The Morning After .... Christmas

Jason's Christmas ... the boys-on-mom dog pile!

December 26th always marks the morning after Christmas.  The morning after the weeks of hectic preparation, the buzz of family coming home, getting together, making plans, the heightened excitement of children wanting new stuff and awaiting a visit from Santa, the stress of not enough time to decorate, shop, bake, wrap, prepare for house guests, socialize and on and on it goes.  The morning after can be an exxagerated sigh of relief or an exxagerated sense of disappointment, or both.  All too often the morning after brings with it the ramifications of another year of over-extending ourselves physically, socially, emotionally and financially while under-extending ourselves in generosity and grace. What if the morning after could be different?  What if on the morning after Christmas our heart could wake up to the fullness of contentment and a genuine sense of gratitude?

This year was the most minimal ever for me personally in regard to gifts received, social events attended and shopping required and yet as I sit here by the fire on this morning after, not only is my cup literally full of my much loved Caribou coffee, my heart is full as well, nearly to overflowing, with contentment and gratitude.  I really did experience the most wonderful time of the year this season and I think two intentional decisions marked the difference for me.  The first was the one my husband and I made to make this Christmas more about those beyond our family as those inside our family.  That wasn't a new decision for us but with a new twist, nothing for me and him.  The second decision I made on my own was to put my expectation and hope in the steadfast love of the Father, not in anyone or anything else.

The results of the first decision are as follows.  My heart is bursting with the memory of the smiles on the faces of a single mom and her three children when their gifts, bought by our Life Group, were delivered and added to their six small gifts under their undecorated Christmas tree that was barren even of lights.  And then the joy that delivery brought my teenage friend, Emily filled me up even more.  She gave $50 of her own money earned at her job so that the teenage girl in the family could have some things she wanted, like cute winter boots, and more. A sure deposit of joy!  Then my heart filled up beyond explanation the night our family celebrated Christmas early with a young man who is becoming like a son and brother to our family.  At one point he whispered to me in the middle of it all, "I LOVE this!" Another deposit of joy!  Then there is one more orphan we added to our life this year who will have food and education because of a minuscule sacrifice on our part each month.  Somehow imagining his or her face (we've not yet been assigned) while they eat or go off to school fills me up to more overflowing.  And an Ethiopian orphan whom we had a very small part in bringing into a loving home to a couple longing for a child of their own.  More deposits of joy to be a part of another family's adoption. Then there was the extended family member of my husbands who was encouraged by a monetary gift we were able to send their way, something small to us, huge to them as the husband enters into month number twenty-one without employment.  Their response yet another deposit of joy! You just have to believe that Jesus meant it when He said it's more enJOYable to give than to get.

The results of the second decision are hard to put into words.  I put my hope and expectation in the Lord instead of in people and having the holidays a "certain way."  I lowered my expectations for what I could and couldn't do and trusted Him for those things that began to make me feel disappointed.  I decided to do what Mary did in Luke 2; I treasured and pondered in my heart the amazing things in my life that are because Jesus not only came into our world but into MY world and has, and continues to change and enrich my life beyond description!  I treasured and pondered the incredible things I see God doing in our own children as He shapes their hearts after His. I treasured and pondered God's faithfulness to my husband and I during almost 25 years of marriage that at times was amazingly wonderful and at times was unbearably difficult.  God made the difference. I treasured and pondered what Christmas must be like in heaven now that my brother and my daddy were there for the celebration this year. The pondering and the treasure began to feel so weighty it seemed to hold a sense of His glory.

It's the morning after and I am content.  My heart is full. Overflowing with His goodness and unspeakable gratitude.

Holiday Cheery or Holiday Weary?

A paraphrase of the amazing offer of Jesus to the weary in Matthew 11 ... for the holidays and for every day ...  

“My child, when you find yourself weary during this holiday season, please come to Me.  Don’t keep trying to live under the burden of sin that exalts itself during the Christmas holidays. Don’t keep trying to press on under the burden of doing the holidays a certain way or keeping up with the holiday demands on your own, trying to be perfect in your approach to decorating, socializing, gift buying, being the family peacemaker and more.  That pace, and those expectations will wear you out.  They will deposit weariness into your soul. And if you stay weary, you’ll become discouraged.  Discouragement will tempt you to give up on Christmas or at least grow to dread this amazingly wonderful time of year. 

Laboring through the holidays in your own wisdom and according to your own understanding will zap you of your physical, emotional and spiritual energy.  Don’t let the holiday traditions of others become your obligation as you celebrate this season. Those traditions might work for others but they will weigh you down, their demands are heavy.  Come to Me, I am your papa and I am pleased with you.  Enjoy relationship with me during the holidays instead of trying to be perfect or religious or something that someone else is expecting you to be.  Come to Me. Learn of Me.  Love like I love and obey Me with simple abandon instead of trying to follow all the demands and obligations of the season. 

Listen for My voice.  I will speak a word to your heart and it will not be burdensome.  When you come to Me your weariness will be overcome by My steadfast love.  Your discouragement will melt as you embrace My way of rest; rest for your mind, will and emotions. When you come to Me, I will refresh your soul and set you free to worship and celebrate during this season that is set aside to call you to a new place of wonder and awe.  Wonder and awe of ME, not of your beautiful home nor even your precious children, not of your wanted gifts or your much awaited vacation but of Me.  Choose to fix your heart on the wonder and awe of your eternal home and of the most amazing story of all time, that I came into your world as a dear little baby so that you, and those you love, might have life abundant and life eternal. Come to me when you are feeling weary and over burdened and I will give you rest.”

