Like many Americans, I set my alarm for 3 am on April 29th and watched the wedding of William and Catherine. The English garden theme, the dress and the music thrilled me as I rejoiced with this young couple. It was a beautiful ceremony, laced with tradition and history that the royals do so successfully.
Everything about the day seemed perfect. Even the weather cooperated with the first sunbeams poking through cloudy London, just as Kate stepped onto the red carpet. After the ceremony, the royal family waved from gleaming carriages and greeted the crowds on their way to Buckingham Palace. The pageantry and excitement seemed palpable – even in my Kansas living room.
As thousands of people thronged forward to greet the couple on the balcony of the palace, I thought of a future day and excitement unmatched in human history. Someday, all of mankind will cheer for the King of kings and the Lord of lords. It will be an awesome display of humility as we bow at his feet and acknowledge Jesus Christ as Lord of all. Far greater than any human royalty, Jesus will receive the respect and worship of all people for his creativity, his surpassing glory and the sacrifice he made for us all.
As much as I enjoyed watching William and Catherine make their vows, I will so much more enjoy the moment that I see true royalty in the face and bearing of my Savior, Jesus.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Forsake Me Not
She devoted the major part of 15 years caring for my dad. As he slipped into the silent world of dementia and then Alzheimer’s, Mom sat on his lap and spoon fed him. She sipped from their joint coffee cup, then shared some of the brew with the love of her life. Every day, every 36-hour day, she fed him, turned him, bathed him and asked God to heal him. Then her prayer concluded with one selah, “Oh, God. Please don’t let me get Alzheimer’s, too.”
After we buried Dad, she had about five years respite before her memory started slipping. We noticed it in segments – the same questions asked over and over, the loss of time and space, the forgetting of familiar faces. Incredibly, the same diagnosis hounded us. How could it be that both parents would be afflicted with this tragic disease? Was it because of the farm chemicals we used to ensure a harvest year after year? Was it nutrition – too many carbs and not enough fresh veggies? Or was it just the roll of the die and some part of God’s plan for the genetics of our family?
I’ve wondered if King David’s parents disappeared into the shadows. Psalm 27:10 records a sad lament from the sensitive heart of the giant-killer, “Although my father and my mother have forsaken me, yet the Lord will take me up (adopt me as his child).”
Forsaken, forgotten, cached back in time to some memory before the present. That is the scrapbook my mother now lives – the same book that my father lived. We children who swelled her belly and slithered from her womb are becoming the enemy. She doesn’t understand that we want to help her by taking away the car keys and the wallet and the trusting heart that opens the door to every stranger. She forgets when I call and throws away my notes, then tells the neighbors that I no longer care. She has forsaken me, just as my father did – though neither of them wanted to.
As I watch Mom disappear into this horrendous valley, my only comfort is that Jesus understands. He was forsaken, too, one horrible moment on the cross. His father God turned away from the sin that surrounded the beloved son; my sin, your sin, the world’s sin. Christ knew what it felt like to be rejected and forgotten – if only for a period of time. He understands how I feel at the gradual loss of my mother – this wretched forsaking.
The best part of Easter week is knowing that Christ will never forget who I am.
After we buried Dad, she had about five years respite before her memory started slipping. We noticed it in segments – the same questions asked over and over, the loss of time and space, the forgetting of familiar faces. Incredibly, the same diagnosis hounded us. How could it be that both parents would be afflicted with this tragic disease? Was it because of the farm chemicals we used to ensure a harvest year after year? Was it nutrition – too many carbs and not enough fresh veggies? Or was it just the roll of the die and some part of God’s plan for the genetics of our family?
I’ve wondered if King David’s parents disappeared into the shadows. Psalm 27:10 records a sad lament from the sensitive heart of the giant-killer, “Although my father and my mother have forsaken me, yet the Lord will take me up (adopt me as his child).”
Forsaken, forgotten, cached back in time to some memory before the present. That is the scrapbook my mother now lives – the same book that my father lived. We children who swelled her belly and slithered from her womb are becoming the enemy. She doesn’t understand that we want to help her by taking away the car keys and the wallet and the trusting heart that opens the door to every stranger. She forgets when I call and throws away my notes, then tells the neighbors that I no longer care. She has forsaken me, just as my father did – though neither of them wanted to.
As I watch Mom disappear into this horrendous valley, my only comfort is that Jesus understands. He was forsaken, too, one horrible moment on the cross. His father God turned away from the sin that surrounded the beloved son; my sin, your sin, the world’s sin. Christ knew what it felt like to be rejected and forgotten – if only for a period of time. He understands how I feel at the gradual loss of my mother – this wretched forsaking.
The best part of Easter week is knowing that Christ will never forget who I am.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
In the Garden
‘Tis the season for getting on my knees, pulling on the garden gloves and planting this year’s crop of flowers. Like Monet, I must always have flowers. Most of my plantings are perennials which cheer me each year when they survive the winter and poke through the mulch. But sometimes, I plant a few annuals – the violas and pansies, the bright orange marigolds and the colorful zinnias.
My idea of heaven is my own little cottage, surrounded by a garden. No dandelions grow there and no chickweeds; just a plethora – carefully designed by God – of my favorite plants. A prayer bench or two and some funky yard art, maybe a plaster garden angel and lots of wildflowers.
