliché to say that we are comforted by her memory. Lori left us with so much . . . I’ll write more about her later. Often, when we’re together, we tell Lori stories and oh, how we miss her! But for now, every time I use my china, every time I see that shapeless polyester robe in my closet, every time I look at the magnolia cross-stitched table cloth, or the embroidered apron I received after her death, I remember and I’m grateful.

Memories on Father's Day Eve

I've been talking about throwing a party at the cemetery this Halloween. I've invited lots of people--mostly family members, but so far, no takers. So, it's probably not going to happen, but I still talk about it. You see, it will be a very special occasion--my father's one-hundredth birthday. I think that's reason enough to at least get out a can of silly string or something.

Yep, my dad was lucky enough to have his birthday on Halloween and when I was a child it was pretty easy to just dip into my candy bucket and give him whatever he wanted as a present. In later years, when I had lots more money, I would go to the "Five and Dime" store and buy an ash tray or screw driver for him. (That's right, I said "Five and Dime"--the sixties version of the Dollar Store.)

My dad has been gone for forty-one years now. He died when he was just a little older than I am right now. It's hard to imagine that he never experienced life past this age. So yeah, I was pretty young when it all happened and I remember only a few of the details; young enough also to not realize the enormity of what I would miss in later years. Nope, I never really felt sorry for myself, but there are lots of conversations I wish I could have had with him.

So, allow me to just reminisce briefly on this "Father's Day" eve. I was the youngest of six children and my father was 43 when I was born. He was very thin, worked hard, was always tired, and never really felt well. He smoked lots of cigarettes and had a pretty addictive personality, but managed to reel himself in when he needed it (with the help of my mother I'm sure).

There was no expendable income in our household, so my dad spent his evenings filing saws in our basement to earn extra money. Right after dinner, you could hear the "screech, screech" of the file on the circular saw blades as they went around on his machine. But, at about 8:00 he'd call it a night and come upstairs and do what he loved to do the most--read. He'd sit in his favorite chair--an uncomfortable looking maroon velvet thing and read for a few hours. When I was ready to go to bed, I'd walk over to him, kiss him on the cheek, and go to bed.

We had very few conversations, my dad and I, but I thought he was brilliant. I remember in the sixties, he had several political opinions that I would quote when I went to school. Some of these opinions got me into a bit of trouble. (We won't go there okay?) He also helped me with my catechism questions sometimes. I would rather ask him than my mother for help because he gave short answers and didn't give me sermons like my mom would.

My dad was well-respected by a variety of people. Every Saturday afternoon he would take us kids to the library. The librarian, Mrs. Hackett, who looked just like you would imagine with a name like that, knew exactly the kind of books my dad wanted and they would talk so long, I'd get antsy and want to leave. My dad was also a respected cabinet-maker. We received phone calls several years after his death with requests for his cabinetry work. He also served as an elder in our church almost every time he was eligible.

But what I loved most about my dad was his awesome sense of humor. He had a favorite joke that he could never tell without bursting into laughter before he got to the punch line. (I won't retell it, because the way I would tell it wouldn't be funny at all.) Every now and then, someone would upset my dad when he was driving and his language would get colorful to say the least. My sister and I would giggle in the back seat with a little silent vow between us to not tell my mom.

But, I do need to tell you about my dad's faith. My mom was the outspoken Jesus-follower in my household, but my dad lived his faith every day. When he became ill with cancer, he never questioned God. I remember one afternoon when I was very upset over his cancer diagnosis, he pulled me aside and said that if he wasn't upset about it, I didn't need to be either. That's one of the few times he referred to himself as "daddy." The night before one of his surgeries, a nurse asked him if he would like some sleeping medication. He said, "no thank-you, I have Psalm 90," ("He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . .") Because of his life and example, I share his faith.

So yes, even though it's been 41 years, I still miss my dad. I wish he could have met Ron, spent time with my kids, and have gotten to know his great-grandchildren. But it's fun to talk about him, to share memories with brothers and sisters, especially the older ones who remember more than I do.

So . . . maybe I will celebrate his hundredth at the cemetery this year on Halloween. Let me know if you want to join me. Maybe we'll hang out, tell a few jokes, read Psalm 90, who knows?

The Ultimate Pyramid Scam

I got sucked in badly this time. It was the ultimate pyramid and I thought I was smarter than that. In a moment of weakness, I got talked into it and now I can't get out. It didn't come in the form of a chain letter; I wasn't invited to someone's house for a plan that they "just wanted to show me." Nope, nothing like that. This came to me from my daughter in an innocent little zip-lock bag. It's called "friendship" bread and supposedly it comes from the Amish.

Apparently you let this bag of goo sit on your counter for 10 days before you bake it. The trick is that you have to do things to it while it sits there. You've got to squeeze and caress the bag every day, add special ingredients to it on special days, and burp it occasionaly. Heck, I'm not sure I even took care of my kids that well.