Matthew 11:28-30 (Amplified Bible)

²⁸Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden and overburdened, and I will cause you to rest. [I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls.]

²⁹Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am gentle (meek) and humble (lowly) in heart, and you will find rest (relief and ease and refreshment and recreation and blessed quiet) for your souls. 

³⁰For My yoke is wholesome (useful, good--not harsh, hard, sharp, or pressing, but comfortable, gracious, and pleasant), and My burden is light and easy to be borne.

Life Can Get Complicated; A Thanksgiving Day Disaster

Thanksgiving 2010 was very uneventful; six of us gathered for a typical meal of turkey, stuffing, mash potatoes, cranberry salad, homemade rolls, corn ... well, you get the idea.  We ate, had pie and left to take left overs to Gram some three hours away. However, Thanksgiving a year ago, 2009 was a very different saga.  Life can get complicated even on the most well intended of days. 

Our immediate family had traveled just across town to an extended family member's house for Thanksgiving dinner.  The house was full of more extended family; adults, teenagers, and a couple of children from two sides a married family.  Neither side knew the other well. Added to the mix was our adorable new, rescued puppy, Madden and my mother-in-law’s old, cranky canine, Nittany.  One of the children in attendance was a precious thirteen month old little girl that LOVED both dogs and simply couldn’t keep her sweet little hands off of them.  In fact, she just couldn’t leave either of them alone.  Our puppy was good with that so we kept encouraging her to play with Madden but that was tricky, at best.   She wanted some action with Gram’s old cantankerous canine as well.  She clumsily climbed into Nittany’s bed (he was snuggled up along side Gram at the time) while her parents oo-ed, aw-ed and took pictures of the little cherub. Simultaneously, the relatives on our side of the family held their breath hoping the old dog, and Gram, wouldn’t notice.  

We all took our assigned seats at the festive dining room table.  Dinner was served. However, Thanksgiving dinner rapidly turned from delightful to stressful as the thirteen month old cherub wanted to be “down with the puppies!” The squirming and shrieking of a one year old can transform a Kodak moment into holiday chaos, so there we sat trying to pretend all was well as we made an attempt to ignore wondering toddler. No one noticed little cherub quietly wander over to the exact spot beneath the dinner table where a dog bed cradled Nittany as he was peacefully enjoying a holiday snooze.  Little cherub gently reached to pet him and in a moments notice any shred of peace hanging in the atmosphere was chased away by sheer panic ... Nittany bit little cherub’s face and all “you know what,” broke loose!!  Understandably, her mom and dad went bezerk.  Mom grabbed little cherub and whisked her into the bedroom.  Dad left a streak of swear words lingering in the stale air as he jerked the older child from his place at the festive table to pursue the hysterical mom carrying the bellowing toddler.  All the while the hostess was accusing her husband of not watching the baby.  The baby was crying and screaming as my mother-in-law burst into tears and wept uncontrollably while the rest of us sat like stone statues, frozen in time and space.  Even the active, frisky puppy energy that is typical for Madden seemed to be suspended for a moment or two.  We were stunned.  We were perplexed and for a moment, no one even flinched.  

The dad broke the silence as he surfaced from the bedroom and announced with obvious annoyance that although the bite didn’t break little cherub’s skin, it had marked and bruised his daughter’s cheek significantly, and immediately.  The situation advanced from hysteria to even more awkwardness.  Within moments the dad was muttering under his breath “that dog should be shot, put away! This is ridiculous  ...” and although I don’t blame him, it was upsetting my mother-in-law who was just about as traumatized as little cherub had been.  I rescued the moment by packing up while declaring that I would leaving with both Madden and Nittany, immediately if not sooner. Within seconds my husband, oldest son and mother-in-law emphatically insisted on heading out the door with me.  We departed with one thought in mind; get Grammy and the dogs as far away from the holiday festivities and the family in crisis, as possible.  

Isn’t wasn’t long before we were winding our way out of the neighborhood in the silent comfort of our Toyota Camry and our Madden began to puke all over the back seat of our car.  Little cherub had been feeding him table food even though we asked repeatedly that the parents please keep her from doing so.  As Madden heaved green peas, I began to laugh uncontrollably.  As I cackled, my husband’s patience began to drain from his psyche which ignited more gut wrenching laughter from me.  Gram thought our son was throwing up because she was in the front seat and can’t hear well.  I successfully had the dog puking in a blanket but Ben was yelling for his dad to “pull over” so the dog could throw up outside and all the while our son was gagging mercilessly. 

Grammy kept saying, “Poor boy, he always eats too many potatoes” and my husband kept bellowing, “MOM, IT’S THE DOG, NOT THE BOY!”  By the time my husband got the car pulled over, Madden was completely done puking.  We started our journey again.  Moments later we pulled into our driveway as everyone, including Madden, begin to normalize.  We had no more unpacked the car when the rest of the family made an appearance.  The story was told a few times over with personalities highlighting various components and emphasizing their favored moment.  I was just thrilled to have Gram’s homemade pies show up with the second entourage ...  the biting episode took place between our first and second helpings of turkey, stuffing and the fixings.  Sigh.  Little cherub was going to be just fine ... something for which we were all genuinely thankful!! 

Life can get complicated even on the most well intended of days.   