I’ve often wondered what it must have been like for Adam and Eve to live in the Garden of Eden – before they chose to sin. To walk and to talk with God every day in the midst of the beauty He had created. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
In fact, when stress or trials attempt to steal my joy, I just close my eyes and imagine God and me in my garden. He puts his arm around me, and I thank Him for Jesus. Never once do I mention anything that I’m struggling with. The garden is just for being – for walking with God and conversing with the Lover of my soul. My garden is for worship and enjoyment.
As I work in my earthly plots, I imagine the beauty they will bring and the joy I will feel as the various colors and textures grow and spread. But I also think about the eternity to come, my heavenly cottage surrounded by a garden, filled with the glory of God.
My idea of heaven is my own little cottage, surrounded by a garden. No dandelions grow there and no chickweeds; just a plethora – carefully designed by God – of my favorite plants. A prayer bench or two and some funky yard art, maybe a plaster garden angel and lots of wildflowers.
I’ve often wondered what it must have been like for Adam and Eve to live in the Garden of Eden – before they chose to sin. To walk and to talk with God every day in the midst of the beauty He had created. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
In fact, when stress or trials attempt to steal my joy, I just close my eyes and imagine God and me in my garden. He puts his arm around me, and I thank Him for Jesus. Never once do I mention anything that I’m struggling with. The garden is just for being – for walking with God and conversing with the Lover of my soul. My garden is for worship and enjoyment.
As I work in my earthly plots, I imagine the beauty they will bring and the joy I will feel as the various colors and textures grow and spread. But I also think about the eternity to come, my heavenly cottage surrounded by a garden, filled with the glory of God.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Pursuing the Dream
After a discouraging month of writing books and receiving rejections, I wondered if God actually wanted me to quit writing. What good is it, I reasoned, if no one publishes my work? No one out there is growing in faith because I write. If publishers won’t print my words, what’s the point?
Then I went to a writers’ conference where the keynote speech was about pursuing the dream. “Why do you write?” the speaker asked. “Is it for the glory of God or for yourself?”
When I returned home, I journaled for a while and asked myself why I write. Is it truly for the glory of God or for my own acknowledgement? Am I wanting the book signings and the publicity and my name listed on the best-seller lists or do I just want to please God with the words He breathes into me?
Honestly, it’s a little of both. Yes, I want to please God, and I am thrilled when people tell me my books or my articles have nudged them just a little closer to the Divine heart. But also, the human side of me enjoys book signings and speaking and meeting more people who might want to read the words that spew out of me.
I write because I can’t NOT write. I tried to quit once, maybe twice; but couldn’t. After a week or so of resting my eyes and my fingers, I turned on the computer once again and picked up the journal and carried a legal pad to the coffee shop and let the words pour out of me as quickly as the lattes on the menu.
For some reason, God has placed this desire in my heart – this overwhelming passion to put words on the page and hope they mean something to someone. If I never make the best-seller lists, so be it. But I like to think that sometimes an angel is peeking over my shoulder and giggling at my novel or that Jesus is smiling at the latest nonfiction article. I hope that the great crowd of witnesses is cheering me on so that if my name appears on the best-seller lists, people who feel lost and depressed might buy one of my books and find hope in Jesus.
I hope that when I write, God is pleased. He gave me the ability and planted the desperate urge in me to put sentences together and blurt out stories. What He does with my sentences and the ultimate result, is up to Him. But as long as I can, I want to keep stringing words together and hopefully make a difference – either in this world or in the eternities of the people who read my blog and my stories and my articles.
So I keep pursuing the dream of being published, the desire of my heart to play out this passion throughout my lifetime and to someday meet someone who says, “Thank you for writing. It made a difference.”
Then I went to a writers’ conference where the keynote speech was about pursuing the dream. “Why do you write?” the speaker asked. “Is it for the glory of God or for yourself?”
When I returned home, I journaled for a while and asked myself why I write. Is it truly for the glory of God or for my own acknowledgement? Am I wanting the book signings and the publicity and my name listed on the best-seller lists or do I just want to please God with the words He breathes into me?
Honestly, it’s a little of both. Yes, I want to please God, and I am thrilled when people tell me my books or my articles have nudged them just a little closer to the Divine heart. But also, the human side of me enjoys book signings and speaking and meeting more people who might want to read the words that spew out of me.
I write because I can’t NOT write. I tried to quit once, maybe twice; but couldn’t. After a week or so of resting my eyes and my fingers, I turned on the computer once again and picked up the journal and carried a legal pad to the coffee shop and let the words pour out of me as quickly as the lattes on the menu.
For some reason, God has placed this desire in my heart – this overwhelming passion to put words on the page and hope they mean something to someone. If I never make the best-seller lists, so be it. But I like to think that sometimes an angel is peeking over my shoulder and giggling at my novel or that Jesus is smiling at the latest nonfiction article. I hope that the great crowd of witnesses is cheering me on so that if my name appears on the best-seller lists, people who feel lost and depressed might buy one of my books and find hope in Jesus.
I hope that when I write, God is pleased. He gave me the ability and planted the desperate urge in me to put sentences together and blurt out stories. What He does with my sentences and the ultimate result, is up to Him. But as long as I can, I want to keep stringing words together and hopefully make a difference – either in this world or in the eternities of the people who read my blog and my stories and my articles.
So I keep pursuing the dream of being published, the desire of my heart to play out this passion throughout my lifetime and to someday meet someone who says, “Thank you for writing. It made a difference.”
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