I question everything about the process. On the fifth day I was advised to add milk without refrigerating it. Okay, so if this pyramid works like they say it does with its implied origins, there might be drops of milk in that bag that date back to the early nineteen hundreds. That's some fermentation!

After ten days of serious babysitting, I thought I was ready to make up the bread--not so fast! After adding more ingredients, the instructions indicated that I was supposed to remove four cups of the mixture and put each into a zip-lock bag; three of them were to be distributed to my friends and one was to be saved for myself as another starter.

But, I didn't want to give it to my friends--I'm not that good at selling the idea to them. Just because it's called "friendship" bread doesn't mean that your friends want to participate. Personally, I think that the name was designed to dupe innocent people (kind of like "Herman the 'friendly' coffee cake" that I remember going around about 25 years ago.) Besides, a recipe that quadruples every 10 days scares me a little. So I decided to beat the system. I did all the math and decided to make up my own batch along with some of the batches that should have been distributed to others.

My kitchen looks like a war zone. Now I've got six loaves of the stuff lined up on the counter. Oh, and by the way, it comes with special strange instructions like; do not use a metal bowl or spoon. I accidently touched a metal fork to it when I had it in the pan and thought it would blow up in my face. I'm not much of a baker, but I've never feared for my life like I did tonight.

Now that it's done it tastes okay, but my daughter's batch tasted better; I'm pretty sure it's because she got the Martha Stewart genes from her dad. (She was curious about the addition of instant vanilla pudding--not exactly "Amish.") So, if you come to my house during the next week or so, I just might serve some to you. Don't tell me that you like it because, guess what? I've got one starter bag sitting on my counter. In ten days I just might be sharing it with you.

My Pet Snakes

Brass Serpent

Sometimes I worship snakes—how about you? Oh, I’m not talking about the big ugly ones; I’m talking about the cute little innocent ones. You’re probably thinking I’m totally absurd, but hear me out. Do you remember the story in the Bible when those constantly-complaining Israelites were dying of snake bites? The snake bites caused them to regret their childish whining and they begged Moses to talk to God on their behalf. God told Moses to make a serpent of brass, place it on a pole and tell the people to look at it, and they would be healed. That’s all they had to do—look at it! It’s hard to imagine that some still refused, but those who complied were instantly healed.

When I was in Sunday school, I learned that the brass serpent was a symbol of Christ being lifted up on the cross, and if I looked to him, I too would have life. The creation of that brass serpent was a good thing—God had told Moses to make it. That’s why I was so surprised when I was reading in II Kings the other day that the serpent was later destroyed. Good King Hezekiah made some major reforms in Judah, demolishing idols, getting rid of all association with foreign Gods, and . . . he destroyed the brass serpent. The Bible says that Hezekiah “did right in the sight of the Lord.”

Why did he destroy the object that healed the Israelites? Because the object didn’t heal them—God did. They began to worship and burn incense to the object. While the object was a good thing, the worship of it was not. I’m sure that we’re all pretty familiar with the concept of idolatry, defined as “excessive or blind adoration,” but I have usually applied that to either the worship of idols, or the act of placing something in front of God in my life.

I’ve always been able to define what I thought were my own personal idols—recreation, material possessions, self-sufficiency. I’m pretty sure everyone can come up with their own idols, but this brass serpent thing made me dig a little deeper. Even as I search for God, those things that lead me to Him, can become a distraction if I begin to put too much value in them. When Isaiah saw his vision of the Lord, he did not worship the angels, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t hold on to the burning coal that touched his lips as a special kind of “good luck charm.” He simply said, “my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

So, what are those good things in my life—those things that were once given to bring me to God, but now hold so much importance that I’ve turned them into an idol? Do I have serpents in my life? Oh, as I dig just a little bit, I can find many of them. I think I probably sort of worshiped that denomination that I was raised in—maybe I’ve worshiped the catechism or other elements of Christian instruction I’ve received. Have I worshiped an experience like a retreat, or perhaps a person—a spiritual leader or writer for whom my respect has turned into worship? If I’m totally honest, I have to admit that there’s even been a time in my life when I’ve worshiped the sacraments.

How about you? What are your serpents—good things that have brought you closer to God, but now have become too important? Is it a certain song, a certain style, a certain element or “gimmick” within the worship service? Is it tradition, or new approaches; is it a person, a pastor? The list of possibilities is very long.

Hezekiah challenges me today. I can so easily become like the Israelites. That visible tangible brass serpent is so easy to worship. I would have been so mad if I walked into the temple and my brass serpent was gone! But I am asked to give those things up and seek God in new and powerful ways as I worship with His people. It is my prayer that all of us can give up our serpents as we search for God in our lives and as we draw together corporately. May we all be able to say with Isaiah, “My eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts.”