Religion that God Esteems

 “Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”   I James 1:26, 27 (NIV)

Why Do I Hate Religion; Let Me Count the Ways

I hate religion.  I made that statement recently to someone who had been hurt by religion; by religious people. This person was actually willing to defend religion on the premise that "hate is a strong word." I do hate religion I argued. Detest. Abhor. Disdain. Loathe. Despise.  All of the above. Use any one of them to describe my sentiments about religion and it fits.  My opinion doesn't matter much in the whole scheme of things but when I read the New Testament accounts, I am convinced that Jesus hated religion.  Hear what I'm NOT saying - Jesus didn't hate religious people.  Nor do I.  He simply hated religion and its affects on the hearts of men.  Particularly as it painted their view of the Father.

I once heard a woman define religion in a most poignant way.  Religion is man's idea of God's expectations, she expressed. Therein lies the problem, religion was never God's idea. I consider it absurd to think that God would send his only and most loved Son to earth to be misunderstood, unjustly accused and ill-treated; let alone to die a heinous death on a cross, so that you and I could have a nice little set of rules to follow.  A spiritual check list with a formula for how we are to act, speak, dress, dictate where we go and what we do, and what we don't do.  Rules that make us feel good about ourselves and about God when we follow them.  The same rules that make us feel badly when we don't.  I have a serious problem with that because the purpose for which Jesus came to the earth, other than to serve, was so that you and I might have abundant life. Abundant means to be full, have the supply met and then some, go beyond sufficient.  When I was in bondage to religion, my life was totally deficient in abundance.  At least the kind that translated into LIFE for me.  However, when my life was full of religion it was overly abundant in condemnation, guilt, discouragement, defeat, boredom, bitterness, resentment, and on an on the list could go. I hate religion.  In fact, if there was a Religious Anonymous chapter to join, I would.  I'd be delighted to stand up at every meeting and proclaim, "Hi, I'm Sherilyn and I'm a recovering religi-aholic."  I'd go on to describe a life now overly abundant in grace, mercy, loving-kindness, joy, peace, forgiveness, freedom, and on and on the list could go.

Why do I hate religion?  Let me count the ways ...

1.  Religion makes the rule more important than the relationship.  Grace values the relationship above all the differences.

2.  Religion reminds others of their sin.  Grace reminds others to stay in the shadow of the cross.

3.  Religion becomes all about what not to do.  Grace finds common ground.

4.  Religion builds walls.  Grace builds bridges. 

5.  Religion needs others to look, speak and act the same.  Grace makes room for diversity.

6.  Religion rejects. Grace pursues.

7.  Religion is rude. Grace is considerate.

8.  Religion judges.  Grace understands and lets God be God.

9.  Religion yells and demands and gets angry.  Grace whispers and leaves options and forgives.

10.Religion pities those not on the "inside."  Grace serves those on the "outside."

11.Religion is close-minded.  Grace sees the options.

12.Religion is self-absorbed.  Grace always notices the other.

13.Religion talks, often yells.  Grace weighs words carefully and often prays.

14.Religion points fingers.  Grace admits its own need.

15.Religion reacts.  Grace responds.

16.Religion is convinced it has all the answers.  Grace is open to the
questions.

17.Religion brags about self.  Grace brags about Another.

18.Religion is about what I can do for God.  Grace is about what God has done for me.

19.Religion is loud and wants to be recognized by man.  Grace goes unnoticed and wants to be in God's presence.

20.Religion catches another messing up. Grace is there to help pick up the pieces when one messes up.  Grace gives hope.

21.Religion knows what to say.  Always.  Grace points others to the One who knows best. Never anywhere else.

22.Religion loves formulas.  Grace embraces life in the Spirit.

23.Religion has it all figured out.  Grace listens, even when it's uncomfortable.

24.Religion beats others up with the truth. Grace earns the right to be heard.

25.Religion is about me.  Grace is about Him.

I hate religion but oh how I love grace!  Cherish. Esteem. Prize. Treasure. All of the above. Use any one of them to describe my sentiments about grace and it fits.                

"The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth" (John 1:14)

"Uh, Mom, Can We Go Now?"

Although I'm snuggled comfortably on my couch in our cozy family room at home in Pennsylvania, a piece of my heart is in Minnesota where I was scheduled to be, as of tonight.  I had a road trip planned with my girlfriend, Sandy and our east coast departure was scheduled for yesterday. The intent was to make the 16 hour trek to be with my oldest son, Ben for a long weekend.  And of course, to enjoy some girlfriend adventures in the Twin Cities as well . Sadly, I won’t make it to the stands of Royal Stadium on Saturday to watch Ben’s last football game of the regular season. However,  Bethel University is headed into the D-III play-offs so it may not be their last game this year.  Regardless, God had different plans for this weekend. The road trip was canceled because Sandy was informed that she had to attend a national board meeting this weekend yet she spent all day in our local ER trying to arrest a kidney stone ... imagine having THAT emergency on the road!  Ugh ... so, back to my couch where I'm sitting while I pen this new post. Disappointment in my heart and nostalgia in my emotions. My husband and the dog are out cold and the young man living with us is closing up Chick-fil-A.  The house is quiet.  

I’m attempting to embrace this new season of parenting but find myself desperately pining for the presence of  children in our home.  I readily admit my sentiments in this transitional phase of parenting, I miss my boys. I’ll shout it from the mountain tops.  I miss hearing their voices and seeing their faces. I miss “feeling”  a little more in control of their lives. I miss their friends. The full dinner table.  The piano playing and the deep voice coming through the front door greeting me.  I miss my boys. I don't miss their laundry but I desperately miss their personalities and their presence in our home.  I could go on and on but I’ll spare you the many more obnoxious mother-laden details of my grieving heart. What I miss most may be the significant chunks of TIME to be with Ben or with Andy.  When they were  little guys, full of energy and many needs, I would crave time alone.  An hour or two that afforded me some stillness, and the sound of silence.  ME time!  But now, I just miss hangin’ out with my boys, and their friends.  I miss the chance that time would afford us to chat, laugh, play or discuss something of a serious nature or even a small window for me to impart some parental wisdom. Smile.

As I sit here lamenting, my mind wanders back to a day last year when Andy was a high school senior .  A day he was off school some eight or nine months ago.  I recall that Andy and I had gone to The Waffle Shop to have breakfast together.  It was likely just another mid-morning meal for Andy but it happened to be a treasured appointment for his mom!  I enjoyed my coffee and blueberry pancakes, but I mostly cherished listening to my son who was on the fast track to becoming a young man.  It was food for my soul to talk face-to-face with him instead of on the fly, or in a text message. Sigh. I loved looking into his eyes, and into his future to dream with him just a little bit. I had come to breakfast with something on my heart that I wanted to share with Andy; a word of affirmation mixed with a small measure of admonition.  And just about the time it seemed fitting to initiate that conversation, Andy asked the dreaded question. “Uh, Mom, can we go now?”  I chocked down a fork full of pancakes and made an attempt to hide my disappointment while his question hung like a broken pinata between us. With as much normalcy as I could muster, I replied, “Sure, Andy, we can go now.  I know you’re off to a fun and busy day.”  I knew that his abrupt desire to leave wasn’t about me.  Andy had finished his short stack, home fries extra crispy, side of bacon and chocolate milk and he was ready to get on with his day.  He had plans with friends and still had a lawn yet to mow.  His day off was full and he needed to get going; he wanted to get going. He took our bill and $20 to pay the cashier while I fumbled through my wallet to leave a generous tip for the cheerfully attentive waitress who had served us. The meal that had just been served was already being cleared from our table.
  

As we headed out to the parking lot together, The Waffle Shop doors closed behind us.  And as they did, I sensed the familiar nudge of the Holy Spirit for me to notice something vaguely familiar about the scene that I had just witnessed.  An aha moment in my spirit where I saw a mirror image of me and my all too customary demeanor in the presence of God. His loving conviction disclosed my own tendency to show up for my time with Him, most often with a hungry heart, all too often with a hasty spirit, reading the Word just enough to whet my spiritual appetite and then to be on my way. My quick self-absorbed prayers followed by a heart attitude of, “Uh, Father, can I go now?”  I pondered how rarely I listen with the intent of hearing what’s on the heart and mind of the Father in that moment.  I was reminded that when I don’t linger in His presence, I miss out.  When I miss out, God’s not mad at me.  When I miss out, He doesn't yank His favor from my life.  He doesn’t even beg me to stay with Him longer. But, I miss out. Plain and simple. I discard what was on His heart for me, for others, and for His intended glory or at best, I treat it with contempt in my effort to be all about me when I'm with Him.

In James chapter 1, the phrase “look intently” literally means “to linger” and in this context it is referring to lingering in the Word of God.  The verses in James 1 tell us that if we will linger as we read or look into the Word of God (the perfect law that gives freedom), and hang out there awhile, and then DO something with what we’ve heard or read, there are blessings to be had!  I have to ask myself, how often do I miss them?  God has something on His heart at all times for me but will I linger in His Word and in His Presence long enough to receive it?  I would be a fool to miss it. 

My heart is longing for time with my son tonight and that longing reminds me that the Father yearns for uninterrupted time with me too.  I’d like to break my habit of asking, “Can I go now?” and train my body, soul and spirit to “hang out” in His presence to receive every ounce of the Father's heart that I can get.

James 1:22-25   "Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like a man who looks at his face in a mirror and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. But the man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it—he will be blessed in what he does."

Don't You Just Love Airplane Stories?

I boarded the plane right on time and was headed for my assigned seat, 9B when I overheard a woman conversing with her husband about asking someone to give up their seat so that they could travel side-by-side.  She was my traveling mate, assigned to seat 9A, her husband directly behind her in 10A.  I honorably offered to trade seats with her husband which delighted them both and evoked a gracious comment from the husband about me. I smiled and took my place in 10A.  As I began to settle into 10A while watching a couple wrestle with their gigantic duffel bag and the overhead compartment, a perfectly coiffed blonde woman standing in the aisle near row seven caught my eye and with a smile and a rather patronizing tone said, "Dear, YOU are in my husband's seat."  I pointed to the gentleman in 9B and replied, "No, HE is ..." as I attempted to indiscreetly holler back my explanation about trading seats.  The couple in 9A and 9B seemingly ignored me.  Blondie insisted I abandon 10A because her husband clearly had ownership for this flight.  I gently tapped the guy in 9A on the shoulder and asked if he would kindly show the woman his boarding pass and when he did it revealed that he had indeed been assigned to 10A, now my assigned seat. Blondie appeared slightly stunned and bellowed to a gentleman standing in the aisle at about row five, "George, honey, what is your seat assignment?"  11B was his response.  I didn't wait for hers but simply gathered my belongings and moved to a new assignment yet one row back while muttering, "I'm happy to sit anywhere, really."  A few chuckles rose from the observant passengers as we exchanged glances.  No sooner had I set my posterior in 11B when a tall, lanky gentleman spoke to me, he had been standing in the aisle between the couple who had finally stuffed their over-sized duffel bag safely into the overhead compartment and Blondie.  "Would you sit in 11A so I can be on the aisle?"  Although asked with the inflection that indicates a question, it sounded far more like a command than a request.  I quipped, "Absolutely, I aim to please!"  The onlooking passengers began to laugh openly, I made one final offer to anyone who wanted to give up their seat for 11A.  No takers but plenty of  merriment.  Free pre-flight entertainment is always a plus. I prefer to watch it however, not provide it!  Sigh. I stayed in 11A for the duration of the flight and everyone seemed satisfied. Even Blondie.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I couldn't help but ponder the fact that my contentment came from simply having my mind fixed on my destination, the twin cities where our oldest son attends college.  I hadn't seen Ben for three months and a Bethel football weekend was ahead with the promise of perfect fall weather, plenty of Minnesota sunshine, time with friends and my 21 year old son whose company I thoroughly enjoy.  My seat assignment was a secondary issue at best. My heart began to drift to life as a journey and our tendency to get all worked up over the meaningless details like seat assignments. The interruptions in our schedule that inconvenience us.  The job assignment that we dread or the financial burden that never seems to go away.  The unexpected illness that slows us down.  The house that begs to be cleaned or the yard that needs to be mowed or far more importantly, the family member or friend that begs our attention when we are tired, empty, feeling selfish.  And on and on the details of life go causing us to demand a certain seat, next to a certain person, near a window or maybe an aisle and before we know it, our focus has shifted from our destination to the details that ultimately, just won't matter when all is said and done.