Facebook and Grace

“I like walking in the rain because no one knows I’m crying;” “The doughnut I got in my mailbox this morning made me happy;” “Fernando Rodney got lucky.” What do all of these phrases have in common? These are all statuses that I read yesterday from my friends on “facebook.” I love reading them and trying to figure out the meaning, or what’s going on in the lives of my computer buddies. There was one status however, that really caught my attention—“your grace is enough, your grace is enough, your grace is enough for me.” Even though I know this song, the repetition is what drew me; does saying it three times brings good luck? Does saying it three times make it more personally convicting? I think I know why my friend was saying this—why she needed to say it. Things happen sometime that either shake us up, or at best make us stop and think.

I believe that every now and then we need to remind ourselves about the bottom line—grace. It’s pretty elusive sometimes for something so simple. I was talking to someone who isn’t a believer and I threw out the word “grace” and she stopped me, not understanding what it really meant. I was surprised because she is a person who demonstrates grace every day to her family and friends, yet it is a foreign concept to her. I thought everyone understood that grace was favor that was totally undeserved.

Is grace enough? I had a conversation one day with someone who was working hard on forgiveness. She was trying with every ounce of her being to forgive someone who had committed a heinous act against her family. Her motive for forgiveness?—she believed she would never make it to heaven if she couldn’t forgive this person. It broke my heart to watch her struggle. Does grace cover those situations where it is nearly impossible to forgive someone?

Is grace enough? I had one of those great hot-tub conversations a few days ago. We were discussing the battles we all have going on inside of us with particular sins. Sometimes we lose the battle and give in—more often than we care to admit. During those times when we’ve given in, is grace still enough?

Or how about that Sunday school teacher that told my son that if you die with even just one un-confessed sin, you could be lost forever? Is grace enough to cover that un-confessed sin? I remember that the Israelites even had special sacrifices to cover those sins that they were clueless about. How about those? Does grace cover them?

I believe that grace does cover those things and John Donne covers it beautifully in his poem “Hymn to God the Father.” Whenever I take off in an airplane, I lean back in my seat and recite this in my head and heart—just in case . . .

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun
Which was my sin though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin by which I won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on that shore.
But, swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore.
And having done that, Thou hast done,
I fear no more.

Cutting Loose

My friend Pat became a widow a few weeks ago. From the time her husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to the time of his passing, it was less than a week. The first day that he was in the hospital, I received an email from her--the diagnosis was bad, but she had hope. Throughout the next few days, as she watched her husband's health deteriorate, her faith never wavered. I watched Pat remain calm and strong throughout the funeral in spite of her deep sadness. She's one of my new heroes--not because of her calm demeanor or the gracious way she greeted all of the guests, but because she actually believed the things she had said throughout the week; "God is the great physician," "God will bring us through this," "we serve an awesome God and He will carry us through this," "sadness on our part, but joy for Jim as he has gone to be with his Lord and Savior." None of these phrases were new to me, in fact I've used them many times myself, but honestly, they have often been cliches.



Watching a close friend go through an unexpected crisis, gave me reason to examine my own "trust level " with God. Do I really believe all of those things I say to others in crisis? I had a challenge going on in my own life that was minor compared to what Pat was going through and I was doing everything but trust. I was denying, worrying and trying to talk God into handling my life the way I believed He should handle it. My own reactions forced me to regroup and re-examine my own beliefs. I had to peel back all of the labels and get down to the core of my faith.



Holy Week couldn't have come at a better time. God always shows up in big ways during that time. I woke up early Easter morning with excitement flowing through me. "Christ has died and Christ has risen;" "He's not here, He arose just like He said. He's not here, you won't find Him among the dead . . . " "I will rise when He calls my name, no more sorrow, no more pain,"
"Savior, He can move the mountains, my God is mighty to save . . . " The music for the Easter service was flashing through my mind from all directions and I couldn't wait for the service to begin.



Death to life--that's what Easter is about: the story of Joseph being miraculously found in Kenya and brought to the orphanage; the cardboard testimonies of individual lives being changed; Pastor Chip's story about little John saying, "I want Jesus." That's what Easter does for me. I'm starting to understand the message again; the same message Pat was trying to tell me. This life, with all of my attachment to it, is not the whole story. If I want to stay on that road that leads from death to life, I have to start cutting myself loose. Don't get me wrong, life is good and it's fun and there's lots to do, but it can be interrupted at any time and that has to be okay.


That was what I learned at Easter this year. Chances are I've learned it before and I'll learn it again because it takes a lot of practice to get it right. And so . . . if I had been up there on Easter Sunday during the time of cardboard testimonies, the first side of my cardboard would say, "Way too attached to this life," and, on the other side, "Cutting loose."