My heart recognized a vague connection to an amazing truth mentioned in Hebrews 12:2 about Jesus enduring the agony of death on a cross for the joy set before him.  Frivolous airport stories like mine although slightly humorous can hardly be compared to "enduring the cross" but the Spirit did use it to grab my attention for a brief moment and remind me of the ridiculousness of focusing on the details of life instead of on the destination.  It doesn't really matter if those details distract us from the ultimate destination of eternity or simply the destination of a day marked by joy and gratitude because I choose them, not necessarily because I feel them.  Destinations matter.  Seat assignments, not so much.  His truth grabbed my heart and my attention.  I trust they will make a difference in my days.


I was assigned to seat 10C on my return flight and I had no sooner settled in and secured my seat belt when I looked up and saw none other than Blondie and her husband headed down the aisle.  I grabbed my book and literally stuck my nose in it hoping that the two were assigned to seats next to each other.  Blondie's voice never pierced the airplane hum so I trust they were but seated behind me, I never knew for sure. 

The Absurdity of Time

Andy and roommate, Jono

Andy, our 18 year old college freshman is home for fall break.  A five day reprieve from dorm life, dining hall grub and endless hours in the library.  I could hardly wait for my hairy son to come through our front door and now that he’s home, I’d like to lock him in his bedroom and tell him that his university has been put on orange alert and there’s no need to return to school, at least not for a few months.  Like he’d fall for that!  Smile.

Eastern Lacrosse

How can it be that this same boy who crawled into bed with his dad and me nearly every night until he was about nine years old now calls Doan Hall on Eastern University’s campus home, and   seems perfectly comfortable with that?  It doesn’t seem right that Andy takes the train into downtown Philadelphia with his new best friends as naturally as he drove around State College in his dad’s Jeep with his best friends at home.  His lacrosse team played in the Headstrong Tournament last weekend and my skin hurt from the pinching as I pondered that my baby was now a college athlete. Somehow while I was making lunches and beds, doing laundry and grocery shopping and holding down a full time ministry job, Andy grew up, and grew a mustache.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be ... well, at least the growing up part, not so sure about the growing lipstach part ... but it sure can catch a helicopter mom (you know, all the hovering) off guard and knock her off of her proverbial doting mother stool.  Sigh.  Andy stands on the brink of adulthood as a responsible, easy going and kind-hearted young man and his mom stands amazed.      

Ben and his Dad at Bethel

And then there’s Ben, our 21 year old college junior who won’t be home until Christmas break because Bethel University in the Twin Cities was the institution of choice for his higher ed. experience.  It’s just a painless 16-17 jaunt door-to-door, hardly even a road trip. Ugh. It’s not an option for Ben to come home on fall break, nor on a personal whim for that matter.  He’s cool with that.  After all, he is the same three year old kid who announced his move to Chicago when he turned 18 (we lived in Arizona at the time) where he planned to buy a truck and put a “mill-youn” bumper stickers on the back. How is it that the place he calls home is waaay up there in the North where the dialect requires the accent to always be on the “o” ... even words that don’t have an “o” ... and where groceries are carried home in a “beg.”  Not to mention sub-zero temps being the cozy winter norm. Somewhere between my first gray hair and menopause, Ben became a young man and left his mama, and his messy bedroom at home.  Ben is by society’s definition, an adult and a very happy, tenderhearted and respectful one at that.  His mom is by society’s definition, done raising him; finished, completed, as in, "it’s over." Ben moved out and word on the street is, his mom needs to move on.  Ouch.                                                Now there’s Jason, our 20 year old “borrowed” son who lives in Ben’s bedroom and unlike those I gave birth to, he gives me NO grief when asked to help but cheerfully does more that he’s asked to do while he’s workin’ two jobs at a time and mostly datin’ two girls at a time. Smile.  Jason is a hard-working, kind and respectful young man and every time he strolls down the stairs in dress shirt and tie, headed for work at the bank, I can’t help but wonder, when did THAT happen?

Jason and Madden

Last I remember he was a freshman in high school wildly bounding out to our van at 3:20 to say hello and tell me something about his day. He and Mama J, as he calls me, have become very close in the absence of his mom, and our own children and it seems time is fleeting as we share this short season as “mother and son.”  Jason is seizing this opportunity to get his feet firmly planted back on the ground while Mama J is trying to pick up the pieces from having the rug pulled out from under her tidy little mom-life. Sigh.                   Time is a funny thing.  Funny strange that is, not funny ha-ha. The absurdity is that we always thinks we have plenty of it until we look over our shoulder and realize after the fact, it’s gone.  Gone before we're ready to let go.  Gone before everything has been said and done.  Gone before enough memories have been made, not just captured in an album but stored away as snap shots that are keepsakes of the heart.  It’s odd how time seems to show up on everyone's face and hairline but never on our own. Smile.  Time is a funny thing. But for all of its absurdity, time is a gift.  Our most precious commodity. We must use it well. Cherish its contents. Be assured that the moment of now will never come again.  Can never be re-visited.  Will soon be a memory.  Time is marching on and we must keep in step. Time is a funny thing, not to be laughed at but to be reckoned with.  

The Loyalty of Dog named Hachi

Spellbound by a Hallmark special movie entitled, “Hachi; A Dog’s Tale” starring Richard Gere, I couldn’t get a grip on my emotions. Tears poured down my face more like a bathtub faucet than the trickle from a sink. The endearing story left an indelible mark on my heart about faithfulness. “Hachi; A Dog’s Tale” is Hallmark’s American adaptation of a true story that took place in Japan in the mid-1920’s about a loyal dog named Hachiko. Hachi, his Hollywood name, was an abandoned dog who was befriended by a college professor.  Hachi and the professor had a unique connection and each day enjoyed a joyful exchange of love and loyalty between them.  Hachi would wait at the train station every afternoon for his master’s return from school until one day his master got on the train and never returned. Hachi was thus, given to a new family.  Although his new family adored him, Hachi notoriously left them again and again by escaping and finding his way back to the professor’s old house where Hachi once lived with his master and his master’s wife. Over time, Hachi apparently realized that his master no longer lived at the house and thus, he went searching for him at the train station, faithfully returning to the exact spot outside the station every single day precisely when the train was due at the station, refusing to believe that his beloved master was not going to return.  This amazing dog doesn’t just wait for a few hours, days, weeks or even a few months for his master to show up on a train, all of which would be understandable and maybe even remarkable. Hachi dutifully sat and watched train after train after commuter train come into Shibuya Station for nine years after his master’s death, until His own death took him away. As each year turns into the next, Hachi becomes a regular part of the lives of those at the train station as well as those nearby in the town square. He was described as being like a permanent fixture at the train station each afternoon catching the attention of other commuters. Thus, they brought Hachi treats and food and he became the train station pet as he parked himself in the same spot ever day for nine years in hopes his beloved master would return.  He never did.



Hachi’s unyielding loyalty teaches lesson upon lesson upon life lesson. Today, a bronze statue of Hachiko sits in the exact spot where he waited all those years outside Shibuya station in Japan.  His statute serves as a permanent reminder to all of the residents in this Japanese community that Hachi, amazing canine that he proved to be, was the epitome of loyal devotion and love.  Hachi and his devotion captured my heart as I began to ponder how on earth we humans have grown to display less devotion and stictuivenss in relationships than a dog?  What should cause us shame and embarrassment is something that we wear as a badge of honor instead.  We proudly, or at least unashamedly wear personal disloyalty like an earned medal of accomplishment.  We trade in spouses for new models not on the basis of infidelity or life-altering addictions that threaten a family but on the basis of no longer liking the one we once promised “til death do us part” or some other superficial rationalization to be self-absorbed.  Parents give up on the children they prayed and longed for because that child becomes too much of a challenge to parent or discipline or because they seem to be in the way of the parents personal desires and goals ... or maybe that would that be selfish desires and goals. My heart felt that familiar dull pain as I pondered what ever happened to die hard loyalty like Hachi demonstrated?  We discard spouses and friends and families as if they were an old worn out pair of tennis shows that begs to be replaced.  

May Hachi, the dog tale, restore in us the honor of being faithful, known as one who will not give up believing in the one we love, against all odds.  May his tale cause us to hug the ones we love a little more often, extend grace to those we care about a little more generously and believe the best in the one we are tempted to give up on yet one more time.  And while you're at it, keep your eye out for the Hallmark version of Hachiko’s story of loyalty at Shibuya station.  When you find it, curl up in front of the television and take in this remarkable tale, make sure there is plenty of Kleenex nearby.

The Eli Syndrome

Psalm 50:1 “The Mighty One, God, the Lord, speaks and calls the earth from the rising of the sun to its setting.”

Perched on a swing that is housed on a screened-in porch at a rustic little cabin in northern PA, I was basking in some uninterrupted time with God. A personal prayer retreat of sorts.  The quiet feels almost foreign to my soul at times but for the 48 plus hours in this remote little Pennsylvania town (population 641), the quiet filled me up. Late in the morning, I ventured down to a small boat dock to soak up some sunshine and to hear God speak. I sat enraptured by the reflection of the changing leaves on the water, the calm beauty surrounding Nuangola Lake and delighted with the presence of a new canine friend.  A neighboring resident’s old dog, Bentley introduced himself by slobbering on the pages of my Bible.  Smile. As Bentley lazed in the sun by my side, I positioned myself so that the glorious rays of sunshine would dance on my face (which may have been the best moment of the 2 ½ day retreat). I felt ready to listen to the Father speak. I listened and heard the quiet only.  I listened and fell asleep in the sun.  I listened while reading the Word of God and jotted down just a few thoughts on the pages of my journal.  I listened some more and once again, heard the quiet only.

In recent days I have pondered the dialogue between the God of the universe and His own.  My mind seemed to wander to that place of musing again while I socked up the sunshine on that rustic dock at the shoreline of the small lake before me. Within moments I found my heart reflecting on the familiar account of young Samuel as told in I Samuel 3 ... a story that seems to show up everywhere my mind turns lately.  Remember it with me.  Samuel is a young boy living in the temple under the authority of Eli, along with Eli’s two unruly teenage sons.  One night, Samuel hears his name called out as clearly as if it were someone standing next to him in broad daylight.  He surmises it must be Eli.  He runs to Eli’s room and wakens the old man to ask why he beckoned him but Eli replies that he did not call out to him.  As you may know, this happened three times until Eli finally instructs Samuel that if it happens again, he is to say, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”  That is exactly how it came down and God told young Sam what was about to happen to Eli and his family, and it wasn’t exactly a message of glad tidings.

The heavenly message is far from the end of the story but was enough for my heart to hang out and ruminate on for a moment.  What strikes me about this account is that Eli was an experienced, “professional” priest with a high religious position and God bypassed him to speak instead to a young boy, about Eli.  Why is that? Why would the Lord bypass Eli with a message for Eli?  I can’t help but note that God is never impressed with titles, degrees and positions, like we all too often are.  The Bible is clear that God is impressed by only one thing and that is a life marked by faith; dependence upon Him believing that because He is God, He can and will do what He says. But beyond that, although little Sam had been taught how to minister to the Lord; somehow he had never been taught how to listen to His voice. 

As an Old Testament priest, Eli had to have known about listening to the voice of God but the indication here is that he no longer heard that voice. Possibly he had even forgotten that the Lord speaks to His own. I can’t help but wonder if Eli had just simply stopped listening to God’s voice somewhere along the way. Maybe he had become discouraged by life and failed to listen to the still small voice within. Maybe he was disillusioned, or offended by God through some life circumstance during a difficult season of his life.  It’s possible that Eli had  become disinterested in, or complacent about God and became so accustomed to taking care of the details of the temple that he convinced himself he didn’t need a fresh word from God’s heart.  Whatever it was, little Sam had not been taught to listen for the voice of the Lord.  So why did God bypass Eli and speak to this young boy whose heart and ears were not yet even accustomed to hearing His voice?

Could it be that God spoke to Samuel because he knew Samuel would listen?  God had seen little Sam listen to Eli and respond.  I wonder if God came to expect that Sam would listen to Him in like manner.  Sam got out of bed all three times he heard his name, wanting to respond to the voice calling him. His three-word reply said a million more, “Here I am!” God called Samuel’s name personally and He spoke to him specifically.  The Lord speaks to those who will listen.  He shares His heart with one whom He knows will respond.

Samuel also seemed to have a humble heart.  He had a servant’s demeanor, willing to respond to the call of his master. There was no apparent pleasure for Samuel in telling Eli the truth about what was about to happen to him and his loved ones.  In fact, young Sam dreaded telling Eli what God told him to say.  Samuel humbly spoke the truth to Eli, sparing him no details. The Lord speaks to those whose hearts are humble.  Humble enough to consider others as more important than one’s self (Philippians 2). God speaks to those who can be trusted with His words.

So as the sun warmed my face and Bentley stayed by my side there on that little dock, this familiar story helped me see the reflection of my heart in the mirror of His. I couldn’t help but notice more of Eli in me than I saw of young Samuel.  I stand guilty of busy-ness to a fault.  I get caught up in the details of doing for God, letting it gobble up precious time and energy that could be spent being with God. Too often I permit discouragement to deafen my ear and disappointment to harden my heart.  And I miss God’s voice.

I intentionally snuck away from the demands of life for a few days to hear that still small voice.  And yet I only heard the quiet.  I had kept my appointment at the dock to enjoy the quiet, and the beauty, and to hear God speak. Although I recognized His beauty all around me, it seemed I only heard the quiet. I listened more than I heard. There in a camp chair on an old rusty dock, I heard God's unmistakable voice break the quiet and speak truth. I have an Eli heart. I finally replied, “Here I am! Change my heart.”

Pray and Keep Walking

I woke up feeling great and went through my normal morning routine which always involves a quick look at my in box.  I prefer to answer any time-sensitive work emails before leaving the house each morning. I have a bad habit of doing that while sitting on our bed with the puppy snuggled up beside me.  Upon getting off the bed and standing up to head out for my day, my back began to scream at me.  In pain that is.  Unable to stand up straight without an excruciating stab in my lower back, I began to pray and stretch and moan a little bit.  After contemplating calling my chiropractor and canceling my morning plans, I heard the whisper of the Holy Spirit in my heart, “pray and keep walking.” I’ve learned the hard way to obey His whisper so in a rather uncomfortable Jeep ride, I bounced my way over to where our staff was meeting to pile into a couple of vans together and head up to the Penn State campus to prayer-walk. 

A bit like an 80 year old lady I grabbed the door handle and arm rest to pull myself up into the van trying desperately to not wince nor give into the sharp pain threatening my body.  Once on campus, and while walking to meet the others, I asked my faith-filled friend, Lynn, to pray for my back.  She did, short and sweet then off we went. Now, I could go on and on about my spinal predicament and God’s mercy in healing me, and the two plus miles I walked in an effort to obey the whisper but the moral of the story is not Sherilyn’s healed back.  Smile. The moral of the story is a life principle that I couldn’t help but notice as the day wore on; pray and keep walking. 

All too often when something hurts.  When I'm injured on the inside, emotionally or spiritually, I’m tempted to do almost anything other than talk and listen to God. Let alone keep pressing on.  Much more often I opt for sitting still and nursing the wound so as to not feel the pain ... or medicating the pain ... or running to the doctor to deal with the pain. And all are wise and viable options, at times.  However, when life hands me an unwanted trial, a disappointment or even when someone hurts or offends me, if I would but pray and keep walking instead of the alternative responses of choice, things might be set aright more quickly.  Maybe more completely.  And very likely, more accurately.  According to what God has on His heart for me in any given situation, on any given day.  When one of those difficult times or seasons come along in life, I tend to ...

• sit and keep worrying
• pout and keep resenting
• fret and keep working
• isolate and keep blaming
• stew and keep complaining

And on and on the choices go that seem to never set things aright.

Pray and keep walking.  A good rule to live by whether your back needs divine healing, or your heart does. 

God's Glory in a Laundry Basket

I walked down the basement steps into the salon for “the works” ... the works on my hair, that is. I know my hairdresser well. She’s more than a hairdresser, she’s a friend. Keeping my appointment is always a delight, not only for the vain glory of the enhancement to my appearance but even more so for the meaningful and at times, therapeutic chat my hairdresser and I typically have while she cuts and colors my hair. I didn’t expect what I got today, however.  A lesson on glory.  God’s glory.  What it is.  What it looks like.  Why we often miss it.  I got to my appointment on time and sat gazing at all of the perfect, airbrushed people in the myriad of magazines on the table in the waiting area while I listened to my hairdresser friend scurrying around upstairs. She and her family live upstairs.  It’s not uncommon to wait for her to come down, running a few minutes behind schedule. I’m good with that. It affords me the chance to put the brakes on my fast-paced and hectic lifestyle and rest a spell.

Soon, in classic style, my hairdresser friend hustled down the stairs and upon greeting me announced, “Did you hear we have a newborn?” I froze for a split second and replied, “An animal, right?”  She assured me it was not a furry friend but indeed a new born baby. I was stunned. I wasn’t the only one, she said.  She had commented to me several times over the years about her little family being complete even though she and her husband adore babies.  Additions to their family of four, or not made absolutely no difference to me personally but this was such a shock.  Something had changed, this was drastically different.  She began mixing my hair color as the story unfolded from her heart and off of her lips.  I listened intently and fought back my emotions.  We hardly noticed the gentle interruption of her husband as he snuck down the stairs, gingerly carrying a laundry basket (aka emergency bassinet) cradling the most precious little 13 day old cherub I had seen in a long time.  Such a perfect little nose.  Adorably long little piggies (aka toes) and the sweetest itty-bitty cry to match her minuscule stature.  5 lb. 13 oz. little Miss Kayla. Born to a mommy and daddy that were whisked off to incarceration moments after her birth.  Enter the story ... my hairdresser friend and her family.  Sparing the details, this family of four embraced baby Kayla in their home, and their hearts like her arrival in their lives was the plan from the beginning, even though they were unaware of her existence less than one week before. 

A glimpse of God’s glory. A little 5 lb. bundle of His creativity and potential lying in a laundry basket in a home-based hair salon.  I knew I was beholding His glory as it was meant to be; caring for the needs of one who can never ever really give anything in return.

All too often, and tragically, we put God’s glory on a shelf in neat little boxes marked “incredible sunset” or “awesome corporate worship” or “weekend-retreat-mountain-top experience.”  Not incorrect, just incomplete.  Somehow in our short-sightedness, we define His glory by something magnificent in our eyes.  His glory is indeed magnificent but His eyes see things very differently than ours.

His glory is in the bedroom of a handicapped woman who is treated with patience and dignity by a friend who answers her call in the middle of the night to change the bed sheets so that she can return to a restful sleep.  His glory is in the hug between two ­­­people who only share one thing in common; a loved one hanging in the balances in a bed in ICU. His glory is in the hearty laughter of a once orphaned child who has been loved and prayed for by strangers and then adopted into their family and is no longer fatherless ... or motherless ... or sibling-less.  His glory is in the full stomach of a lonely teenager invited to a meal by one who notices the young man's stomach and soul hunger so she dishes up a warm meal and some genuine love to feed him.  His glory is in the hopeful heart of a woman who receives money from a stranger on an airplane who offered to help calm her baby and listen to the hurting woman’s heartbreaking story. His glory is in the eyes of an old man who is being cared for by one who is no longer recognized as a family member and who may never be thanked for their tireless care and faithful love. His glory is in the garage where boxes are being packed by strangers for a single mom in a desperate have-to-move-right-NOW kind of situation.  His glory is at the lunch table with a kid who is kind to the girl typically bullied and teased for reasons she will never really know.  And on and on we could recount glimpses of God's glory in every day life.

We can miss His glory.  We miss it waiting for the big spiritual high or the amazing moment in a beautiful setting.  His glory is there but it’s much more common in the mundane of life when one person does something to offer another person help and oft times, hope.  God lets us carry His glory and share His glory and see His glory ... if we will but notice.

Have you seen His glory on the face of a precious little abandoned 13 day old baby girl lying in a laundry basket lately?  I have and it was, well, absolutely glorious.